She was his.
I must not allow myself such thoughts in the master’s presence.
He finally reached the interior door. It lifted open automatically, and he eased the hoverbike into the garage beyond, parking it alongside the other bikes. The collection of vehicles here could rival that of any Undercity elite; the Order of the Void commanded significant resources, and the Master believed in being prepared for all situations. Most any vehicle the acolytes required, from hoverbikes to luxury hovercars to cargo haulers, could be found here or in the larger secondary garage on the other side of the complex.
Tenthil climbed off the bike and walked toward the door leading into the temple. The air here was different than elsewhere in the Infinite City; it seemed cleaner, crisper, and somehow far, far older.
A black-robed acolyte beside the door—a charcoal-skinned, horned sedhi, her third eye obscured by her dark hair—signed to Tenthil as he approached, her fingers moving deftly.
The Master calls.
Tenthil nodded and continued through the door. He’d known the Master would summon him, but that foreknowledge didn’t prevent the sinking feeling in his gut, didn’t stop the acidic burn of anger in his chest.
He followed a long, dark hallway into a stone-floored vestibule, where he turned left and stepped through wooden double doors into the cloister. Without pausing, he moved off the walkway and entered the courtyard. There was no open air here, no sky, but constant projections on the ceiling mimicked the slowly changing cosmos as though the temple were floating in deep space, offering fleeting glimmers of distant stars and hints of color as faraway nebulas drifted by.
At the center of the yard stood the Well of Secrets—a three-meter-wide pool ringed by figures sculpted out of a strange, dark metal that seemed to absorb neither heat nor cold. The figures wore robes like those of the Order’s acolytes, all with hoods up and their downturned faces obscured by shadow. The pool between the statues held a black mass of indeterminable depth, the properties of which seemed to change randomly—even as one stared into it. Sometimes it rippled and shimmered like water, sometimes it roiled like a viscous sludge, sometimes it resembled thick fog gathered in a ditch. But always it was black, as black as the nothingness between the stars.
Three steps, curved to match the pool’s circular perimeter, led up on one side—Tenthil had heard the Master refer to them as the stairs to eternity on more than one occasion.
The Master called the pool a direct conduit to the Void. Anything that entered it was devoured, never to be seen again—including people the Master had interrogated. Once their secrets had been extracted, they were brought to the well.
It was only a matter of time before Tenthil pushed too hard and the Master whispered his name to the well. Before Tenthil, body and soul, would be given to satiate the Void’s unending hunger.
He stared into the darkness as he strode past. If he was to become another victim of the Void, another silenced soul, it would not be without a cost to the Order. It would not be without bloodshed.
Though he currently served its will, the Void did not yet own Tenthil.
Wrenching his gaze away from the pool, he crossed the remainder of the courtyard and passed into the nave—a massive, high-ceilinged chamber serving as the Order’s primary training space. Dozens of acolytes, clad in form-fitting black combat suits, utilized the space now, practicing hand-to-hand combat or the use of various melee weapons. Many of those acolytes faced one another in one-on-one sparring matches under the watch of robed and hooded instructors. Huge, faceless sculptures loomed along the walls, their heads tilted down toward the acolytes below.
The figures were a reminder—the Master was always watching.
Despite the activity, no one spoke. Their movements were largely silent, save for the quick, crackling hisses of energy blades clashing and the dull thwaps of fists, elbows, knees, and feet connecting with bodies. Elsewhere in the temple, acolytes trained with blasters and firearms of various models, but those chambers were removed from the rest and heavily soundproofed. Even here in the nave, noise was dampened; no sound echoed off the metal and stone of its walls, floor, and ceiling.
Tenthil moved to the side of the chamber and followed the wall toward the opposite end. A few acolytes glanced at him as he passed; he was still dressed for Twisted Nethers—tall boots, black pants, and a red and violet padded jacket over a white shirt. His clothing befitted an Ergoth gang member, not an acolyte of the Void. Most of those who looked were punished for their distraction by savage blows from their sparring partners and instructors.
When Tenthil reached the far side of the room, he rounded the dais from which the Master would sometimes survey the acolytes’ training and stepped through the door behind it. A spiraling staircase led him up to the next floor, where it opened on a long, wide corridor intersected by several perpendicular halls. The walls were dark and devoid of adornment save for the statues standing within recesses on either side every seven paces. Though all the sculptures were similarly attired, each had some variation that distinguished it from the others, a unique trait that set it apart.
Sometimes, the statues exhibited subtle changes to their poses—a head might one day be downturned a few more degrees than before, previously curled fingers inexplicably straightened, and the slant of shoulders altered just enough to change a figure’s balance.
Tenthil wasn’t sure if the changes were real or imagined; he’d been in the temple since childhood, and he’d known nothing of this world when he arrived. This place had been terrifying to him in his youth, and his unease had never quite faded.
He walked through the hallway at a brisk pace, offering no acknowledgement to the silent acolytes he passed. His mind needed to be clear when he stood before the Master; it would be his only defense, the only way to protect himself from dire retribution.
The only way to protect the terran.
