Outcaste

by Fletcher DeLancey

  She set the cup in the dispenser. “As long as the law was satisfied, yes. It’s not satisfied any longer.”

  Andira’s understanding soothed the jagged edges in her stomach. “I’ve been speaking with one of my old instructors about taking a sabbatical to come here and train the divine tyrees. He’d be delighted to work with you, too. His current term ends in half a moon.”

  Salomen nodded and watched the cup fill. Handing it to Andira with a bright and entirely false smile, she said, “Perfect. Then I just need to keep from killing anyone for the next two ninedays.”

  59

  COUNSELOR

  Rahel didn’t know what Bondlancer Opah had said to the Guards, but no one came to reapply her cuff. She went back and forth between standing at the room’s large window—filling her vision with the world she could no longer be a part of—and lying on the floor in an attempt to center herself. With Guards staring through the door on a regular basis, no cinnoralis burner to help, and her hand constantly throbbing as she rested her forearm on the triangular cushion, she could not find the level of relaxation she sought.

  She was trying for the fourth time when a tap on her door made her scramble up from the floor. No one had knocked prior to this; it could only be the Bondlancer.

  The door opened as she was spreading her blanket back over the bed. With no time and only one hand, she didn’t get very far before Bondlancer Opah stepped in.

  She bowed her head and waited. There were much more important things to be ashamed of than a messy bed, but still . . . it didn’t feel right.

  “First Guard Sayana, please meet my friend, Lanaril Satran.”

  Startled, she looked up and confirmed that she now had two of Fahla’s most powerful representatives in her room. “Lead Templar,” she said in awe.

  Blacksun’s Lead Templar was not wearing her ceremonial clothing, but there was no mistaking her. She was shorter than Rahel, with wavy black hair cut just above her shoulders, eyes even darker than the Bondlancer’s, and skin a rich, light shade of brown. But what had always caught Rahel’s attention was her serene smile and the way it brought so much beauty to her face. It reminded her of Sharro’s smile, without the dimple.

  “You know me?” Satran asked.

  “I’ve seen you. At ceremonies.”

  “Then well met, First Guard Sayana.” She held up her palm.

  Rahel touched it with her good hand and was startled at the absence of anger. She didn’t understand how that was possible when she had hurt not just the Lead Templar’s friend but also the vessel of Fahla.

  “We’ll need another chair.” Bondlancer Opah leaned out the door and called to a Guard.

  Soon there were two chairs facing the window, while the third—the one Rahel had used during her first meeting with the Bondlancer—now formed the apex of a triangle, facing both the other chairs and the door.

  Rahel sat in it and was unsurprised to see Lead Guard Ronlin watching her through the small window. His scowling visage was eclipsed as the Lead Templar stepped in front of her.

  “Would you mind if I sat there?” she asked.

  “Um. I think the Bondlancer’s Lead Guard would rather keep me in a direct line of sight.”

  “I think you’ll be more comfortable without an audience.” Satran did not move, giving Rahel no choice but to get up and change chairs.

  Ronlin’s scowl deepened just before she turned her back on him.

  No sooner was she in her new seat than Bondlancer Opah stood before her, holding out the cushion.

  “We may be here a while. You need to keep your hand elevated.”

  “Thank you,” Rahel whispered. While the other two took their chairs, she carefully arranged her forearm on the angled cushion. Her immobilized fingers pointed up and left, toward the Bondlancer.

  If there was a level of shame greater than the one she was currently in, Rahel could not imagine what it might be. To have the Bondlancer looking after her injury, when she could still hear that cry of pain . . .

  With a surge of determination, she raised her head and met the Lead Templar’s calm gaze. “I don’t know anything about counseling. But before we start, I want to apologize.”

  “You’ve hardly had time to cause offense. What would you need to apologize for?”

  Was she joking? “For yesterday.”

  “Ah. It’s my understanding that you’ve already apologized to Bondlancer Opah, and she has accepted it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “In which case, you have no need to apologize to me. You caused me no harm.”

