by Mason Thomas
“My hunch?” Hunter asked, stepping closer to the table. He was trying hard not to care about any of this. None of it should matter to him. He’d done what they’d asked, and now it was time for him to get on with the task of finding a way home.
“The only ones that knew of the mission were those in the council room. They all have earned my trust.”
“It does us no harm to take further precautions,” Dax interjected.
“Don’t presume I am being naïve,” Quinnar replied directly to Dax. “We have all heard the rumors of a spy among us. And despite what people think, I take the rumors seriously. But there is already too much discord. Factions splintering our resolve. I will not have the council now turn on itself. I need evidence. Better yet, a name.”
A grim silence followed. There was no solid evidence, and Quinnar knew it. Even Yvenne couldn’t provide anything substantive to prove one way or the other that the Heneran knew the specifics of the plan. Hunter knew that Quinnar would not act.
It didn’t matter anyway, he reminded himself. This wasn’t his fight, and he’d be smart to remember that. He’d held up his end of the bargain, and as long as Quinnar did the same, he could now at least put some of this insanity behind him. He’d be a surface dweller again, topside.
“What will you tell the council?” Dax asked.
“That there were complications—”
“Nothing like understating the obvious,” Hunter grumbled.
Quinnar’s eyes shifted to Hunter before returning to Dax. “But the mission was ultimately a success.”
“They will come to the same conclusion we have,” Dax said.
“Leave them to me.” Quinnar leaned against the back of his chair and pinched his chin with his forefinger and thumb. “The bigger concern is the Heneran. You’re certain it was there in the flesh? Not a projection?”
“Positive,” Hunter replied. “It shot balls of fire at me.”
“And there was only one of them?”
“One was enough,” Hunter said. “It had one of those glowing stones around its neck. A big one.” He gestured the size of an apple with curled fingers over his chest. “If there’d been more, I’d have been toast. Burnt toast.”
“If there was one…,” Zinnuvial said dourly and left the rest of her thought unfinished.
Quinnar nodded with pursed lips. “Then there are likely more. Any kug’ra?”
“None that I saw,” Hunter said.
Zinnuvial folded her arms. “They would be much harder to smuggle in.”
“How did that Heneran even get into the city?” Hunter asked. It wouldn’t be easy to simply hide those twisting horns under a hood. “The gates were heavily guarded when we got here, and every cart was searched. Would guards knowingly let any in?”
Quinnar shook his head. “Illusion, most likely.”
“Is it that easy?” Hunter asked.
“Not hardly. Few sorcerers know the spell, and even fewer have the competency for it. It is a costly spell, demanding much power to maintain, but that doesn’t seem to be a problem for the Henerans since they obviously have ample witchstone at their disposal. But it’s a lengthy ritual to conduct and requires specific components.”
“Components?”
“Supplies needed to make the spell work. Not least of them, I understand, is flesh from the one they wish to impersonate.”
Hunter’s heart skipped. The missing part of his mother’s hand. Before they’d sent her to his world, they had cut it off to use for their illusion.
Dax made a low noise in his throat. His expression had darkened. His brow pulled in tight over the bridge of his nose, and his mouth twisted to the side. “They grow bolder. Explains the weak defense we noted at the border. She is providing them covert access into our lands to establish a position. And now they have occupied the city. No telling how many Henerans are already here.”
“We are running out of time,” Zinnuvial whispered.
“Why? What does that mean?” Hunter asked.
“Their plan is nearer to fruition.”
“And that plan is?”
Quinnar drummed his fingers on the desk. After everything Hunter had gone through, was he still debating whether to share what they knew? “Seize control the kingdom, of course. And return the Crags to Heneran control.”
“They want the witchstones mines,” Hunter said.
“Yes… but it is not as simple as that,” Zinnuvial replied. “The Henerans claim the Crags are their ancestral home. And the home of their gods.”
Hunter took a step back. “Hold on. The land you took from them is their holy land?”
