Apostate: Forbidden Things

by Nikki Mccormack

  “He?”

  Yiloch glanced at Auryl again, reminding himself not to be impatient with her. She was out of her element. “The Grey Army’s warlord,” he answered before turning back to the window.

  It was hard to believe that she couldn’t feel him. The warlord’s presence was like a foul smell on the wind. Along with him, there was another adept out there whose considerable power was a tremble in the earth, resonating through the walls of the palace.

  “Maybe he hopes to intimidate us,” Ian muttered, a tremble in his voice.

  Yiloch placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, noting that the creator stood a little straighter in response to the contact. If the ascard presence of the warlord and his adept had this much effect on him, he could only imagine what it was doing to Ian who was far more sensitive to such things.

  “If he hopes to scare us into surrender, he doesn’t know Emperor Yiloch very well,” Adran stated.

  Yiloch smiled and, for the first time in his life, he envied Adran his lack of ascard connection. If he felt the enemy power at all, it was probably more like a minor itch at the back of his skull, annoying, but not suffocating. Not terrifying.

  “It didn’t feel like this when we saw the army before,” Ian said.

  “No, I’m certain this is deliberate. They’re playing with us. Trying to break our confidence before they attack.”

  “They’re doing a good job.”

  Yiloch glanced at Ian, concerned by the faint tremor he felt pass through the young creator. He needed Ian now, perhaps more than he ever had. If only Indigo were here to block this. There was no doubt in his mind that she could. What couldn’t she do?

  He let out a heavy exhale. “Don’t let him win without a fight, Ian.”

  Ian bowed his head, a light flush rising in his face. Perhaps he was ashamed by the show of vulnerability. “I am fighting,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only Yiloch could hear him.

  “I know your strength, Ian.” Yiloch gripped his shoulder a little tighter. “This power is a storm. It is strong now, but it will blow itself out and the whole army will die with it.” He hoped Ian couldn’t hear the doubt behind his words.

  Another figure appeared in the stairs, an attendant who stepped aside and introduced Lord Theron as he strode into the room, the strength of his presence making it feel several times more crowded.

  His dark eyes met Yiloch’s. “The army is here?”

  Yiloch nodded and stepped to one side to make room for Theron at the window. Adran and Ian also moved back to accommodate. He pointed out toward the crossroads. “They are setting camp in those trees there, just beyond the river. I take it you have no notable ascard ability.”

  Theron peered toward the river, shaking his head. “No, why?”

  “They’ve been projecting power out over the palace and city, trying to intimidate my adepts and creators.”

  Theron’s lips pressed into a tight line as he gazed out the window, squinting his eyes as though he might be able to see through the trees if he tried hard enough.

  “Why did they come?” Auryl asked in the moment of silence.

  Yiloch shook his head. Lady Auryl was soon going to break the fragile control he had over his temper with her pointless inquiries. He had to remind himself that she was not like Hax or Eris. War and its politics were never part of her education. She was bred and raised to society life, trained in the frivolous skills of fashion sense and charm. A flower meant to please the senses and distract from such weighted affairs, not assist with them.

  She wasn’t Indigo.

  “Resources perhaps,” he offered. “We know nothing of them or their culture. We can’t know what drives them.”

  “It’s sad really.” She sighed, moving closer to the window in the narrow space Adran and Ian had left. “Such a shame that their circumstances should drive them to such action.”

  Yiloch sneered, hatred pulsing through him, amplifying his sense of helplessness. “They’re no strangers to this brutality,” he growled, muscles tightening through his arms as he gripped the sill of the window. He couldn’t afford to show his frustration in front of the emissary. “They’re much too good at it.”

  Auryl stepped back from him, driven away by the angry edge in his tone and the sudden tension in his posture. From his other side, Theron regarded her thoughtfully. Yiloch yearned to know what the other man was thinking, but he wasn’t apt to say much in this situation.

  “Perhaps I should go.” She lowered her gaze to her clasped hands.