  Rahel looked from her to the Bondlancer, who remained silent. “But you’re her friend.”

  “At the moment, I’m your counselor. You’re starting fresh with me. I’m not here to pass judgment.” Satran settled herself more comfortably. “And if we’re going to speak on that level, it would be easier for me if we could use given names. May I call you Rahel?”

  Of all the things that might have undone her, she would not have expected it to be this. She blinked back the tears and said, “Yes.”

  “Why does that hurt you?”

  The question was asked so gently that she could not help responding. “I haven’t . . . been Rahel in a long time.”

  “Do you mean that people haven’t called you that? Or that you haven’t felt like yourself?”

  “Both.”

  Satran nodded, as if she had expected that answer. “I would like for you to call me Lanaril, if you don’t mind.” She looked over at Bondlancer Opah.

  “Call me Salomen.”

  Rahel gaped at them. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “I think you can,” Lanaril said with that serene smile. “It seems to me that you’ve adapted to far more radical changes than dropping two titles that have no importance in this room.”

  There were several armed Guards outside who would beg to differ about the importance of one of those titles. But she would do whatever the Bondlancer wanted her to.

  “Salomen is a beautiful name,” she said.

  Salomen’s smile was not nearly so tranquil as Lanaril’s. “So is Rahel.”

  “It means explorer. That’s what I wanted to be when I was a child.”

  “Tell me,” Lanaril asked, “how did you get from a child who wanted to be an explorer to here, today?”

  “That’s a very long story.” And they couldn’t possibly be interested.

  Lanaril spread her hands in a graceful motion. “You have time. So do we.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I want to help you, Rahel. But I need to know where to start. If you tell me about yourself, I can pick out the parts that might be important.”

  “What I wanted to be as a child is important?”

  “I don’t know yet. But if you tell me, I will.”

  They waited patiently, giving the impression that they really wanted to do this. And Lanaril felt . . . safe, somehow. It wasn’t just her smile that was reminiscent of Sharro. She had that same calm manner, as if nothing Rahel said could surprise her.

  The memory hit with all the strength of an event that had just happened yesterday: when Mouse had brought her to meet Sharro. What Lanaril said about not passing judgment . . . Sharro had said almost the same thing.

  She missed Sharro so much in that moment that the tears rose back up and escaped before she could stop them. The cushion in her lap made the association more visceral. All those times she had put a pillow atop her thighs and watched Sharro rest her head there, looking up with such trust as Rahel gave comfort to the comfort giver . . .

  Would she ever see that look of trust again?

  It was easier to imagine the reverse: Sharro would put a pillow in her lap, and Rahel would lie down, look out that big window with its beautiful view of Wildwind Bay, and tell her everything. Why had she stayed away? And from her mother, too, with her strong warmrons and depthless love. They were the only two people who could have helped, and she had stood across the street from both of them without even callin
g out.

  “You’re missing someone very much,” Lanaril said softly.

  “My mother.” She cleared the tightness out of her throat. “And Sharro. They would have gotten my message last night. They must be frantic now.”

  “Have you not been given the chance to call them?”

  “She hasn’t been processed,” Salomen said. “And when I came this morning, she was cuffed to the bed.”

  Lanaril’s mouth was tight as she looked back at Rahel. “Would you like to call them?”

  “I . . . yes, I would. But not right now.” She would need to be much more in control of herself for that.

  “All right. Then we’ll talk now, and when you’re ready, you can make that call.” Lanaril relaxed, her shoulders easing down and her back resting against the chair. “You were going to tell us a story.”

  Rahel tried to emulate that relaxed pose and was only marginally successful. “I wanted to be a warrior from the age of thirteen,” she said. “But my mother was a crafter and my father was a merchant, and they wanted me to be a merchant, too.”

