“That’s the thing about revenge,” Cordelia said. “The satisfaction doesn’t last. You have to keep living for the sake of the living, not the dead. Halaan is gone. Killing his killer won’t make you happy. It’ll just remind you of what you’ve lost.”
“It is the way of my people.” She looked into the grassland, her face full of sorrow.
Cordelia sighed, knowing Liam would call her crazy, but… “Come with us. To Gale. People might wonder about your tattoos, but you can tell them whatever you want or glare at them until they fuck off. You wouldn’t have to worry about this revenge cycle or what your people might think. You could be happy. I’m sure Halaan would want you to be.”
Fajir stared, expression unreadable. Cordelia felt as if they were standing on a cliff, and the slightest breeze could push them to safety or death. She thought of climbing the palace in Celeste and barely held in a shiver.
“I have to see him.” Fajir ripped several blades of grass out at the root. “The murderer. I have to see.”
With a sigh, Cordelia nodded, wondering if that meant they were safe or if they’d gone over. She stood and offered Fajir a hand. With a snort, Fajir ignored it and climbed to her feet, reclaiming her sword before marching back to the ossors.
All through the ride that day and later that night, Cordelia tried to be subtle with her hints, but tact had never come easy for her. If she pushed too hard, Fajir might defy her out of principle. Cordelia would have done the same. Or maybe that was the way to go: push Fajir until she ended their partnership and fled into the plains. Then at least Cordelia could go home.
That idea left her with a sour feeling and not just because Fajir might continue on with Nico in the hopes of murdering someone. She wanted to save Fajir, wanted to turn her around, wanted her to look past her rage and turn into…
Cordelia herself? Was she doomed to try to rehabilitate every revenge-driven lost cause, or was there something special about Fajir? Cordelia didn’t know, but she didn’t think she could be satisfied until she saw this through. Liam would accuse her of having a fucking hero complex.
The next day, they planned to repeat their pregnancy ruse to find Halaan’s killer, but the group they found camped beside a river seemed far smaller than the one before. The plains sloped sharply to the river’s edge, and a few hide tents gathered between the slope and the water. They hadn’t bothered to post sentries.
Cordelia lay on the ridge and watched the plains dwellers go to and fro, doing chores or simply laughing and talking. Fajir had an intense look, and Cordelia wondered if she was seeing an enemy or if she was beginning to see something of herself in these people. Cordelia was about to ask, maybe push a little more for Fajir to come to Gale when Fajir stiffened, digging her fingers into the dirt and hissing like a drushka. She eased one hand over to Nico and took the shortbow from his grasp.
Cordelia’s stomach lurched sideways. “Is it him?” She searched the camp and spotted a man coming out of one of the tents. He fit Fajir’s description exactly, except he didn’t seem like a cold-hearted killer. He knelt, smiling, and held out his arms. A toddler, a little girl, tottered from someone else’s embrace and into his, screeching in happiness.
Cordelia looked to Fajir, to the bow. “You can’t kill him in front of his child.”
In the camp below, the man lifted the child and swung her around.
“Let us go,” Nettle said. “We will wait for another time.”
Nico glared at them. “If she kills him, her dead partner can rest. The child won’t even remember.”
“The dead do not wander,” Nettle said. “They do not want.”
Fajir’s grip on the bow tightened, and she glanced at Cordelia. “You’re right.”
Cordelia nearly held her breath. “Good.” She got ready to crawl backward and away and then tensed. Fajir’s expression hadn’t changed. This couldn’t be so easy.
Fajir eased to her knees, the grass still hiding her. Cordelia followed suit, every muscle in her body telling her to act, but she had to give Fajir a chance. In the camp, Halaan’s killer passed his child a rag doll.
A few tears dribbled down Fajir’s cheeks, but she didn’t wipe them away.
“Come on,” Cordelia said.
Fajir nodded but paused. The whole world seemed to wait as she said, “I want him to suffer as I have suffered.”
