Inheritors of Chaos

by Barbara Ann Wright

  “Shi’a’na, I am so sorry!” The water running down her face looked like tears, making her seem more human. “I could not stop it, could not stop myself.”

  “I know, daughter.”

  Shiv pulled back, her face lighting up. “Lyshus’s powers can be wondrous as well as painful, Shi’a’na. He can use human telepathy and has contacted Naos, who has offered to help us.”

  Everyone went still. Simon’s mind whirled. A drushka who could use human telepathy? Who reached all the way from the swamp to the mountains and talked to Naos?

  Who offered to help?

  Everyone began speaking at once. Pool suggested caution; Cordelia said they couldn’t trust Naos to offer them a drink, let alone help them; and Nettle asked who the strange drushka was.

  “I am Enka,” the drushka said, stepping forward. “Here to aid the young queen.”

  “How?” Simon asked in the lull. He waved at Enka before she could respond. “Not you. How did Naos propose to help you, Shiv?”

  She grabbed his shoulder as if welcoming him, then straightened and looked at her tree. “Is it not wondrous, shawness?”

  Simon knew delaying tactics when he saw them. “You don’t know how she plans to help you. She just offered, and you jumped at it?”

  Everyone began speaking again, but Shiv slashed a hand through the air, cutting them off. Simon saw a spark of the same desperation and anger he’d seen before. “I had to act! Do you wish to come with me, or will you remain here?”

  “We go to defeat Naos, not to speak with her,” Pool said.

  Shiv lifted her chin. “Defeat her after she helps Lyshus and me.” Her tree reached for her, and when she was seated back on her limb bench, she called, “Well?”

  Pool seemed as if she might speak again, but Cordelia grabbed her arm. “We’re coming.”

  Simon tried to argue, too, but Cordelia’s eyes widened, and she nodded at the tree as if hurrying him aboard so she could say what she wanted in private.

  The tree lifted them all and seemed very crowded indeed as it began to move north. Shiv stayed near the top, and Enka moved to be closer to her, eyeing the humans and other drushka with curious caution. Cordelia sat in the crook of two branches, and Pool stood beside her, leaning close. Simon clambered as close as he could to them, but the motion of Shiv’s tree was a lot more jarring than Pool’s. He grabbed hold of several branches until Reach braced herself against his back, and he could lean close to Cordelia.

  “Let her believe what she wants for now,” Cordelia said softly. “If she distracts Naos, it’s better for us.”

  Pool sucked her teeth. “I cannot lie to my daughter, Sa.”

  “Don’t say anything at all.”

  “What if she can help?” Reach asked over Simon’s shoulder. “Should we not let her?”

  “Help do what?” Simon asked, fighting to keep his voice low. “Strip Lyshus of his…queen-hood? Sever their connection? That still isn’t going to solve the problem of Shiv not being able to have a tribe.”

  Pool’s eyes turned down, and Simon felt her sorrow. It had been her decision to have a child of her own body. “Something must be done,” she said softly.

  Simon sighed. “I need time to study the problem. I’ve never trusted anyone who offered quick, easy answers.”

  Cordelia snorted. “Naos might be quick, but whatever she has in mind, it won’t be easy. That’s why we stay quiet and let Shiv believe what she wants. If Naos actually wants to help Shiv, Simon can spy on what she does, and we can hit her afterward. If, as I suspect, she’s fucking with Shiv for some purpose of her own, maybe she won’t be expecting the rest of us to come in with Shiv, and we can surprise her.”

  Pool’s mouth set into a thin line as if she didn’t approve of the plan, but she didn’t object. When Cordelia looked to Simon, he nodded. He wouldn’t have any problem holding back the information, but Shiv was another piece of this ever-shifting plan, and he didn’t know how they could ever be ready for so many contingencies.

  Keep running, he reminded himself, and don’t get killed.

  * * *

  Fajir heard voices. She lay still, trying to piece the last few moments together. She’d been lying beside Lydia in a hammock overlooking the sea, a jug of beer beside them, and an entire afternoon to do nothing at all.

  One of the voices muttered something about rain.