  She told them about her first time in the Whitesun merchant caste house, and how the kind woman there had told her that she didn’t need to give up her dreams. She told them about Brasdo, and the wooden swords and daggers, and running away the night of her fifteenth birth anniversary.

  They listened with rapt attention as she talked about learning to live as an outcaste, and all the people who had helped her. Deme Isanelle, Hasil, Sharro . . . Mouse.

  Lanaril got up and handed her a kerchief when she talked about what Mouse had meant to her, and how he had brought love and acceptance into her life when she had felt bereft of both.

  She told them about the crew chief who had tried to kill her, and how she had sold her body after that because the only alternative was stealing.

  She needed the kerchief when she told them about trying to return the daggers, and how her father had used them to trap her. But in the end, that trap had brought her mother back into her life.

  Then she told them about the empathic rapist and Mouse’s death.

  “I think we need a rest,” Lanaril said after that.

  Salomen rose, white-faced and stiff, and walked out the door.

  “Is she angry?” Rahel asked.

  “She’s very angry,” Lanaril said. “But not at you.”

  60

  INFORMAL

  Salomen shot past the two Guards so quickly that Ronlin scrambled to catch up.

  “Bondlancer Opah! I didn’t know you planned to—”

  Her glare stopped whatever he’d meant to say. With her jaw tightly clenched, she pointed at the door of the staff and visitor bathroom down the corridor.

  He got the hint and scurried ahead, but she couldn’t wait for him to clear the room. He had barely opened the door before she shoved past him, bent over the nearest toilet hole, and retched up the contents of her stomach.

  Thank Fahla no one else had been in here. What a newsworthy event for the new Bondlancer.

  Ronlin tapped the pad, flushing away the mess while she gasped for air. When she was able to straighten, he stood before her with a damp cloth in hand.

  “Wipe your face. You’ll feel better.”

  “You sound like my father.” She accepted the cloth with her left hand, her right arm still protesting any sudden movement.

  “I respect your father, so thank you for the compliment. This is why you vanished this morning, isn’t it? In Sayana’s room.”

  She nodded.

  “Are you ill, or is it something else?”

  “Something else.”

  “Guilty conscience?”

  In the ringing echo of her silence, he looked down and ran a hand through his hair. “Bondlancer, may I speak freely?”

  She held up a finger and walked to the sink. He waited patiently while she rinsed her mouth, washed her face, and tossed the used cloths into the wash bin.

  “You just watched me donate my last meal to the toilet hole,” she said. “I think we’re beyond the point of you needing to ask. In fact, I’d prefer it if you’d speak freely at all times. I’m not comfortable with the hierarchy you’re used to.”

  “I know. I’ve been trying to be more . . . informal with you.”

  Her gesture took in the room. “Hard to get more informal than this.”

  “You’d be surprised; I’ve been in some odd places. You’re not the first oath holder I’ve protected. But you’re by far the kindest.”

  “Kind. Weren’t you there yesterday?”

  “I’m the one who failed yesterday, not you.”

  “Oh,” she said inanely. She hadn’t given that a thought. “Andira didn’t punish you, did she?”

  “Lancer Tal is . . .” He sighed. “Reserving judgment, I think. Until we understand what happened. We still don’t know how Sayana slipped through our screen. And she won’t take action without consulting you. You’re my oath holder.”

  “Of course.” She knew that. She had done her best to learn about her responsibilities and the warrior culture, but sometimes a detail slipped. Half a cycle was not enough time to catch up with a lifetime’s worth of caste training.

  “You should never have been in that position. What you did . . . it’s hard for someone like you. But you shouldn’t feel guilty about saving yourself.”

  “What do you mean, someone like me?”

  “Not trained as a warrior. Not prepared to do what needs to be done.”

  “It didn’t need to be done. That’s the problem.” And it was so much worse now, knowing what Rahel had already been through.

  “She’s a criminal and she attacked you. Don’t waste your anger on yourself.”

