Outcaste

by Fletcher DeLancey

  “No, please . . . would you stand with me?”

  “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

  When they reached the rack, Lanaril slid her chip into the offering box, authorized the payment, and stood back as the bowl coverings silently retracted.

  Rahel picked up the wand of eternal flame and touched it to the wick in the first bowl. When it caught, she moved to the second. Soon one hundred bowls of oil burned with her offering, their flames dancing in the air currents that flowed through the open doors. She replaced the wand in its stand and bent her head.

  “Fahla, I haven’t spoken with you in too long. I’ve had nothing to say. I, um . . . I thought you forgot about me. Mother always said you watched over me, but after the Battle of Alsea . . .” She hesitated. “There were times when I thought you should have let me die.”

  Lanaril exhaled softly. A sidelong glance showed her standing with her head lowered, listening.

  “I was lost,” Rahel continued. “For a long time. But then I found you again, acting through Salomen. She brought me Lanaril. And I’m sure you already know this, but they saved me. I don’t know what happens next, but that I can be standing here now, with Lanaril . . . it’s already more than I deserve.

  “So this is my thanks. Thank you for remembering me, and for bringing Salomen and Lanaril into my life. Thank you for your message. I want you to know I heard it, and I’m doing everything I can to be worthy of this second chance. To be worth Salomen’s belief, and Lanaril’s time.”

  She looked up, through the motionless tree branches to the fading light outside, and remembered shouting a revelation on a storm-lashed dock. In a whisper, she repeated it now.

  “I want to live.”

  A rustle of fabric brought her attention back to Lanaril, who was brushing a hand across her cheek. A subtle reflective sheen showed where a tear had been.

  “I want you to live, too,” she said. “And I’m deeply honored that you’ve made an offering like this in part to give thanks for me.”

  “Even though you paid for it?” Rahel joked.

  “I didn’t. You know that.”

  Rahel nodded, still staring at that sheen on her cheek. She thought of all the people she had seen Lanaril touch, speak with, or comfort during the course of this day, and the hanticks she had spent in a cramped healing center room over the previous five days, counseling a warrior who had caused so much harm.

  “Who comforts the comfort giver?” she asked. “Do you have someone?”

  Lanaril looked startled. “I don’t get asked that question very often.”

  “Sharro says most of her clients don’t pay to touch her. They pay to be touched. But I always thought she needed that comfort more than anyone she gave it to, because she gave so much. Yet there were so few people she would accept it from . . .” She trailed off, remembering.

  “Did she accept it from you?”

  She nodded. “It was one of the greatest gifts anyone ever gave me.”

  “A gift,” Lanaril repeated.

  “Trust is always a gift. Especially from someone like Sharro.” Rahel thought of the unguarded temple doors and added, “And you.”

  A slow smile lightened Lanaril’s expression. “You’ve given me something to consider. Yes, I do have someone. It’s . . . new. We haven’t quite established ourselves yet.”

  Rahel couldn’t imagine who might be worthy of Lanaril. “But it’s working?”

  “She’s learning.” Lanaril gave a soft laugh. “We both are. I’ve recently learned that for someone whose job is to see everyone around me, I can be blind to the one who needs me the most. And she’s learned that even a vallcat can be afraid. But that doesn’t change the length of her claws, or the courage she carries in her heart.”

  Lanaril would give Sharro some competition in cryptic answers. But Rahel had a lifetime of practice at this. “You’re with a warrior,” she guessed. “And she didn’t tell you that she needed you because she was ashamed to admit it.”

  After a startled pause, Lanaril’s smile grew. “What are you like, I wonder, when you’re fully yourself?”

  “Ambidextrous.” Rahel lifted her braced hand and grinned at the delighted sound of Lanaril’s laughter.

  Over the next several days, she learned every nook and cranny of the temple complex. Though she was thankful for her relative freedom, there were times when a bitter voice whispered that this was just a nicely appointed prison, and she was the worst sort of captive: one who stayed trapped and frightened though the cage door swung open.