The Master’s chamber was at the end of the hallway. A single acolyte stood outside the entry door, one of only three beings in the Order who’d not undergone the vow of silence—Corelthi. She was a volturian with sharp facial features, blue-gray skin, and glowing orange markings on her face and neck. Her eyes—sclerae and all—were the same color as her markings.
She held her gaze on Tenthil as he approached, her slightly lifted chin and lowered brows conveying her sentiments as clearly as though she’d spoken them aloud—which she had several times before.
You do not belong here, and, soon enough, you will be put down like the animal you are.
Corelthi served as the Master’s right hand, a deadly assassin in her own right made all the more dangerous through her devotion to the Void and to her leader.
Tenthil stopped in front of her. Despite her formidability and her position, he was not afraid of her—his fear was reserved for the being who awaited behind the door.
“Would that you had not come back,” Corelthi said. “It has been my wish to hunt you down and plunge a blade into your insolent heart for years.”
Suddenly more aware of the blaster and flechette pistol tucked into his belt, Tenthil pressed his teeth together, careful to prevent the muscles of his jaw from bunching. The Order had gone to great lengths in their attempts to take his voice, and he’d fought hard to keep it.
But silence seemed the only appropriate response in this situation.
Corelthi narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “Disciplined only when it suits you. You are not worthy of his favor.”
Stepping aside, she tugged the door open.
Tenthil turned his head forward and stepped through the doorway into the dark chamber beyond, affording Corelthi no more of his attention.
The Master’s chamber was a circular room with a high, pointed ceiling constantly swirling with images like those in the courtyard—occasional glimpses of nebulas and tiny stars amidst the deepest black. The walls were shrouded behind thick shadow, which was impenetrable even to Tenthil’s eyes; he was certain hidden doors lurked withi
n the darkness, perhaps even one leading to the Master’s personal quarters, but he could never know for certain.
The only light in the room projected from the center of the ceiling in a cone, as though rising from the darkness of the Void itself. It fell directly upon a simple wooden chair situated in the middle of the room and illuminated the gray floor stones for several meters around the lone piece of furniture.
“Sit.”
The voice came from everywhere at once, curving around the room as though it were in command of the laws of acoustics rather than at their mercy. Tenthil knew it well; the Master’s voice was the only one he’d heard for years after being brought to the Infinite City as a youngling. Deep and smooth, it was undercut by a barely perceptible, raspy whisper that gave it an otherworldly quality.
Tenthil strode to the chair, turned, and sat. His stomach twisted into knots, but he did not allow the sensation to distract him; he forced his thoughts aside.
The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of Tenthil’s heartbeat in his own ears, a slow thumping that seemed to permeate the room. Tenthil had endured this often enough to know the game, to know the Master’s propensity for sewing uncertainty and fear.
He heard a whisper of cloth behind him. A moment later, something brushed against his right shoulder. He glanced down to see the Master’s long, gloved fingers curling over his shoulder. For years, Tenthil had never heard a sound when the Master moved. Either the Master was growing careless, or Tenthil’s senses were sharper than ever.
“Show me,” the Master said.
Tenthil held his memories at bay, focusing only on the present—on the chill in the air, on the ever-moving darkness overhead, on the chronic ache in his throat, on the strong, spindly fingers settled on his shoulder.
Those fingers squeezed. “You test my patience, Tenthil. Your will is strong, but I will have what I want. Give it to me and save yourself the discomfort.”
You already know, Tenthil thought.
“Yes, I do,” the Master said, “but I want to see from your eyes. Truth must be examined from all angles to be understood. I will pass judgment once I have seen your perspective.”
The Master portrayed himself as an omniscient figure, an all-knowing being connected to the Void, which touched everything. But even Tenthil, who’d spent his earliest years on a primitive planet, raised by a primitive people, knew better. There was no mysticism involved—the Master employed a vast network of spies, hackers, and informants who constantly funneled information to him.
And who constantly kept watch on acolytes while they pursued contracts in the field.
The first signs of intrusion came in the form of pressure in the back of Tenthil’s mind; it felt like icy fingers were sinking into his brain, sending a chill down Tenthil’s spine. That presence was as compelling as it was cold—the urge to reminisce about his mission awakened in Tenthil’s subconscious, but he resisted, having learned years before how to recognize such foreign compulsions.
The pressure in his mind strengthened along with the grip on his shoulder.
Tenthil could resist, but not indefinitely, and the longer he held out the more painful it would be when his defenses finally crumbled.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Tenthil ceased his struggle.
The Master plunged into Tenthil’s mind, rifling through thoughts like a peacekeeper from the Eternal Guard searching a criminal’s dwelling. Tenthil did the only thing he could to protect himself—he summoned memories of the night’s events so the Master wouldn’t search any deeper. He began at the slaying of the Ergoth gang member and worked forward. The Master’s icy touch slithered over each memory, examining, prodding, and poking.
Tenthil did not omit the human female—the memory gap would’ve been too obvious, and the Master’s scrutiny would’ve intensified—but he was careful not to recall his feelings for her save his lingering lust. He wanted to rut her; it was true, even if it was but a sliver of the entire truth.