  “I think that’s wise. There are things we need to discuss that you needn’t worry about.”

  He knew his cold manner hurt her, but he was close enough to turning his fury toward the Grey Army on her that it made sense to send her away. He heard the door open and click shut again as she left.

  “That was unkind,” Adran said under his breath, stepping close as he spoke so Theron wouldn’t hear. His tone was informative rather than accusing, as if he thought, or maybe hoped, that Yiloch was unaware of the harshness of his treatment of her.

  Ignoring the comment, he gestured Ian forward and said, “Can you reach them? Perhaps read something of the skills of their adepts.”

  Ian shook his head. “Indigo could. Their barriers are too strong for me alone. I can only feel what they want me to feel.”

  Yiloch ground his teeth and glowered at the trees that hid the crossroads as though willpower alone would reveal the army hidden there. How long would they wait, resting while they used ascard to try to unnerve the creators and adepts within the city? Without a way to bring down their protections, going out after them would be suicide. He wasn’t willing to throw his people away like that.

  And yet, if he allowed them to rest undisturbed, they would be fresh and strong when they came against the city. He knew from what he’d seen and what others had told him that they were a powerful force. There was also the deep uncertainty within, created by Suac Chozai’s prophecy that his empire would “fall in a storm of fire and blood” to this new threat. So far, the Murak suac had been right in most of his prophecy. Why should he expect this to be any different?

  Was it hopeless?

  Because of these things, because of a fear of what he knew and a fear of what he didn’t know, he was reluctant to move against the Grey Army without some certainty that his forces could so much as touch the enemy warriors. The city walls should hold against them for some time, though even that wasn’t certain. Knowing that fear held him back filled him with shame, which only fed his restlessness and rage. Auryl was better off staying away from him. Adran knew how to deal with his tempers and Terral made a nice target should his rage get the better of him. Ian? The powerful young creator’s distress was comforting to him. It justified his fear somehow, making if feel less like plain cowardice. That and their shared love for Indigo made him welcome at Yiloch’s side.

  “No matter how strong their power, they can’t keep this up indefinitely. Soon they will make a move. At least then, the waiting will be over. We’ll find a way to make them pay for the lives they have taken,” Yiloch stated, wishing he believed it.

  Ian’s jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed, remembering the lives the army had taken and the massacres they had seen. There was a burning hatred in the creator’s eyes that Yiloch had never seen before and, in that moment, it pleased him.

  “Yes, and then they’ll be sorry they ever came,” Ian said through gritted teeth.

  Yiloch smiled, finding that Ian’s bold statement bolstered his own confidence. “That they will,” he agreed. “Ian, gather the adepts and creators. Do what you can to help them deal with the effects of this power and work on some ideas for bringing those barriers down. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything you need to make that happen.”

  Ian bowed and strode from the room, fresh determination in his eyes. The young creator would do everything he could. Whether it would be enough remained to be seen, but Yiloch couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that it would not
.

  He turned to Theron. “You should return to Caithin now. You could end up trapped here when they make their attack.”

  Theron responded with a wry smile. “I’ve already sent word back to Demin that I need more time here. I hope you don’t mind. I am curious to see who these people are. Besides, my niece is out there somewhere. Without her, it is going to be hard to convince anyone of the things you’ve told me, myself included.”

  Yiloch shrugged. “Suit yourself, Lord Theron, I cannot guarantee your safety in these circumstances.”

  Theron nodded. “I knew that before I made the decision to stay.”

  Raising his eyes, Yiloch looked beyond the tree line. She was out there somewhere, on the other side of that army. He could only hope she was safe. It was out of his hands for now. Now all he could do was try to get through this, preferably with his empire intact.

  •

  The palace was beautiful. Myac wasn’t sure he had really appreciated that before. Certainly never with this kind of desperate longing in his heart.

  Sunlight danced over the created crystal ceiling of the throne room, creating a blaze of fiery brilliance that was almost hard to look at, like a land-bound second sun. The white walls that surrounded the city and palace were stark and brilliant, blending with the backdrop of the distant waves beyond like the massive foamy crest of frozen whitecaps.

