CHAPTER NINE
Indigo clawed to awareness through a sticky fog of exhaustion and, with the intent of assessing her condition, opened herself to the ascard. Power erupted within her. For a few terrifying seconds, she flailed in a river of wild ascard energy, shocking, excruciating, and magnificent. She wrestled the connection to her inner aspect closed and snapped her eyes open, expecting to see Watchmen storming toward her.
She lay on a cot in a long room that smelled of sterile floors and over-washed linens. Similar cots, all empty, lined the walls on either side of the room. In a chair next to her sat a man with hard brown eyes and dark hair cut in a casual style that he somehow made look harsh and militaristic. He wore disdain like a cloak. It stiffened his posture and pinched his features. His stern, unfamiliar face in this stark, unfamiliar room left her frightened and confused.
When she met his eyes, his bored glower morphed into an abrupt, emotionless smile.
“Good to see you awake.” Polite words spoken in the tone of a man who never truly grasped the point of civility.
Puzzling images flitted through her mind, not quite solidifying into anything coherent. Pain in her side restricted her breathing. “What happened?”
“That’s what we would like to know.” He gave her the cold, appraising look one might give a devious criminal. “You vanished four nights ago during a strong burst of ascard energy. Less than two days later, during another such burst, you allegedly tumbled out of the air alongside the fountain in the Healer’s Courtyard. You suffered a broken arm in the fall and had a ragged wound in your side. You were also wearing those boots.” He gestured to the floor near his chair.
One look at the worn, fur-lined boots brought a dizzying rush of memory. Lord Eldrian, the prison, the hound that attacked her. Those were his boots, which meant the memories were real, the bad ones and the good. The good ones made a warm flush blossom in her chest. Tucking memories away, she clung to her mystified expression, buying time to evaluate her situation.
The man peered at her, a hawk waiting for the perfect moment to strike down its prey. She sat up, taking care not to aggravate her injuries and propping pillows to lean on while he huffed impatience. This way she mightn’t feel quite so small and helpless beneath his predatory gaze.
“Might I know your name, my lord?”
“Captain Rezvan, of the king’s Inquisitors.”
Dread raked away the remainder of the warm flush.
An inquisitor? Inquisitors questioned traitors. An inquisitor had come to interrogate her mother before they executed her father.
“We need to know where you were. Those boots are Lyran. Were you kidnapped?”
She stared at the boots. Arguably, she had committed treason of a sort. She helped free a Lyran man planning to overthrow Emperor Rylan with whom her king had a long-standing trade agreement. Everyone knew the emperor hadn’t been honoring the terms of that agreement of late, but it still might not go well for her if the truth came out. They already marked her as a risk because of her father. Besides, if word got to Emperor Rylan of Eldrian’s escape too soon, the choice she made to help him might be wasted.
I’ve picked sides in a war on another continent. What good can come of this?
People said you couldn’t lie to an inquisitor. They could always tell. A rumor, likely started by the inquisitors themselves. If you were confident, you could lie to most anyone. Hadn’t she lied to everyone about her love for Jayce after any semblance of such faded? Hadn’t she deceived them all about her ascard ability?
The masking? Had they discovered her true strength?
Her nerves danced. Her heart raced. Her voice, somehow, remained steady. “I’m sorry, my lord. I remember nothing.”
“You must remember something.”
His disgusted sneer strengthened her resolve.
“I went to the fountain after an argument with my fiancé and...” He leaned forward, eager. She hesitated, enticing him with drawn out introspective silence, then shook her head. “And then I woke up here.”
“I’m certain, Captain Rezvan, that she would share anything she remembered.” The newcomer had entered so quietly that even the captain startled when he spoke. “She’s been through quite an ordeal. Give her time to recover.”
The captain stood and offered a cursory bow to the tall, slender man now standing at the foot of her cot. “Lord Serivar,” he greeted, his tone caustic.
The headmaster smiled and inclined his head as though responding to a much nicer welcome.
“You will let us know immediately if she remembers anything. It could be exceedingly important. If this is part of a slave uprising—”
“Of course. Those willful Lyran slaves must be kept in line.” The headmaster nodded toward the door. “Right now she needs rest. The strain of answering inane questions will only hinder the healing process.”
The captain stiffened. “I’ll take my leave then.” He bent down and snatched up the boots.
“Wait!” Those boots were all she had left of Eldrian.
Rezvan turned to her, blinking rapidly in apparent aggravation, his face flushing.
She thought fast, surprised she could do so before his molten glare. “You say I was wearing those when they found me.” He nodded. “Perhaps, if you left them here, they might trigger my memories.”
The captain hesitated, reluctant to relinquish his only evidence.
“Very clever.” The headmaster inclined his head in approval. The slightest hint of a smile tugged at his lips before he faced the captain. “She makes a reasonable point, Captain. The boots may act as a catalyst to bring her memories back.”
The captain closed his eyes a second and shook his head, but he set the boots down. “Very well. Keep them. Good day to you both.”
