“But again, who will lead the force into the pass? Dax is right, he must use that fighter, it will be invaluable in his hands.”
“I will,” Rina said it without hesitation. She would walk into Hades to save him from going back there.
“No!” Tark’s exclamation was quick and forceful. She stared at him. “Do you truly believe I could send you into that and stay here?”
“It could be worse here,” she pointed out.
“Stay,” Dax said. “You helped him hold Galatin before, help him again. Kateri is right. Do not underestimate the power of the people knowing that the same leaders who saved them before are here again.”
Rina felt the moment when Tark let out a breath, giving in to the inevitable. “But again, who then?”
Dax’s lips tightened. And with all the knowledge she had gained since the time he had rescued a wild, terrified child whose family had been slaughtered by the Coalition, she realized what he was thinking.
“They have grown much in these few days, Dax,” she said softly. “Learned much.”
Dax turned to face her. “Enough?”
“There is never enough, not for such as this. But who they are alone will inspire the kind of fighting we need.”
“I . . .” For one of the few times in her lifetime, Dax Silverbrake was without a sharp comeback.
“It is time, Dax. For her especially.”
He let out a long breath.
“I will still go, if you wish, to be beside her. Or him,” Rina said.
Dax looked at her for a moment, then at Tark. Slowly, he shook his head. “No. Your place is here now.”
She saw in his eyes that he understood. Everything. “Yes. It is.”
She heard Tark’s quick intake of breath. Reached to take his hand. Squeezed it in support as he had hers earlier.
“Are you sure, Dax?” he asked quietly. “Your daughter and the king’s son, fighting for Arellia?”
Rina knew once Dax decided or was persuaded on a course, he didn’t quibble. Yet this was his child, and Dare’s, so his voice was a little tight as he spoke. “It is part of what it means to be Triotian,” he answered. “We help our friends and honor our pacts. This they know.” He looked at Kateri. “Will your people follow the Prince of Trios? And my daughter?”
Kateri’s eyes widened. And then, amazingly, she laughed. “Tark holding Galatin, the half-Arellian son of the king of Trios and daughter of the flashbow warrior on the ground, with Dax himself flying overhead? Oh, yes, they will fight. This is what they needed, all they needed—true leaders. Not those cowards hiding in the next room. Most people are lucky to have one leader they will march into Hades for. Now Arellia has four!”
“How will they get through the end of the cave?” Rayden asked, clearly excited, yet apparently unaware or unconcerned by the swirling emotions and momentous decisions of the adults around him.
Brought back to the practical by the innocent question of a child, Tark grimaced. “Explosives, even small ones, might bring the cave down,” he said. “And from what they said in the burst message, the cave is too small and crooked for equipment.”
“But not for me,” Dax said.
The memory of Dax blasting away a prison wall to save her shot through Rina’s mind. It was the first time she had truly seen the full power of the flashbow. But she also knew its cost to the warrior.
“Be careful, Dax. We cannot afford to have you weakened.”
Dax snorted. “Fifteen feet? You insult me.”
“This will work?” Tark asked. “Without bringing it down around you?”
“The flashbow adjusts to the target,” Rina explained. “He can control what the bolt does, how it does it, and with how much power.” And the more power he has to give it, the more it drains him, she thought, but did not say it.
“Give me the coordinates for that cave,” Dax said. “I must move quickly, for the Coalition will.”
Rina keyed them into her communicator and sent them to his.
Tark turned to the table behind him and picked up a laser pistol and handed it to Dax. “From what they said you’ll need this, to cut through that screen.”
“And be aware,” Rina added, “they left Mordred there, trapped.”
Dax blinked. “They what?”
She grinned. “I told you they’ve come a long way.”
“There is one other thing,” Tark said. “Something I would have you do, if your fighter is capable.”
“She can do most things,” Dax said proudly.
“Heavy lifting?”
Dax’s brow furrowed. “How heavy?”
Tark explained what he wanted. Dax studied him for a moment, then slowly nodded. “You think far ahead,” he said approvingly.
“Someone must,” Rina said dryly.
“Time,” Tark said.
“Yes,” Dax agreed, and headed for the door. He paused before opening it and looked back at them. “Good luck.”
Tark nodded.
“And,” Dax added with a grin at the man Rina knew he’d thought of as more than just a brother in arms, “welcome to the family.”
Tark stared at him. Then a small, almost shy smiled lifted one corner of his mouth. Rina could have hugged Dax all over again, were it not for the fact that Tark was right, time was now crucial.
Dax strode through the door and was gone, and moments later the once more visible fighter was rising into the air to the sound of a cheering crowd.
Chapter 48
“HE’S HERE,” SHAINA said, feeling the odd sensation that was unique to her father—the awareness she’d always had, but never understood until now. Yet another thing he had kept from her.
“So fast?” Lyon asked. Rina had sent them word, saying that her father had somehow already been in Galatin when their message had come through.
