Outcaste

by Fletcher DeLancey

  Ronlin came around the last row, mounted the side steps to the stage, and walked along its front edge toward the podium. “You’re making the biggest mistake of your life,” he growled.

  “Possibly. Put the earcuff down and then get off.”

  He set the earcuff on the podium and jumped to the floor.

  “Walk away. At least halfway to the back.”

  He looked at Bondlancer Opah. “We’ll get you out of this.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “You have a lot of faith in Guards who have already failed you,” Rahel said as they watched Ronlin retreat up the center aisle. “Hand me the earcuff.”

  Bondlancer Opah reached out to the podium, picked up the earcuff—and threw it into the empty seats.

  “Oh, I wish you hadn’t done that.” Rahel could not believe what this stupidly fearless woman had done. If she lost control of the situation, she was dead. It was awful, what she had to do now, but her life depended on it.

  Without allowing herself time to think, she set the stud driver against the Bondlancer’s upper arm and depressed the thumb switch. The driver kicked in her hand with a metallic whack, propelling a stud through skin and muscle and into the bone.

  Bondlancer Opah gave a sharp cry of pain and stumbled, forcing Rahel to hold her more tightly to keep her from falling.

  Several of the Guards shouted their rage, but Ronlin stood in silent fury. If Rahel were a high empath, she would probably be staggering from the amount of hatred being directed toward her right now.

  “Get me another earcuff!” she called. In a lower voice, she spoke into the Bondlancer’s ear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do that. Please don’t disobey me again.”

  Ronlin took delivery of an earcuff from another Guard, leaning in to hear something she shared in low tones. He nodded and then walked down the aisle, his gaze never wavering from the stage. As he set the earcuff on the podium, he said, “Bondlancer Opah, Lancer Tal says to please do what she asks.”

  She nodded and did as she was told, using her uninjured left arm. Rahel holstered the stud driver just long enough to take the earcuff and put it on.

  “Lancer Tal,” she said. “Your bondmate has more courage than sense.”

  “She certainly has more courage than you,” Lancer Tal spat. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

  “A meeting with you. I hope you’re already on your way to a transport. I didn’t want to hurt her, and I made sure not to hit any veins or arteries. But she’s bleeding and in pain, and it’s a forty-tick flight here. She’ll keep bleeding until you walk through this door to meet me in an honor challenge.”

  “How can I do that when you have no honor?”

  “I have no honor because you took it when you killed Shantu! You made me an outcaste again. Everyone thinks you’re Fahla’s Chosen, that you’re the honorable one, but I know you cheated. You couldn’t have beaten him in honest combat. That means your victory is forfeit, and I have the right of a sworn warrior to avenge my oath holder. I challenge your honor, Lancer Tal. If you want to keep what shreds of it you have left, you’ll meet me and prove yourself in a fair fight. I choose staves.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Who the shek are you?”

  “First Guard Rahel Sayana, and I carry that name with pride. But you know me as Hedron Periso.”

  “What?” the Bondlancer whispered. Her shock rattled Rahel’s senses.

  “You shot Colonel Micah and left him to die. Now you’ve hurt Salomen, yet you carry your name with pride? You’re no warrior.”

  “Your Guard fired first! I was armed with a stave. I was just trying to get out.”

  “Yes, and kill everyone in the house in the process.”

  “To save Alsea from you!” Rahel shouted. “Shantu tried everything, and nothing worked! It was a last resort.”

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Bondlancer Opah said in a surprisingly strong voice, “that nothing worked because she was right and Shantu was wrong?”

  “No. No. He gave up everything. She has caused so much pain, don’t you see?”

  “You’re the one causing pain,” Lancer Tal snapped. “I have no obligation to meet a challenge issued by a blindworm hiding behind a hostage. But I will, because I want to. When I’m done with you, they’ll be looking for the pieces to take to the healing center. Now let Salomen go.”