Without allowing for a reply, he spun and stomped from the room. The door thumped shut and the headmaster lowered himself into the now empty chair. He took time to smooth his soft gray robes and the full-length scarlet stole draped over his shoulders to denote his rank.
Headmaster Serivar was a narrow man with a narrow face rather light of complexion for a Caithin. Perhaps he didn’t get outside much. She recognized him more from the painting in the dining hall then from any personal interaction and had always assumed the portrait was old because he looked so young in it. He looked as young in person. Far too young to be headmaster of a respected academy and a member of the king’s High Council. He was either very ambitious or he aged extremely well.
“I would love to know you’re thoughts, Indigo.” He straightened one cuff with a sharp tug.
The informal address made her feel awkward, but she wasn’t about to complain. Nor was she going to tell him anything more than she told the captain, despite the panicked voice in her head warning that she was walking down the same road as her father. He might be the headmaster, but also being a member of the High Council meant anything she told him would get back to them as fast as it would through the inquisitor.
“Thank you for sending him away, Headmaster. I wasn’t up to that right now.”
His smile was enigmatic, warm hazel eyes shining with amusement. “You were more up to it than you care to admit.” He didn’t pause long enough for her to question the comment. “You were gravely injured. How do you feel?”
She took inventory of her physical state without using ascard this time. The Watchmen could sense ascard energy in use. As long as she didn’t use it, they wouldn’t detect her strength, but at some point, she had to use it to reestablish the barriers, which left her in a predicament.
“My arm aches a little. My side hurts more.”
“The break was clean. It should require only one more healing. Your side was torn open as though a large predator attacked you. A bear or large cat perhaps?” He raised his brow in question.
A mutant hound created by a Lyran adept. She stared back.
“It will take a few more healings to repair all the damage.”
She shivered, remembering t
he beast and the pain too well. “How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
Sorrow twisted in her chest. Why was no one there for her? “Has anyone…” she swallowed, unable to finish.
“A few people have tried to visit, but Captain Rezvan insisted on being the first to speak to you.”
Rather than comfort, his answer sparked longing, though not for any of the people who might have visited. She managed a smile. Let him think his answer pleased her.
The door opened then and the headmaster stood. “Master Siddael will tend you now. I would like to see you in my office when you’re ready. Heal well.”
“Thank you, Headmaster.”
He picked up the boots and set them by the head of the cot then smiled, winked, and left her to wonder.
The older man who entered wore tan healers’ robes with the pale blue stole of a master healer over his shoulders. His dark skin, darkened further by myriad wrinkles, and curly black hair struck through with splashes of gray betrayed strong Kudaness in his lineage. She hadn’t seen him before, but many healers working the hospital had little interaction with students.
“This healing will be painful,” his tone was gentle, soothing. “Would you like a priest to sit with you?”
Perhaps she had spent too much time with Hadris as a child, absorbing the Lyran disbelief in their Divine. Or perhaps it was all those years watching her parents fight, each twisting the teachings of the church to support their cause. Whatever the reason, the thought of a priest at her side wasn’t a comfort. She shook her head.
The healer put his hands on her arm and her world became pain.
When the agonizing healing of both injuries was through, she sat on the edge of the bed for a time. The healer gave her permission to leave so long as she returned in a day for one last healing on her side. Hunger and thirst nagged, but she would visit the headmaster first. After all, he was the headmaster.
Wary of causing pain, she slipped gingerly into cream student robes lying on the stand next to the bed and put on the simple white shoes lying under it. Then she noticed what was missing.
My ring.
Her heart skipped a beat. She stared at her conspicuously bare finger. She’d left it in the prison. Her cheeks burned when she recalled the exact circumstances that led to its absence.
Jayce will kill me.
There was nothing for it now. At least he would never know the truth of how she’d come to be without it.
Wincing with every stride, she made the short walk to the headmaster’s office in the administrative building, nestled between the two hospital buildings. The building’s cold stone halls were bare and unwelcoming, bereft of the tapestries, carpets and other décor that warmed the halls of the hospital buildings. At least it didn’t smell of sickness or medicine.
The office door stood open.
Tentative, she peeked inside.
The headmaster looked up from behind a heavy wood desk, smiled, and gestured to a chair opposite him. “Please sit.”
A platter of bread, cheese, and tarts tempted, sitting on the desk between two tidy stacks of books along with water and a goblet of wine. The splendid aroma made her mouth water. Her stomach growled like an angry dog and her cheeks flushed.
The headmaster chuckled and waved a hand at the platter. “Help yourself.”
She sat and selected a piece of cheese to nibble. As soon as the rich, creamy morsel touched her tongue, hunger took charge and she shoved the rest into her mouth. She grabbed bread with one hand and water with the other, not quite finishing the first bite before stuffing in another. After a brief feeding frenzy, an assortment of crumbs was all that remained of half the platter.
The headmaster reclined in his chair, hands folded, with a little smirk tugging at his lips.
