by C. Gockel
He nodded slightly. “You’re welcome.” His smile said he understood.
Did his smile look sad? Like he’d lost something? Maybe I’m too tired to read expressions well.
Chapter Fifteen
Aria dreamed of strange things. The gray room. Injections. Being stripped naked, paraded in a shivering line with other young women down a hallway. Videos. Even in the dream, she knew she should hold on to the memories, but when she drifted toward wakefulness, they faded again. She scowled, still half asleep, and turned over, her back sore and aching.
She lay near Owen, close enough to hear him whisper, if he woke, and far enough to feel that she was not encroaching. Niamh and Cillian slept on his other side, and the others ranged out around them. After she had finished washing his wounds, one of the Fae stayed at his head at all times, silent and watchful. Now it was Niall, his thin shoulders bowed with grief. When she shifted, he looked over at her. The lamp was turned down low, a soft yellow glow that left his expression in shadow.
Aria murmured, “What time is it?”
Niall lifted both hands toward her, fingers splayed, then waggled one hand. 10:00, approximately.
She assumed he meant AM, not PM. But what day is it? I’ve lost track. She tried to think back. When did I go to Dandra’s? Can I really call it love, if I’ve known him only for a few weeks? But I’m not asking to marry him! I don’t know what I’d say if he asked, and I can’t imagine that he would. Call it a crush. Every girl gets those. But it’s not without reason. And it doesn’t mean the feeling isn’t real. I care.
She slid closer. The bruise around Owen’s left eye had deepened as he slept, and the cut on his right cheek had crusted with blood again. His chest moved with faint, uneven breaths, the gauze pads stark white against his black bruises. Niall sat beside him with his legs crossed, the notebook beside his knee.
Aria whispered, “Why do you call him Lord Owen?”
Niall glanced at her, and she wondered whether her question was unwelcome. She meant it to be a distraction from his grief. Because he is Lord Ailill’s heir. Lord Ailill is the, he hesitated, then wrote High King of our people. There is no word in English that conveys the authority he holds. Lord Ailill has given much of his authority to Lord Owen already. He is old, and he hopes to, he hesitated again, then made a helpless gesture with one hand.
“Hopes to what?”
… go away. Ascend? It is not always given to High Kings, but he hopes it will be given to him. It is a great gift. He wants to be ready, and he is wise to rest his authority on Lord Owen before it is necessary. No one would argue with his choice, nor with Lord Owen’s authority, but it is wise to support his heir in what may be his last days. His power has weighed on him, but he has always held it lightly. I believe that is counted in his favor.
“But he’s captive, isn’t he?”
Yes, Lord Ailill is captive now. He may be required to die. That is also acceptable to him. We would grieve, but it is not unprecedented. It is only the manner of his death that is objectionable.
“What authority do you mean?”
He is given much authority. His decisions are binding in ways that humans cannot understand. We can rebel, but to rebel against him is to rebel against El. That is not something to be chosen lightly. Unless his commands are against El’s express order, we obey him as we obey El.
Aria swallowed. “Yet you argue with Lord Owen.”
Niall smiled a little. Yes, I have pleaded with him. Sometimes my entreaties move him. Sometimes his decision is firm. I obey.
“When he’s unmoved, do you think he’s wrong? Like when he didn’t let you help open the cells at Eastborn? Do you think he would have gotten away safely if he’d let you help?” Aria wished she’d bitten back the questions as too prying, but her tongue seemed to have a will of its own.
Niall swallowed and remained unmoving, the pen poised over the paper for several minutes. He took a deep breath, put the pen to the page, and then raised it again. He brushed at his eyes angrily with his free hand.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.”
Define “wrong.”
Aria frowned herself, not sure how to answer him.
For us, “wrong” means disobedient. For humans, I have been told it can mean many things. Incorrect. Defiant. Etc. I do not believe Lord Owen was disobedient in his decision. The outcome was not the outcome I would have chosen. Lord Owen is wiser than I am, and more intimate with El. I do not argue with his decision, though I grieve the cost. He did not look up at her.
“And when he lied to Grenidor?” she whispered.
He looked up at her then, his clear blue eyes anguished. He shook his head and looked back down at the paper. It was a sacrifice. He chose the worst possible thing. If he did not have the strength to remain silent, he paused, the pen trembling over the paper. I do not blame him for that. But if he did not have the strength, it would have been better to give Grenidor the information. Even if we all died for it. The sacrifice he chose was too great. More than his life for ours. You cannot understand the cost. He raised the pen again to wipe at his eyes. All my life, I have looked up to him. He is the example, the most obedient, and the most pure. And now, when he is tested, he chose to lie instead of sacrifice us. I do not understand! The pen nib tore through the paper and he bent over, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Aria reached out to put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, her head whirling. What does he mean, the cost is too great? What could be greater than the death of everyone he loves? Who could blame him?
Owen let out a soft sound that might have been a moan if it had been stronger. As it was, it made Aria’s heart clench. Niall leaned forward and put his hand on Owen’s shoulder, fingers resting lightly on the bruised skin. He frowned, brushed at his eyes again, and turned to Cillian, who sat up and moved to Owen’s side.