Cordelia reached for her, but she reared up and away. Nico lunged into Cordelia, knocking her into Nettle. Cordelia fought to rise, seeing the bow lift, knowing what Fajir meant to do. There was only one way Halaan’s killer could suffer Fajir’s fate: if someone he loved died, and he had to live with that pain.
Fajir nocked an arrow and drew.
Cordelia shoved Nico, giving Nettle room to leap. Nettle’s slashing hand caught Fajir’s arm just as she loosed.
Silence descended below them before the shouts of surprise started. Cordelia shoved Nico away and chanced a look, her heart in her mouth.
The man was alive, the child alive, her little hand bloody where Fajir’s arrow had torn the rag doll from her grip. She was shrieking, but she was alive. Nettle had spoiled the shot.
But Cordelia didn’t have time to rejoice. The plains dwellers were charging the slope. Fajir fell, and Cordelia knew Nettle had scratched her. Nettle staggered as an arrow from the plains dwellers stabbed into her stomach.
“No!” Cordelia ran to help, but another arrow punched into her own thigh, sending a line of fire through her leg, almost making her collapse.
Nico grabbed Fajir and lifted her across his wide shoulders to carry her toward the ossors. Cordelia and Nettle leaned on one another and followed. The arrows said the Engali wouldn’t listen even if Cordelia tried to talk, not after someone had wounded a child. Nico hefted Fajir onto one of the ossors and fled south, toward Celeste.
The arrow burned in Cordelia’s leg, but she kept hobbling, helping Nettle stagger. She grunted as she lifted Nettle into one saddle then climbed into her own, her leg screaming at her.
“Come on!” she told it. She wouldn’t take any shit from it now, not when she needed it to work. She grabbed Nettle’s reins and her own and sent the animals thundering west toward Gale.
* * *
In the morning air, Patricia Dué stood on a hillside and stared at miles of glorious, wind-tossed grass and nature. The sun was bright, and the air was clean. In the distance, an animal keened, and the breeze lifted her hair with gentle fingers. She smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. She had a body to herself, a mind to herself. To be in her own head after years of sharing Naos’s babbling funhouse, it was bliss.
“Happy, Mistress?” Jonah asked.
She looked into his handsome face and reveled in the kindness of his gray eyes. He was something else that was hers alone. Jonah lived for her; she’d seen to that. It nearly made her laugh, but he’d never understand her mirth, and she wanted to be kind to him, too.
“I was thinking about how good it feels to be free,” she said.
He rested a hand on her shoulder. It was a strong hand; every inch of him was just as strong. The thought made her shiver. When she’d first met him as Colonel Dillon Tracey—over two hundred years ago—she’d thought him strong then, too. She’d liked the play of muscles under his uniform. But he’d also been arrogant, demanding, and a bit of a megalomaniac. When she’d come into power, she’d stripped all of that away, leaving only her dedicated servant Jonah in Dillon’s body. Even his people wouldn’t come looking for him, not after she’d implanted the telepathic suggestion that he’d flown away into space.
Now that did make her laugh. When Jonah stared, she grabbed his hand and led him into the future.
After days of walking, they were close to the mine north of Gale. Since Patricia had absorbed Dillon’s memories, she knew all about Gale’s assets. She could keep herself and Jonah alive and well with her powers, but after spending so many years imprisoned in her own mind, she wanted more than that. She was free, she had the body of a sixteen-year-old si
nce Naos had killed the mind of its original occupant, and she had the whole world of Calamity to explore.
But first, she needed supplies, capital, and allies. Overconfidence had brought Naos down. Patricia did not intend to share that fate. If she ever met Simon Lazlo, his drushka, or their allies again, she wanted to be someone, a force to be reckoned with. She wouldn’t pick a fight like Naos, but she wanted to be ready in case one came calling.
She’d already started. The memory she’d given Jonah identified her as the sole survivor of a plains dwelling clan who’d been wiped out. Her mother had been a chafa, making her something of a princess, a person worthy of respect. But she could have told Jonah she was the queen of the universe, and he would have believed it. She hoped it would matter when they encountered someone else. She didn’t want to use her powers to change minds, but she supposed she might have to, just at the beginning, to get the ball of respect rolling.
But more than company, she wanted some food! She didn’t need to eat, but she craved it. Naos had rarely eaten anything, and it had been ages since Patricia herself had taken a bite. They had to have food at Gale’s mine. Plus, Dillon Tracey had never gone there in the flesh. Hopefully, no one would recognize him in Jonah.
She squeezed his hand as they walked. The mine would also have shelters, and those shelters would have beds. She shivered at the thought of so many of her former fantasies coming true. The future, for once, was hers to take.
They reached the mine later that afternoon. Set above the foothills and against one of the mountains, the mining town was a scattering of wooden buildings, most big enough for large groups to share. A few smaller structures littered the area; they had a ramshackle feel, as if the people who lived there were consistently too tired to improve their surroundings. Patricia frowned. She didn’t want to live in squalor. Well, she’d just have to do something about it. Her mother would have told her to look at it as a canvas ready for paint.
As she and Jonah came closer, she saw one man standing at a well, getting a drink from a wooden bucket. He stared, and she let her power play over him, detecting an injury in his foot. It was headed toward infection. Dillon’s memories said the mining town had a couple yafanai, but evidently no healers. Probably no telepaths, either. That would make tampering with minds easier.
If she had to, she reminded herself. Only if she had to.
Jonah glared at the wounded man until he looked away. Everyone else was probably working the mine. Patricia stared at the towering mountains with their snow-capped peaks. A few black holes dotted the area, exploratory or tapped-out mines. They were dwarfed by the closest hole into the mountain, its entrance shored up by wooden beams.
Patricia headed toward the only building with smoke curling from the chimney. Jonah held the door while he scanned the room inside. A mess or canteen, she guessed by the long tables and the bar along one wall. She had a flash of going to a nightclub on Earth with her fiancé Jack, remembering the pulsing lights and holographic dancers working oiled muscles with undying stamina. It had been sleek and sophisticated. This looked like something out of an Old West vid.
Patricia moved toward the massive fireplace. The stones were stained black with soot, and a large pot hung above the fire. Near the back of the room, a stack of kegs sat beside an open doorway. No one occupied the tables or tended the bar, but as she watched, a spindly man wandered into the dining room, wiping his hands on a greasy apron.
He stopped when he saw them, eyes wide in surprise. “Travelers!” He passed one hand through thinning hair and grinned at them with a mouth only half full of teeth. “What brings you to the mine?”
“She is Mistress Patricia Dué, chafa’s daughter,” Jonah said. “You will refer to her as Mistress and treat her with respect.”
The spindly man’s eyes widened. “Is that so?” Sarcasm peppered his tone, dragging out the words. “Well, we’ve had plains dwellers in here before looking to make a ruckus. You take that tone with the miners, and we’ll see whose side the respect is on.”
Patricia frowned. Maybe Jonah had come on a little strong, but she’d hoped the first person she’d truly met on Calamity would at least be polite. She sighed. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to do this.”
The spindly man stared, and she sensed his confusion, but that was all right. He wouldn’t be confused for long. “You—” he started.
Patricia cut off his voice with her power. He staggered and reached for his throat, mouth working, eyes bulging. He looked to them in panic.
Jonah smiled, knowing what she could do. “Shall I hold him for you, Mistress?”
“No need. Pleased to meet you.” She sorted through the spindly man’s memories. “Bert,” she said with a smile. “As you can see, there’s no need to be rude.”
He stepped back, eyes so wide she could see white all the way around. It reminded her too much of the Atlas, the accident. Her eye throbbed, the black pit that Naos had filled, and panic reared within her, threatening to crush her.
“No,” she said, curling her hands into fists. Fear fluttered through her like a caged bird. “Stop.”
“Deep breaths,” Jonah said.
“I know what to do!” she barked.
He blinked at her, surprised. “Mistress?”
She took deep breaths, still holding Bert with her power as she closed her eyes. “I have two eyes. I can see. I am myself.”