She glanced at the tart in her hand, mortified. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where my manners went.”
“Don’t apologize. You should be famished after what you’ve been through. How did the healing go?”
She washed down the tart with water. “Painful, but my arm is done now.”
“What happened?”
His demanding gaze made her more aware of the escape route behind her. It would avail her nothing to walk away, but it was tempting nonetheless. Lying to a stranger was easy enough. Lying to someone she respected, and who had the power to shape her future, was another matter. Still, if she told him the truth, he would tell the king. Given her history, she didn’t think anyone would be surprised by her actions. She could almost hear the king saying how it had been only a matter of time as he condemned her to death.
And what would happen to Eldrian?
“I don’t remember.”
“I don’t believe you.”
They stared at one another across the desk. Her gut twisted in knots. If the silence held, she might break before that calculating gaze. She had to distract him.
“Why don’t we train people to use ascard for more than healing?”
He straightened. “Why do you ask?”
She swallowed, feeling as though she had stepped off the gallows with a rope around her neck. It was a poor choice of subjects. That much was apparent, but she couldn’t take it back now. “I was curious.”
His gaze fell to his wedding ring. He twisted it around his finger with the thumb and pinky of the same hand.
She took another tart, feigning indifference.
“I’m not sure the timing is right, and yet…” He stared at the ring. His brows drew together in deep deliberation. Finally, he nodded to himself and looked past her. “Close the door, Indigo.”
The last bite stuck in her throat. Muscles in her shoulders and neck tightened with apprehension as she went to shut the door. Once seated again, she took several long sips of the wine to calm her nerves.
“There many ways of using ascard that we don’t openly teach here because they’re too dangerous.”
She sat up a fraction, homing in on his choice of words. “You said openly teach.”
He inclined his head, that knowing smile tugging at the corners of his thin mouth again. “You’re attentive at least. Given your history, you’ve undoubtedly heard of some ways Lyran adepts use ascard energy. Perhaps you’ve even encountered some of them recently?”
A lifetime of fear warned her to caution. “I’ve heard very little.”
The headmaster’s eyes tightened with a trace of frustration, but his voice remained calm. “Lyran adepts and creators have explored countless ways of using ascard, everything from reinforcing structures with it to myriad ways of using it as a weapon. They even nurture creators, adepts who can draw ascard energy from anything and manipulate it into something completely unrelated. To understand the risk in such varied applications, you have to truly understand what the ascard is.
“Ascard energy exists within us and in everything around us. A small percentage of people are born with a strong enough connection to the ascard within themselves—their inner aspect—that they can learn to control it effectively. How much someone can do with ascard is determined primarily by the strength of that connection. Unfortunately, because of the many ways to use it as a weapon, healing is the only skill we’re allowed to teach. The Caithin High Council ruled long ago that anything else was too dangerous.”
She sat at the edge of her chair now, eager and terrified. “But doesn’t that put us at a disadvantage if we go to war against a country like Lyra where they’ve developed it for use in combat?”
“It would, but, as you caught earlier, I said we could only openly teach healing.”
Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. “And that means?”
“Caithin has adepts and creators aside from our healers. I won permission from the High Council almost ten years ago now to develop a covert group of powerful individuals we call the King’s Order. When we find individuals with a particularly strong connection to their inner aspect, we separate them and teach them other skills. Some work for the crown exclusively while
others are only called upon occasionally to perform special assignments.”
Tension in her neck and upper back built to the point that her head started to ache. That the king had the Healers Academy training adepts and creators in other skills somehow didn’t shock her that much. What frightened her was that the headmaster was telling her about it.
Her feet itched with the urge to leave. “Why tell me this?”
“Have some more wine.” He leaned in and handed her the goblet.
She accepted the drink, sucking down a large swallow. The burst of pungent flavor, pleasant only in sips, made her gag.
He sank back again. “The Order always has an adept trained in sensing and assessing the strength of an individual’s connection to their inner aspect.”
She choked on a second mouthful of wine and set down the goblet to hide the shake in her hands.
Serivar continued when she stopped coughing. “He filters our students, letting us know their potential so we can place them properly in classes and identifying those who might be valuable additions to the Order. Before your disappearance, your connection was moderate at best. Now, miraculously, your connection is so strong he says he can’t quite assess its full potential.”
Was it too late to play ignorant? “How is that possible?”
“As far as I know, it isn’t. A person’s ascard connection never changes. From birth to death, it remains static. That suggests that, somehow, you’ve been concealing most of your strength. I’m willing to accept that it could have been a defensive response to traumatic events in your childhood. The Divine knows you had plenty of those. Regardless, something that happened during your disappearance must have broken down your barriers.
“The King’s Order doesn’t often recruit women. They rarely possess the proper disposition for many of the assignments we give. I’d make an exception in your case based on your potential alone, but you also have a certain moral versatility and aren’t intimidated by authority.”
Dissident (Forbidden Things Book 1) Page 8