“He must be in the new fighter,” she said. “When I left, Larcos was swearing he’d have it finished the next day.”
Lyon turned from the gold plate he’d been inspecting for marks of origin. “Are you still angry with him?”
“There is no room or time for that now.”
“No. There isn’t.” Lyon paused, then added gently, “And when there is a chance of dying, I would say there is never any room for it.”
Her head came up, but her words this time were calm. “You would have me hold him blameless?”
“No. I would weigh this one thing against all else, all of your life, and decide if it is worth destroying your bond with him for.”
As usual, he had found the words. “It is not. Nothing is.” What she saw in his eyes then warmed her to her soul. “What did you find?” she asked, gesturing at the treasure.
He shrugged. “Nothing of great note. At least, other than the value of the gold itself.” He set down the plate and turned to face her. “What is it you thought of when we first got here this time? That made you frown?”
“I was just trying to figure out why I could see this,” she said, gesturing toward the niche. “You, I understand, you’re Graymist. And Mordred is not, so it follows he could not see it. But why could I?”
“Because you are beloved by a Graymist?” Lyon suggested.
She felt her cheeks heat; she was still not used to hearing him say it like that, so easily. But then, words had always come more easily to Lyon. She too often spoke rashly, or before she’d thought it through. She would do well to learn his way, and she would, she vowed. She—
“Quite a place.”
Her father’s voice came from the shadows, and she whirled. She gaped at him, then laughed at herself. Of course he had managed to sneak up on them. He was the vaunted skypirate, was he not?
“The new fighter is not the only thing with stealth, I see,” Lyon said mildly.
Her father was grinning as he stepped into the circle of light cast by the torch they had placed on a shelf of rock.
“And you are as unshakeable as ever, I see.”
Her father grasped Lyon’s shoulder, and nodded. Then he turned to look at her. She held steady under his searching gaze, determined not to hide.
“We will talk, later,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, and was surprised at the relief that flashed in his eyes.
“Show me the wall,” he said, wasting no time.
“Yes, sir,” Lyon said and started toward the tunnel entrance.
They traversed the distance quickly, since they had walked it twice now and it was familiar. But it was enough time for her father to explain what was happening. He did not hide the severity of the situation, or play down the coming attack. In this, at least, he seemed to prefer they knew what was coming.
Lyon was right, there was no room for her personal anger now, maybe ever. What her father had done no longer mattered. Right now all that mattered was that they survive to sort it all out. Lyon was right about that, too. The chance of dying changed everything.
They reached the end of the tunnel. Her father took the flarelight and studied the wall.
“This is dense stuff,” he said as he ran his hand over it, pausing here, then there. “Really dense.” Finally his fingers curled into a fist and he tapped a spot about shoulder high.
“There,” he said, and stepped back.
He handed the flarelight to her. “Hold it on that spot,” he said.
She knew he could find his target without the light, it was part of the gift, but she also knew it took some energy that would otherwise go to the firing. He swung the flashbow off his back. The silver glinted in the light, from the intricately engraved stock to the metallic string that tensioned the bow itself. It was an elegantly lethal weapon that was fearsome to most who looked upon it, and to all who knew of its power. To her, it was inextricably linked to her father—it was the symbol of his strength, his skill, and his courage.
She glanced at Lyon. He held up six fingers. She countered with five. And the childhood game of guessing how many bolts he would use eased her tension.
“Wagering on me back there?” her father asked casually, without looking, as he took one of the oddly colored, handsbreadth-wide bolts and slid it into the groove on the flashbow. He notched it onto the metallic bowstring, seated it against the charging block, and flipped the lever. It began to hum.
“Yes,” she answered. “Don’t let me down.”
Her father went still. He did not look around, he was into the cycle now and could not, but he answered her.
“I will not. I have already done too much of that.”
Shaina’s heart seemed to twist in her chest, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. And then he fired; the explosion echoed in the small space, and rock crumbled, sliding to the ground like so much dust. And just like that dust, the last of her anger slid away. He knew what he had done—Lyon was right. As usual.
He went through it again. And again. Each time a couple of feet of the wall fell away. Fifteen feet, she thought. Dense, he’d said. It might take more than even Lyon had guessed. And each shot cost him. The bolts seemed to her brighter than ever, and she remembered he had told her the more power he directed to them, the brighter they glowed. The rock must be incredibly dense, for it to take so much.
And each bolt he powered so brightly drained him, exhausting him more quickly. She had seen her father shoot seven, even eight bolts before lagging. But that was in his practice. In reality, he rarely needed more than two or three.
In this reality, with this rock, it was going to take more. Maybe a lot more.
After the fourth shot she saw the slowing, the lag before he reached for the next bolt, the slight delay before it began to glow, and the longer hum before the flashbow was ready. The weapon was inseparable from its master, and useless without him. It drew its energy from him, and each firing left the warrior a little weaker.
He would need recovery time after he got them through this, she thought. It was not something she’d seen herself, but she had heard often enough the tale of his rescue of Denpar, and how he had, in fact, died from firing so many times, and was brought back only by the power of the bow itself.
The very thought made her shiver. Yes, the chance of dying left no room for petty anger.
After the fifth shot the pause was longer, and she saw he was breathing heavily. Finally he reached for the next bolt, fumbling slightly.
It struck her then, with the sharpness of a blow—what he’d wanted to spare her and what she might yet spare him.
“Here,” she said, shoving the flarelight at Lyon.
She darted forward, tugged the bolt free of his boot. The instant she touched it it began to glow, more quickly than with her father, since her energy was fresh.
She felt him go still.
“Will it work?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
So he didn’t know if bolts charged by one warrior would fire for another.
“Worth trying,” she said. “As long as it doesn’t get in a fume and blow us all up.”
“I was more afraid of that from you,” he said, steadier now.
She met his gaze then. “Not now,” she said. And handed him the glowing bolt.
For a split second her father’s jade green eyes stayed on her. The eyes that were yet another legacy from him.
And then he lifted the bow. It hummed. And he fired.
Again she charged the next bolt. He seemed to be moving faster again, as if not having to charge the bolt saved more for the firing. But the rock was so dense he was gaining only about two feet per shot. At that rate, it would take two more to get through. And that was if Rina’s calculation was exact. But then, she always was.
She could feel the drain herself, just from charging the bolts. She could only imagine what he must be feeling.
He fired again. Wobbled. And then again. This time he staggered, and Shaina jumped to steady him. She hesitated before grabbing the eighth bolt. He needed rest.
“Do it,” he rasped out.
Reluctantly, she took the next bolt. When it was glowing, she slid it into the groove of the flashbow herself. Notched the string. Flipped the lever. Left only the firing to him, hoping it would save him enough.
“Wait!”
Lyon’s shout rang out, startling them both. And suddenly the flarelight went out, leaving them in pitch blackness.
Almost.
With a gasp, Shaina noticed the tiny prick of light just above the target zone.
Light. From outside.
They were through.
Lyon ran past them, dug at the area around the light. The pinhole grew larger. He crouched and grabbed a heavy, pointed stone and began to hammer at the hole. It began to crumble. And then a full beam of light shot through into the cave, highlighting her father as if aimed.
“It’s done,” she said to her father. He was still dazed. She could see now the hollow look of his eyes, the sweat on his face, the paleness of his usually golden skin. She realized she had never had any idea of the true cost of who and what he was.
He sank slowly to his knees, his breathing heavy, harsh. The flashbow clattered to the stone floor as he toppled over. With a cry Shaina knelt beside him.
Lyon ran back. “Is he all right?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her chest so tight she was nearly gasping as her father was. “He needs to rest.”
For a moment Lyon looked at them. “Stay with him. I’ll scout what’s outside.”
“Lyon—”
“You need to be with him. I’ll be back.”
She nodded then. Lyon kissed her, fleetingly, but it was full of more promise than she�
��d ever imagined. Then he was gone, through the opening they had made.
Gradually her father’s breathing slowed. She put her arms around him as if she could transfer her own strength. Who knew what really was possible between flashbow warriors? She gave him water from her own pack, and he drank without questioning, without even seeming to realize what was happening.
After a few minutes, she saw awareness come back into his eyes. “Shaina?”
“It’s all right. Just rest.”
He closed his eyes. She looked at him, thought of her mother, watching him fire the bow unto death, and thought that although she had always loved and admired them both, she had never quite respected enough what they had gone through. They had been through worse than this, then fought their way across a galaxy to get home, and then fought for Trios ever since. And now again they were looking at war, and again they had risen to the challenge.
She wondered if her mother could sense his weakness, if she somehow knew. She always seemed to—
A scrape across stone interrupted her thoughts. Lyon, back so soon? She turned toward the new opening.
She smothered a sound of dread. A dark, cloaked shadow stood silhouetted by the light. She could see nothing of his face. But she knew.
Mordred.
Chapter 49
“AH-AH-AH.” THE man who had nearly destroyed her world said it cheerfully, wiggling his disrupter at the downed Dax as Shaina made a move toward her own weapon. She stopped. Her father was still groggy, barely aware.
“And the gods smile at last,” Mordred said, booming it out as if he were giving a sermon. He walked toward them, a slow, arrogant strut. Yet she saw a slight limp, saw the blackened spots on his clothing and his skin, saw even more of his lank hair singed. And there was a sort of a burned smell around him that made her nose curl. From throwing himself futilely at the screen, she guessed.
“Both of you,” Mordred said with a smile so pleased it made Shaina’s stomach churn. “And the famous warrior down already. I shall be the toast of the system. Of all systems!”
Shaina sucked in a breath. Both? Only two? Lyon had gotten clear, then. Out of reach before this rabid flymouse had dropped in on them.
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