  One morning, a ferocious spring storm swept through the park, bending the trees and sending sheets of rain spattering against the lower temple steps. Rahel stood in the main doorway and stared out, yearning to be under the trees where she could better hear the wind and feel the rain upon her face. She envisioned herself running down that path and never stopping . . . and then she imagined the look on Lanaril’s face upon learning that her trust had been broken. Or Salomen’s, after she had lent her name and title to the transfer order. She imagined her mother and Sharro arriving at the temple for their daily visit with her, only to hear she had fled.

  With a sigh, she sat down on the top step and rested her chin in her good hand.

  “It doesn’t change the length of your claws,” she said aloud.

  67

  TEMPLE HEALING

  Six days after Rahel’s transfer, she received an unexpected visitor.

  Colonel Micah was a much larger man than she remembered from their fight in the basement. When he stood in the center of her quarters, the space suddenly seemed a tight fit. She thumped a fist to her chest and bowed her head in the salute he was due.

  “First Guard Sayana,” he said in his deep rumble. “It seems we have a few things to discuss.”

  What he wanted, it turned out, was to hear her side of the story regarding their fight. When she had told it, he asked, “Why didn’t you shoot Gehrain with his own disruptor?”

  “He was neutralized,” she said, shocked by the question. “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “You were planning to drop the entire house on his head a few pipticks later. What’s the difference?”

  She hadn’t thought about it that way. “I don’t know. It wouldn’t have been right.”

  “But then you did try to kill me. And damn near succeeded.”

  It was a struggle to maintain their eye contact. “I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but I wasn’t trying to kill you. I was trying to neutralize you and get out. But it wasn’t a stave fight. I didn’t have a nonlethal option.”

  He held up his hand. “Give me a reason to believe you.”

  She met his palm without hesitation, her hand dwarfed by his. “I didn’t know who I was fighting. When I realized it was you I had shot, I was . . . nauseated. It was a relief to learn that you lived.”

  He did believe her. More than that, she felt no ill will in his touch. He was curious and careful, and he was here to take her measure for himself. But he did not blame her for what had been a severe injury.

  She did not blame him for hers, either. “That was a brilliant choice, by the way. I never imagined you would shoot the panel. You ended my mission in one shot. I was so angry then, but now—thank Fahla you did.”

  His smile was unexpected. “Well, you were making it too difficult for me to shoot you.” He withdrew his hand and rose. “Thank you for your time and honesty, First Guard.”

  “Of course. Colonel Micah . . .” She pushed back her own chair and stood up. “I’m sorry. I wish we had never been enemies.”

  “We never were,” he said. “We were just loyal to our oath holders.”

  The day she took off her hand brace for good, Lanaril told her to pick up her stave and go outside.

  “Out . . . in the park?” Rahel asked.

  “It does seem more practical, doesn’t it? We can hardly have you twirling that in the temple. And your quarters are a bit small for it.”

  “But I tho
ught I was—” She stopped, unwilling to offend.

  “Trapped? Imprisoned?” Lanaril shook her head. “My temple is not a prison, Rahel. It was important for you to learn to trust yourself again. You have.”

  For a moment she could not speak. Her voice quivered as she asked, “May I go to the warrior caste house?”

  “Just be back in time for our session.” When Rahel remained rooted in place, Lanaril made a sweeping motion. “Go on.”

  She turned and ran, all the way to her quarters. Stave grip in hand, she raced back down the stairs, across the courtyard, and straight to the temple’s interior entrance.

  The door opened silently, and she stepped into the quiet, soaring space where she had spent so many hanticks this past half moon. Blacksun Temple felt like a second home these days, but she had no eyes for the ancient molwyn tree at its center, the worshippers standing by their oil racks, or the light streaming in through the glass roof. Her gaze was riveted to the massive double doors on the other side of the space, standing open as they always did when the temperature allowed.

