by C. A. Bryers
Ciracelle looked as if she had been mauled, like some wild animal had gotten into the House and this girl had been unlucky enough to have stumbled into its path. The side of her face was a scarlet mask, and punctures through the gray uniform clung to her body in glistening red splotches. The wounds ran from her thigh all the way up to her neck, and her left forearm was bent at its midpoint, broken.
Salla stared in horror, unable to comprehend the grisly sight before him. Whoever had done this had not been looking to simply harm her. The intent was murder, and the attacker might well have succeeded. A burning tension ate away at his chest cavity as he stared down at Iriscent, waiting for some word, some sign that Ciracelle was somehow still alive.
In front of the onlookers, Joht Tavross appeared to be in an equal state of shock. His hands fitfully gripped at clumps of hair on either side of his head, eyes open wide and scouring the carnage before him as if trying to make sense of it all.
But all Salla could think was that there was no sense here, no logic. This was the House of Falling Rain, a retraining and rehabilitation facility for the most benevolent people the Odyssan Archipelago had ever known. Who here would do such a thing? And why?
Joht seemed to be wondering the same thing. “Who?” he whispered, those haunted, unblinking eyes now glaring with the promise of violence from one face to the next. “Who?”
“Someone get Lochmore down here right now!” Iriscent cried out.
“He’s on his way!” a voice behind Salla called back.
Salla was beginning to feel faint as the stunned silence of the gathered crowd dissipated and the flurry of questions and rising panic took hold. Packed shoulder to shoulder with the others in those tight quarters, he watched Joht’s dazed, searching eyes cut their way through them all to find him. The gaping mouth closed into a hard line of certainty, jaw muscles flexing in determination and resolve. Amid the escalating noise filling the old prison sublevel, Salla could only see Joht’s mouth shape the word he spoke.
“You.”
A second later, Joht tore through the two students standing between himself and Salla as if they were paper. Joht’s powerful, crushing grip caught him about the neck, thrusting him backward. Using Salla’s body as a battering ram, he bowled past another body and slammed him against the wall, his face nearly pressed to Salla’s as others tried to pry the two apart. But that hate-filled, scowling death mask refused to budge. He could only see those eyes boring into him, watching and waiting for his life to ebb away in his grasp in one choking spasm after another. As Salla clutched at Joht’s wrists in hopes of letting his strangled airway permit just one gasp for breath, his vision was beginning to turn the murderous countenance before him cloudy, the edges going dark.
But suddenly, the maniac at his throat was gone and Salla was on his knees, sucking down vast gulps of air between coughing fits. Hands were about him to help him to his feet, and when the gloom had at last faded from his field of vision, Lochmore was there, staring him straight in the face.
“Tallas, are you all right?” he asked, a genuine concern carved into the sparse few lines of his middle-aged face. His head swung about for a brief moment. “Joht, this is your only warning to stay back!”
Over Lochmore’s shoulder, Joht Tavross was a savage beast straining against its captors. “He’s the one! He—let go of me! He tried to kill her!”
Lochmore whirled about to face him. “Joht, we don’t know that. We don’t know anything, so until we do, you calm yourself down right now or I have a lot of cells in this place to pick from that I will be ecstatic to throw you into. Am I clear?”
Joht’s body continued to surge against the arms holding him back. His face was locked in a grimace of impotent rage—a blazing fury denied the right to unleash itself upon its intended target.
Lochmore slid through the pack, dropping to a knee at the sight of the broken girl on the floor. “Mother’s bones, Ciracelle. What happened to you?”
“She’s barely alive, Lochmore.” Iriscent’s expression was rife with pain as she looked up from her work. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep her with us.”
“We need to get her into a cocoon and fast, Iris, but we have lockdown procedures in the event of this sort of thing happening. We—”
She shot Salla the briefest of apologetic looks. “There’s a portable cocoon set up one floor above us in a cell. We need to move her now.”