Once his memories of the evening had ceased, he cleared his mind again, allowing himself no reflection upon any of it. The Master’s presence remained in Tenthil’s head, cold and alien.
The room was still and silent. Tenthil dared not move, bracing himself for the inevitable pain of the Master delving deeper, seeking to pry out everything. His head already throbbed; even the mildest of these intrusions were not without pain.
Finally, the Master broke his silence with a heavy, prolonged sigh. His grip on Tenthil’s shoulder tightened for a moment before he lifted his hand away. The pressure of the Master’s mental intrusion lessened, but his presence in Tenthil’s mind did not cease.
The Master walked past the chair and paced in front of Tenthil. His dark, voluminous robes hid the size and shape of his body; he was taller than Tenthil by half a head, at least, with a seemingly wide body but long, thin arms. Tenthil had never seen the Master without his raised hood and black, featureless facemask, had never seen the face hidden behind the darkness.
No one knew what his face looked like. No one knew his real name. No one even knew his species. In an organization founded upon secrets, perhaps the most closely guarded was the Master’s identity.
“Do you recall your homeworld?” the Master asked.
Tenthil braced his mental shield and shook his head. What memories he retained from his earliest years belonged to him, and he refused to share them.
Fortunately, the Master did not probe to determine Tenthil’s honesty.
“Your people are a fierce race. Strong, quick, and predatory. Barely more than animals.” The Master halted and turned toward Tenthil. “I invested heavily in you. Gave you purpose. Knowledge. Training. I did not pay to have a maddened beast at my command, I paid to have a cunning, methodical killer. Tonight, you disgraced both yourself and my Order. You violated the tenets, shunned my teachings, and spat in my face.
“You lusted after that female like a wild animal, relinquishing all self-control, and your stupidity left hundreds of witnesses to your contract’s closing.”
Tenthil clenched his teeth and fists as the Master’s presence slithered through his mind again. The sensation intensified as it pushed deeper, creating jolts of pain like spikes being driven through his skull. He concentrated on nothingness, on emptiness, and resisted the psychic onslaught.
The Master stepped closer. “You are by far the most skilled of my acolytes. No other would have survived the situation you escaped tonight. For that reason alone, I have been lenient with you. This is the last time.”
Crouching slightly, the Master moved his face closer to Tenthil’s. “I made you what you are. And I will no longer hesitate to destroy you. Do you understand?”
Staring at the Master’s mask was like staring beyond the edge of the universe; if the Void could exist within a living being, it was in front of Tenthil now. A twinge of fear pulsed in Tenthil’s chest, but it quickly twisted into something else—anger.
His life was his own. He refused to be cowed by threats from anyone, even the Master.
Swallowing his fury before it boiled to the surface, Tenthil nodded. If the Master sensed Tenthil’s anger, he made no indication of it.
The Master straightened and walked past the chair, disappearing from Tenthil’s view. “Good. There are many brothels in the Undercity, should you require release. I suggest you visit one before you make another foolish mistake.”
The icy, alien presence in Tenthil’s mind withdrew abruptly. The stabbing pain resonated in his skull for several seconds before giving way to a throbbing ache. Tenthil drew in a slow, deep breath as his heartbeat faded from his hearing and forced his clenched fists open. The sting of the cuts his claws had opened on his palms added new pain to his growing list.
He didn’t look back as he stood up and exited the chamber; he knew the Master had already retreated into the cover of the shadows.
Corelthi was no longer positioned outside the door—a small boon, but one for which Tenthil was nonetheless grateful. He s
trode through the hallways toward his quarters, denying himself all thoughts but those regarding his navigation. It was not until he was in his room with the door closed and locked that he allowed everything to flood into his conscious mind.
His fingers instinctively curled, lengthening his black claws, and his muscles bulged as the fullness of his rage struck him. Bitter venom filled his mouth, leaking from his clenched fangs. He longed to attack, to destroy, but he held himself back; the ruckus he’d raise in doing so would not go unnoticed by the other acolytes, which meant the Master would quickly learn of it. Tenthil had no desire to give the Master reason to invade his mind with even greater force.
Slowly, his rage diminished, and the tension in his muscles eased. But a fire still burned hot and low in his belly. For the first time since he’d returned from his mission, Tenthil deliberately shifted his thoughts to the terran dancer—to the way her eyes had captivated him, to the way she’d moved, to the way her body had felt against his. To the way she’d tasted.
His cock swelled, its ache rivaling the throbbing in his head.
Animalistic lust? If this is mere lust, I am as great a fool as he believes.
He paced back and forth in the small space, and his resemblance to a caged beast was not lost on him in that moment—a realization more bitter than his venom. He breathed in. He could still smell the female upon him. Groaning, he tugged off his jacket and lifted it to his nose, drawing in the terran’s lingering scent.
He threw the jacket into the corner before pulling the weapons from his belt and laying them on the chest in which he kept his few worldly possessions. After kicking off his boots, he removed his shirt and pants, tossing them toward the jacket.
Freedom only slightly eased the strain in his cock.
The terran’s image clarified in his mind’s eye, and he inhaled again to take in more of her faint scent. It was intoxicating despite its weakness.
Silent Lucidity Page 5