“How is he?” Aria whispered.
Cillian shook his head. “Perhaps he has strengthened a little. It is difficult to tell. He should not have spoken so much.”
Niall glanced at her and then back down at Owen.
“Grenidor will be searching. But I do not want to move him.” Cillian frowned more deeply.
A shadow moved, and Niamh slid into the light. She looked up past Aria’s shoulder. “What do you want?” The tone was harsh, but she kept her voice quiet.
“I came to see if I could help.” Bartok strode closer, his voice quiet and calming. “I know your medical needs are different, but I wanted to offer.”
Niamh’s nostrils flared angrily, but she said only, “We have no need of your help.”
“May I look? I won’t touch him.”
Cillian answered, his tone only slightly more friendly. “You may look.”
Bartok knelt by Aria and set a plastic case down on his other side. He leaned over, eyes taking in everything, face grave. “Do you know if any of the bullets are still in him?”
Cillian said, “Some. Not all. But it doesn’t matter. They are lead, not getlaril. They will be eliminated.”
Owen’s left eye opened. His gaze rested on Bartok first, then moved to the others, one by one, and finally to Aria.
Bartok said, “I could—”
“Leave us. He must rest.” Cillian’s voice was hard.
Owen murmured so softly that they all leaned forward to hear him. “It is kindness, Cillian.”
Cillian frowned and said stiffly, “Thank you for your offer. It is unnecessary. Your human methods cannot help him and will cause pain.”
Bartok nodded, his expression gentle. “As you wish. Please let me know if I can help.”
Aria put a hand on his arm, suddenly grateful for his understanding. I bet he’s a good doctor. A good man.
Cillian watched him rise, cold blue eyes following Bartok as he turned and walked back toward the far end of the train platform.
“Should I leave you alone, too?” Aria whispered. Please say no. I couldn’t bear to leav
e him like this. Not for long.
They seemed to consider the offer, but Niall shook his head just as Owen breathed, “Stay.”
Niamh reached out to touch his cheek, her slim fingers smooth and white. She raised her eyes to Cillian and said, “You have not yet told me of Petro’s assistance.”
Owen closed his eye again.
Cillian shivered but gathered himself and answered. “I believe the human guards will think it easily explained by equipment malfunctions, possibly some slight magic that we did. But there was much more.
“Some alarms that should have alerted the guards malfunctioned. Some functioned as designed but elicited odd responses from the guards; they noticed but merely logged the alert and switched off the alarms, as if they were conducting equipment drills or tests.
“Moreover, of the few guards who did respond, some of their shots were good. Some of the bullets that did not strike us should have hit. One passed straight through me without causing injury. Another avoided Aria and hit the wall behind her. The trajectory curved around her.”
He closed his eyes and shuddered again. “More frightening yet, doors appeared. I saw two, but there may have been others. One closed between Aria and a guard near the beginning of our escape. Another closed later, as we fled down a hallway.”
“An equipment malfunction? That Petro initiated?” Aria asked.
Cillian spread the schematics before them, the paper brushing Owen’s left hand. “Look.”
“What?” Aria frowned at the papers. Cillian pointed at the two doors in question, neatly labeled as part of the “sector containment” measures that dotted the rest of the diagram.
“Those doors did not exist when we planned the mission. Do you remember?” Cillian stared at her with wide eyes.
She thought and suddenly caught her breath, looking up to see Niamh looking equally stunned. “You’re right. They weren’t. When we passed by those corridors on the way in, there were no doors. I’m positive.”
“Not only did they appear where we needed them, but it appears that they were always there. They are on the schematics as original construction.” Cillian’s voice dropped. “I heard the soldiers through the second door. They were only surprised that the door was triggered, not that it existed.”
Aria tried not to shiver. “What are you saying?”
“Petro either added the doors to the facility as they were necessary and altered all references to them, including the schematics and the soldiers’ memories, or he actually altered the past so that the doors were built, and left us with memories of a past in which the doors did not exist. Either way, this is terrifying.” Cillian clasped his hands together. “Either would require power of a higher order than we have ever dreamed existed.”
“Why were we exempted from his change?” Aria asked.
Cillian shook his head. “I have no way to guess.”
Owen frowned thoughtfully at the ceiling and then shifted his gaze to Aria for a long moment. “I think it has something to do with you.”
Aria straightened. “I’m getting credit, or blame, or something, for a lot of things that I don’t understand.”
“We don’t understand them either.” Cillian hunched his shoulders, as if he wished to hide.
Owen blinked slowly. “To our knowledge, no one has ever insulted Petro as you did and survived. Many have died for much less.”
Aria scowled. “I wasn’t brave. I was just angry. I don’t think I was wrong to be, either.”
Cillian answered her. “I am not sure I disagree. However, Petro is not someone you wish to offend. It has never ended well. Sometimes the offense is never even known.”
Owen murmured, “And yet he did not kill her.”
The Fae turned their gaze on her again, and Aria shrugged. “I don’t know.”
There was a long silence while Aria tried not to squirm under their examination.
Finally, Owen said, “Petro watched while Grenidor worked. He said nothing, but he was interested.”
“In you or in Grenidor?”
“Both. I think.” Owen hesitated. “He seemed surprised by my answers, especially the lie. And puzzled as to why I would choose to.”
“As are we.” Cillian’s voice was cool.
Owen smiled faintly. “Are you? You should not be.”
Niamh touched his forehead again gently. “Why, Owen? Why would you lie? How could you?”
“How? I do not know. But the why. It was to protect them. And you. Love.”
Niamh closed her eyes, as if she could not bear to look at his battered face. Cillian dropped his head too. Only Aria saw Owen smile as his eye closed.
“Was it worth it?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
They sat in silence. Owen might have been asleep or unconscious; it was hard to tell. Cillian glanced at the notebook, then read it silently. Niall turned his face away, sliding back from the light that showed tears streaking down his white cheeks.
Cillian caught his sleeve and shook his head. He murmured, “We are all surprised. Perhaps disappointment is understandable. But he is still Lord Ailill’s heir, and there is no stench of it upon him. Do not be too angry.”
Niall looked up, and Aria caught an astonished look on his face. You are sure of that? He has not begun to... Niall stopped writing, as if he were reluctant to name his fear.
“He has not.”
Niall bent forward, pressing his face into his hands, and Niamh rubbed his back gently.
Aria rubbed her arms; the air was cold and still, and she heard the low susurrus of voices from the other end of the platform. Cillian and Niamh had continued to speak in English. She was grateful for that courtesy, but comprehension hid just out of reach, and she didn’t think she had the right to pry too deeply. Not yet. Emotions were too raw.
Owen’s song rose like a thread of silver in the dark, a faint sound that brought everything else to stillness. His voice hung in the air, twined around itself, wove into her heart, surged upward and fell. In and around and beneath her, soft gold and clear silver, it rose again.
Owen stood with his back to her on a high precipice, his bare feet on the furthest rocky outcropping, toes curled over the edge. His black hair blew in a gust of wind as he looked out across a green valley. He knelt to put his face to the stone, eyes closed and strong arms stretched out before him. She watched for long minutes, the music rising around her in reverent harmony.
Owen’s voice cracked, and the music shattered and fell away into brilliant shards that left Aria gasping, aching for its lost beauty. She drew a deep breath, fighting tears; the air was fresh, with a faint scent of green growth and morning dew.
Niamh touched his face. “You were not healed.” Her voice was heavy with grief.
“I did not ask for healing.” His words were barely audible.
“Your pain is greater.” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“I mind it less.” He closed his left eye, and Niamh bowed her head over him, her shoulders shaking.
She’s weeping for him. Does he know it? What does it mean, that he didn’t ask for healing?
Cillian raised his head, eyes wide. “Petro is here.”
Petro walked toward them from the middle of the platform, steps long and even. Why did he appear there, instead of here in our midst? To give us time to prepare?
“I must clarify things with you.” He spoke directly to Aria without looking at the others.
“What things?” Aria asked. Her voice didn’t shake, and she was proud of that, but her heart still thudded in her chest. Dragon. His eyes were the same cold green, his face the same guileless mask it had been before. He is not human. The face is human, but the eyes are not. No human is both so innocent and so cold.
As she thought it, his appearance shifted subtly. He grew taller, his face colder, skin shining. She squinted at him. He looked like an incredibly handsome statue, a metallic sheen to his skin. But what color? Something between silver and copper, changing with the lantern l
ight. What is this appearance supposed to tell me, if anything? His clothing rippled in a wind she couldn’t see, the generic collared shirt and trousers he’d worn before replaced with a robe that hung from one shoulder, belted about his waist. He’s beautiful. Beautiful and hard as a diamond.
His mouth tightened for a moment before he spoke. “It was made clear to me that the information I provided about Owen’s location and the open door could be interpreted as a promise of support in your attempt to rescue him.” His words were clipped and painfully precise.
“The attempt would not have succeeded. It was made clear to me that,” he hesitated, then said carefully, “if you died as a result of a choice predicated upon a faulty understanding of my words, of which I was aware and which I could have prevented, I would have made a choice I am unwilling to make. My assistance was required in order to avoid this result. Do you understand?” His gaze had not left hers, the green eyes even more striking in his new form.
Aria frowned. “So if I died because you set me up, you’d be held responsible?”
Petro’s mouth twitched. “A set-up would require the intent for you to die. There was never such an intent. Your death would merely have been a result, neither intended nor unintended.”
She frowned even more. “Why are you telling me this? What do you want?”
“My intervention was required in order to avoid making such a choice, with consequences that I do not desire.” His eyes flicked away for a moment, and then back to her. “I did not intend to be put in that position when I gave you the information. More importantly, I do not intend to be put in that position again. Any promises to you, implied or otherwise, have been fulfilled. Do you understand and agree?”
Don’t let him off the hook yet. If he’s volunteering information, take advantage of it!
“Why do you think love is so worthless?”
He turned toward Owen and studied him for a long moment before speaking. “I was mistaken when I said I required no further information from Owen. Changes in him are providing valuable data I did not possess before.” He circled Owen, eyes roving over his bruised face and body. Owen’s left eye followed him, wide and cautious, though he said nothing.