  With a steady stride, she walked across the temple and out the doors. A sob convulsed her throat.

  She was not free. But she was trusted. She had earned back a piece of her honor.

  Never had the State Park looked more beautiful. Every flower burned with extra brilliance; every tree rustled a greeting just for her; every bird sang out the joy that filled her heart.

  When she reached the shelter of the trees, tears rolled down her cheeks even as her smile threatened to blind everyone who passed. She remembered the man who had burned an oil rack on her first day in the temple. He, too, had wept while smiling.

  There was too much happiness inside her to be constrained to a walk. With a joyous laugh, she broke into a run and did not stop until she was through the doors of the warrior caste house.

  The specialist had said she could resume light activities, which emphatically did not include sparring. She was to avoid any impacts, either direct or indirect, for another half moon. But she could practice her forms.

  In the caste house training room, with its familiar mats and equipment, she was no longer a disgraced warrior doing penance in the temple. She was one warrior among many, dancing with her stave, losing herself in the purity of the forms and reveling in the free use of her hand.

  She practiced until she was dripping with sweat. Had she thought to bring a change of clothes, she could have showered here. Next time, she thought, and grinned at the realization that there would be a next time.

  Once she had cooled down, she moved to the centering room and rolled out a mat. For a glorious hantick, she took herself to a place without regrets or shame. Her body thrummed with satisfaction, its energies settling into alignment in this deeply familiar environment. When she came back to full awareness, she felt ready to take on the world.

  It was late afternoon by the time she returned to her quarters. She showered, dressed in clean clothes, and made her way to Lanaril’s study for her counseling session. Rounding the last corner, she came face-to-face with a Bondlancer’s Guard.

  Salomen was here.

  The Guard let her through, though not without a scowl. Rahel was immune to it. She was still high from her half day in the caste house and now excited about seeing Salomen for the first time since leaving the healing center. She bounced into the study with a beaming smile.

  Salomen and Lanaril were standing by the sideboard, deep in conversation, but at Rahel’s entrance they stopped and turned. Salomen broke into a brilliant smile of her own. “Is that the real Rahel? I’ve never felt that from you.”

  Lanaril looked pleased. “I believe we’re just getting to know the real Rahel. You could light an oil rack with that much energy. I thought you’d tire yourself out with your stave.”

  “I did. Well, first I tired myself out running across the park. I haven’t gotten much exercise lately. Then I practiced with my stave until I dropped.”

  “Warriors,” Lanaril said with an eye roll.

  Rahel laughed. “Then I centered myself for a full hantick and oh, Fahla, it was wonderful.”

  Salomen crossed the room and held out a hand. “May I see?”

  It took a moment to realize what she was asking. Rahel offered her right hand, palm up.

  Salomen held it gently, examining the pink line in the center of the palm. Then she turned it over and traced a fingertip along the matching scar on the other side. “Remarkable. And you’re already able to use your stave.”

  “Not fully. I can’t spar with anyone yet. But give me another half moon and I’ll be ready to fight again.” Rahel risked a glance at Salomen’s upper arm, left bare by the sleeveless shirt she was wearing.

  “It’s gone,” Salomen said. “I tried to find it two days ago and couldn’t. Your scars will last much longer than mine.”

  “They should.”

  “If we’re done comparing scars, perhaps we should get started with our session.” Lanaril pointed Rahel toward her usual seat, one of a pair of comfortable armchairs that were normally angled toward each other while sharing a small table between them. The table had been moved across the room and the chairs pushed side by side. “Salomen, you’re in the other one.”

  Rahel liked this room. It was richly appointed, yet still comfortable and inviting, and it had a spectacular view of the State House soaring above the trees. Sometimes, when the things Lanaril asked her were difficult to handle, she would look at that building and remember that Salomen lived on the top floor. It helped to think she was not far away.

  Now she was here, sitting right next to her. Rahel was delighted to see her, but why had she been invited to this session?