The perplexed expression on Lochmore’s face was fleeting, but he nodded all the same. “Kanoh. Trigg. These cells are falling apart. Find a bed that can hold her, and tear it out of the wall. We’ll use that as a makeshift gurney to safely get her upstairs.” The pause he left was only a fraction of a second. “Don’t hesitate. Do it now.”
The two Majdi nodded and darted through the crowd, disappearing down the corridor. Just as they did, Santerre was slowing as she neared the rear of the gathering of students.
“Everybody else, we need space and privacy. Back upstairs with all of you.” He seemed to catch sight of his prime assistant then. “Santerre, good. I’m enacting lockdown procedures on the House. No one in, no one leaves until we find out what happened here. Make it happen.”
A slow tide of students began filtering past Santerre, heading back up to the House’s main level. Tallas made an unhurried retreat as well, while Joht made no move to depart at all.
“Joht, let us take care of—”
“No, not a chance. I don’t trust anyone right now when it comes to Ciracelle. This—this never should have happened. She was supposed to be safe here, and look at this. I’m going to find out who did this, Lochmore, and I don’t care what it costs me—my shot at the archsentinelship, my place in the Order, my freedom. Doesn’t matter. The one who did this will pay in gallons of blood.”
“Joht, we’re going to do this according to procedure. I will find out who did this, but it’s not going to be some vengeance-driven hunt,” said Lochmore, his attention flitting between Joht and Ciracelle. “Now I need you up—”
“Not good enough. You don’t even know what’s going on under your own roof, Lochmore. A portable cocoon up there? Why is there a portable cocoon up there? And look at this.” He strode forth, even stepping over one of Ciracelle’s legs before coming to a halt outside Salla’s old cell. “Looks a little different from the others, wouldn’t you say? Wall taken down to make more room, cleaned, a new bed—what are you doing, running an inn down here?” The look he shot the Adjutu was rife with condemnation. “And you don’t know a thing about any of this, do you?”
Iriscent looked up from Ciracelle, casting her eyes meaningfully down the hall at Salla. The slight tip of her head that followed was an unmistakable gesture, that he should get moving and make himself less conspicuous by his lingering presence here now that his old cell had been discovered.
He gave the flick of a nod in return. Rounding the corner, Salla almost ran headlong into Kanoh and Trigg, who rushed toward him with a bedframe and an old, flattened mattress lying atop it. Throwing his back against the cold, damp wall, Salla let the pair pass by. A second later, he was back in the stairwell, clanging his way upstairs.
Back in the foyer, most of the Majdi and ijau who had been present below were gathered, segmented off in the usual small clusters to express their shock, horror and dismay at what had befallen one of their own. The suppressed chatter amongst students dwindled to a faint static in Salla’s mind until not a single voice or even word could be distinguished. The attack on Ciracelle Belfair was an unparalleled and unexpected blow even to him, though what it meant for Salla was different from what it meant for the others here. Joht, now standing across the room with his faithful acolytes, had already placed the blame for this atrocity squarely at his feet. That was the source of the darkest pit of fear roiling in Salla’s heart.
But even if Joht could not make that accusation stick, Salla would be exposed regardless. His cell had been discovered and the existence of his portable cocoon revealed. Questions were a
lready being asked, and it was only a matter of time before the truth had no alternative but to come into the light. And with the House lockdown coming, his only ally who knew the truth of his situation was Iriscent Saffora. But would she risk herself to stand by his side? There was no way to tell. Iriscent was a wildly unpredictable girl who found inexplicable delight in the darkest of Salla’s circumstances one moment, and threw herself at the Adjutu of the House the next.
Salla walked to the main entrance, putting his back to the cold stone wall abutting the double doors leading to freedom. Sliding down the wall until his knees were to his chest, he closed his eyes.