  Standing quiet at the edge of the trees, the reins of his mount hanging loose in one hand, he ached for that city. His hands remained unbound since the night that he tried to kill Ini-jnai. It wasn’t a kindness. It was a way of saying they believed he had learned his lesson. The worst part was that he had. The healing of his injuries from that night was imperfect. Every movement caused stinging pain in one of the cuts or his perpetually aching legs. As if that wasn’t enough of a reminder, his sleep was tormented with nightmares reliving every second of fear and pain. The mere thought of trying it again made him nauseous. He had been trained. So much power, rendered so useless.

  His hand tightened to a fist on the reins, fingernails digging into his palm. Then rage at his weakness faded, overwhelmed by exhaustion, and he relaxed his hand. He stroked the horse’s face, moved by the animal’s enduring patience.

  There is much people could learn from such a creature.

  He waivered on his feet then, weakened by constant pain and lack of sleep. If only he had Indigo’s ability to understand new skills so quickly, he might have discovered some way out of this imprisonment by now. He had to work hard for every skill he had developed and, while his connection was perhaps as strong, that talent for picking up new things gave her the potential to be far more powerful.

  Myac leaned on the horse’s shoulder and focused on his breathing. The emotional assault Ini-jnai and Ksa-jnai were projecting out over the city was a muted, tormenting buzz in the back of his mind. The fact that his ascard was part of the blend of power behind that working buffered him from the full effect. He couldn’t imagine how unnerving it must be to those within the city, to Yiloch.

  A rare smile touched his lips. He’d been hungry for the man’s death for so long now. Hatred coursed through him, warming him like a good wine, adding a cruel edge to his smile. It felt good. Recent events had driven him to doubt his course, to doubt his strength. Now, knowing Yiloch suffered, his purpose refreshed, sharpening to a dagger point in his mind. He wanted to hurt the emperor, to make him suffer, but he had to be patient. Somehow, he had to escape this. It wouldn’t do to let someone else take the insufferable man’s life. Ini-jnai had to die before that happened.

  He stroked the horse’s coat, smooth under his fingertips.

  The opportunity would come. He only had to wait for the right moment, and while he waited, he could rest. There had to be a way to destroy the controlling adept. He needed to be ready when the time came to bring Yiloch’s world crashing down around him.

  Remembered pain sent a shudder through him and he gritted his teeth against it. The horse nudged his arm and he turned towards the stocky animal. The white star on its forehead drew his eyes and he began to scratch there, then he moved around to scratch behind its ear. The horse’s lips quivered and he smiled in response to the simple pleasure.

  Ksa-jnai’s voice drew his attention then, wiping away his smile. The warlord was approaching, approval in his eyes. They prized their horses, so Myac suspected his growing rapport with the animal was the source of that approval. Behind the warlord, Ini-jnai and Na-jnai strode, neither sharing their leader’s approving expression. Glancing away so they wouldn’t see the flush of fear in his face, he knelt down. The fierce resolve of a few minutes ago vanished in a haze of panic as the sharp tang of fear filled his mouth. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore his own voice screaming coward in his head.

  They stopped in front of him and Ksa-jnai said something. When he looked up, Ini-jnai stepped forward and held out his hand. His fingers uncurled and Myac’s heart stuttered in his chest. The key stones for the Serroc prisons sat in the adept’s palm. He had forgotten about them. His hand twitched in response to the swell of longing within him. If only…

  Ini-jnai’s mouth curved in a wicked smile then and Myac realized with a sudden dread that the other man would feel that longing through the binding. His eyes focused on the chipped, dirty fingernails as Ini-jnai’s fingers closed around the stones and he drew his hand back to his side. Hatred burned through Myac so hot that the other adept flinched when it flashed along the binding, his eyes widening in surprise. Then Ini-jnai’s lip twisted in a snarl and he stepped forward. Myac’s palms began to sweat, icy prickles of fear creeping up his spine as crisp memories of the man’s torture flashed through his mind.

