Catalyst Moon: Breach (Catalyst Moon Saga Book 2)

by Lauren L. Garcia

  It was an old wound by now, but the pain was still sharp. Grief, sorrow, anger; they fought for dominance within his heart, but it was always shame that won. Drake's hands trembled, so he took another drag. Those sodding sentinels. They'd twisted a good man into an obedient thrall, held prisoner by hematite.

  But if Elan had released Brice, perhaps he wasn’t completely lost.

  I must free him. Somehow.

  “I suppose I can't blame you,” Aderey was saying. “I find it difficult to sympathize with those who keep innocent people prisoner.”

  “Sentinels are prisoners. Perhaps it may not seem that way to you, but those men and women who attacked us today are worse off than the mages they guard.”

  Aderey blew out another long puff of smoke and stubbed the end of his biri into the ground before tucking it back in his pocket. “Perhaps you are right. I will say that I've encountered a sentinel and a mage not too long ago, and they seemed a rather volatile mix. I would think that, at the very least, such a situation could result in,” his lips quirked into a smile, “misplaced affection.”

  “It's not misplaced,” Drake said before he could stop himself. “Just difficult to come by, sometimes. For some of us. All too easy for others.”

  The Sufani man offered him a smile. “I suppose you're the expert on such a thing.”

  “Seems that way, doesn't it?”

  Aderey chuckled, but his look turned speculative. “Your face has been troubling me since we met.”

  “I hear that a lot,” Drake replied, winking.

  The Sufani man rolled his eyes. “You look familiar, though I could not place where we might have crossed paths. Though now I wonder…. What was your brother’s name, after he took the Burn?”

  Knots tightened in Drake’s stomach and his answer was too long in coming. “Stonewall.”

  Aderey regarded him a moment, then murmured something in Sufa. At Drake’s look of confusion, the older man shook his head, his expression one of wry wonder. He did not explain, only got to his feet. Drake did so as well.

  Night was falling in earnest; it was probably time to part ways. In the hope that they would part on amicable terms, Drake offered the Sufani man a bow. “Please believe me when I say that I deeply regret the trouble I have caused you and your family. I won't use your guise any longer – you have my word on that.”

  “What good is the word of a sentinel who has broken his oath?” Aderey asked mildly.

  A lance of shame cut through Drake's heart, and he winced in earnest. “Then take my word as a man,” he managed. “Not a sentinel.”

  Aderey studied him again. “We are more than the sum of our beliefs and our blood, my friend. Those trappings mean little in the eyes of the One. All that matters is your actions; the shape your life takes is the shape you make it.” The Sufani man smiled again, but this time the expression was broad and held a trace of mischief. “You should know that the Sufani live by the One's law. Don't you agree that, if the One placed mages into this world, they are not abominations, as the Circle believes, but sacred, as is all life?”

  “I suppose that's one way of–”

  “A mage recently performed a great service to my family. As such,” Aderey offered his own bow, “you and your Assembly friends will have my family's help in your… Heartfire endeavors.”

  Drake’s guts knotted and he shook his head. “I would welcome your family’s help, but you should know the truth.” His gaze crept to Ben, standing in a huddle with the other Assembly folks, some of whom shot astonished glances Drake’s way. “It might just be me on this particular endeavor. The others likely won’t want anything to do with me now.”

  “I gathered as much,” Aderey admitted after a pause. “But my words hold fast.” His expression darkened. “We outcasts must help one another, for no one else will. No, Drake-the-mage, my people will not turn our backs on you. You are a child of the One, as we all are.”

  For a moment, Drake was dumbstruck, then he remembered himself and bowed low; a perfect warrior's salute. “Thank you, ser. Hopefully, you won't regret it.”

  Aderey's voice was wry. “True words from an honest man.”

  Drake could not stop himself from grinning. “I do my best.”

  Sixteen

  Warmth from the mug of tea spread from Milo's fingers all the way to his aching arms. The plate before him was empty but for a few crumbs of flat cakes and the shells from his boiled eggs. He was clean and had actually gotten enough sleep the night before. It was late morning. Since most of the other squads were either sparring or out on patrol, the common room was relatively quiet.

