Catalyst Moon: Breach (Catalyst Moon Saga Book 2)

by Lauren L. Garcia

  “Let's walk the perimeter and work our way in,” he said to the squad. “That should help me get my bearings.”

  “Aye, ser,” they chorused, a little too stiffly for him to think it was sincere. He winced internally. Was this formality another byproduct of his damned induction?

  As they walked toward the bastion wall, Stonewall tried to encourage conversation. “It's more like a village than a bastion.”

  Beacon nodded. “It should be, ser. It's the largest one in the country.”

  “Greenhill Bastion is about half this size,” Stonewall replied. “With no garden – or chickens. Starwatch was basically a single building, attached to the garrison.”

  “Attached?” Flint said, frowning. “You lived alongside the mages? Ser,” she added quickly.

  “They mostly kept to themselves, but it was much closer quarters than here.”

  Sticking by the wall, they soon passed behind the two-storied main building, where rows of half-moon, glass windows were set at intervals. A few windows on the bottom story had little wooden boxes on the ground beneath, filled with herbs and flowers; some had metal or glass chimes hanging from iron stakes affixed above, and they tinkled merrily in the late autumn wind. No vines climbed the stonework here – not enough light, perhaps, given the angle of the surrounding wall. Most windows were curtained and Stonewall did not try to peer within those that weren't.

  “The dormitories, ser,” Beacon said as they passed.

  Stonewall had guessed as much, but nodded anyway. “I suppose the glass is mage-made?”

  “Aye, ser.” Beacon seemed to consider, then added, “It's one of the commodities they provide to the province. Sand is carted in from Fash or Gallia, and the mages turn it into the most beautiful glass. All sorts of swirls and patterns, and pretty tough to break.”

  “Some have a knack for metal-working, too,” Milo added.

  He did not add 'ser,' which Stonewall found encouraging. Perhaps he could undo some of the damage the induction had done. “Most of the mages at Starwatch restricted themselves to healing and the care of crops. What else do mages do here?”

  “There's plenty of those things,” Beacon replied, his tone a little easier. “We have some powerful healers. Sadira, for example…”

  He trailed off, flushing. At Stonewall’s look, he cleared his throat and hurried to continue. “Mage Sadira is quite a skilled healer, especially with wounds. She's from Zheem. You'll meet her, eventually. She's often called out on healing missions.”

  Now beyond the main building, the squad headed toward what looked like the garden: a section that was overrun with trees and shrubs, and a fenced area with labeled plants. Stonewall swept a cursory glance at the garden but kept most of his attention on his squad as he considered his next question. But any potential words died in his throat when he saw the vines.

  They rose above the trees, a few tendrils reaching into the sky, waving in the wind. As Stonewall watched, they climbed the wall; flowers blooming in a steady rhythm, too fast to be natural. Stunned, he stopped in his tracks and gaped like a fool, until some strange compulsion urged him to investigate – alone. It all happened within seconds. He slipped away from his squad and darted to the wall and the quickly growing vines. Dimly, he heard one of the others exclaim after him, but his heart had begun to race and his blood quickened as he stormed through the trees, pushing past boughs and branches, and he knew, somehow, it was…

  He came upon the mage, tucked in a corner of the garden, surrounded by green vines that seemed garishly bright next to the gray wall and pale sky. Her back was to him, but she had a messy, dark braid hanging between her shoulder blades and when he stepped closer, he recognized her cloak: deep indigo at the hem fading up into a pale blue hood.

  Kali. His mouth opened to form her name, but something made him hold back. Perhaps it was wonder; perhaps fear of disturbing her work, for surely she was the cause of the vines blooming all around. She sat in the midst of tiny yellow flowers unfurling with the rhythm of her breath.

  For a moment he stood, struck by awe into stillness, then she seemed to emerge from her trance, like a swimmer breaching the surface of the sea. She looked up, her face tilted slightly to the side, blinking rapidly. Then she turned fully and met his eyes. She smiled, broad and without reservation.

  And he was lost.

  “You're here,” he said, stupidly, but her smile widened.