  “Real rain I can handle,” a closer voice said. “I’m just hoping no more murderous assholes fall from the sky.”

  Samira. Was she still bound by Samira, Mamet, and Nemesis? Had Lydia been a dream?

  No, she’d kissed Lydia, killed one of her gods, and had flown through the air. Instead of a hammock, the ground was her bed.

  “I know you’re alive,” Samira said.

  Fajir cracked one eye open. She shouldn’t be alive. The Moon had thrown her over the huge fire. She should have landed hard enough to break her body apart. She sat up slowly, eyeing Samira, who stood over her with arms crossed.

  “In case you’re wondering,” Samira said, “I caught you. Barely. It’s my bad luck that I just happened to be riding by on my way to warn the Engali about the fire started by your fucked-up gods. If I’d known it was you, I’d have let you fall.”

  Fajir blinked at her. She didn’t know what to say, hadn’t really planned to be alive past Lydia’s vision.

  “Where’s Lydia?” Samira asked.

  Fajir turned around, looking for the flames.

  “The fire’s out,” Samira said. “Where’s Lydia?”

  Fajir hadn’t had time to look at her before the Moon’s power had thrown her away. She saw again the river of blood cascading from the Sun’s neck. An unnamed feeling tried to rise within her, but she pushed it down. “Was I the only one?”

  “You mean the only person pretending to be a bird? Yes. One more time, Fajir, where’s Lydia?”

  If the Moon hadn’t thrown Lydia, what did that mean? “There was a camp.” She pointed past where smoke still swirled on the plains. “On the slope there.” But Lydia wouldn’t be there. She’d been standing on the other side of the campfire. The Moon couldn’t have missed her. And if Lydia hadn’t been thrown with Fajir, then she’d been thrown in another direction, one where no one waited to catch her.

  Nemesis, Lydia, was dead.

  Samira didn’t seem to consider this; she took the plains dwellers with her and rode to the north, toward the smoke. Fajir struggled to her feet. She was alive. Nico was dead, the Sun was dead, Lydia was dead, and Fajir was supposed to be with them. In the afterlife made of starlight, they could’ve had peace.

  Fajir found her sword a few feet away. All she had to do was fall upon it and die. As she readied herself, she heard the keen of ossors above the pounding rain. Plains dwellers, even better. She walked toward the sound, and a group of them slowed as they neared her.

  “We saw the flames,” one called. “What’s happened?” He nudged his ossor closer then pulled up short as Fajir wiped her hair from her face. His eyes went wide as he stared at her tattoos, her warrior’s robe.

  “You’re a Sun-Moon widow,” he said.

  “Yes.” She kept walking toward him. He looked to the others, and they dismounted, glancing at each other in curious fear. They were young, but she didn’t want to wait for someone older.

  “Do you need help?” another asked. She stepped around her fellows. “I’m Kai, we’re Engali, from—”

  “Perfect,” Fajir said. A full circle at last. “My gods started this fire. They no doubt killed some of your people and hoped to kill more.”

  Now the Engali youngsters frowned. “Why?” one asked, outrage and horror in his voice.

  “Because they wanted to.” She held out her sword, grip first. “They’re not here, but I am. Take your vengeance.”

  Kai frowned at the sword and made no move to take it.

  Fajir sighed. Nothing ever came easy. She flipped the sword, caught the grip, and struck Kai in the face with the flat of the blade. Kai fe
ll back, one hand to her unmarred cheek, eyes wide. The others cried out in protest, and two drew their weapons.

  Fajir flipped her sword around again and held it out. “Kill me before I kill you. It’s simple.”

  “She’s crazy!” one of the youngsters called. He hauled Kai backward and pushed her toward her ossor while the others mounted. Kai stared at her in shock as they rode away.

  “Get back here!” Fajir yelled, anger sharp inside her. “Don’t you know anything about destiny?”

  Clearly, they did not. They called out to someone who answered back. Fajir marched in that direction, still a little unsteady but hopeful again that she’d see Halaan and Lydia soon. Many dark forms moved through the gloom, plains dwellers enough for anyone determined to die.

  “Who’s there?” Fajir said, trying to get anyone’s attention.