  Lanaril turned to the sideboard and lit the cinnoralis burner. She had used it in their sessions since learning of Rahel’s dependence on it for centering. As the distinctive scent wafted through the room, she pushed a third chair in front and to the side of Rahel’s, facing the opposite direction. When she sat, they were so close that Rahel could have dropped her left hand down to rest on Lanaril’s leg.

  “Salomen is keeping her promise,” she said. “You asked her to be here when we reached this point.”

  Rahel’s happy buzz drained away. “The projection. This is the day?”

  “This is the day. You’re ready.”

  To have a high empath in her mind? Had she not been so afraid, she would have laughed. She would never be ready. Twice in her life she had experienced the agony of a projection; both times she counted herself lucky to survive. Now she was facing a third.

  She licked her lips and looked toward the door, then flinched when Lanaril touched her knee.

  Lanaril held up her hands, palm outward. “It won’t happen without your permission. If I’m wrong and it’s too soon, then we’ll end this right now and you can walk freely out that door.” She lowered her hands to her lap. “But I believe you can do this. Rahel, you have gained so much strength in the last half moon. You’re not the same person I met in the healing center.”

  “Words for Fahla,” Salomen said. “I felt you in the corridor, before you came in, but I didn’t recognize you. Your emotional presence . . . it really is like you’re a different person.”

  “I apologize for the surprise. Had I told you earlier, you would have spent this day mired in the dread I’m sensing from you right now. Instead, you had such a wonderful day that you were walking half a body length off the ground.”

  “I was,” Rahel managed. “Five ticks ago.”

  “I give you my word that I will not hurt you. I swear it in the name of Fahla.”

  “And I’m here to make sure of it,” Salomen said from her other side. “Though I’m positive it won’t be necessary.”

  Rahel reminded herself that Lanaril had never once spoken to her in anger, despite having every reason to do so. She called to mind the hundred oil bowls she had burned half a moon ago, thanking Fahla for both of the women now flanking her.

  And Lanaril had wipe
d away a tear when Rahel said she wanted to live.

  “It doesn’t change the length of my claws,” she whispered.

  “Speak again?” Lanaril sounded startled.

  “Something you said when I made my offering to Fahla. We were talking about—” She stopped, realizing that this was personal and Salomen might not know. “Um. You said that even a vallcat could be afraid, but it didn’t change the length of her claws.”

  “Really.” Salomen’s eyes were alight with humor. “I think I know the vallcat she was referring to. It’s a more apt comparison than you realize. She was afraid, but she overcame it and now she’s stronger than ever. Her claws might even be longer.”

  “So are yours,” Lanaril said easily. “Bondlancer.”

  Salomen chuckled. “That was an eventful nineday. Not one I’d care to repeat, but worthwhile in the end. This will be worthwhile, Rahel. Sometimes we have to walk through the shadows before we come into the light.”

  Rahel felt better already, just seeing the two of them interact. It was ridiculous to be afraid of Lanaril. Of all the high empaths on Alsea, she had to be the last one who would ever cause harm.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I knew this was coming. I just didn’t know it was today.”

  “You’re certain?” Lanaril held her hand above Rahel’s, which was gripping the armrest of her chair.

  “No. But I know we have to do this.”

  Salomen took her other hand and gently squeezed it. Her confidence and trust in Lanaril flowed through her touch, adding a welcome layer of safety.

  “I think,” Lanaril said as she brought her hand down, “that you’ll find such courage is not necessary today.”

  “Sharro said something similar the first time she gave me a warmron. She said I didn’t need to be so strong-willed.”

  “She was right. I’m going to project now, Rahel. This time you won’t be facing those nightmares alone. I’ll be there with you.”

  “All right.” Rahel screwed her eyes shut and waited, focusing on the scent of cinnoralis.

  A warmth flowed over her, like a thick blanket on a cold winter night. Like lying on the couch with her head in Sharro’s lap. She felt comforted, cradled . . . safe.