  “So are you.” She made to get to her feet. Unthinking, he stepped forward to help. She accepted his hand and rose, not without some stiffness, and kept her eyes on his. “Does that mean–”

  “Here he is!” It was Milo, crashing through the brush, making Stonewall start and drop her hand. If the burnie noticed, he didn't show it, only turned and called, “Beacon! Here!”

  “Where's here?” the mender called back.

  “Err...” Milo glanced around, frowned at Kali, and looked in the direction Beacon's voice had come from. “By the wall!”

  Ea's tits and teeth. Stonewall bit back the curse and glanced at Kali, only to see she was hiding a smile behind her hand. Though she looked tired, she didn't seem to be suffering from her magic use, which was heartening. That thought, and the way she looked at him, cast his annoyance aside.

  Just in time, too, for the others tumbled into the formerly secluded spot. Rook was the only one whose passage made no sound. “Mara's mercy,” Beacon said, brushing leaves off of his gear. “Mi, remind me never to rely on you for directions. Oh, hello,” he added, catching sight of Kali. “I don't believe we’ve met.”

  “She must be the new one,” Flint said, regarding Kali with narrowed eyes before glancing at Stonewall. “Didn't you bring in a crippled moon-blood, ser?”

  All eyes, including Kali's, fell on him, and he found himself working to ignore the anxious knots in his gut. The less he said about her, the better. “Aye. This is Kalinda Halcyon. And,” he added sharply, looking directly at Flint, “that's an ill way to speak of another.”

  “But she's just a mage.”

  It took more control than he would have liked to keep his tone civil. “She's a person, same as you. Mind your tongue.”

  Flint crossed her arms before her chest, but did not reply. What little camaraderie had been between the squad and Stonewall evaporated, leaving him feeling like he'd only built another barrier between them.

  To his relief, Kali broke the silence and smiled politely at Flint. “Well, I am a mage, and I am crippled, though I don't much like the term. But you may call me Kali.”

  “Beacon,” the mender said, pressing a hand to his chest before indicating the others. “Rook, Milo, Flint. I suppose you know our sergeant.”

  She cast Stonewall a sideways glance, one brow raised. “Sergeant?”

  “Aye.” He fought—Tor, he fought—to ignore the rush of longing at the sight of her lips pursed in amusement. But it was a losing battle. In that moment, they were only two, and he did not care what the others knew of what was between them.

  But that was foolish. That would do her more harm than good, so he fought—again—to keep his tone professional. “You seem…, ” he faltered, looking at the flowers, but chose not to remark upon them. “You seem well. Have you settled in?”

  “Aye, as much as I can.” She seemed to consider something, then looked at the others. “Have you been fighting the thralls?”

  Milo nodded gravely. “They're showing up more and more. Most of them are Canderi, but a few are Aredians.”

  Kali looked toward Stonewall, alarm on her face. He grimaced. “We found a captain from the queen's army not two days ago.”

  “He'd been… changed?” Kali asked softly.

  “Aye,” Stonewall said. “We brought his body back to the magistrate of the closest town. According to him, the captain who'd been possessed had gone missing from his regiment a few days before we found him. They'd been patrolling the border with Cander.”

  “The magistrate is convince
d the Canderi are behind all this madness,” Beacon added.

  Flint frowned. “But it's not just Canderi who've become thralls.”

  The mender sighed. “Either way, the future doesn't look good.”

  “You think there'll be a war?” Milo asked, eyes wide.

  No one answered. Stonewall caught Kali's gaze again; his misgivings were mirrored in her dark eyes.

  “Well, it's been a busy fortnight,” Beacon said at last. “Rather too busy. I'm actually glad to be back here. I'd prefer a bout of boring for a spell.”

  Flint made to reply, no doubt with a barbed rejoinder, but Rook cleared her throat. “Are those jessamin vines?”

  Kali's cheeks pinked as she glanced behind her. “Is that what they’re called? The flowers smell lovely.”

  Rook knelt to examine the nearest bit of vine, curling by her boots. She cast Kali a wary look. “They only bloom in summer – and at twilight.”