  Sensing the tension or perhaps the rising power from Ini-jnai, the warlord grabbed the adept’s arm and snapped something at him. The adept stepped back quickly, lowering his gaze. Such complete obedience. Trembling, Myac bowed his head to Ksa-jnai, under-standing that the warlord had saved him from more torture. A few more words were exchanged and Ini-jnai and Na-jnai retreated, their feet disappearing from the circle of his vision. After a few more minutes of silence, Ksa-jnai crouched down in front of him.

  Strong, calloused fingers slid under his chin and lifted. Inwardly, Myac recoiled from the touch, but he clenched his teeth and forced himself not to fight it. When his eyes rose to meet those strange, dark eyes, the warlord released the pressure and took his hand away. He considered Myac for a minute or more, then he nodded, rose again, and patted the horses neck before walking away.

  Frustration and an intense urge to scream or weep, or both, rushed through Myac. Beyond the departing warlord, Ini-jnai stared at him, his eyes full of undisguised loathing and something more, something that he could only identify when he touched along the binding. Jealousy. The other adept was jealous of the warlord’s attention, attention Myac despised at least as much as Ini-jnai hungered for it. Despair filled him so full that he doubted he had the strength to stand under the weight of it. Twisting around, he sat on the ground next to the feet of his horse and stared out at the city of Yiroth. The city that should be his.

  He still remembered the first time he’d seen it. He had been travelling from his father’s manor. Rejected. Hiding burn scars, sorrow, and rage beneath a cloak with a deep hood. He’d come seeking revenge, somehow believing that his righteous anger at the senseless slaughter of his mother and the rest of their village would be enough to carry him to the emperor and his cursed son. Enough to bring him the vengeance he deserved.

  The beauty of the place had felt like a mockery. A deliberate attack on the beauty he’d lost to horrible scars. His hair burned away, his face disfigured, one eye blinded by a spray of hot ash. The palace itself, with the soaring created crystal ceiling above the throne room sparkling in sunlight, was an image of perfection, gloating at him.

  It was during a period of relative peace within the empire in spite of the recent murder of the empress. Peace at least for those who hadn’t been targeted by a cruel emp
eror and his son for harboring the empress’s murderer. It didn’t matter if the accusation was true or not. He and his mother had known nothing of such things. Neither of them deserved the punishment they were given.

  He should have made his father suffer for turning him away, but he had fled instead, fled the horror with which Lord Terral had regarded his disfigured son. Now he had only a burning hatred for those who had led him to this end. It was all that kept him going.

  Inside the outer gates, he had stalled in a crowded marketplace, overwhelmed by all the people and animals and smells and sounds. Someone had bumped into him. A gust of wind, twisted by its passage between buildings, caught his hood and flipped it back. A woman, no beauty herself, saw his scared features and screamed. Someone shouted, “What the hell is that thing?”. Myac turned and fled from the city. He ran to a grassy knoll just off the road where he dropped to his knees and wept like a child beneath the aged branches of a lonely tree. Wept like a coward.

  It was there that Serivar found him. He was traveling with a quiet man who Myac later learned possessed great talent at sensing ascard ability. Serivar was traveling in Lyra to learn about how the Lyran people used ascard. He was kind to Myac. He offered him food and a place to stay in Caithin. Offered him education and a way to transform his burned features into something that people wouldn’t shy away from.

  Serivar, not yet headmaster of the Caithin Healer’s Academy or a member of the King’s High Council, was looking for a toy. A foreign adept he could experiment with in secret to learn more about ascard power. Myac’s extraordinary ascard connection was too much for him to resist. At the time, Myac didn’t see the hidden agenda behind the kindness. He saw only someone who wasn’t screaming in fear or mocking or turning him away. He saw hope and safety. He saw a future that would someday bring him the vengeance he needed.

  This moment, this reliving of his first sight of Yiroth, wasn’t that future.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN