by J. S. Fields
“Thanks, then,” Nicholas said to Kallum. The youth’s shoulders relaxed in relief, and zie dashed off to a table where a patron was holding up an empty, wooden mug.
“We have to try walking, Atalant.” Nicholas moved Atalant’s legs from the bench. She set them on the floor and jolted upright, shuddering. Nicholas wrapped her right arm around his shoulder and pulled. Somehow, they managed to get Atalant standing and limping to the stairway.
“Hold on there!” A thick Keft female with very short claws scooped Atalant from her slant before Nicholas had time to object. He barely managed to loosen his grip on Atalant’s shoulders before she was in the Keft’s arms. “Bit early for this level of drunk. Where’s your room?”
The familiarity was disquieting until Nicholas remembered that there weren’t many visual differences between the Keft and the Neek. The woman could be a Neek, for all he knew—though given their xenophobic culture that seemed unlikely, and he was pretty certain none of the Neek had claws. He also couldn’t recall any of the Neek being quite as hairy as this woman, but then again, he’d not met many Neek, or Keft for that matter. Relieved, he pointed up. “Third floor.”
The Keft gave a knowing wink and then took the stairs, two at a time, to the top. She gingerly lowered Atalant, whose eyes had remained shut the entire time, back into Nicholas’s grip. “Guess if you’re going to drink this much, might as well do it right before the move.” She tapped Nicholas on the back, a gesture he hoped was friendly, and then waved with sticky fingers. “Glad to see another Yishin, if only for a few minutes. Enjoy your evening!”
That seemed less likely with each passing minute. A Yishin? Nicholas’s gaze wandered back to Atalant’s prone form. They’d have to talk about that later, when she was conscious.
Instead of pondering more on that, Nicholas looked at the door in front of him. In the tiny gap above the floor, Nicholas could see a difference in the lighting. Hopefully that meant the tenant was in. He leaned Atalant against the wall, rapped three times, and then stepped back.
After a tense moment, a woman answered. She had to be third don—Nicholas had not yet seen so many wrinkles on an Ardulan before. Her white hair was piled neatly on her head, and her skin was so pale that Nicholas thought he could see her bones. She was dressed simply in a loose shirt and pants, the cuffs of which went well past her wrists and ankles.
“Terran?” she croaked, eyeing Nicholas suspiciously. “My Common is old. What business?”
Nicholas rocked Atalant to a stand. She twitched against his arms, but her eyes remained closed. “Our Neek is having some telepathy trouble, among other things. We were told you could help. Discreetly.” He coughed uncomfortably. “May we come in? She really needs help.”
The woman scowled and jabbed Atalant with a bony finger covered in fabric. “Messy,” she muttered, pushing up the hem of the gray dress Atalant wore. Then, she ran the same finger along Atalant’s arm. The hairs on the pilot’s skin rose and then sat back down all at once.
“The Eld.” The woman sighed, moved into her room, and looked back over her shoulder. “Follow. Her on floor.” She pointed to a bark mat that lay in the center of the small room. “Quickly.”
Nicholas eased Atalant into the room. “Can you do anything for her?” he asked as he lowered her onto the ground. Her body curled back into a fetal position, a groan escaping her lips. “We have sapphires to pay with. Not many, but maybe we could barter? Owe you some later?”
The woman waved Nicholas away from Atalant and bent over her. She moved Atalant’s head back and forth in her hand.
Nicholas took a step back. Money was going to be a big problem. How he was going to get more, he couldn’t begin to imagine. Maybe they could sell some of the interior furnishings on the ship? That’d take a particular type of buyer. Looking around the woman’s sitting room, he supposed the Ardulan might have a similar aesthetic. Lidded boxes made of various wood species lay strewn about the furniture. Some were ornately carved, others plain, but all were smudged with what looked like a fine, white powder. One of the little boxes was open, and something that looked strangely like his mother’s antique powder puff lay against its side.
“Neek are telepaths little bit,” the woman said, breaking up Nicholas’s thoughts. “Have to break it. Too many in there at once makes an overload. No recovery without.” She tugged Nicholas’s sleeve, her eyebrows arched. “Consent? She cannot.”
