by Brandon Barr
Karience felt exceedingly irritated. The condition placed on Winter seemed demonstrably manipulative. And she had to wonder if Winter really had a choice in the matter. What would they do if she refused to bow to their demands? Karience did not like where her mind wandered after asking that question. The Consecrators, with their connections to the Sentinels, seemed to be above protocol. Dicameron had spoken of a man named Galthess who was beyond even his security grade to investigate.
Karience would do all that she could to help Winter. Her trust in the order she served was shaken. As was her blind allegiance.
Her eyes were wide open now.
“Thank you for hearing me out, Magnus. I will do what you have asked.”
_____
AVEN
Daeymara sat on the edge of the fountain, her legs crossed as she faced Aven. Her fingers were working on a single, tiny braid. “There’s no way to say this without being awkward,” said Daeymara. “Aven, I have an unusual request of you.”
Aven looked at her with a grin. “Not too awkward, I hope.”
When she didn’t respond immediately, he kicked his shoes from his feet and dipped them into the cool water.
Daeymara tilted her head so that her hair fell away from her eyes. “As a Missionary, I am not supposed to do that,” she said.
Aven gave her a questioning frown. “Do what?”
She tugged her shoes off and joined Aven, lowering her feet into the water.
“Mmmm,” hummed Daeymara. “That’s splendid.”
“So you are breaking a rule right now?”
“In a way, yes,” said Daeymara. “But I think it’s safe.”
“That seems like a silly rule. Can you not get your feet wet as a Missionary?”
Daeymara’s laughter ended in a sigh. “As a Missionary, I’ve spent two years studying an array of cultures. Some hold water as sacred. Others believe it is a curse. What if this fountain had been a revered shrine containing the Pure Water of the Makers? Or what if it was considered cursed water, and to touch it meant you had become tainted and in need of purification, the kind of purification where they tie you down and kill you? And then there’s another possibility. What if this fountain was the peoples’ drinking water, and you sticking your dusty feet in it is a great insult? You see what I mean?”
Aven nodded but wondered how other cultures could be so weird and bizarre.
“Then why did you stick your feet in this fountain?” asked Aven.
“Because you did, and none of the passersby seemed to care. Besides, the Magnus Empyrean lives here, and Core is an upworld. I think it’s safe to say this is just a fountain in a park and not a shrine or drinking hole.” Daeymara kicked lightly at the water, splashing some onto Aven.
A spray of mist was floating down from the fountain between them. Sunlight caught the tiny beads of water and made them shimmer as they swirled about the attractive girl before him. Her fingers still carefully worked the thin braid, and it reminded him of his sister twining laussifer roots. As Daeymara worked, her gaze had grown serious, and he wondered what was on her mind.
“What is this request you have for me?” said Aven.
Daeymara looked down at his feet in the water, then her eyes flashed back to his. “I’m leaving on my mission soon. Can I give you something to hold for me until I return?”
“Of course—I think—what is it?”
A solemn aura bore heavy on her face, and a redness spread around her eyes, as if suddenly saddened by a thought. She looked away. “On my home world, we don’t really have traditions. Not like yours, or many of the other cultures I’ve studied. We don’t have mothers and fathers or homes. We’re raised in free communities that, in a way, feel like a home, except people come and go all the time. Friends leave for new places, you leave for new places, and then you make new friends. And then it begins again. Everything is about fresh experiences, new things. The tasks and jobs in every community on our planet are identical, so no matter where we travel, we can fit in and do our part in any community. That’s the way my world ticks. I’ve gone back to my home world a few times since joining the enclave on Loam, but I don’t have a home community. And in the last community I lived, a lot changed in a year. Loam has begun to feel more like home then where I was born.”
Daeymara wrapped her arms around herself as if she were suddenly cold.
“What I’m trying to say is, I don’t have anyone who really cares about me. It never mattered to me before I began studying at the enclave. That’s just how life was. You can’t want something you don’t know exists.”