  Kali shrugged. “I wouldn't know. We don't have them back home. Back at Starwatch, I mean.”

  “They're pretty,” Milo offered, tilting his head up to get a better look. “And… high. Look at that, Flint. They're about to clamber over the wall.”

  Flint reached for her sword. “I can fix that.”

  Kali flinched, but Stonewall stepped between her and Flint. “We've enough on our plates without being gardeners,” he said to the young sentinel. “Leave it for now.”

  “It was a joke,” she replied. “Look at those skinny little things. They couldn’t support a squirrel, much less a person.”

  “All the more reason to leave them alone and keep your mind on your mission,” Stonewall said, then looked back at Kali. There was much he wanted to say, but most of it—well, probably all of it—was not fit for this company. So he settled on, “I'm glad to see you're doing well here. Do you spend much time in the garden?”

  “More than I should,” she replied easily. “It's very peaceful. I think,” she looked at no one in particular, “I'll probably find myself here tonight, to see if the jessamin does anything else unusual.”

  As she spoke, she met Stonewall's eyes again, a single brow raised in inquiry. It was no stretch to understand her meaning. He nodded slowly. “It's cloudy now, but I expect the weather will be fair later on.”

  She smiled. “I hope so, Sergeant.”

  He could not miss the teasing in her voice, nor his own flush, and he was at once annoyed with her for the risk she was taking and pleased at the attention. Stop it, he chastised himself, recalling his earlier thoughts. She's not for you. She never was.

  But better sense dissipated with the wind rifling her hair, when he remembered running his fingers through the dark strands. So he fell upon formality, for it had always served him well. He nodded to her and looked to his squad. “The longer we're idle here, the longer it'll be before we can get some rest. Let's move out.”

  Kali's brow creased at this, but she said nothing, only offered a slight bow to the others as they slipped back through the trees. “Stay safe.”

  “You too, Mage Halcyon,” Milo replied brightly, bowing as well. Rook nodded, Beacon waved, and Flint muttered something unintelligible. They slipped back the way they had come.

  Stonewall lingered. “Kali…”

  Too much to say, not enough time, and he could not find the right words.

  But she only smiled at him. “Elan.”

  When she said his birth name, his heart lifted and his exhaustion fell away. In that moment, he could surmount any obstacle. They exchanged no more words, but he allowed himself one last look at her before he followed the path the others had taken.

  Eight

  Milo frowned down at the soapstone game board. “Give me a moment.”

  Rook sat across from him at one of the tables in the garrison's common area. At his words, her freckled cheeks dimpled with her smile. “Take all the time you need.”

  “It won't matter,” Flint called out. “Rook's going to win. She always does.”

  Milo’s twin knelt by the hearth, cleaning and checking over her gear. After the patrol and several long-overdue hours of rack time, the squad had reconvened for a late supper. They were not the only ones here, but most of the other squads were on duty, so only a few cinders played cards across the common area. Aside from several merrily burning hearth fires, tapers set in mage-made glass sconces illuminated the spacious room. Smoke from the thin, rolled biris that the cinders held between their fingers drifted to the ceiling.

  Plates, empty of all but a few crumbs, were stacked haphazardly to one side of the long table to make way for the game board. A pitcher of dark ale sat between Milo and Rook. He took a deep drink from his mug as he considered his next move. Trillim involved a rectangular slab of stone with round divots running lengthwise along each side, with each divot holding several pebbles. The goal was to collect more pebbles than one's opponent. It was the kind of game that involved patience and luck.

  Milo didn't have much of either.

  The pebbles clinked softly as he moved them across the board in what he thought was a clever pattern. Rook watched him, chin resting on her hand. The hearth fire’s glow made her freckles look as if someone had sprinkled nutmeg across her nose, cheeks, and forehead.

  The moment Milo's hand lifted from the final pebble, Rook sat up. “All done?”

  Her voice was carefully mild, but the eager brightness in her eyes clued him in: he was about to get his arse handed to him – again. With a sigh, Milo nodded and braced himself. Rook swept through and promptly collected a dozen of the tiny game pieces. All he could do was watch as she trounced him.