  Another plains dweller rode out of the rain. “Engali.” A man’s voice. Older. Good; maybe he’d know what to do with a sword. “Are you the insane woman those children were babbling about?”

  He was smiling, a look that faded as his eyes flicked to her sword.

  Fajir’s heart froze, but she made her feet keep moving. She had to see him more clearly; her eyes had to be seeing what couldn’t be there: the eyes, the scar on his chin, the shape of his face. This was the very Engali who’d killed Halaan, the man she’d hunted with Cordelia Ross. His bit of the Engali clan roved farther west than the rest of them. She should have known they’d come here first, should have known the circle had to be entirely complete.

  She laughed, and he rode closer, frowning before his eyes widened, too.

  “I know you,” he whispered.

  She waited for him to recognize her from when she shot his daughter, but he nearly fell from the saddle before he clasped his hands together. “I…killed your partner almost a year ago. I’ve never forgotten your face.”

  Fajir blinked. She hadn’t expected him to remember, didn’t know she’d haunted his dreams as he’d haunted hers.

  “It was an accident,” he said, straightening. “I’m sorry. I always wanted to tell you.”

  “I shot your daughter,” she said. “I don’t want your apologies.”

  His mouth dropped open before his brow darkened. “That day on the ridge?”

  “I meant to kill her, but my shot was spoiled.” She held her sword out. “Here. Or would you rather use your own?”

  “Why?” he asked, not even looking at the weapon. His hands became bloodless fists. “Why?”

  “I wanted you to suffer as I had suffered.” She shook the sword. “I deserve to die.”

  For a moment, he stared at the sword as a starving man might look upon a feast. His hand twitched toward it before he lowered his arm to his side. He reached for his own blade. Maybe that was more fitting, to be killed by his sword. She wondered if he was seeing his daughter’s wounded hand; maybe she’d been maimed, and he’d had to nurse her for days. That needed vengeance.

  When he looked at her again, he spat at her feet. “I will not let myself become you.” He turned quickly and mounted his ossor.

  Fajir’s stomach dropped. “What?”

  He rode away. Fajir ran after him as she had so many years ago when Halaan’s body had been cooling on the ground behind her. But just like then, the Engali outpaced her quickly. This time, instead of looking back at her with a horrified expression, he didn’t even turn.

  Fajir pulled up quickly. There’d be no Nico to find her this time if she exhausted herself in the chase, no Samira to catch her if she fell. She turned a circle and screamed for all she was worth, denied a good death yet again. Nemesis’s curse was still with her.

  Fajir sat in the wet grass and breathed hard. She still had her sword, could still end herself, but the idea had lost its appeal. And if she truly believed that her nemesis was not letting her die, that meant Lydia might yet be alive.

  It was the hope of a fool, but why not be a fool for a little while?

  Fajir stood again, put her sword through her belt, and followed in Samira’s footsteps.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Can you feel anyone nearby?” Dillon asked again.

  Patricia gave him a dark look, but he felt her power. While she searched, he looked around but couldn’t see anyone through the trees. They’d been heading steadily upward, and the day was wearing on. The storm had thinned out and spread, but he couldn’t see if the fire was out yet or not; the trees were too thick.

  As they’d climbed, the green of the needles gave way to a darker blue, and the temperature continued to drop. They were all wet, and the only reason they weren’t shivering was because they kept moving.

  “I can’t feel anyone past our group,” Patricia said, heavy irritation in her voice. “Just like the last time you asked.”

  “Just checking.”

  When he turned back to her, she eyed him critically. “Can you keep the wind off of us?”

  “No, my power’s not working right, either.” A total lie, but he didn’t reach, so she couldn’t check to see if it was true. They both suspected Naos of fucking with her, but as always, the mad goddess’s motives remained a secret.

  Patricia started off again, two of her cronies in front of her and Jonah behind. Three more of them brought up the rear. If Patricia couldn’t use her power anymore, Dillon didn’t see any use for her except as a Naos lure. He was trying to figure out a way to knock her unconscious and kill the rest of them when he felt a tingle.

  He made himself keep walking. The voice was faint, all he could get through Patricia’s telepathic blocks.