A wheezing sound escaped Atalant, but Nicholas couldn’t make out any words. He was not prepared to make this type of decision. Shutting off her telepathy, while it certainly—well, probably—wouldn’t kill her, would take away their only connection to Emn. That alone would likely get him in deep trouble with Atalant. With it active… He puffed his cheeks and looked down at Atalant. She couldn’t do a thing to help Emn like this. He couldn’t just leave her here, either. Partially functional was better than not at all, right?
“Do it,” he said, although the words wavered in his mouth. “Let’s hope it can be undone later. Right now…right now, we need her conscious.”
Nicholas caught what looked like a muscle spasm in Atalant’s right leg. Her head moved, rolling from left to right, and then was still again. The old woman ignored both convulsions as she put her hands on Atalant’s temples and closed her eyes.
Nicholas counted breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. Just as he was about to hit five, Atalant’s eyes flew open. She sat up, pushed the old woman away, and spun at Nicholas, fury and confusion on her face.
“You can’t do that!” she yelled, sputtering. “How dare you!” She jumped to her feet, trembling with rage. Her hands clenched to fists, but both stayed tight at her sides. “You had no right,” she hissed at him.
Nicholas stood his ground, his breath coming in short gasps. He had to remain calm. He’d done the right thing. She was walking. Talking. Raging. They needed that.
“Atalant,” he began.
“Bastard,” she said, her anger turning to sobs. “She’s gone.”
“She can fix it, I’m sure,” he offered. He hoped. “Right now, isn’t finding Emn more important? I would have thought that would be the most important thing to you.”
Atalant snarled, and Nicholas took an involuntary step back. “And just how do you suggest we find her when you have shut off my telepathy?” The pilot turned to the old woman, seething. “What was so wrong with me that you had to do this? What happened? Can it be undone?”
The old woman remained kneeling on the floor. Nicholas held out a small cluster of sapphires to the woman, hoping it was enough. She looked them over, holding each to the light individually, before placing them all back in Nicholas’s palm. “I am Corccinth, advisor of Eld for flare relations—flares like your Emn. Retired, sometimes. Here, no coin. Information exchange. Sit. Down.”
“Emn?” Nicholas sat promptly. Atalant followed, still shaking, but Nicholas could see color returning to her face. Corccinth stared at Atalant, and the pilot stared back, as if they were locked in an impossible telepathic battle. Nicholas frowned. If they were talking about Emn, or the Eld, he’d leave them to it. There was something about the room that was bugging him. When Corccinth did start to speak. Nicholas half listened to the conversation as he continued to survey the strange objects on the tables, the light powder in the air tickling his nose.
“—know of Eld?”
“Some sort of ruling power?”
“Control. They have found you much interest. Ardulum must move, and Emn must not be problematic.”
Nicholas stood, picked up a rose-colored pot the size of his hand, and studied its white halo of floating granules.
“What was the point of cutting off my telepathy!?”
“Control. Always control. Her power is unmatched.”
“Okay, but why my mind?”
“They test. Push. Define. Hope. It is the way of Eld.”
Nicholas ran a finger through the powder, leaving a thin path in his wake. The substance was fine, light, and vanished i
nto his skin. The result was a smoother area, the tip of his fingerprint indistinct. It distracted him from the other nagging question in his mind, about why the old woman knew so much about Emn.
“Why are you involvement?”
“She’s our friend. Things are complicated.”
Nicholas turned back around and watched the woman consider the words. Her mouth was pursed into a thin line that made wrinkles appear in her cheeks. He squinted. They weren’t actually wrinkles. In fact, they looked more like cracks or fissures, with something dark underneath.
Like tattoos. Or veins. Or…
Suddenly, everything made sense.
Nicholas interrupted the conversation. “We’re looking for her because she’s part of our crew. She’s family. I think you would understand that.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Why you assume?”
Nicholas wiped his fingers across the white dust on the tabletop, gathering a small amount. He walked to the center of the room and then tipped his hand over, letting the powder snow onto the floor. “Because she’s a flare. Just like you.”