Quinnar shook his head. “The Crags were taken during the Ghu’doric Wars more than a century ago—”
“Doesn’t matter. They still view it as theirs. That is the sort of thing that lives a long time in the memory of a people.”
“The lands were won fairly—” Quinnar continued, leaning in on his elbows.
Fairly? Hunter doubted that. “So, they’re supposed to just walk away and forget their homeland is occupied by their sworn enemy? This whole thing isn’t about them gaining power, is it? It’s about you keeping it.”
“I don’t expect you to understand. This isn’t your world—”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Most of the wars that ever occurred in his own world had their roots in religion. “Certainly explains why they’re fighting so hard to get it back.” And why they hated the humans so damn much.
“Do not sympathize too deeply with them, Hunter,” Zinnuvial said. “Their beliefs also allow for the enslavement of the kug’ra. A right bestowed upon them by their gods.”
That did give him pause.
“Regardless of their motives,” Dax added, “if the Henerans are successful, it could trigger a new war between us. Thousands could die. Thousands more driven from their homes to become refugees.”
“Or enslaved,” Zinnuvial said. “As the kug’ra are. Punishment for us defiling their lands.”
Quinnar leaned back in his chair again, drummed his fingers on the arm of it. “The presence of the Heneran in the city cannot be ignored. It forces our hand. And I’ve recently received word from inside the palace. The imposter queen has spoken to her court about her attempts to bear the king’s child. That may have been their plan all along. Create an heir.”
Zinnuvial and Dax exchanged looks. “Which would legitimize their ownership of the land,” Dax said, nodding. Hunter looked into Dax’s eyes and saw cold concern there.
“Is that even possible?” Hunter asked. He had no idea how different they were from humans.
“A human-Heneran crossbreed? I know of no such occurrence,” Zinnuvial replied, weaving her arms over her breast.
“Yet it is possible with the Mazenti,” Quinnar said. “Are we willing to gamble that it will not work?”
“Well, if it is possible, and a kid is born, those horns would be a dead giveaway,” Hunter said.
Dax shook his head. “They would extend the illusion to include the child as well. Otherwise the child would not survive the hour.”
Quinnar said, shaking his head, “My thoughts exactly. Which means we need to consider taking bolder action. We should act on the imposter sooner than we planned.”
Dax lifted his brow in a high arch. “We are not nearly in place to expose her.”
“I’m not speaking of exposing her.”
Silence fell among them. “What then?” Zinnuvial asked in a very quiet voice. She already knew the answer.
“Something we should have done at the beginning. Before it got this far.”
“Are you seriously suggesting—” Hunter cut himself short. He heard a noise behind him, out in the corridor. He turned around to find Uri standing there by the open doorway, bearing a tray.
“My apologies,” Uri said with a bow. “I was sent with Master Quinnar’s evening meal.” In the center of the tray was a plate of steaming meat and potatoes and a heavy wooden mug. Quinnar waved him
in. As he circled around, Hunter tried to catch his eye, but the boy avoided Hunter’s gaze. As soon as the tray was set on the edge of the table, he quickly dashed from the room and disappeared into the corridor.
“You cannot be saying what I think you’re saying,” Hunter continued quietly once Uri was gone.
“I know it sounds distasteful—”
“No, it sounds barbaric, actually.”
“We need to consider it. If we are to survive.”
“Assassination is not the answer,” he said with a shake of his head.
Quinnar frowned and took the mug of ale from the tray and set it front of him. “It may have to be.”
Quinnar must be feeling desperate, feeling his influence within his resistance slip from him, to even suggest this. And the subtext here was clear, especially with the way Quinnar’s eyes lingered in Dax’s direction. Hunter knew exactly who Quinnar had in mind for the job. “Even if you’re successful, it will not turn out the way you think. It never does.”
Quinnar took a drink from his mug but stayed silent.