Aven stared at her in wonder. How could a world ever become as deformed as the one she described? He saw Daeymara now with new eyes.
She looked back at him and tried to smile.
“Zoecara has been a friend,” said Daeymara. “And Hark and Rueik, even Arentiss, in her own way. But Hark and Rueik have someone else to care about. And with Zoecara, our friendship is ankle deep. Her heart’s for Rueik.”
Aven didn’t think Daeymara had it quite right. Just because someone was mated to someone, or because they had other friendships, didn’t mean they couldn’t be invested in you. But he wasn’t going to voice this, because whether or not it was true, it was how Daeymara felt. Perhaps she just didn’t understand how friendships worked. The world she came from was bizarre. Even more bizarre than the worlds that wouldn’t let you put your feet in a fountain.
Aven scooted closer to her. He hoped the little gesture would reassure her without words that he was willing to be a friend.
Daeymara looked at him, her eyes moist with emotion. She reached down and drew a knife from her belt and put it to the little braid she’d made in her short black hair. The blade was exceedingly sharp, and she severed the braid easily. Aven watched in silence as she put away the knife then drew out a white piece of thread and began to tie it around the braid.
“On one of the worlds I studied, when an orphan or a widow who is without a home departs on a long journey, they cut off a lock of their hair and give it to someone in their village. The braid serves as a promise. The one it is given to must never forget them. And, in turn, the widow or orphan always knows they are thought of, even when they are alone in the world. I know I’m no widow, but I’m rather like an orphan. Though you barely know who I am, if you would just take this braid of mine and put it someplace where it won’t be forgotten? Then I would know someone cares. It would be a comfort while I’m on my mission.”
Daeymara held out her hand. In it lay the thin braid with the white string knotted around it. Aven reached out and took it as if it were the most fragile thing his fingers had ever touched.
“I’m honored,” said Aven. His heart ached as he stared at the lock of hair. The significance of this gesture struck him powerfully. “I’m honored that you chose me for this gift. I promise you won’t be forgotten.”
A mix of strong desires swept over him. To protect her. To show her some physical comfort. He steadied himself and simply reached out and took her hands in his.
She smiled sadly.
“You’re thinking about your mission, aren’t you?” said Aven.
“Yes,” said Daeymara, “but not only that.” The sadness seemed to ease off her face. “I’m thinking about the strength I feel in your hands. And your new farm. I’m looking forward to going there tonight. I think, someday, I’d like to live in a place like that. A place I’d never leave.”
HEARTH
Chapter Thirty-Two
SAVARAH
Savarah lay embedded in darkness behind closed eyes, but she was conscious. The pain pulsing in her right breast was agonizing. From the cold stone pressing against her arm, she knew she must have fallen on the floor. With each breath, the arrow’s ragged shaft grated excruciatingly inside her chest.
Harcor had known she was coming. But how?
And why hadn’t he killed her yet? She was certain of one thing. If she didn’t manage to escape, this would be the place where he
r vengeance ended.
Savarah took in her surroundings through her nose and ears. There was the crackling of fire and the scent of charcoal and burning wood. A monotonous scraping sounded not far from her head. It took only a moment to recognize she was inside the very room she had been spying into through the window. Harcor’s blind wife must be there, sharpening her knife.
With no other decipherable sounds, she slowly opened her eyes. If she had any chance of escape, it would be now—if Harcor was gone from the room. She doubted he was.
Below her, the stone floor was covered in her blood. Too much blood. The sight of it made her suddenly dizzy. Her lungs wheezed, unable to draw in enough air to satisfy her need.
The scraping of the knife above her head stopped momentarily then continued.
Desperate, Savarah placed her palms flat on the stone and pushed herself up. The pain was too great. She teetered upright for only a moment, legs spread out before her, then the room seemed to shift on her like a boat caught in a storm. She fell down on her back against the protruding arrow shaft. It twisted then snapped under her weight, and she screamed from pain that felt like teeth scraping on a thousand raw nerves.
