Catalyst Moon: Breach (Catalyst Moon Saga Book 2)

by Lauren L. Garcia

  “Me too, but I think the commander also wanted an excuse to call us all together,” Milo replied. “To discuss the hematite.”

  “But she could have just passed that information through the officers,” Flint countered, looking thoughtful. “I wonder if something else is going on.”

  “Like what?” Beacon asked.

  For once, this comment didn't spark any sort of bratty comeback from Flint. Rather, she leaned her chin on her hand and studied Milo in that way she did when she was lost in thought. Suddenly, her eyes widened and she sucked in her breath.

  Milo leaned forward. “What is it?”

  Flint considered, then shook her head slowly and, to Milo's surprise, dropped her gaze to the tabletop. “It's just something Dev said to me once. Something about how he thought Talon was lonely. But,” she added carefully, “he also said it was difficult for someone in command to truly… become close with their subordinates.”

  She finished with a steely glare at each of them, as if daring anyone to breathe one inappropriate remark, but she needn't have bothered. Though Milo quickly pushed aside any thoughts of his sister's romantic interactions, he turned her words over in his mind.

  Rook's eyebrows practically hit her hairline. “You don't think…”

  “Who else could it be?” Flint replied. “Stonewall’s far too pious to bother with a mage.”

  “Truer words,” Beacon said, combing his short beard with his fingertips. “Well, if Talon favors him, it might explain why she made him a sergeant.”

  “But if he doesn't want to lead us,” Flint muttered. “Why in Tor's name is he even still here? Why not just transfer to another garrison? Because of her?”

  “Well, being an officer has advantages.” Rook ticked the points off on her fingers. “First serving at mealtimes if you want, and the freedom to come and go as you please when you're not on duty.”

  “I don't care about any of that,” Flint scoffed.

  Beacon had the look of a man trying not to smile. “Truly? What about no bunk in the barracks, but your own room?”

  “My own room.” Flint's voice was thoughtful, but then she shrugged. “Doesn't matter. Never had one, so I can't miss it.”

  “But surely,” Rook lifted a brow, “you enjoyed Dev's?”

  Milo flushed and looked away, struggling to think of a way to change the subject. Flint, however, only sighed. “Ea's balls. Fine. I suppose a little privacy would occasionally be nice. So maybe that's why he stayed. But I still say Sergeant Stone-Faced is a shit leader.”

  “That's not fair,” Milo replied, setting his mug down hard enough to slosh some ale on his hand. “He's trying. He never expected to be promoted. That's all.”

  His sister's eyes on him were sharp. “Why do you say that?”

  “He told me so, our last night in the outskirts. When it was his turn for watch, I sat with him for a while and we talked.” Milo thought of Stonewall’s dead brother, and of the haunted look in the sergeant’s eyes as he told what could only be a small piece of a bitter story. He glanced at his twin. What would he do if Flint got killed? Even the idea made his eyes sting, so he said, “I think he's lonely, too.”

  “He's got us,” Flint replied.

  “Aye, and we're gossiping about him behind his back,” Milo shot back. “Making up rude nicknames and being cruel. If I was him, I wouldn't want to be where I wasn't welcome, either.”

  Beacon and Rook exchanged glances before the mender sighed. “Well… damn. Now I feel bad.”

  They sat silently, listening to the snapping fires and the old cinders dicing across the room. Even Flint did not make a sharp remark. At last, Rook indicated the ale. “Maybe we should see if he wants to help finish this.”

  “I think that'd be a good idea,” Beacon replied. “Think he’s in his room?”

  Suddenly eager to be moving, Milo rose. “I'll go look.”

  ***

  Milo rapped on the officer's door again. “Sergeant Stonewall? It's Milo.”

  Still no answer. There was no sound at all from within the room. He debated between a possible punishment for barging into an officer's private quarters and returning to his squad without useful information, and chose the former. What, exactly, he thought he'd find, he didn't know, but he should at least look. Besides, he'd never been inside an officer's room.

