Catalyst Moon: Breach (Catalyst Moon Saga Book 2)

by Lauren L. Garcia

  “It’s not important,” Drake replied quickly. “There’s a thousand lights out there right now, but no red ones. Hopefully ours will be easy enough to keep in your sights.”

  Adrie peered over Drake’s shoulder. “How many of you are there?”

  “Just two,” Drake replied after a pause. “But Leal and I make a good team. We’ve been–”

  “Only two?” Gid broke in, frowning. “What happened to the team you told us about?” His eyes widened. “Stars and moons, did they get caught by hemies? We heard the sentinels were looking for Assembly folk.”

  Drake hesitated. “Err… no, they’re all fine. Just… not here.” He considered, then added, “Word got out about my…magical heritage, and the others changed their plans.”

  “Those…” Gid grimaced and clapped Drake’s arm. “Forget them. We’ve got each other. Children of Seren don’t need those small-minded sods.”

  I might beg to differ, Eris thought with her own frown. Pragmatism took precedence right now, but she couldn’t quite blame Gid for his sentiment. Besides, they had little time to discuss the matter.

  Drake stared at Gideon before clasping his own hand briefly over Gid’s. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that. Anyway, the plan’s not all gone to shit. Leal and I will still provide a distraction. We’ll be in the guise of fire-dancers, in case you need to hide.”

  Eris pursed her lips. “Traveling with fire-dancers seems like the opposite of hiding. If you're any good, you'll be quite the spectacle.”

  The Assembly man smiled at her. “Oh, we're very good. In fact, while everyone's looking at us, no one will be looking at you.”

  “Can't argue with that logic,” Cai said before Adrie nudged his side to shush him. Marcen shifted his dulcimer case and shot Eris a look she couldn't read; his pale skin and hair made him glow in the moonlight. As she'd done with Sirvat, Eris tried to offer a reassuring smile. She didn't think she succeeded.

  Drake squared his shoulders, the action a little too reminiscent of a sentinel. “Leal’s going to take point. I’ll trail behind and ensure no one troubles our rear. The rest of you,” he glanced between the mages, “try not to clump together too much. But don't lose sight of the lights.”

  Marcen’s gaze fixed on the flickering red flame at Leal’s belt. “It can’t be.…”

  “What can’t be?” Cai asked.

  The fair-haired mage pointed to the lantern. “I’ve heard crushed hematite mixed with lamp oil will burn red.”

  Drake went still. “You heard right.”

  “But… how did you get hematite?” Marcen asked.

  “He stole their last shipment for us,” Eris replied sharply. “For tonight.”

  “The hemies have been on edge, lately,” Cai said, rubbing his chin. “Good work, Drake.”

  “Glad to be of service,” Drake said wryly. “But we can’t delay any longer. Leal?”

  The figure by the alley’s entrance slipped back toward them, her angular face cast in crimson as she drew closer. “Ready?” she asked. When Drake nodded, she hefted her staff. “The way is clear now. We should move out at once.”

  Nerves twisted in Eris’ stomach, but Gid’s warm hand gripped hers, bringing a strange sort of calm. Together, they could face any obstacle. Eris managed a small smile and kept her voice steady when she addressed her friends. “Come on. Our lives are waiting.”

  ***

  Foley awoke to silence.

  Heartfire was usually filled with shouts, cheers, and music that resonated within the bastion walls; an echo of the celebrations taking place in the city beyond. He peered out his window at the main yard, expecting to see the other mages assembled in a ring, watching Cai throw fire, or Gideon spin sand into delicate spirals of glass in mid-air. But he found only quiet darkness.

  Strange. The others should have been well into their cups by now. Foley didn't much care for parties any longer, but many of the younger mages did, and the absence of such a gathering on this night was… well, odd, to say the least. With a frown, Foley dressed warmly and slipped out of his room.

  The dormitories were silent; the kitchens cold. Misgiving stirred in Foley's heart as he stepped outside, where the mage moon drenched the bastion in silver. Wind that held a promise of snow gnawed at Foley's cheeks and chin beneath his hooded cloak, making him briefly long for a warm, bright fire and a mug of tea to ward away the night. The bastion was always worse at night. Not just when the sky was dark, no, but the deepest part of the night, when dawn was hours away and the sun was a distant memory.

  Gods above and beyond, sometimes he hated this place.

  Foley made his way through the bastion, clutching his cloak to his body with his remaining hand. The workshops—where Gideon and his friends sometimes loitered—were empty of all mages. So were the storage sheds, the small stable, and Eris' chicken coop, though all of the bastion's livestock remained.

  Finally, he found himself in the garden. He made his way down each path methodically, searching every bush and tree for...well, he didn't quite know what he was searching for, only that he'd recognize it once he saw it. Very likely this entire outing was the foolish fancy of an old man's memories. But still, he searched.

  At last, Foley pushed through the brambles and branches at the very edge of the garden, by the wall. Here, he saw the breach.

  It was barely a man's height, with a narrow opening covered by a rusted grate, which someone had tried to conceal with the ivy that had always lived here, and the jessamin vines that had grown more prevalent of late. Swathed in darkness, it would have been easy to mistake the opening in the wall for another shadow. But Foley knew every brick and blade of grass in this bastion, and this was something new.

  The breach was blacker than black. The gaping maw may have led to the Laughing God’s realm; the thought made Foley’s missing hand ache with phantom pain. He stepped closer, resting his remaining hand on the wall for support as he poked his head through the small opening. Musty air wafted from the tunnel, but he caught a whiff of something sharper, fresher, something foreign. He could not see the end of the blackness, but he dared not shout to get an idea of its size.

  Sweet Mara’s mercy, he thought, stepping away as a chill of horror swept over him. Must be an old blood run. But why had it not been blocked? Hadn't Talon known? Well, it was news to him, so she likely had no idea. His head swam with the implications, but he could not help the wry thought: This explains why the bastion is so quiet tonight.

  To gather his calm, Foley peered up at the wall again, to assure himself that it was still there. He took a shaking breath, forcing himself to focus. He had to keep a cool head in the coming hours. He stepped away from the blood run, dusting his hand on his cloak, until he was on the main garden path once more. He stood there a moment, considering his options. Though he'd not done a headcount before starting his nocturnal prowl, he had a feeling the Echinas would not be in their room. How many others had fled? A small part of him—the part that he usually tried to ignore—urged him to go back to bed and let the sentinels sort out this mess in the morning. Another part made him look toward the breach again, this time with a pang of longing.

  But he had a duty, not only to his daughter, but to the mages who had chosen to remain. Assuming there were any.

  With a deep sigh, with a hammering heart, Foley hurried for the bastion gates, where two sentinels would be stationed.

  It was going to be a very long night, indeed.

  Twenty-Nine

  Moonlight poured pale silver over the empty road and cast the world in shifting shadows. Milo tried not to think the sight was an ill omen.

  “We weren't followed,” Rook said, easing her horse, Ox, to a walk beside the sergeant's mount.

  From Milo’s place in the carriage seat, he couldn't make out Stonewall's face through the sergeant’s helmet and the darkness, but a waver in the other man’s voice betrayed his agitation. “Good. Let's find a suitable spot to make camp,
then we can see to the mages.”

  “There's a copse of oak trees ahead that would work,” Rook said. “Several miles up, off the main road.”

  Despite Rook’s report, seconds ago, the sergeant twisted around in his saddle; they'd long since left Parsa behind, but still he searched for any signs of pursuit. Perhaps Milo should have done the same, but once they'd left the village, he'd not had the energy to do much more than hold the reins. His weapons belt rested beside him on the seat. Daggers and sword were sheathed, but he knew without looking that there was blood on those blades. He'd not had time to clean his gear.

  But did that matter? What was done, was done. His cheek burned from where the Parsan villager had scratched him, but he welcomed the pain. He'd abandoned his post. He'd broken his oath to the gods. He wasn’t fit for duty.

  Apparently sensing no danger, Stonewall looked beside him, where the mage carriage trundled along on creaking axles, and spoke to the mender who rode at the vehicle's other side. “Beacon, will the mages last another few miles?”

  “As far as I can tell, they're both weak, but stable,” Beacon replied. “I want to check on Mage Halcyon's wound again, but it can wait a little longer.”

  “You're certain?” Stonewall asked.

  Perhaps it was Milo's imagination, but he thought Beacon's reply was a little sharp. “Yes, ser.”

  Nodding, Stonewall pitched his voice louder, to reach Flint, who rode a few paces ahead. “Keep to the road for now. We'll soon stop for the night.”

  Beacon heaved a great sigh. “Figures I'd spend the longest, darkest night of the year camped in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Now's not the time for complaints. From anyone. Just do your sodding jobs.” Stonewall's voice rang with insistence – almost painfully so. “These women were nearly killed trying to help those in Parsa, and they are under our protection. Our primary objective is to keep them safe.”

  Milo ducked his head in a single nod, but said nothing.

  Rook replied in a way that made Milo think she was trying to keep her tone as respectful as possible. “Yes, ser. But if we're making camp tonight, shouldn't we at least bind them?”

  Stonewall's reply was a curt, “No.”

  But Rook did not relent. “Both of these mages still should be considered dangerous. You saw as well as I did what Halcyon did to that woman.”

  “Mage Halcyon acted in self-defense,” Stonewall said. “Or did I hallucinate those blazing thralls?”

  “If you’re mad, then I’m right here with you,” Beacon replied. “Ea’s tits… what happened? The thralls were gone, right? We’re certain of that?”

  “Captain Cobalt wouldn’t have reported so if he thought it wasn’t true,” Stonewall said grimly. “No, the villagers… turned into thralls, right under our sodding noses.”

  “But why?” Flint asked.

  “And how, for that matter?” Beacon added.

  Rook’s voice was dark. “Only one thing was different.”

  “I don’t like your implication,” Stonewall replied.

  Milo heard himself speak before he realized he’d formed the words. “But… those people were normal, before we brought the mages. Then…” An image of the Parsan woman's gaunt, drained face appeared in Milo's mind, along with an accompanying wave of revulsion – and fear. “Those people were afraid when they looked at us,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “We were just doing our duty, but they only saw us as murderers.”

  “They were scared, Mi,” Flint replied firmly. “You did nothing wrong. We all did what we had to do to survive.”

  Maybe she was right, but Milo couldn’t bring himself to reply.

  Rook, too, seemed to share his misgivings. “It all happened so fast.… Did anyone really see what took place?”

  Flint shifted in her saddle. “Milo and I saw enough. One moment, everything looked fine; then Mage Halcyon screamed. When I looked up, a bunch of Parsans—thralls—were all over her. Thank Tor we got there in time to stop the monsters from slitting her throat.”

  Stonewall went rigid in his saddle, but Rook spoke up next. “Why did you leave the mage to begin with, Mi? Weren’t you on shadow duty?”

  Milo felt rather than saw the others' gazes upon him, but he could not bring himself to look at anyone else as he answered. “The blacksmith begged me for my help. And all the villagers were all so… desperate and scared. I didn’t mean for Mage Halcyon to get hurt. She even told me to go. She said she would be fine.”

  “She’s a mage, Mi,” Rook said softly, as if that explained everything.

  “The temple wasn’t that sodding big, you know,” Flint shot back. “Mi hardly let Halcyon out of his sight. And isn’t service part of our oath? He was trying to help.”

  “He failed.” Stonewall’s voice was hard as a cairn. “And we’ll be discussing that later, Milo.”

  Flint was indignant. “That’s not fair—”

  But the sergeant cut her off with a glare. “Life isn’t fair, burnie.”

  “Relah, shut up,” Milo hissed, just as Flint muttered a curse.

  The sergeant was having none of it. “Say that again to me, Flint, if you want to be sent to the mines, too.”

  Milo’s breath caught. The mines of Stonehaven? Was the sergeant serious? Stonehaven was a last resort for sentinels unfit for duty, sentinels who betrayed their oaths. Sentinels like me. The realization crashed upon him; he gripped the carriage horses’ reins like a lifeline and his throat went tight.