Chapter 23: Eld Palace, Ardulum
Everything is prepared per your orders. The Neek populace follows our commands. Our emissary of sorts, the president and high priest, anticipates our needs and has proven as a solid liaison with the people. The settee pilots have been trained, instructed, and are ready to meet the Mmnnuggl fleets.
—Encrypted communication from Ekimet, second-don Hearth, to the Eld of Ardulum, Third Month of Arath, 26_15
THE PALACE WAS breathtaking. Emn followed Eld Adzeek through the tall archways that framed each new hallway, the dark andal heartwood in stark contrast to the pale sapwood of the walls. They walked through adjoined rooms dedicated to each Talent, each done in a different style. Some rooms contained tapestries of woven bark—others, delicate marquetry in bright hues. Color was omnipresent. It saturated Emn’s vision, overwhelming her. Her time on the Neek homeworld had shown her the rich blues of water and the coarse yellow of sand, but the palette presented in the Eld Palace was unlike anything she had ever seen before.
Every few steps, they paused as Adzeek pointed to another wonder. They were currently walking through an oddly shaped assembly hall, with walls covered in marquetry depicting a century of seeding events. They’d just come from a round room with a low ceiling, where marquetry dyed in fungal pigments gave a visual description of each Talent structure. Emn had let her eyes linger on the elaborate panel for the Aggression Talent. Was that what she should have been—would have been, perhaps—without Risalian tinkering?
Not paying attention to where she was walking, Emn caught the side of her hip on an ornate andal bench as she tried to keep up. A crash followed, and Emn cringed as a shallow pot skittered across the floor, broken into two pieces.
“Vessels are a sacred form,” Adzeek informed her, his face unreadable. “We keep many here in the palace. They serve as a reminder.” He reached down to one of the wooden halves and picked it up, turning it over reverently in his hand. The artificially tinted wood was covered with tiny depressions. Emn didn’t recognize the significance.
“This is a wooden replica of an andal seed pod. From the oldest trees, these pods are produced. In the right soil, new andal will grow strong.” Adzeek flipped the piece over so that the jagged end was on top. “In the wrong soil, nothing can survive.”
Adzeek held the piece out to Emn. She turned it over in her hands, running her fingertips across the depressions. The wood was silken, and the dye moved with the pressure of her fingertips, but did not lift. She puzzled at the dynamics but decided against asking or looking inside the wood. Instead, she handed the fragment back to Adzeek, who set it respectfully on the bench and continued to move to the other end of the room.
Paying more attention this time, Emn followed. When she reached a panel showing what looked like the Neek homeworld, she stopped. Atalant. She deserved to be here, to see this. There were answers here for her, too. At the very least, Emn could share the image of this panel, let Atalant have a window to her history.
Now is not the time, Adzeek sent. Emn felt heat rise in her cheeks. She’d been trying not to broadcast. Adzeek placed a hand on a door handle and turned back to look at Emn. This world is yours, not hers. Not theirs. They have no place here.
Emn took one final look at the panel, trying to burn the image into her memory, before following Adzeek into a wide hallway. Here, the walls were only plywood, covered in tapestries. Old plywood, perhaps, as the surface was littered with tiny fissures. They passed a thick, dark door on the right, walked another five meters, and then pushed open another door.
They stepped into another round room, this one large, with a domed ceiling that looked like fuzzy glass, and some strange statues. Inside was another ancient Ardulan, sitting on a wood throne, her cinnamon hair gathered on top of her head in two long twists.
Adzeek sat down next to her on another wood throne, splaying his legs so that the Talent markings carved into the base could be well seen. A carving Emn couldn’t make out arced over the thrones, as if it might topple and consume the Eld at any moment. Just in front of the thrones was a square mat of bark—black, curly, and not very comfortable-looking.
“Come sit and talk to us, Emn,” the female eld called. She gestured to the mat. Emn took a step, but then hesitated. The floor was littered with wood pots, one of which was on its side. Emn leaned over and inspected the inside of one just by her left foot. Something viscous glinted in the overhead light.
“Please, Emn,” Adzeek prodded.