She screamed again and again, until the pain became almost bearable.
Before she’d collapsed back to the floor, she had seen Harcor watching her. He was seated beside his wife, his lips curved downward, his eyes hollow. As if he were looking at a spot of dog piss on the floor that needed cleaning.
She lay there, breathing shallowly. She’d lost too much blood.
“How did you know?” Savarah rasped, coughing. Blood pooled at the back of her throat.
“Osiiun sent a message when Aszelbor died,” said Harcor. “He simply told me to be wary. And that if you should show up before a second letter came from him, that I should kill you.” His eyes stared coldly at her. “My vigilance has proved worthwhile.”
Savarah closed her eyes. Damn Osiiun and his caginess. It had nearly gotten the best of her the first time, when she led him to the razor arm. He must have known as he died there on top of her what would happen when she tried to kill Harcor. He knew she would fail.
“I haven’t heard from Osiiun,” said Harcor. “Did you kill him?”
“Yes,” said Savarah, retaining a smug pride in her tone.
“Why?”
Savarah stared up at the ceiling. “Because these people are better than us. Their ways are better than our master’s.”
“These people are like putty. Ruled by their emotions. Do you find weakness and frailty better than strength and power?”
“Yes. I have beheld their weakness. I have felt their compassion, if only in small moments. Nothing we have compares to it.”
“You drank of their weakness and have become a drunkard. Look what your compassion has gained you. Nothing but death. Because you have become weak. If I had the feelings of these people, I suppose I’d feel pity for you. But I feel nothing when I look at you. All I see is an ugly growth, like a wart on a pure and beautiful face. Nothing that a knife stroke can’t remove.”
“The beauty is in the weakness, not the calculated perfection.”
“I disagree. And so does my wife, Semmie. She has learned the way of our master. Born blind, would you call her imperfection beautiful too?”
“Let me kill her now,” said a woman’s voice. Semmie.
“Whenever you wish,” said Harcor. “My curiosity has been quenched.”
Savarah found her thoughts drifting from the room in her last moments. What was the purpose of it all? She had been willing to risk her life for the cause of her master, for his vision was wide and full of purpose. Why had she risked her life? For whom?
For the good of the weak people around her. Yes. That was why. But what was their end? Isolaug’s end had been grand, for he had set in her a vision for taking the entire galaxy, and beyond that, the seven galaxies that comprised the universe of the gods. But what was the hope that drove these people? Their love? Their sacred writings? Some vague promise from the Makers that she had not heard?
Savarah hadn’t asked enough questions to know if there was more to it. She knew only that she’d been moved by something beautiful, in their care for one another.
The cold hand of Harcor’s wife caressed her forehead, pressing it gently to the floor, exposing her neck.
Savarah drew in a thin breath she knew could be her last. She was going to die for that alluring beauty the Hold people called love. Whether she was a fool for doing so, she would never know.
Savarah opened her eyes to see Semmie raise the knife in her hand.
A crash sounded in the room. Semmie’s sightless eyes drifted up toward the noise, and, in that instant, an arrow tore through her eye socket, and her head jerked out of sight.
A bow string twanged near her, and the shriek of a dying man followed it. A discordant fury of arrows twanged from bows in response. Then the clanging of steel sounded. Swords clashed. A body fell across Savarah’s legs, but she didn’t have the strength to lift her head.
If this was a miraculous attempt to rescue her, it was too late.
She closed her eyes as death beckoned her to leave the waking world behind.
_____
MELUSCIA
Meluscia watched Wiluit and three other men battling a bald-headed man who moved like a tiger. All had swords in hand, having dropped their bows for a blade. The bald man had three arrows sagging from his arms, and one from the side of his chest, but he fought fiercer than any. Two armed men who’d come with them lay upon the ground, their blood flowing like a river toward the stone hearth.