  “Not until I see you here.” She could hardly believe Lancer Tal hadn’t negotiated the weapon. The Lancer wasn’t a stave user, at least not beyond the required training every Guard put in on it. Rahel would disarm her in three moves, and then . . .

  Revenge, at long last. Revenge for her mother and all those who lost families in the battle, only to see the Voloth settle peacefully with Lancer Tal’s blessing. Revenge for the toilet hole her life had become, and sweet retribution for Shantu’s shameful death. She would prove the Lancer had not fought fairly.

  The thought brought her simmering rage to a boil. She could taste the anticipation of her stave slamming into Lancer Tal’s throat.

  Bondlancer Opah stiffened in her arms—and Rahel’s worst nightmare paled next to the brutal invasion that tore into her mind.

  She fell to her knees, holding her head to keep it from flying apart as a scream of rage burned through it. It was a thousand voices joined into one, shattering her with merciless power. It was the goddess herself, rising up on an icy flame of wrath, and there was no hope of escape. Fahla took the agony and grief of every Alsean who had lost a loved one in the battle, sharpened it into a weapon of protective vengeance, and drove it straight into Rahel’s brain.

  Had she any voice at all, she would have begged for a quick death. This pain was not survivable; she only wanted to end it.

  Through vision made blurry with tears, she saw the Bondlancer turning toward her. When their eyes met, she sobbed in terror.

  The face was that of the Bondlancer, but the eyes, black and depthless, burning with divine fury . . . those were the eyes of Fahla.

  53

  MINDSTORM

  Trapped in a neck hold by an assailant she couldn’t see, her right arm on fire from the stud that she was certain had gone all the way through the bone, Salomen heard the voice of her father.

  You have your mother’s temper. One day, it will get you into more trouble than you can get yourself out of.

  She couldn’t remember what she had done to earn that warning, but there were endless possibilities. She could only imagine what he would say when he heard about this one. There was no defense of her choice to throw that earcuff; she had simply been too angry at this latest attack on Andira to think straight.

  Whoever this woman was, she was no match for Salomen’s empathic strength. Her lack of lethal intent was loud and clear, but so was the readiness for swift violence. The only reason Salomen hadn’t shouted that it was all a bluff was the certainty that if her Guards attacked, someone would die.

  But she would not let herself be used to hurt Andira. She had thrown the earcuff in anger and spite, knowing it would disrupt the woman’s plans.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought past that. The pain radiating through her arm was a vivid illustration of her father’s wisdom and her own lack of it. Before, Andira had merely been furious. Now she was furious and afraid, a terrible combination that debilitated her more than any physical injury. She was already handicapped in a fight, and it was Salomen’s fault.

  So she did what she was told and stayed mostly quiet, listening to one side of an increasingly insane conversation while trying to reassure Andira through their empathic link.

  Abruptly, the warrior’s intent shifted. Rage and lethal violence poured out of her like the Silverrun River in flood, a torrent with devastating potential.

  She was going to kill Andira.

  Salomen forgot about the pain in her arm and the stud driver still pressed against her temple. She forgot about everything but the need to protect her tyree by any means necessary. Her own rage rose, su
rpassing her earlier temper in the blink of an eye and spiraling up to the level of pure murder.

  She blinked, stunned by the sudden displacement.

  The rage was gone, along with her empathic senses and her link to Andira. She was gone. For the second time in her life, she had been pushed out of her own body.

  Whirling around, she got her first look at the warrior who had called herself Rahel. A powerfully built woman with broad shoulders and braided auburn hair was kneeling on the wooden floor of the stage, clutching the sides of her head while the stud driver lay beside her. Her face was the picture of agony, eyes tightly shut and mouth open in a silent scream.

  Salomen’s first thought was that one of her Guards had taken a shot. She turned to find every Guard in the empty auditorium flat on the floor, weapons scattered and hands pressed against their ears.

  Movement in the third row caught her eye.