There had been glimpses of hope to one day live outside these walls, to experience the freedom he had taken for granted so many times. But no more. There was no way out anymore. Every door now might as well be standing closed and barred shut. The truth of his presence here would be exposed, one way or another. Though it had been orchestrated by a high ranking official like Delflore, that did not change the fact it was in no way sanctioned by the Order.
He had to think, and fast. Who could have done that to Ciracelle? Why, for that matter? Answering those questions was the only way to divert the path of the train charging headlong toward him.
Out of everyone in the House of Falling Rain, he couldn’t think of anyone with the motive to kill Ciracelle, or even harm her. But after she’d lured him below last night, seduced him and crept into his mind like a thief, there was one person who had a motive. Only one person in the House of Falling Rain had everything to lose if she revealed the truth about what she’d seen inside his head.
And Joht would make sure everyone knew it.
Against his back, Salla felt something on the other side of the door rumble. The thrumming noise and tremors swept throughout the facility until one resounding boom brought the House of Falling Rain under the pall of a stunned silence.
Lockdown had taken effect.
26
The atmosphere in the foyer was like that of a gathering for someone who had already walked from this world into the Great Darkness. In the wake of Ciracelle’s vicious mauling, a tense, unsettling pall had descended upon the House of Falling Rain. Few spoke, but when they did, voices were kept respectfully hushed as each wondered in turn who could have committed such a horrific act.
Almost three hours had passed in this state of purgatory when slow, leaden footsteps began tolling like a death knell up the metal staircase. All conversations, most of which had dwindled down to random remarks here and there, ceased as if swallowed in a vacuum. Nobody in the foyer moved save for Joht, who strode toward the corridor that housed the stairwell leading to the prison levels.
Salla rose to his feet as Lochmore stepped into the foyer, looking as weary and drained as Ciracelle had weeks before. In the ensuing spate of time since he’d come up here to assess his future and fate, Salla had arrived at a realization. Ciracelle, despite what she had done on Joht’s behalf, was no longer a source of painful bitterness. What had befallen her last night had dispelled all of that. She was a girl who had been compelled to help someone she had stronger feelings for than she had for him. It was that simple. And whatever happened in the hours following that treacherous act was something she did not deserve. Nobody deserved to be ripped and torn and broken apart in such a brutal, barbaric manner.
Standing now in the middle of the room, the Adjutu surveyed his students before speaking. “First and foremost, Ciracelle is alive and, from what Iriscent tells me, is stable for the time being. What the coming hours will bring, I don’t know. What I do know is that this House is on full lockdown, and that will continue until whoever perpetrated this crime is uncovered and answers for their actions. Until then, all implant and training sessions will be suspended.”
“You shut this place down right after she was found, right?” Ota asked from the back of the crowd that had informally assembled around Lochmore. “So how’re we going to find out what happened if Majdi investigators can’t get inside?”
“They won’t be coming. Severity of the incident determines jurisdiction. In this case, since Ciracelle is still alive, it’s considered an attack. Had it been murder, Majdi from outside this House would have become involved.”
A small outburst rose up from those gathered, but Lochmore held an open palm out as a gesture for silence.
“Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but the House of the Falling Rain is an autonomous facility that stands apart from Empyrion Prime. It is self-sustaining, and that includes matters like this.” He crossed his arms, waiting for further protest, but none came. “As Adjutu, this is part of my duty here, and I have the training to preside over what happens next.”
“And what’s that?” asked Ystolt.
“My assistants and I will be going over the—”
“No, no, wrong.” Joht stormed forward, voice already shaking in anger. “I’m going to handle this. Ciracelle was my friend, and it’s my responsibility to find out who did this. Anyone who says otherwise is going to have to go through me.”
Lochmore seemed unfazed, donning that familiar easy charm he wore so well. “Okay, Joht. I think I should remind you this isn’t a contest for the archsentinelship. It’s not a decision to be won through force. I would welcome your help, but the fact of the matter is you’re too close, too involved. Ciracelle obviously means a great deal to you, and you’re being led by your emotions. Objectivity is required above all else.”