Two more guards came in through the door. The bald man spun on one foot and grabbed a fiery log in his hand, parrying a sword thrust with a slash of his own steel. He threw the flaming log, striking a man in the face. He leaped at a soldier on his left, drove a fist into his jaw, and sprang toward a window. The glass exploded. Wiluit and the three men remaining on their feet raced out the door in pursuit.
Meluscia turned and found her sister’s body on the floor. She rushed over and took Savarah’s hand. She called her name. There was no response. Meluscia put her ear to Savarah’s lips and heard a fragile breath passing in and out. She looked at the blood-covered floor. It was impossible to tell how much belonged to her sister and how much had come from the corpses that littered the room like fallen trees.
She rubbed her sister’s face. It was pale, but there was no blood on it. Savarah looked different, lying there helpless, so close to death. Like she’d been a young woman wearing a cruel and savage mask her entire life. Meluscia hardly recognized her. Savarah was pretty, almost innocent-looking. She no longer had the harsh look of a soldier, but rather had a gentle, feminine aura that softened her features. Gone was her perpetual grimace and harsh, furrowed brow.
Meluscia embraced the tears that ran down her cheeks.
“Please, I want more time with her,” she whispered to the Makers. She’d barely begun to glimpse the strange new girl before her. What had caused the change? What would Savarah’s future had been like?
A gentle hand touched Meluscia’s back. She looked up through stinging tears and found Wiluit kneeling beside her. Standing above him were the two old men, the young girl, and the boy.
“Jauphenna can help your sister,” said Wiluit. He pulled tenderly on Meluscia’s arm. She stood, trying to absorb his words, staring at his face and the confidence she found there. Meluscia had seen the wounded brought back from patrols with her father. She had visited the physicker’s chambers. Savarah was well past hope of return. She had twenty, maybe fifty feeble breaths left.
The young girl knelt beside her sister and placed her hands on the bloodied cloak that covered Savarah’s chest. The protruding shaft was slick with blood and gore.
What did she think she was doing?
“We thought we were coming here with only words for your sister,” said Wiluit. “But we were mistaken. Both Jauphenna and the boy, who is called Shauwby, have
words for you, as well. The two speak very different messages, Shauwby’s tongue gives direction and encourages. Jauphenna’s tongue gives warning and breaks one’s bones. Shauwby sees only the present and future, but Jauphenna glimpses past and present.”
“What is she doing with my sister?”
“Healing her,” said Wiluit, his hand on her arm. His touch was comforting amidst the chaos of his words. “It will take some time for her to finish. Healing is Jauphenna’s other gift. She is the only one of her kind.”
A Healer? A wild hope came upon Meluscia. She looked down at the girl and then back at Wiluit. “What do you mean, only one of her kind?”
“No other diviner has been given two giftings. None that the histories reveal, at least.”
Meluscia recalled his words to be true. The diviners she’d read of had only one gift. Who was this man who knew the histories?
“You are like a dirty rag,” said a voice from below. It was the girl. Meluscia looked down at her, surprised. Jauphenna’s hands were pressed against Savarah’s chest, but her eyes glared up at Meluscia, full of poison. “Pretty on the outside, but underneath the skin, you fester with rot. A secret transgression mars your heart. Your feet have taken you places you should never have gone, and yet…”
Jauphenna’s words trailed off. The disgust in her eyes seemed to lessen slightly. “Yet the Makers see your heart has turned from murder. You’ve taken the first few steps back toward the pure love of the gods. You have a new friend, but you have not confessed to her. Too long have you grown accustomed to the darkness of life under the mountain. You’ve come to make peace with the King of the Verdlands, but I swear as the gods’ voice, unless you confess your wrongs to that woman, your words to the king will fall on deaf ears.” Jauphenna looked back down at Savarah. “That is all I have to say.”
Meluscia stared at the top of Jauphenna’s head. Shame coursed through her blood, along with fear. The gods had spoken to her through human lips, and had brought to light her secrets before men. She felt stripped naked. Humiliated.