“Could have fooled me,” Jonah said.
Her eyes flew open, and she gawked at him. “What did you say?”
“I said nothing, Mistress.”
She looked to Bert, but no, she still had his voice. She shook her head. She could not start imagining things, not now. Another deep breath, and she was in control, smiling at Bert again. “Good ol’ Bert,” she said, taking that from his memories. “Our man Bert, the man who can get you what you need. I need safe haven, Bert, somewhere to stay, somewhere I’m in control.” She filled his mind with respect for her, with reverence.
Bert smiled, and she let go of his voice. “Mistress,” he said, “welcome! Any seat you like, of course!”
She took a bench near the fire, gesturing for Jonah to sit across from her. “Food,” she said. “And something to drink.”
“The best you have,” Jonah added.
“Of course,” Bert said, bobbing like a floating apple. “The best I have.”
Patricia watched him scurry to the back. He came out with bread and cheese before ladling stew from the large pot above the fire. The smell made her stomach rumble, and she dug in without waiting for Jonah. She barely waited for the wooden cutlery Bert supplied. She was ravenous as she tried hard to remember the last thing she’d eaten. It would have been before the launch of the Atlas, before the accident. She wouldn’t count anything Naos had done. Thick and meaty, the stew was the best thing she’d ever tasted, and the bread was pure heaven.
“I’d kill for a cheeseburger,” Jonah said.
Patricia dropped her spoon and stared at him, her belly knotting. “What?”
He looked up from his stew. “Mistress?”
“What did you say?”
He glanced around as if looking for someone else. “Me, Mistress? I said nothing.”
He wasn’t lying, radiated sincerity. But he couldn’t know about cheeseburgers. She’d taken all of Dillon’s memories, hadn’t she?
Yes; she scanned him now and found only what she’d put there. He was still looking at her, waiting. She scanned him again. Only her work.
“Never mind,” she said woodenly. “My imagination.” Or maybe it was Naos. She could easily talk in Dillon’s voice. She’d probably get a kick out of it. Patricia drew her considerable shields around herself, cutting off even the chance of telepathy. She’d have to be more careful.
Chapter Four
Cordelia and Nettle rode hard, and their pursuers faded into the distance. The first Engali to charge them had been on foot. Cordelia hoped they hadn’t gone back for mounts, or they might keep up the chase. Or maybe
they’d follow Fajir and Nico, two people who actually deserved their vengeance.
After another look over her shoulder, Cordelia pulled on the reins of both ossors and stopped them. She slipped down from the saddle, her leg aching, the arrow jutting out. Nettle had one hand pressed to her abdomen as she slumped in the saddle. Golden blood streamed around her fingers and the arrow shaft, darkening her leather shirt and trousers.
“Nettle,” Cordelia said gently. “Let me look.”
Nettle’s eyes seemed heavy-lidded and dull, but she dropped her hand and tried to climb down.
“No, stay there.” Cordelia cut Nettle’s shirt open, evoking a hiss of pain.
Instead of head-on, the arrow had gone into her belly at an angle, and the motion of the ossors had probably moved it around, widening the hole and doing who knew what to her insides. They had to get it out. Cordelia put a hand to her forehead and tried to think. She looked to her leg. She needed to get that arrow out, too, but she only had a couple of spare shirts for bandages.
“I can’t do anything while you’re mounted,” she said, half to Nettle but mostly to herself. “But after I take it out, you won’t be fit to ride for a while, and the Engali might be following us.” She looked back the way they’d come and saw nothing, but the plains dwellers would know how to track someone. Maybe they’d let her explain? More likely, they’d shoot first. “Fucking Fajir! What the fuck did I ever see in her?”
While the anger still pulsed through her, she looked down, braced herself, and snapped the shaft protruding from her leg. “Fuck!” she yelled as the pain raced up and down her spine. But now only four inches of wood stuck out of her thigh. Progress.
“Sa?” Nettle asked weakly.
Cordelia took several deep breaths. “If I break your arrow, do you think you can ride easier?”
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