On the planet, she’d be as slow as everyone else. The Atlas wasn’t made to fly or land inside an atmosphere. If she’d managed to put it down without killing herself, she’d still crashed. It wouldn’t be going anywhere again.
“When do we leave?”
“Now,” Miriam said with a scowl.
Cordelia’s mouth twisted, but she nodded, too.
* * *
Lydia watched the battle and wished she could help. She didn’t have any combat skills besides a few wrestling moves she’d learned from the plains dwelling Engali. She wasn’t a tactician. With her prophetic powers, she could venture into the future and see how this battle turned out, but that wouldn’t help anything in the present.
And if she saw something bad, she’d have to watch it twice.
On a rock-strewn stretch of plains, Mamet wielded her sword against an opponent who had a red eye painted on his leather shirt. If it wasn’t for the odd symbol, he could have been Mamet’s kin. He probably was in some distant fashion, but he’d been tainted by the power of the mad goddess, Naos, and now all of her old followers seemed determined to murder everyone they met.
Samira and Mamet stood back-to-back, their dark hair mingling, though Samira’s long locks fluttered in the wind, while Mamet’s short hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. They both frowned in concentration. Mamet fought well, but she could only handle one opponent at a time. Samira flexed her macro-psychokinetic power, throwing enemies across the field or bashing them into rocks. Like Mamet, she tried to wound since these enemies could be brainwashed innocents. Neither of them relished a fight.
Lydia stood in the stirrups of her ossor. She kept their small herd of the large insects well back from the fight, ready to ride in for a rescue should anyone need it. She could just see Fajir behind a clump of rocks. Unlike Samira and Mamet, her face was as serene as someone in deep meditation. Her long dark hair flowed around her shoulders as she whirled and danced across the field, her bone sword moving like an extension of her arm. She reaped the Naos worshipers like vengeance come to life.
Lydia wanted to believe Fajir was simply enjoying her brief bout of freedom. As soon as the fight was over, Samira would knock her around until she submitted to be tied up again. Fajir had almost strangled Lydia on a battlefield much like this one, and part of Lydia’s job was to watch her during combat to make sure she didn’t try to kill Samira or Mamet while they were fighting the Naos worshipers.
Lydia felt a tempting pull inside. She could easily see how this fight would end and know just when Fajir would be subdued. But if her power to see the future showed her something awful, there’d be no stopping it.
Plus, she couldn’t help a nagging feeling that looking into the future somehow set it, making her personally responsible for any bad outcome. That guilt had led her out here to begin with; she’d dreamed that Fajir would save the plains from a coming catastrophe, a huge fire. So, she’d known Fajir would get loose from the Engali, and Lydia had felt obligated to follow her and make sure she didn’t kill anyone else while she was saving the world.
How to stop her, though, was a different story.
“Samira, now!” Lydia called as Fajir slayed the last of her opponents.
Fajir glared, the large teardrop tattoos on her cheeks looking like holes in her face, but she didn’t have long to sneer before Samira’s power sent her rolling across the landscape.
“Stop!” Fajir cried. When she came to a rest, she held up her hands. “I submit, curse you!”
Mamet sent the last of their opponents running, though they’d no doubt return, compelled by their goddess. Mamet sheathed her sword and retrieved a coil of rope from her pack, following Samira toward Fajir.
Fajir stood and held her hands out, swinging her glare between Lydia and Samira. She saved a smirk for Mamet, the woman she’d once tortured.
Mamet didn’t look her in the eye, scowling as she tied Fajir’s hands and jerking the rope tighter than was necessary. If Fajir felt any pain, she didn’t show it, only smiling harder. Samira and Mamet mounted their ossors, letting Fajir march in front of them. The large insects shied from the bodies in the field.
Leaving Samira to watch Fajir, Lydia guided her ossor close to Mamet. “Are you all right?”
Mamet frowned hard, her dark eyes locked on Fajir’s back. She seemed so much older than her twenty years. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand being near her.”