  The sergeant had left the door unlocked, so Milo pushed inside and surveyed the small space. A sleeping pallet, neatly made, was tucked in one corner. A plain desk rested beside the bed. The chest at the foot of the sleeping pallet probably contained Stonewall's personal items, but Milo wasn't about to go that far. There were no windows, but a candle flickered in a glass lamp attached to a wall sconce. Aside from a stack of parchment, no doubt used for writing reports, and a single, smooth river stone resting upon the desk, there were no decorations, no indication of personality. Just the stone and the wavering light that should probably have been extinguished before the room’s occupant had left. Unless the sergeant planned to return soon?

  Well, in any case, he wasn't here, so Milo slipped out, carefully closed the door behind him, and made his way back through the stone corridors. Upon his return to the common area, he found his squad engaged in a lively debate with the two cinders, whom he now recognized as Redfox and Slate. No one had moved from their seats; rather, words were thrown across the room.

  “I'm sure we'll get more soon,” Beacon was saying as Milo entered. “No need to panic quite yet.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Slate replied, rubbing his muscular arms as if he were cold. He was perhaps the oldest sentinel in the garrison, nearing his forty-eighth year, if Milo recalled correctly. His beard was the color of dirty snow “When are you scheduled for another dose?”

  “Months, I'll bet,” Redfox added. She was just over forty summers, not as ancient as Slate, but like him, she fidgeted in her seat. As Milo passed by, she took up another biri from a stack between her and Slate; she lit the end on a candle, inhaled, and expelled a puff of smoke.

  “More like weeks,” Beacon replied. “But I'm not worried.”

  Rook nodded. “The High Commander will send another shipment, and if we all combine our resources–”

  But Slate cut her off with a shake of his head. “There still won't be enough.”

  Milo slid back into his seat, shooting a questioning look at his sister. Flint rolled her eyes and muttered, “The old fools are convinced we're all fucked.”

  “I heard that, burnie,” Redfox shot back, glaring. “You laugh now, but wait until the hematite catches up to you. What I wouldn't give to go back to that first, sweet Burn.”

  Abruptly, she turned her back to them and lit another biri, for she'd smoked hers down to ashes in a few puffs. Slate, too, looked away, and within moments the two cinders left the room together. The door closed behind them, sending a strong whiff of biri smoke Milo's way; the musky scent left a strange, sweet taste in his mouth and he wrinkled his nose.

  “They're overreacting,” Flint said. “Right?”

  Beacon and Rook exchanged glances before the mender took a deep draw from his ale. “The cinders are on edge. It takes more hematite to keep older sentinels going.”

  “We'll be fine,” Rook added gently. “I can probably go another month or so without getting ill. And you two,” she smiled at the twins, “are no doubt good for another six months, if not more. I wouldn't worry.”

  With that, she began to refill everyone's mugs, though Milo did not drink right away. “The sergeant wasn't in his room,” he said.

  Beacon frowned. “Then where is he?”

  “Maybe he's plowing the commander,” Flint offered blandly, causing the others to sputter and cough in their drinks.

  Except Milo, who only glared at her. “That's not funny.”

  “Oh, I'd argue that,” Rook interjected, giggling. This was their fourth pitcher of ale, but her cheeks were only slightly flushed. All the ale in the garrison would
n’t get the squad truly drunk. Another side effect of the hematite.

  Beacon shook his head, though he also snickered. “Insubordination, Flint,” he said between chortles. “I should report you.”

  “Go ahead.” Flint rolled her eyes as she drank, then grinned. “I'm sure the commander's busy, anyway.”

  “Stop it,” Milo said, slamming his own mug to the table top with enough force to rattle the lingering dishes and thoroughly soak the table.

  Flint started. “Mi, what–”

  “You have no idea what you're talking about,” he broke in, staring at the ale coating the table's surface rather than meet anyone's gaze. “You don’t know what sort of life he’s had.”

  “Of course not,” Rook said. “Because he’s not shared that with us.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm. “You said he was lonely? Well, we’ll try to be… nicer.” She shot Beacon and Flint deliberate looks. “Won’t we?”