  “Liam? Can you hear me?”

  Horace. Dillon fought a smile. He supposed it could also be Naos fucking with him, but he decided to play along and thought back a positive response.

  “If you can hear me, nod,” Horace said. “I can’t hear your thoughts past the blocks I sense in your mind.”

  Dillon nodded, glancing around, trying to spot Horace in the trees.

  “Is Jon Lea alive?”

  Dillon nodded again, wondering if Horace would have kept talking had the answer been no. Of course, Dillon wouldn’t have admitted that if it was true.

  “Do you want to get away from her? I can’t sense her using her power, so now would be the time.”

  Fan-fucking-tastic. Dillon coughed to hide a grin and nodded again, wondering if the cronies behind him saw and what they thought of all his nodding. Maybe they’d think he had a song stuck in his head.

  “I can knock out Patricia and the Storm Lord, but I might have to fight their power. Can you handle some of the others?”

  Another nod and a barely avoided eye roll about Jonah’s “powers.”

  “Ready? You’re about to pass by me…now!”

  Patricia and Jonah staggered. Dillon whirled around and sank his fist into Rian’s stomach. He hid a lightning bolt in the contact, hoping Horace wouldn’t notice the burnt smell. If he did, he’d probably chalk it up to the “Storm Lord.”

  Rian fell, and Dillon ducked under a punch from the next man. He delivered a shot to the guy’s gut and another to the face, hiding another surprise inside. The last one tackled him from the side, sending them both sprawling in the leaves and needles. Dillon brought his elbow down on the man’s head, and he let go with a grunt. Dillon scooted away and kicked the man in the face, flattening his nose and nearly caving in his skull.

  Dillon scrambled to his feet. Jonah was down. Patricia was on her knees, breathing hard. Her unfocused eyes settled on Dillon, and her mouth twisted in hatred. Dillon ducked behind a tree, not certain what she could still do but unwilling to wait for it. He circled around to the two cronies who were trying to help her and came at them from behind. Locking his elbow around one of their necks, Dillon hauled backward, lifting the man and choking him. When the other rose, Dillon swung his captive and knocked the last one back. He fell over Patricia, and she cried out before going limp.

  The last man got to his feet, cast a despairing glance down a
t his mistress before his eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed. Horace emerged from the trees and nodded at Dillon’s captive.

  “You can let him go now.”

  “Right.” Dillon pumped a few volts into the man, just enough to stop his heart, then he laid him down as one might an unconscious foe.

  Horace knelt next to Jonah and Patricia and felt for their pulses. “They’re alive.”

  “What’re you going to do with them?” Dillon asked quietly. There were plenty of rocks and broken logs about. If his answer was anything other than, “Give them to Naos,” Dillon was going to flatten the man while his back was turned.

  Horace straightened and put his hands on his hips. “I think we should offer them to Naos and hope that convinces her to leave everyone else alone.”

  Dillon froze before he could bend and pick up a rock. He really hadn’t been expecting that.

  “I’m not normally bloodthirsty,” Horace said. “Well, I wasn’t before all this god stuff started, but I think if anyone deserves to get gobbled up by the monster, it’s these two. Right?”

  “You know,” Dillon said. “I couldn’t agree more.” He strode to the three dead cronies in the rear and started piecing together the paladin armor from their packs.

  “Where’s Jon?” Horace asked.

  “After you escaped, they left him on the hillside,” Dillon said. “The rain probably woke him up already.” Dillon donned the armor, only wishing the paladin had thought to bring the battery so he could have charged it, but without power, the battery was too much dead weight.

  Still, any armor was good armor. He took the gun back from Jonah and slipped the helmet on. “Ready when you are.”

  Horace smiled and looked him up and down. “I keep forgetting you were a paladin before you were the mayor.”

  Dillon smiled back. “True.”

  * * *

  Shiv’s tree moved fast, much more than Cordelia expected, maybe even faster than Pool’s tree, though the ride was far less smooth. Just as when she’d ridden a running geaver, Cordelia’s stomach threatened to turn over, and only Simon’s power washing over her kept her breakfast inside.