  After, she offered him that same sweet smile. “You're getting better, Mi. You did really well this time.”

  “Thanks,” he replied with a shrug. “But it doesn't feel like it.”

  Flint examined one of her gauntlets in the firelight. “You are getting better. It took her much longer to beat you than the last round.”

  “I'll count that as a win, then.” Milo arched his back, trying to pop the joints and bring some relief from sitting on the wooden bench.

  “Restless, burnie?” Beacon's voice was easy as he slid beside Rook, rubbing a linen towel over his damp copper hair. Like the others, he wore his off-duty clothes: a simple muslin tunic and breeches.

  Rested and full of a delicious meal, Milo only smiled at the other man's teasing. “Always.”

  Beacon chuckled and poured himself some ale, then regarded the game board. “I call the winner.”

  “No, I'm bored with beating you,” Rook replied, sighing. “All of you. We should spar.”

  “I just got clean,” Beacon said. “And yes, Flint, I'm a fine and dandy frip for not wanting to constantly roll around in my own filth.”

  “At least you have the balls to admit it,” she replied without looking up. Milo and Rook, who had each been taking a drink, snorted into their ales and began coughing with laughter.

  Once they'd stopped, the mender sighed. “Suppose I walked into that one.” He tilted his mug toward the empty place at their table. “Where's Officer Stone-Faced? I didn't see him in the baths. I thought he'd be here.”

  Milo frowned. “We thought he was with you. And isn't it against the rules to call officers names?”

  “Only if you get caught,” Rook said with a wink.

  “I want to like the fellow,” Beacon added. “But he makes it difficult, running off every time I turn around. I know that everyone appreciates their off-duty time, but he's our new officer and he's gone more often than not.”

  Flint rose from her place at the fire and plopped down next to Milo, though she carefully stacked her gear on the table beside her. “I still can't believe he went after a sodding thrall on his own. As if he's an entire army in the body of one man. Dev would never have done something so stupid. He would have come up with some brilliant plan – had Rook track the thing, and us surround it, perhaps. Or maybe set up a trap of some kind.” Sh
e exhaled sharply. “We wouldn't have wound up wandering around the ass-end of nowhere, chasing demons after they tore that trade caravan apart.”

  “Do you really believe Dev could have done all that?” Rook asked.

  “Of course,” but Flint's voice wavered.

  Rook toyed with a handful of pebbles. “Dev was a good man, and a fine officer, but he wasn't perfect.”

  “Aye, only the One is perfect,” Flint said. “But Dev was...close. And the new sergeant is…” She wrinkled her nose. “A coward.”

  This made Milo's jaw unhinge. “A coward? He faced that last thrall alone and brought a mage across the country – also alone. While fighting thralls and Sufani and Ea knows what else.”

  His sister made a noise of exasperation. “Even if he's Aredia's most perfect fighter, something doesn't add up. How do we know he didn't get… corrupted by Mage Halcyon?”

  “I heard it from Mica that Mage Halcyon requested the transfer here,” Beacon said, dropping the pitch of his voice. “Apparently, she didn't cause any trouble on the journey.”

  “Then the sergeant's not so skilled, is he?” Flint said, nudging Milo's side. He glowered at her.

  “Even so, a mage is a mage,” Rook said. “No one knows everything they're capable of—good or evil—so we must always assume the worst if we don’t want to be caught off guard. Halcyon is still dangerous. And not only did he bring her back alone, he did so after fighting a number of thralls on his own. Surely that counts for something.”

  “Exactly,” Milo added with a knowing look at Flint. “Besides, if Commander Talon saw fit to promote him, who are we to question her?”

  “Commander Talon probably wanted to replace Dev as quickly as she could, and took the first pair of daggers that walked through her door.” Flint's voice roughened and her chin dropped, quivering. “She took the easy path, not the right one.”

  Milo knew her face better than his own and his heart ached at her expression. So she had loved their former leader.

  Silence fell over the four of them before Beacon cleared his throat. “I have to say, I felt sorry for him during that induction. I’ll never understand why Talon insists on those silly things.”