  Fianna was there, slumped against the seat in front of her. One hand was pressed to the side of her head while the other gripped a throwing knife. Somehow she had managed to hide during the evacuation of the audience, concealing herself so well that Salomen had never suspected she was there. She had clearly been waiting for an opening, but whatever had disabled the others had gotten to her as well.

  “Fianna!” Salomen called. Her voice was swallowed by the empty space.

  Fianna gave no indication of hearing. Neither did the other Guards.

  “I’m not here,” she said quietly. Of the two versions of herself, she was not the one in the physical plane.

  When she turned back, the situation had worsened. Her other self was now facing Rahel, who looked up with terror-filled eyes as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Stop this, she’s down.” Standing behind herself, Salomen tried to grasp her shoulder.

  Her hand passed through.

  The immaterial touch seemed to activate some other sense, enabling her to see the connection between the two physical bodies on the stage. It was nothing like the delicate tendrils of light from her experience with the tester. These were thick, writhing ropes of flame that stabbed into Rahel’s head.

  The understanding hit, making her nauseous. She was witnessing an extreme violation. Her other self was using empathic force.

  Rahel made a wet, wheezing sound and reached out for the stud driver.

  Goddess above, Rahel was going to kill her in self-defense, and Salomen could not blame her. She ran around behind the kneeling woman, not wanting to touch those flaming ropes, and kicked the stud driver.

  Her foot flickered through it.

  “Run! Get off the stage!” she shouted, swinging around to face her physical self.

  The sight made her backpedal. This was a monstrous version of herself, with pitiless black eyes and a face set in cold fury. The writhing ropes burned with her power, and she watched the suffering of her victim with fierce concentration.

  Rahel lifted the stud driver, her movements slow and jerky.

  “Oh, Fahla, don’t kill me. That isn’t me!” She tried to grab the stud driver, with equal ineffectiveness. Then she tried to close her hand around Rahel’s wrist. It was like grasping air.

  She was going to watch herself die. What would become of this noncorporeal part of herself when her body was gone? She couldn’t even connect with Andira.

  “Come on, think! There has to be something—” She stopped in open-mouthed shock.

  Rahel was turning the stud driver toward her own temple.

  That was impossible. Self-preservation was the strongest of all instincts, far too deep for any empath to touch. Not even a deep Sharing could reach it. Yet somehow her other self was reaching far beyond the biological limits to exert her murderous will, and she was doing it without Sharing or even skin contact.

  Panicked, Salomen darted between them, hoping to break the connection. The flaming ropes parted and slithered around her, passing on either side while leaving her untouched. They were the only things to notice her, but she had no ability to influence them.

  Out in the seats, the Guards began to stir. Fianna rose to her feet, the only one upright so far, and took a step sideways to get a better angle. She stopped with a horrified expression.

  “It’s not me!” Salomen cried, but Fianna could not hear her.

  Time was running out and there was nothing she could do. Rahel had the stud driver almost fully turned. In two pipticks, she would tap that thumb trigger and drive a stud into her own brain.

  Fianna cocked her arm back, her face losing all expression as she focused.

  Salomen stepped aside, certain the knife could not touch her but unwilling to take the chance.

  In a blur of movement, Fianna let her blade fly. It flashed in front of the physical Salomen, who did not even blink, and buried itself in the back of Rahel’s hand.

  With a pained grunt, Rahel dropped the stud driver and held her shaking hand in front of her. Blood dripped off the blade protruding from her palm.

  The impact had not interrupted the power binding her to the other Salomen’s will. Without pausing, she picked up the stud driver with her other hand.

  Fianna had begun running the moment she released her blade. She was already around the end of her row and pelting toward the stage. Farther back in the auditorium, Ronlin sprinted down the central aisle.

  They were not going to make it in time.

  Salomen imagined her voice taking on the power of those flames. She imagined it booming through the caste house, shaking the trees in the park outside, sending birds into the air. Then she bent down and spoke directly into Rahel’s ear.

  “Resist. I don’t want this. Don’t let her do this. Resist!”