  The mender considered Milo and nodded slowly. “Aye. Can’t hurt to show a little compassion.”

  “No, it can’t,” Milo replied. “Especially since you’re supposed to heal, not hurt.”

  Beacon’s cheeks colored; he tried to hide the fact with a deep drink from his mug. “Right.”

  “Why do you care so much?” Flint asked Milo. “What does it matter to you what we say when he’s not around?”

  “Because we’re a team,” Milo replied, clenching his hands beneath the table. “The gods have brought us together, so we have to look out for one another – even when we don’t always like each other.” He added a pointed look, which, to his satisfaction, made her flush.

  None of them spoke, until Rook cleared her throat. “What would Sufani want with our hematite, anyway?”

  “No telling,” Beacon replied, a little too eager for the abrupt subject change. “I've heard talk of some civilians using it for fun; they call it ruthless. Maybe the Sufani are selling the stuff.”

  “For fun?” Milo asked, frowning “What about hematite is fun? And why do they call it ruthless?”

  The mender shrugged. “Well, hematite makes you feel invincible, doesn't it? Like you could take on the whole world without batting an eyelash. Some folks crave that sort of thing.”

  “Morons,” Flint offered. Milo silently agreed with her. Who would willingly choose this life? He and Flint had not had any options other than those too unsavory for his liking. Yes, his life would be shortened, but in the meantime, he had a roof over his head and food for his belly, and nobody had to sell their bodies for any of it. Not such a bad trade, as far as he was concerned. Besides, he got to do good work, sometimes. Being a sentinel wasn't solely about keeping mages in check; sentinels helped people, when they could.

  Even so, the word niggled at him. Ruthless.

  “Perhaps the ones who stole it hope to start their own garrison,” Beacon replied, rolling his eyes.

  Rook considered this. “Unless whoever reported to Talon was lying.”

  “But why lie about something like that?” Flint asked. “The dolts could get more any time they wished.” She hesitated. “What do you think, Mi?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe they lost it—or sold it—and were afraid of getting punished.”

  “Oh, I didn't even think of that,” Flint said, frowning. “Damned fools. That's probably how it went.”

  “Aye.” Beacon drained his mug, refilled it, and then lifted a coppery brow as he held the pitcher. “Tired yet, Mi? Or are you up for another round?”

  His voice was light but his gaze was...hopeful? Rook, too, sat up and regarded Milo with warmth. Flint leaned her shoulder into his. None of them had apologized for upsetting him or for being arses to the sergeant, but then, Milo had not expected them to. Besides, why did he feel as if he'd been wronged? Was he actually drunk, or just being silly?

  Hopefully the former. Maybe I really am getting over the first Burn, he thought, tipping his mug's contents down his throat. The ale was pleasantly rich, if bitter, and warmed him from the inside out. He set his mug down before the mender and grinned.

  It was answer enough.

  Nine

  “Where are you going?”

  Kali froze in the act of fastening her cloak and glanced up to see Eris regarding her from the doorway of her room. Eris jerked her thumb in the direction of the common area. “A bunch of us are going to play cards after supper – and talk.” This was said with a meaningful look. “You should join us.”

  “Another time,” Kali replied, working to keep her voice casual. “It's so nice out. I thought I'd go for a walk, then settle in early with a book.”

  Eris' brows knitted. “‘Nice out?’ It's freezing.” Her expression shifted to one of suspicion. “What are you really doing?”

  “Exactly what I said. I don't feel like being indoors. I want some fresh air.” She adjusted her cloak. “It’s not that cold, Silver Girl.”

  Eris scoffed. “Don’t call me that. I haven’t lived in Silverwood Province since I was eleven. ‘Not that cold,’” she added in a mutter. “You mountain folk are mad.”

  Kali chuckled. “Aye, but at least we don’t get cold as easily as you soft southerners.”

  “Silverwood is hardly…” Eris trailed off, sighing. “Never mind. I didn’t come here to banter with you.”

  “But you do it so well.”

  Eris ignored her. “After you’ve had fun watching your breath fog and feeling your face get numb, you should come join us. Your books will keep until tomorrow.” She gave Kali a knowing smile. “Besides, you look too pretty to be wandering around alone. I think Marcen would like to see you.”

  Heat crept to Kali's cheeks; she tried to ignore it and smoothed out her dress. It was one of Sadira's chatoyant silk gowns, too long in the sleeves and hem, but the rich plum color complimented her. “I was really hoping to get some reading done tonight. I found a three-volume collection on the history of magic in Aredia.”

  She studied her friend, silently hoping her ruse would work. Eris sighed and cast her eyes to the ceiling. “You and your reading, I swear. You know, people are far more interesting than books.”

  “Depends on the book,” Kali replied, smiling in relief. “And the person.”

  Eris grunted and turned to leave. “Well, if you come to your senses, you know where to find us.”

  Kali pretended to toy with her cloak a moment longer, to give Eris time to disappear down the corridor, then hurried after, turning to slip out of the dormitories rather than inside the common area. She only saw a few other mages, none of whom gave her more than a nod of acknowledgment, but for once she didn't mind. Alone, she made her way through the bastion, to the garden.

  Atal was dark and hidden, but Seren's light washed everything in silver. After waiting a few minutes, Kali tugged her cloak tighter and paced between the persimmon trees. Her knee twinged, but she focused on the pain rather than ignoring it. Pain was a welcome distraction from her twisting stomach.

  He won't come. Maybe it would be better this way, for she could not see how a situation like theirs could end well. They lived in different worlds, with different obligations. He was bound to his kind as surely as she was bound by them; his squad's appearance today was living, breathing proof of that. Besides, what would happen if she got closer to him? It would only hurt worse when the inevitable came to pass.

  All pretenses of autumn had been abandoned in favor of winter's chill. A strong wind slithered beneath her wool cloak and bit into the exposed patch of skin at her throat. She pulled her cloak tighter. The whisper of leaves made her look around, searching the moon shadows that dappled the trees and bushes, but it was only the wind. She was alone.

  She shouldn't be here. She should have joined Eris and the other mages, perhaps tried to make some more friends. She should flirt with Marcen and try to put Stonewall out of her mind.

  “Leave,” she murmured to no one. “It's not worth it.”

  “Kali?”


  She turned to find him, fully armored, helmet clipped to his belt, bathed in a pale silver that somehow made his eyes seem golden. All doubt fled her mind and her heart soared. “Stone.”

  Uncertainty had touched his face, but at this, he smiled. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing important.” Still holding his gaze, she stepped closer, until she was only a few hand-spans away. Only when she pressed her palm to his armored chest did she believe that he was real. “Hello, there.”

  The touch changed him, or at least, changed something within him. He pulled her close and murmured in her ear. “You're going to get me in so much trouble.”

  Kali tilted her head back and touched his cheek to draw his face closer. Despite the cold air, his breath was warm. “How strange,” she whispered against his lips. “I was going to say the same thing about you.”

  His breath caught, then he smiled again, softer this time, and covered her mouth with his. It was not a gentle kiss. The rough curve of his jaw held traces of stubble that scraped her skin. But his lips were soft, a contrast to the armor and hard muscle surrounding her. Desire swam through her veins, raced to her fingertips and set them to aching. The cold that had nipped at Kali's senses fled with the rush of heat that bloomed between her legs through her entire body, strong enough to send her reeling. She stood as tall as she could, wrapped her arms around his neck in an effort to pull herself closer; he responded with a strong embrace that nearly lifted her off her feet.

  How long they could have stayed so, she did not know, but eventually, they had to breathe again. Heart racing, breath short, Kali smiled up at him. “I missed you.”

  “You have no idea.” His low chuckle sent another thrill of desire through her, and another as one hand slid to her waist, where he squeezed gently. “I wanted to come to you sooner, but...”

  He trailed off, frowning as he did when he was thinking over his words. Kali shook her head; her own doubts now distant memories. “I know. The thralls.”

  “Aye. Talon sent me to the outskirts almost the moment I arrived. Sent us,” he corrected himself.