Zinnuvial and Dax were quiet as well, their expressions hard and unreadable. Did they agree with this?
“Bring this up to your council,” Hunter pressed. “See what they think.”
“Were you not just advocating for more secrecy? That the council could not be trusted?”
“It’s a terrible idea. Others will agree.”
Quinnar’s expression darkened, his eyes lowering to the table in front of him. He looked as if he was struggling with some internal fight, trying to not say what was on his mind. Eventually, he sighed and said, “You did far more today than we asked of you. For that, we are grateful. But this is now a matter for the resistance.”
“So, butt out,” Hunter said.
“Yes.”
“Speaking of the arrangement,” Dax put in, his words wedging the taut air between Hunter and Quinnar. A deliberate subject change. The way Dax and Quinnar met eyes, it was clear they were shelving this conversation for later.
Quinnar nodded. “A small tenement has been procured. As promised. He will be delivered there in the morning.” He gave a Hunter a cool look. “Until then, avoid any more contact with others. We don’t need another altercation.”
The frosty note in his voice told Hunter he was sore about his clash with Corrad, which had never been directly addressed between them. Despite what he’d been through today, clearly all was not forgiven.
Dax seemed to accept this with a curt dip of his chin, and his head turned slightly toward Hunter. “He will occupy my quarters.”
Quinnar lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “With the door locked, I’d advise.”
Hunter scowled. The appreciation for what he did today didn’t extend very far into the organization, apparently. “What of Uri?”
“He’s expressed no interest. This is his home, Hunter.”
Hunter refused to believe that and wondered if Quinnar had even approached him with it. The boy needed to be out of here, in a place where he could be treated like a human being. He’d likely been mistreated so long, this had become normal and expected.
But he didn’t push it. He’d find Uri later and speak to him privately, convince him it was better if he stayed with him. Uri didn’t have to leave the resistance—but he didn’t have to spend all his days in a dark hole underground getting kicked around like a rodent.
Dax nodded to Zinnuvial as he turned to leave.
Hunter followed. “You don’t need to give up your room. I’ll be fine where I was.”
Dax’s head tilted a bit in front of him, but he didn’t look back at him. “It is one night.”
DAX LED him to the door of his personal room, which was tucked in an out-of-the-way corridor, alone and inconspicuous. He presented an iron skeleton key and dropped it into Hunter’s palm.
“You were not shown due gratitude,” Dax said from deep in his throat. He looked pensive. Dour. “For what you did today. Not from Quinnar. Nor from me.”
“I didn’t do it for that,” Hunter answered.
“Nonetheless.” Dax looked down at his boots, quiet for a time. “You fought well today.”
Hunter shrugged. “Finally got that stance figured out.”
Dax’s eyes swung to meet Hunter’s, and even in the dim corridor, Hunter caught a glimpse of mirth behind them. “Your courage has not gone unnoticed. By many.”
Evidently not enough, though. Otherwise he wouldn’t need to sleep in a locked room.
Dax appeared as if he had more to say as his attention turned to the long corridor, and he stared off at nothing in particular. Hunter could almost hear his mind whirling. The silence between them grew prickly, and for a moment, Hunter thought he would speak what was on his mind. But instead, Dax straightened his spine and tugged on the bottom of his jerkin. “Rest well.”
He marched away then, leaving Hunter curling his fingers around the key and wondering what he’d wanted to say. No one needed to tell Hunter, though, where Dax was going. He was heading back to talk to Quinnar.
Frowning to himself, he turned the key in the lock and let himself into the room. Some light from the corridor pushed past him into the vacant room. A bed, a nightstand, a table, a wardrobe. Neat and orderly, which didn’t surprise him. He stood at the threshold, reluctant to let himself step into the room.
It smelled of Dax. The ghost of him had absorbed into the walls and the simple furnishings somehow. And it amplified his absence. Hunter couldn’t help but drum up imaginings of Dax during his private moments in here, and it made Hunter feel like an intruder. A voyeur.