  “I attacked her in a far more vicious way. Do you know what I find the most surprising about this? It hasn’t even occurred to her to file charges. Criminal or not, she has rights. I violated them as far as anyone possibly could. She could put me into the fifth level of the Pit.”

  Though his front was perfect, the jut of his jaw eloquently stated what he thought of that.

  “You and Andira both seem to think there’s one perpetrator and one victim. It’s not that simple. If my crime has mitigating circumstances, isn’t it possible hers do as well? I owe it to her to find out.”

  His sudden smile startled her. “As I said: kind. Maybe you should give yourself the same compassion you’re giving her.” Starting toward the door, he added, “I’ll be outside when you’re ready.”

  She watched the door close behind him and wondered if Andira had gotten her a Lead Guard or a counselor.

  A soft chime notified her of an incoming call. She fished the com unit out of her jacket pocket—Andira still hadn’t convinced her to wear a wristcom and earcuff—and felt her heart leap at seeing the caller.

  “Fianna?”

  “Bondlancer.” Fianna’s formality said everything, as did her cool expression. “I’ve run into some interesting visitors in the main lobby of the State House. I think you might want to meet them.”

  “I’m a little busy—”

  “One of them is Ravenel Sayana. The other is her bondmate.”

  “Sharro.” That name had figured largely in Rahel’s stories.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Fianna was clearly curious about how she had known, and Salomen was angry enough to let her dangle. “Please send them to the healing center. I’ll have Ronlin meet them at the visitor desk.” She ended the call without another word and walked out.

  Ronlin was waiting beside the door. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Much,” she said.

  61

  NO MORE FIGHTING

  Salomen returned looking happier than when she had left and asked Lanaril to join her in the corridor for a moment. Rahel found the room very empty without either of them, especially as a moment turned into five ticks, then ten. A Guard brought her a meal—with a tooth cleaner on the tray, thank Fahla—and told her that the Bondlancer and Lead Templar h
ad instructed her to eat. They would return in another forty ticks.

  She ate, brushed her teeth, and straightened the blanket on her bed to perfection. The triangular cushion was waiting on her chair; she would not subject herself to the shame of watching Salomen bring it to her again.

  As before, Salomen knocked before entering. Behind her, Lanaril glanced at the perfectly made bed and smiled. They offered greetings and took their seats while Rahel arranged her arm on the cushion.

  “Are you ready to continue?” Lanaril asked. “We left off when you sent Mouse to his Return.”

  “Um. Yes. I guess the next thing would be when I met Shantu.” Rahel clutched the now wrinkled kerchief and began the story of how Shantu had come into her life and changed it so radically with his offer of sponsorship. She recounted his generosity, his unstinting mentorship, and how much it had meant to her that he called her family.

  “I know he had a reputation for pride and arrogance,” she said. “But he had so much to be proud of. And he was always kind to me.”

  She was silent for some time before talking, in halting terms, about the Battle of Alsea.

  Lanaril helped more than she could have imagined. She asked gentle questions and never showed shock or horror. She said she had heard similar stories from many veterans, which made Rahel feel less alone.

  It was easier to talk about Brasalara and the death of her mother’s family.

  “Not yours?” Lanaril asked.

  “No, not really. I met with my brother and sister a few times, but . . .” She shrugged. “They lived in a different world. My mother was the only one who could straddle those two worlds.”

  She spoke of standing in a field with two hundred and eleven burning pyres, realizing that she would never have another chance with her father and watching her mother’s heart shatter at the finality of her losses.

  Then she had come back to Blacksun, and the nightmares began.

  At first she didn’t know how to put words to those horrific images and emotions. But Lanaril had heard variations of them before. She offered words, suggested connections, and made it all so matter-of-fact that Rahel was able to see the nightmares from a greater distance than she had ever managed before. For a cycle and a half, she had fought them as her worst enemies—and lost, most of the time—but Lanaril knew these enemies. She said that Rahel would need to speak of them again, but for now, they should move on.