Lydia nodded. Samira had told her about the torture Mamet had suffered, all because someone in Mamet’s clan had killed Fajir’s partner. Lydia wouldn’t have wanted to spend time around her torturer either, if she had one. And Mamet had a kind heart. She couldn’t just strike someone down, no matter what they’d done. The kindness might have seemed foolish to some, but it had won Mamet Lydia’s friendship and Samira’s love.
“You can go back home to the Engali,” Lydia said. “Both of you. I’ll watch her.”
Mamet gave her a kindly but condescending smile.
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Just because she was killing me when you found us doesn’t mean she’ll catch me off guard again.”
Mamet shook her head and gripped the reins so hard, her knuckles went white. “I won’t take chances with your life.”
“Seconded,” Samira called.
Lydia stood in the stirrups and grinned. “Stop butting in on private conversations.”
“Stop having private conversations where anyone can listen.”
“All of you should shut your mouths,” Fajir said over her shoulder.
Mamet bared her teeth, and Fajir laughed. She seemed to feed on Mamet’s hatred, unapologetic for her past deeds.
“I’d say let’s take her back to the Engali,” Samira said, “but you’d just argue.”
Lydia sighed from her toes. She didn’t need to argue. She’d seen Fajir loose in the future, so Fajir would be loose. It didn’t matter what any of them wanted, but she couldn’t explain it yet again, tired of wasting her breath. “Try it if you want.”
Samira rolled her eyes. “No, no. These Naos fanatics are out here killing people, and my conscience won’t let them run amok any more than yours will.”
The day before, a group of Sun-Moon worshipers whom Fajir had saved had returned to thank them. When Samira asked where the regular patrols from Celeste were, the worshipers told them that the Sun-Moon had pulled in their soldiers to guard the wounded city of Celeste, leaving the outer villages to fend for themselves.
Lydia wondered if their faith was wavering. She’d heard that the Sun-Moon listened to their worshipers’ thoughts; they had to hear the suffering and were ignoring it.
The encounter had quieted Fajir for a time. While they were hunting Naos fanatics and protecting Fajir’s people, she didn’t complain as much. And she’d found new delight in tormenting Mamet.
As she marched, Fajir turned her head side to side as if stretching. “You can release me, Nemesis,” she said to Lydia, a nickname that Lydia loved then hated from one moment to the next. “I’ll continue to kill these plains vermin. In your name, if you like.”
And once she was done with the fanatics, she’d kill any other plains dwellers she happened across. Lydia rolled her eyes. This was her first time trying to control the future in any way since she’d realized it couldn’t be changed. She’d tried when she was younger, but what she saw always came to pass. At least this time she could make sure Fajir only killed those who were out to commit murder.
She thought of the fiery winds from her vision, of Fajir striding toward danger, the only one brave enough to stop the architects of the inferno. Lydia didn’t have the courage to follow her own future and see if it all worked out.
“Do you know who killed your partner?” she asked, wanting to piss Fajir off as much as Fajir angered everyone else. “Did you kill that person already, or do you enjoy wasting time killing others?”
Fajir’s expression turned to stone before she looked ahead again. Lydia glanced at Samira, who shrugg
ed. Mamet sneered. At last, Lydia had hit one of Fajir’s nerves. She didn’t press, keeping further attacks in reserve for when she needed to shut Fajir up again.
* * *
Nemesis’s words rang in Fajir’s skull. Scant days ago, she’d had a chance to kill the vermin who’d murdered her beloved Halaan. The Galean Cordelia had offered to help her hunt that one vermin down in exchange for Mamet’s life, and Fajir had agreed.
On the cusp of the moment, when she’d imagined her future stretching ahead with no purpose, she’d changed her target to the vermin’s baby daughter. Cordelia had spoiled her shot, but Fajir still carried the vision of a glorious circle of violence that ended with Halaan’s killer surrounded by a mountain of dead: family, friends, everyone he knew. Then and only then would he know her pain.
Then Nico, her stalwart supporter, had abandoned her. He was a fellow widow whose own partner had been his true love. He’d admitted his feelings for Fajir, then said that if she wouldn’t truly avenge her partner’s death, she didn’t want to move on with her life. If she wanted the violence to continue, there was no help for her.