  Milo sighed and sipped his tea. Beside him, Flint was polishing off her breakfast. “I know,” she said between bites. “I'm bored, too.”

  “I should probably be glad of a chance to rest,” Milo replied. “All I’ve been doing this week is sparring and bastion patrols.”

  Flint scraped up the last bit of honey with her remaining flat cake. “And mucking out stalls.”

  Milo grimaced. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “I'm about to lose my mind,” she went on, pushing her plate away. “I wish my sodding leg would just be back to normal!”

  “Beacon said it would take time. You're already walking without a cane; you’ll be good as new before you know it.” Milo nudged her side. “Then you can join in the mucking.”

  “Gladly, if it meant I could spar again.”

  “We could play trillim,” Milo suggested.

  His twin rolled her eyes. “Ugh, not again.”

  “Why?” He grinned. “Afraid you'll lose?”

  In response, she stuck her tongue out at him. As Milo chuckled, the door to the common room opened and Stonewall stepped inside. Like the twins, he was fully armored; all sentinels had off-duty “soft clothes,” but most preferred to be kitted up rather than not. It felt right.

  The sergeant came to their table, sweeping his gaze over their empty plates. “Is there any left?”

  “There was when I got here,” Flint replied. “But Mi's probably eaten it all by now.”

  “Did not!”

  Stonewall chuckled and continued on to the kitchens. He stepped inside, emerging a few moments later with a plate of flat cakes and a mug of tea. As he made his way back to the twins, he paused, uncertainty crossing his face until Milo waved him over. The sarge smiled and slipped to their table, taking a seat on the bench opposite them.

  “How's the leg?” he asked Flint as he began to eat.

  “Stupid,” she said. “Taking forever to heal.”

  “It's only been a week,” he replied.

  She sighed heavily. “I know. It should be all better by now. I'm about ready to see if one of the mages can do anything.”

  “Even if you were nicer to them,” Milo said. “Their magic wouldn't work on you.”

  Stonewall looked thoughtful but Flint huffed. “I don't care. I just want to walk without limping. I’d even drink mage blood, if it’d help.”

  Milo pulled a face. “You wouldn’t really, would you?”

  “Of course not,” she replied, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not that desperate. Besides, using mage blood for healing’s just some silly rumor spread by civilians.”

  The sergeant cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “I've actually got some free time before I'm due back at the stables. I was thinking of taking a look around the city. Would either of you like to come?”

  Both Flint and Milo sat up at this. “You haven't been to the city yet?” Milo asked.

  “Only the bits between the gates and the garrison.” Stonewall's voice was casual, but almost overly so, as if he was uncertain how they would react to his request.

  Strange, Milo thought. If he hadn't been to the city in his free time, where in Ea's realm had he been disappearing to?

  “I'm in,” Flint said. “I've seen the city plenty, but I have to get out from behind these walls.”

  They
both looked at Milo, who nodded. “Me too.”

  A faint smile crossed the sergeant's face as he turned his attention back to his meal. He said nothing more for a moment, but Milo thought he seemed more at ease than before. Several minutes later, the three of them made their way to the garrison's main gates, which faced Whitewater City proper. At first, Stonewall kept a slow pace, occasionally glancing back at Flint to ensure she wasn’t struggling.

  “Don’t worry about me, ser,” Flint said after the third time. “I’ll keep up.”

  Stonewall regarded her. “You don’t need to play tough with me, Flint.”

  Flint exhaled deeply, blowing up the few loose strands of hair that had escaped the leather thong. “I’m fine.” The sergeant gave her a look and she added, “On my honor as a sentinel. Can we just sodding go, please?”

  Please. She must have been serious. Milo bit back a smile; the sergeant seemed to as well before he nodded gravely and continued on, his steps only a little bit quicker. Flint caught Milo’s gaze and rolled her eyes, but there was no annoyance in her face. Milo allowed himself to smile fully, and the three of them continued toward the garrison’s main gates.