Cautiously, Emn picked her way across the floor until she was standing in front of the thrones.
“This is Asth,” Adzeek said, standing. “She is of Mind and Aggression. Our gatoi representative, Savath, recently passed, and we are not yet aware of the andal’s chosen successor.”
Emn wasn’t certain what to make of that. She nodded in deference to Asth and then considered the bark mat. She wasn’t fond of kneeling—especially when another forced her to. The last being who had tried had…she’d killed hir. The Eld weren’t the Risalians, but snippets of the conversation she’d had with the other flares would not leave her mind. Hiding. Lying. Being less.
The walls shifted. Emn jumped back, knocking over an almost-full pot. Her eyes darted around the room. Convex striations wove across the wall. They transformed into complex geometric patterns and then loosened, the shapes they made existing for only seconds before disappearing.
She’d seen the designs before—on herself, on Arik, on Ukie… The walls were mimicking her markings and, somehow, those of the other flares.
“I see you noticed the andal roots,” Asth said, smiling. She gestured towards the wall. “Each of these striations is a root from a different tree, and all the andal of Ardulum have at least one root here. They circle this room and imprint the walls, leaving the designs you see.”
“Every tree…” Emn whispered. She fell to her knees, trying to comprehend roots spanning oceans, continents, just to…what? Amass here and play with her mind? Be at the beck and call of the Eld? Did the Eld command the andal, or was it the other way around?
There were gods here then, potentially, one way or the other. Her gods. Roots or Eld, it didn’t matter. She needed Atalant here. She couldn’t kneel here in front of rulers of Ardulum and talk about inane things when trees wound through the palace, possibly even reaching into her mind. She needed support, and the blatant disregard for divinity that only came from Atalant. Emn reached back for their link, searching for assurance or comfort or anything that could ground her in this moment.
Nothing was there. Emn searched, lingering in the back of her mind, in the small corner where Atalant’s consciousness resided. When she could still find nothing, she reached out as far as she could, pushing past the minds of the Eld, the outer palace guards, and into the throngs of evening shoppers in the square. The exercise was draining, and without thinking, Emn pulled at the first bits of cellulose that
caught her attention, bringing them together and absorbing the released energy to fuel her search. She heard pots shatter, but ignored it. She scanned the inn, the market, and then all of Sekreth, but the familiar brightness of Atalant’s mind was nowhere to be found.
“That will be quite enough of that!” Adzeek leaned over and placed a hand on Emn’s shoulder. She got the distinct impression of a wet towel being thrown over her head as her focus snapped back to the room. “We did not invite you to the Talent Chamber to ruin our antiques and spill anointment oil all over the floor.” He frowned at Emn. “You were brought before your Eld to provide information. That is the only task we currently require of you. Your Neek is well beyond your reach.”
Emn jumped to her feet and pulled from Adzeek’s grip. When the male eld again reached for her, she slapped his hand away and backed towards the door. What did you do? she hissed into their minds.
“You’re a smart girl,” Adzeek said, his eyes condescending. “You can’t feel her anymore. What do you think?”
Chapter 24: Sekreth, Ardulum
Request to outfit Charted Systems ships with tesseract generators is approved.
—Communication of unknown origin to the Mmnnuggl flagship Ittyrr, December 20th, 2060 CE
“YOU MIND DEAD.”
Corccinth pointed through the last-minute shoppers in the marketplace to a nondescript door at the side of the Eld Palace. In both hands, she carried large woven baskets, each packed tightly with powdered makeup in ranges of melanin tints and covered with black, cotton sheets. “Way to Emn. The Eld tell their lies to protect, but always flawed methodology. Here is primary hallway to throne room and Talent Chamber. Kitchens close.”
Atalant rubbed at her temples. If only she could reach inside her own mind, like Emn. Just turn on switches or synapses or whatever and fix her telepathy. Atalant’s mind ached without Emn’s presence, and her own thoughts reverberated throughout the emptiness in her head. And if the Eld had sinister motives, it’d be easy enough to convince Emn that Atalant had died if this was what she was feeling as well. “Are you bringing those baskets with us?” she asked tiredly. “Are they really necessary?”