Joht smirked as if he had seen the Adjutu’s response coming from across the city. “I’m being led by my emotions, am I? I’m not objective? Tell me, Lochmore, how objective are you? How much do your emotions come into play here?”
The Adjutu paused, examining the other curiously. “What are you driving at, Joht?”
“It means that if I didn’t already know who did this, you would be right at the top of my list of suspects,” declared Joht.
Lochmore sighed. “We’re getting off track. I’ll make this simple for you, Joht. Which of us is Adjutu of this facility? That’s right, I am.” He pointed to the doors behind Salla. “When lockdown is over and those doors open again, you won’t have a rho anymore. Know why? Orrock can growl and snort and try to bully me all he likes, but when it comes down to it, you don’t pass out of my House unless I say so. You could be here for years, Joht. And let me tell you, that man won’t waste another second of his time once he realizes I will not budge, and that waiting on you is a lost cause.” The charm returned with a quick smile. “But thanks for your input. I’ll take it from here.”
A moment of hesitation flashed across Joht’s hard features. “Fine. You lead your little investigation. When you want to know who did it and why, you know where I am.”
Still ensconced in the alcove of the doorway leading outside, Salla pondered what Joht had to say. His bluster regarding what he believed to be Salla’s involvement in the attack was to be expected, but it was what Joht said about Lochmore that had him most intrigued. Why indeed would the Adjutu of the House of Falling Rain be at the top of his list of suspects? Joht knew something that the others were not privy to, and the abruptness that Lochmore had deftly and decisively shut him down was perhaps a testament to that fact. But what was it? What did he know?
Lochmore was giving more broad announcements, but Salla wasn’t listening. He simply stared at the man as if in hopes he might somehow divine the answers he sought from sight alone. It would not be so easy, he knew, but the exercise did not leave him empty-handed. His eyes lingered on the Adjutu, taking in his dapper good looks, the poise and charm that comprised the man Lochmore presented to the world about him. It recalled the lurid scene Salla had witnessed between the Adjutu and Iriscent. Had Lochmore’s captivating appeal to the opposite sex been an enticing lure to Ciracelle as well? It made for an interesting notion, but there was only one man who knew for certain.
“Now that Ciracelle appears to be stable, Santerre and a handful of my assistants have already begun their efforts to piece to
gether what happened through tephic methods as we speak. In the meantime, I’ll be conducting interviews, and yes, Joht, since you seem to have so much on your mind, you can go first.” Lochmore redirected his attention to the group at large. “While I do that, and anytime I am absent, Santerre is in charge as usual. Her word holds the weight of mine, so it’s not the best idea to make her mad. So let’s begin. Joht, follow me.”
A pit of dread formed in Salla’s chest as he watched Joht follow Lochmore into Adjutu’s Path. But from that corridor, Salla saw a figure emerge. The sight of her did not take away the anxiety bubbling up throughout his body, but it was a welcome sight nevertheless.
“Rainne,” he said, moving fast to close the distance separating them. “I almost forgot you were still here.”
Her smile was weak. “I am unsure what happened back there.” She looked around the foyer, a mystified look dawning upon her face. “What is all this?”
“A student was attacked. A girl.” He shrugged. “I thought she was a friend, but she tricked me to get inside my head.”
The description of what Ciracelle had done brought a fresh look of regret over Rainne’s features. “Oh, Salla. I am sorry. The attack—do they know who was responsible?”
He shook his head, leaning close and lowering his voice. “They’re trying to figure that out. The Adjutu is talking to the one I got in a fight with right before you first came here. He’s gonna peg it all on me, so that’s wonderful. Oh, and the whole facility is locked down. So even if you wanted to leave, you couldn’t. Not until this is figured out.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Even if I wanted to leave, I couldn’t do it. Apparently, they went ahead and rigged a tephic ward or something around the building that’ll trigger the things causing my blackouts. It’d kill me, most likely. Nice, don’t you think?”