As if she needed help. She’d seen her true purpose: to kill and kill and kill until either she died, or all the vermin were dead. All widows were supposed to do whatever they could to prevent others from dying as their partners had. Nico kept a house in the wilderness as a sanctuary for those who lost their way. Others became doctors or cared for the elderly, smoothing the transition to death as best they could. Fajir was supposed to protect her people from the occasional plains dwelling vermin who tried to kill them, but if all the vermin were dead, none of her people would ever be murdered by one again.
Simple.
Then Nemesis had come into her life and told her she would live to save the plains from some inferno, that only she would have the courage to challenge whoever created that chaos. It was probably just another vermin, but Nemesis seemed determined to keep her in bondage until it happened. Whenever Fajir had tried to kill her, Nemesis used her power of future sight to anticipate Fajir’s moves, or her friends saved her. It wouldn’t always be so, but Fajir grew tired of waiting.
She thought again of the goddess Naos, who had appeared to her in the guise of Halaan, offering to free her if she would go west and kill someone specific. Fajir had agreed, thinking she would get to this person after carrying out her own plans, but Naos had sensed her thoughts and rescinded her offer. That was fine. Fajir was tired of gods anyway. Hers had refused to free her from these three, citing their fear of Simon Lazlo.
Pitiful. Gods weren’t supposed to fear anything, not even each other. Not only did her Lords leave her in bondage, they abandoned their people to a horde whose goddess didn’t even walk among them. Nico was probably fuming, desperate to protect those who might lose their partners.
At least she was doing what he could not. And if she submitted to the wishes of her captors enough, they would let down their guard and become fodder for her sword.
The day grew long, and her captors made camp. Fajir grimaced as they tied her hands behind her back, trusting her less in the darkness. Wise, but she wished they were just a little stupider.
They chattered as they prepared their evening meal. Fajir leaned against a boulder and watched the stars appear, wondering if Halaan was watching, wondering if he was proud. Nico had said that by leaving Halaan’s killer alive, she was denying Halaan rest. Fajir thought he would be happy to forgo rest if all the vermin died, and no one would have to suffer as she’d suffered. Surely that would make him happy.
She searched her memory for any sign that it would, finding nothing in their life to compare. Instead, she found as she did every day that she saw his smile less clearly, could not quite remember his laugh or which ear he kissed first when trying to get her to forgive him. Was this the course he’d want for her?
She gritted her teeth. Such thoughts were for weaklings. The fastest way to find out what he wished was to ask him, and to do that, she needed a vermin to kill her. And that could only happen after she’d slaughtered as many as she could. She supposed she should feel grateful that she was doing so now while also protecting her people.
A shout echoed through the darkness, a cry for help. Fajir rolled onto her feet, fighting for balance. “Let me loose!”
“That might not be one of your—” Samira started.
Fajir rushed forward, bowling Samira over with one shoulder. Samira fell with a cry, and Mamet leaped to help her as Nemesis gawked. Fajir ran toward the noise. Even with her hands bound, she could help some poor villager in need.
And if some vermin managed to plunge a sword through her chest, so be it.
Her captors cried out, but no invisible hand swatted her down. The light was fading; she could see enough to run and follow the shouts. In a hollow beyond a line of rocks, two groups faced off, some bearing the Naos eye and others in clothing like Cordelia had worn, the trappings of Gale. A piercing cry carried on the wind, an infant’s voice.
Fajir stumbled to a halt. Neither of these were her people, but she’d never pass up the chance to kill some vermin. She took a step when a pull from behind stopped her. Nemesis stood there, yanking at the rope, Fajir’s sword tucked under her arm. In a moment, Fajir was free. She reached for the sword, but Nemesis hopped back and threw the sword over Fajir’s head to land in the grass.
Fajir had to chuckle. She could grab the sword and attack Nemesis in a moment, but Mamet and Samira were running up behind. Better to do what she’d wanted in the first place.