  After some debate, they decided to head for the Eye, the marketplace in the heart of the city. The day was brisk and fine. Once they'd left the garrison altogether, Milo's steps lightened in anticipation and excitement, and he had to keep himself from breaking into a jog through the city streets. Even Flint's limp seemed less pronounced than it had been earlier that morning.

  “Too bad Beacon wanted to stay in,” Milo said to Stonewall as the three sentinels dodged a pair of fleet riders. The large deer and their riders thundered in from the direction of the city gates, likely racing for their headquarters near the Eye.

  Flint scoffed. “The cinders can manage on their own. I don't understand what Beacon and Mica think they can do to help them if there's no more hematite right now. I just wish we could have found Rook. She loves the market.”

  Most passers-by gave the sentinels a wide berth, but as the squad drew closer to the marketplace, the presence of more and more people made it harder to walk easily. Despite this, some folks went out of their way to avoid getting near the sentinels, with a few even shooting glowers at the gray-armored figures. After a young man all but tripped over his own boots get to the other side of the street, Flint leaned over to Milo. “Are we contagious or something?”

  Milo glanced at the young man. Even from across the street and through the crowd, he could make out hematite glinting at the fellow’s neck and fingers. “Afraid of magic, I guess.”

  “But we’re not magic,” Flint replied. “We protect them from it.”

  The young man caught Milo looking at him, scowled, and quickened his pace. Milo sighed. “Maybe it’s all the same, to some people.”

  The sergeant wove his way through the crowded streets with ease, such that even his scabbard didn't accidentally knock into anyone. Milo tried to emulate Stonewall's grace, but succeeded only in stumbling over the cobblestones. To cover his embarrassment, he directed Stonewall down the right streets, until they reached the Eye.

  The three sentinels paused at the outer edge of the marketplace, taking in the sight. The Eye was so named because each building, stall, cart, and tent that filled the wide-open space was laid into three general rings, depending on the merchants' tier. Though each ring held similar kinds of merchandise—food, clothing, weapons, and everything in between—the types of visitors varied greatly. Stone buildings comprised the innermost ring of the Eye; the permanent structures housed shops that catered mostly to higher tiered folks. The second ring held orderly wooden stalls – still permanent, though not as solid or attractive as the shops. City guards patrolled the path between these sections, watching for cutpurses and lifters.

  The third ring was, to Milo's way of thinking, the most interesting. Here were wagons, blankets, walking peddlers; there was no end to the variety of wares or the way merchants would show them off. Milo even spotted a colorful wagon of Sufani make, its merchants playing airy tunes on a viol and a flute. The scent of freshly baked sweet rolls drifted by and everywhere people chatted, haggled, and argued. But today there was an edge to their mannerisms, as if a sense of disquiet had settled over the city. Laughter came too quick and sounded too loud. Everyone seemed to look over their shoulders, as if expecting an attack. Worse, people of all tiers kept shooting wary looks at the sentinels, with a few exchanging hushed words as Milo and his squad-mates passed them by.

  Milo tried to keep his expression neutral, but anxiety churned in his stomach. Was it all his imagination, or had the sentinels done something to earn folks’ mistrust?

  “What in the void is wrong with everyone today?” Flint muttered. “You’d think we were kicking puppies with the looks they’re giving us.”

  The sergeant glanced around. “I’ve noticed that, too.”

  “Did we do something wrong?” Milo asked.

  “I don’t know,” Stonewall replied. “But be on your guard.” He cast another look around before regarding Milo and Flint. “Where should we start?”

  The smell of the sweet rolls made Milo's mouth water, even though he'd just eaten and carried no coin. But Flint spoke before he could find the source of the scent, if only to ask for a sample. “The fountain,” she said, pointing through the crowd.