  No one spoke. The only sounds were the clop of hooves on the road and the creak of the carriage. At last, Stonewall exhaled. “I know this: the mages saved too many lives today to give any sane person cause to think they were a threat.”

  “I suppose,” Beacon said thoughtfully. “If we consider the situation as if Mage Halcyon was attacked, and not the other way around… Do you think the Parsan woman might've done so because she somehow turned into a thrall? Or did she attack Halcyon out of...desperation? We’ve all heard those rumors about mage-blood's healing powers. Maybe this woman wanted to take matters into her own hands.”

  “Perhaps, but that doesn’t explain the other thralls,” Flint replied, though some of the bluster had left her voice.

  “Magic might,” Rook said. “If the villagers were somehow magicked into thralls, then we’re protecting the wrong set of folks.”

  “We have no proof of a correlation,” Stonewall bit out.

  “I'm not saying that I disagree with you, ser,” Rook replied, clearly still taking pains to be respectful. “But it is odd, isn't it? Surely there must be some connection.”

  Beacon’s response was measured and careful, as if he was doling out words like a hematite dose. “I’m not suggesting the mages created the thralls on purpose, but perhaps something happened they didn’t expect. Magic is relatively new, in terms of the world. Remember, the bastions were only built a couple hundred years ago, but our histories go back much, much farther.”

  “I don't know about all that,” Flint replied. “I've not read those histories. But it feels like there should be a link between mages and thralls. It's all too… strange not to tie together.”

  “Assumptions like that can be dangerous,” Beacon told her. “You must keep your mind open to possibilities, lest you overlook something vital.”

  Flint snorted. “Do they teach you that drivel when you become a mender?”

  “Among a few other things,” Beacon said wryly.

  Stonewall had fallen silent, and Milo could almost feel indignation rolling off of him in waves. Clearly, the sergeant believed the best of the magic-users; he'd demonstrated that so far. Something within Milo's chest tightened at the understanding.

  “The Circle priestess seemed to think there was a link between thralls and mages,” Rook offered quietly.

  Now, Stonewall shook his head, moonlight gleaming off of his helmet. “I think bits and pieces of what you're all saying are true. Everyone was afraid and t
empers were high. I can't blame anyone from Parsa for that fear, especially after all they’ve been through. And perhaps the woman who… died was desperate for a relief. But I've fought many, many thralls without the presence of mages – as have all of you. Remember the soldier we found by Torin? No,” he shook his head, his voice quieting as if he were speaking to himself, “she's not a murderer. She's a healer. They both are,” he added quickly.

  You sound so certain of that, Milo thought. He had an inkling of who the sergeant was thinking of.

  “As you say, ser,” Rook replied. “But don't you think that, until we've ruled out a connection between the mages and the thralls, we should at least bind them while they're outside of the bastion?”

  Stonewall's reply was to simply glare at her; beneath his helmet, moonlight cast his eyes in black shadows. “Scout ahead,” he said quietly, darkly. “Make sure our path is clear.”

  Something in his tone sent a chill up Milo's spine, letting them all know that there would be no more discussion on the matter. Indeed, Rook only dipped her head into a half-bow before urging Ox forward, letting her words trail behind her like a cloak. “As you say, ser.”

  ***

  Kali was a prisoner. Someone gripped her wrists while ghostly fingers plucked at her hair and clothes. Her heart raced and her breath was short as she struggled to free herself, but whoever held her was stronger than she. How many held her captive? She could not see well enough to even guess their numbers. She could barely make out their whispering voices, but she heard enough.

  “Sweet blood, sweet magic.”

  Again and again, the words scurried around her, while her captors pulled and prodded, as if she were a horse at an auction and they were potential buyers. Kali strained to at least see who held her prisoner, but she could make out nothing but some sort of pale mist, or smoke, that clouded her vision.

  A new voice, similar to the others, broke above the rest, speaking in an unfamiliar language, the cadence of which was jolting and uneven. The plucking fingers stilled as more harsh words were exchanged. Given their rapid succession and aggressive tone, Kali thought the speakers were arguing.