  Rahel hesitated.

  Fianna leaped up the side steps and came pounding down the stage. She kicked the stud driver out of Rahel’s hand and waded right into the flames, which shifted around her just as they had for Salomen. Grabbing her other self by the shoulders, Fianna turned her away from the wounded warrior and shouted, “Salomen, stop!”

  The physical Salomen looked up with an icily furious stare, her eyes as black as night. Fianna let go and stepped back.

  Ronlin reached the stage and made a two-handed vault, landing on the boards with a thud. He raced to Rahel and lashed out with a powerful fist.

  Something pulled at Salomen’s chest. She swayed on her feet, shocked to find herself whole again and disoriented by the shift in view. She remembered being separated, but everything else was a jumble of strange visions.

  “Fianna?” She tried to reach out and yelped at the blazing reminder of the stud buried in her arm. Breathing harshly, she clenched her left fist until the pain subsided to a more tolerable level. “What happened?”

  Guards swarmed the stage, two of them putting an unconscious Rahel in restraints while the others crowded around in a protective formation. Fianna moved away, her expression troubled.

  “I’ll get the healers,” she told Ronlin. Without a backward glance, she jumped off the stage and ran for the doors.

  54

  FLIGHT OF FEAR

  Colonel Corozen Micah walked down the luxurious corridor on the seventh floor of the State House and heaved a long-suffering sigh. “You didn’t tell me about dokshin like that when you made me Salomen’s Chief Counselor. You said I’d be helping Salomen, not sitting through interminable meetings with bloviating bureaucrats.”

  Beside him, Lancer Andira Tal didn’t even try to hide her amusement. “You are helping her. If you hadn’t been in that meeting, she would have had to do it. I can assure you that she’s grateful for your sacrifice.”

  “That’s exactly what it was.” Sometimes he missed his old life, when running Tal’s security had been his sole concern. Now his role as her Chief Guardian was at least half honorary, as he devolved more of his responsibilities to Head Guardian Gehrain and focused on aiding Salomen.

  “Also,” Tal continued, “you should have read the contract before you signed.”

  “I didn’t thin
k my own family would be so untrustworthy! I’m supposed to be able to trust you as my Lancer and my adopted daughter.”

  “Ah, but I didn’t know then that you really were my family. You should have told me earlier. I might have warned you.”

  “I have taught you no honor,” Micah grumbled, and hid his smile at her laughter. As a low empath, he had no chance of concealing his emotions from her, but appearances were important.

  Then he groaned as she bypassed the lift and opened the door to the stairs. “Seven flights? You’re making me walk up seven flights?”

  “You can take the lift if you’re too old.”

  “Apparently I haven’t taught you respect, either.”

  “I’m being very respectful,” she said, ostentatiously stepping aside. “Please, go ahead. I’ll hold the door.”

  “For the love of Fahla, first a hantick of verbal hot air and now this.” He trudged past and began the climb.

  Since his injury during the rescue of Herot Opah, the healers had instructed him to take stairs whenever possible. His synthetic hip would work better the more it was used, they said. Tal had taken it upon herself to enforce their advice, and he was never certain whether he loved or hated her for it.

  She passed him on the first landing, bouncing up the next set of stairs with an ease he envied. Just before reaching the last step, she stumbled so badly that only her grip on the polished banister kept her from falling.

  Micah was about to make a comment on her deserved comeuppance when he saw the look of utter terror on her face.

  “Tal!” He raced up, ready to catch her if needed. “What is it?”

  “Salomen,” she choked out. “She’s gone. I can’t feel her.”

  Micah’s earcuff defaulted to the channel used by Tal’s security. He changed it to Salomen’s security channel just in time to hear the communication from Lead Guard Ronlin.

  “Lancer Tal. We have a hostage situation. Bondlancer Opah is not hurt—”

  “Dokshin she’s not hurt!” Tal pulled herself upright. “I know she’s hurt! What the shek happened?”