  A massive, marble fountain stood at the center of the Eye; the statue of Llyr showed the god pouring water from two goblets. Though the god of luck and commerce was not Milo's patron deity, he liked how dozens of coins glinted beneath the churning waters of the fountain. As the sentinels approached, Milo spotted a few dirty children clambering on the flat sides of the fountain, alternately splashing each other and trying to grab the coins within, until a city guard appeared, waving the urchins away.

  Stonewall watched the children and the guard, then glanced at the twins. “Shall we keep going?”

  “Not yet,” Flint said. Unlike the men, she'd been searching the ground for something. Just as Milo was about to ask her what she was doing, she made a noise of triumph and knelt—not without difficulty—to scrape up a single copper coin from the dirt. Coin clenched in her fist, she rose, ignoring Milo and Stonewall's offers of assistance, and limped to the fountain. She stood at the edge, watching the falling water, before tossing the copper at the center, where it sank, gleaming, to the bottom.

  “Now we can go,” she said, turning back to the men.

  Stonewall smiled at her. “We can stop by Mara's temple on the way back, if you like.”

  She shrugged. “I'm not sure the goddess of healing could do much for me at this point. I think now, I just want some luck.”

  Slowly, the sentinels worked their way through each ring, though none of them went into any shops, nor even attempted to make a purchase. Sentinels were not permitted to carry money, for the Circle provided everything they needed. But it was still fun to see, listen, and smell; to be lost in the bustle and to walk unhurried with allies on either side.

  As they went, Milo forgot some of his earlier uneasiness in favor of the sheer pleasure of the day. Folks seemed in better spirits in the deepest part of the Eye too, perhaps due to the presence of more city guards. Milo even spotted a pair of young men unabashedly eyeing his sister, though Flint pointedly ignored them, gripping one of her daggers for good measure. The action deterred one fellow, but the other grinned broadly. A pretty girl with a mop of curls caught Milo's eye, though when she smiled, he was sure it was because his entire face had turned bright pink. One or two folks cast Stonewall similar, interested looks, but when the sergeant noticed, he only nodded absently. Most of his attention was on the stalls and shops they passed.

  The three sentinels paused at a stall Milo had never seen before, filled with a greater variety of weapons than even the garrison’s armory. Even though there were none of the hiltless, triangular-shaped sentinel daggers, he could not help his slack-jawed stare at the array of knives, swords
, spears, and other gear he had no name for. Unthinking, he reached for the nearest item, a set of whip-like cords that bound three thick, leather spheres to a single handle.

  “Mi,” the sergeant muttered. “Don't touch anything.”

  At the sound of his name, Milo glanced up in alarm. But the merchant, a wiry, gray-haired woman, had come forward, a hematite pendant swinging from her neck with each step. “Good morning, serlas,” she said to the three sentinels. “Please examine anything you like. Sentinels are always welcome in my shop.”

  “What's this?” Milo held up the handle so that the three ends dangled; the weapon had some heft to it, and each of the three cords was a different length.

  “Those are kuvlu,” the merchant said. “These were modeled after a set I got some years ago from a Canderi trader, but I can make them to order. Quite useful when one wishes to slow or stop a target.” She beamed up at Stonewall. “There's sand in this set, but these could easily be filled with hematite. Could be handy against mages.”

  “No kidding,” Flint said. “I'd love to throw 'em around.” She tried to grab the handle out of Milo's grip, but he held it out of her reach and bit back a grin at her scowl.

  “Take them,” the merchant said, still smiling. “Show them to Commander Talon, and please let her know I'd be happy to make as many as the garrison would require.”

  Stonewall shook his head, but gave a small bow. “Thank you, ser, but we…”

  He trailed off at the sound of a commotion from the Eye’s outermost ring. Milo turned, scanned the crowd, and spotted the source of the noise: the Sufani wagon. Thank Mara, he was tall enough to see over the heads of most of the crowd, so he could clearly make out the sight of two merchants, a man and a woman, backed against the colorful wagon by a jeering, shouting mob. A pair of city guards stood at the mob’s edge, watching the unfolding chaos. Milo frowned. How could they just stand there?