Fajir scooped up her sword and ran into the fray, pausing only when one of the vermin flew away from the Galeans as if pushed with an invisible hand. So, they had power users among them. That was good. After she finished the vermin, perhaps she could convince the Galeans to free her.
She put that thought away as she tore into the vermin. Some were skilled, but none could match her; they crumpled like paper. Her sword twisted through them, scattering blood to the wind. Soon, all the vermin were dead. She turned to find the Galeans staring and her captors approaching from the side, a torch bobbing between them.
“Don’t move, Fajir,” Samira said.
Fajir breathed hard and tensed. Now, with the gratitude shining on the Galeans’ faces, she could confront Samira and hope these Galeans fought her power with their own.
But by their stares, she knew some feared her, too. “I am Fajir,” she said in their language, hoping that would put them at ease. “Who are you?”
Five of them gathered around a sixth holding the infant. “Sebastian,” one said. “We’re from Gale.” He turned toward Fajir’s captors. “Samira?”
She gawked. “Sebastian! What are you doing out here?”
“Gale’s become…dangerous.” He glanced at Mamet and Lydia, then his mouth fell open. “Aren’t you the prophet?”
Lydia waved slightly, so awkward. “Not anymore.”
One of the others mumbled something about betraying the Storm Lord. Samira frowned hard, but Lydia shrugged. Ah, a schism.
“The Storm Lord is dead,” Samira said.
“He will return!” one of the Galeans yelled.
Fajir smiled. Any moment now. It was dark enough; they might not catch her movements.
“Everyone, be calm,” Mamet said, holding up her hands.
She would die first.
The Galeans grouped tightly together, the one with the infant fading to the back. Samira put her hands on her hips and seemed ready to yell when Nemesis stepped into the middle, all of her shyness gone.
“We are not going to stand out here in the dark and fight about the freaking Storm Lord,” she said. “It doesn’t matter what any of us believes; there are dangerous people out here. That’s one of them.” She jabbed a finger in Fajir’s direction, drawing all eyes to her, and Fajir wished she could leap the distance and throttle her.
“Let’s go back to our camp with its nice campfire and talk. And if you don’t mind, we’re going to tie up our personal Naos-fanati
c-killer first, or she will murder all of us.”
The Galeans muttered, but several took a step away from Fajir. She only had time to renew her vow to kill Nemesis when Samira’s force wave blew her over, sending her sword bouncing from her hand. She spat when Mamet tied her up and promised that even if Halaan did not require it, she would kill these three several times over!
Chapter Three
Lydia didn’t care for the visiting Galeans, not at all. She hadn’t been close with any of them, and they spoke with too much reverence for the Storm Lord. They also cast a lot of hateful glances toward Samira and Lydia, pissed that not every yafanai had been in the Storm Lord’s pocket.
At least Fajir was tied up, or she’d have found a way to use the newcomers to her advantage. The malice glittering in her eyes would have frozen Lydia to the spot a few weeks ago, but she’d grown used to it.
At camp, the Galeans stayed on one side of the fire, leaving Lydia, Samira, Mamet, and Fajir on the other.
“Why did you leave Gale?” Samira asked.
They’d probably been thrown out now that the Storm Lord was dead, but Lydia said nothing. The Galeans’ whispered conversation cut off as suddenly as if someone gagged them.
“It’s safer out here,” Sebastian said.
“Why?” Samira asked. “What happened?”
Sebastian began a story about the drushka poisoning Gale and abducting everyone who didn’t succumb. Lydia’s mouth dropped open, but she breathed a sigh of relief when someone added that Simon Lazlo and Horace Adair had healed the victims and few had died.
Another Galean spat to the side. “If the Storm Lord hadn’t been distracted by people like them in the first place, the chaos with the drushka never would have happened.”
“People like them?” Lydia asked, clenching her fists.
“Troublemakers. Renegades.”
Lydia sneered. Zealotry was just one of the many reasons she’d never socialized with other yafanai even though she’d worked and lived in the temple. Before she could fire back, Samira touched her arm.
Inheritors of Chaos Page 3