He would sleep here… later. He wasn’t about sit in here all evening with nothing to do but mull over what had happened at the warehouse and wallow in Dax’s absence. That felt a little pathetic.
He pulled the door shut again and locked it back up, then worked his way through the network of corridors, led by some inner compulsion. He let his feet steer him, and he knew where they were headed—back to the training yard. The fight in the warehouse now felt like a cold iron lump weighing down his soul. He felt restless, agitated, and needed to give his muscles something to do.
In the fading light of the courtyard, he peeled off all his clothes and left them in a pile. They were stained with blood and smelled of smoke—and he couldn’t stand to wear them any longer. He grabbed a practice sword, and naked, he ran through all the drills Zinnuvial had taught him, one after another. Then ran through them again, until it was too dark to see. He gave himself over to the workout, despite the protest of his muscles and the stinging of the puncture wound in his hand. He worked until his skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. For a time, with his muscles aching, his heart rate elevated, his mind almost forgot what it was like to dangle from the ceiling, seconds from dropping to his death. Or the heat of the fireballs as they exploded around him, threatening to burn him alive. Or the grim sensation, felt in his hands, of a sword pushing through soft flesh.
At the point of collapse, he returned the sword to the box. The cool night air nipped at his damp skin, and the center of his hand now throbbed, but he didn’t care. It was pain he’d rather feel than the one his heart held at bay. He used the water from a barrel and a thick horsehair brush he found to scrub the soot and sweat from his skin and hair. He scrubbed until his skin burned. But even then, it didn’t feel like enough. The taint of death still clung to him.
He dunked the clothes into the water as well, wrung them out, and hung them over a railing. As they dried, he lay out naked over the pine box and watched the moon drift upward into the sky.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would be away from here. Which meant he had to figure out a way to put all this behind him. Somehow. He had to. It was time focus all his energies on finding a way home. On finding a way of leaving this godforsaken hell.
24
HIS CLOTHES were still damp when he eventually decided to head in. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were still soiled with the events of earlier,
and he was loath to put them on again. It didn’t matter to him if anyone saw him naked and roaming the corridors. He hoped to never see any of these people again anyway. But Quinnar’s request to not draw unnecessary attention to himself loitered in the back of his head. Despite his opinion of Quinnar, the advice was sound. So he settled for only wearing the pants, which were cold and clammy against his skin as he slipped them on. Boots and tunic held against his side, he wandered the vacant corridors barefoot.
In the morning, Hunter would be quietly stowed away in an apartment somewhere in this city, out of sight and likely forgotten. Safer probably, but minor details like how he was to buy food and necessary supplies hadn’t been told to him yet. He was going to have to learn how to survive on his own in this city. Which would take time—time needed to begin his search for a way home.
A daunting prospect—and after today, it fell entirely on him. No one in the resistance was going to help him, that was certain. He sighed. Home felt so far from him. It seemed beyond his reach. But he didn’t want to think about that right now. He was morose enough.
He rounded the final corner leading to Dax’s room and stopped. A thin streak of light cut across the floor. The door was ajar.
His heart lurched. He was certain that he’d locked it. He crept closer and stood outside, holding his breath and listening. He didn’t hear anything. Had one of Corrad’s thugs snuck in looking to finish him off, discovered he wasn’t there, and bolted?
With one hand, he swept the door open farther.
Warm light spilled out to greet him. A lit lantern was on the table. Dax sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, his breath caught in his throat, surprise segueing into an unexpected buoyancy. As much as he didn’t want to, he was glad to see him here.
“Forget you loaned out the room for the night?” he asked, trying to sound indifferent. A part of him wondered how he’d gotten in, but it didn’t matter.
Dax’s eyes made a quick tour of Hunter as he stood in the doorway, from his bare feet on up, but he made no question of why Hunter was wandering the corridors half-naked. He kicked at a sack on the floor near his feet.
