Knight Chosen

by Tammy Salyer

  I sense it too, novice, Stave imputed. Their fear is too strong now to think they’ll act reasonably, it is. Time to get on. Roi?

  The elder Knight dipped his chin slightly, and Mylla noted that sag around his eyes again, a shadow of sadness. He sent, Ready your klinkís.

  She no sooner opened her palm to release her stones when a sharp . . . not sound, exactly, but a feeling of sound, like a cry that has been transformed into a spear point, drilled into her brain. She staggered, then blinked and realized the others had felt it too.

  “Safran!” Stave yelled, flinging his stones hastily up.

  As soon as he said her name, Mylla realized Safran was in trouble. Something terrible was happening (had happened?) aboard the Vigilance while they stood in this courtyard. Her stones and Roi’s instantly followed Thorvíl’s, forming up into a circlet around them.

  “Stop them!” shouted Commander Nennus, and the ring of guards began to close, with their weapons raised, on the Knights from all sides.

  They may as well have been carrying wet wheat stalks for the damage their swords did to the bubble of blue light that encapsulated the three of them. No common weapon had power against the klinkí stones and the protection of Vaka Aster’s spark. They rose into the air, concentrating on Safran, trying to learn what had caused the shock through their Mentalios lenses.

  In her fear for Safran, Mylla didn’t fail to realize that she was losing the chance, maybe her last, to ask Lock’s father what had become of him. It seemed fate was determined to mock her, maybe all of them.

  Using his forked tongue and desiccated windpipe to generate shrill hoots and shrieks, Acolyte Irrick shambled along passages in the empty Vigilance, finding that these sounds were his new eyes. As the noise bounced from stem to stern throughout the ship, images emerged as if from fog in his mind’s eye, gray and faint at first but sharper and clearer the higher he keened. The void contained no color, but he barely recalled color anyway. Instead, the scents of things accosted him, a sensory storm stronger and more arresting than any color had ever been. Between these qualities, he navigated quite easily, in harmony with his new mode of engagement with the world.

  The voice of His Holiness never left his mind. What are you seeing now, Ravener?

  A hallway, Holiness, and a room, a large open hall. And here, a dais bearing the statue of a woman, but many hands taller. She is—

  Vaka Aster’s vessel . . . The voice went silent for long enough that Irrick stilled completely, awaiting his next order. Then: You’ve done very well, Ravener, very well. Now take control of that ship and learn its location. Once you do, you will reveal it to me. I am coming for it.

  With the enraged shouting of the Dragør Marines clamoring from below, Mylla drew the Vigilance hatch closed to cut off the bulk of the noise, though the faint dink dink of spears being thrown against the hull still reached them. Stave sped away like a cyclone, hollering Safran’s name. Roi bore a sanguine look, the expression he wore when using his Mentalios, and Mylla joined him.

  Safran? they called. Where are you? What has happened?

  No response.

  Roi sent, Mylla, to the bridge. I feel danger closing, from within and without.

  Together, they sped through the ship and found Stave already hammering against the stout metal hatch that led to the Vigilance’s bridge, cursing with such ferocity that it was a wonder his words didn’t burn it down. But it wasn’t to be. The hatch was shut and locked from within.

  “Klinkís!” Stave cried.

  Still attempting to locate Safran and discover her plight—though by now Mylla had suspicions—they began an onslaught with the klinkí stones that, eventually, would break through, but it would take time. And they didn’t know how much they had.

  Two of us are nearly as good as one, Roi sent. I’ll search the rest of the ship. Through the Mentalios, even more quietly than a whisper, she heard his next thought and learned his suspicions matched her own. Irrick. Whatever had befallen Safran had been caused by the Conservatum acolyte.

  What have I done? she thought, renewing the fury of her attack on the hatch.

  In moments, Roi sent, I’ve found her. The acolyte is free.

  Stave grew still for a moment, his stones dancing at his fingertips like little blue flames. How is she?

  Gravely injured, but she’ll survive.

  The knots of Mylla’s insides released a touch at the news. Then Stave was saying, “Mylla, you stay here and guard this hatch. Keep working on opening it, but if that blargin’ commoner comes out, I want him for myself, I do. Understand?”

  She raised a scornful eyebrow but nodded, and Stave loped off. She wouldn’t let him kill Irrick in cold blood. The man was clearly not acting from a place of intent but from some hold or force the usurping Verity now had over him. He could not be blamed, no matter the damage he did, or could, cause. There was no way Irrick would betray them unless his will had been stolen from him.

  Moments later, she heard Stave wail, “Ah, no, Safran! I’ll kill him, the boggin’ slag!”

  Hurriedly, Mylla pressed herself against the hatch and spoke in a voice she hoped only carried to Irrick and not back to the others. “Irrick, Irrick, can you hear me? Listen, you need to come out of there now. I know what you’ve done isn’t your fault. But you have to open this hatch. I can protect you, but you have to let me show them there’s a reason to.”

  Her words seemed to be useless. Not a sound came from the bridge, but she did hear something else . . .

  With a start, she realized it was the Vigilance’s engines coming to life with a low whirr. Was he trying to fly the ship? He’d never even seen it, much less been aboard. It wasn’t possible.

  Nevertheless, the Vigilance was flying. But to where?

  Dread slimed through her, and she renewed the attack on the hatch. Do you feel that? she asked the others, wanting to confirm it was not her imagination.

  A discomfiting silence came in response, and she was about to repeat herself, when Roi sent: The bruhawks have sighted something . . . Verities curses, I can’t believe it . . .

  Then Stave: What in the realms of the five Verities is that?

  What’s going on? she cried, ceasing her hammering with the stones.

  Another moment of silence followed, and she turned to retreat back through the ship to find them, and find out what new catastrophe was about to hit, when Roi spoke. Mylla, you must escape. Take the dragørfly scout and go.

  Stopping dead in her tracks, she said slowly, Escape? What—

  Safran has shown us through the bruhawks’ eyes . . . the ship, the usurper’s warship—it’s too big, we can’t fight this thing, and it is getting closer. You must go, find the Stallari or Eisa. They’ll know what to do.

  I won’t leave, she resolved and picked up her pace, now almost running. We fight together, keep the faith—

  Listen to me. If Balavad takes the Vigilance, no one will be left to stand against him, and no one left to keep faith in this fight. Save yourself, save what’s left of the Order, live to fight on. Remember, Mylla, survival is our victory. Just as she attempted another protest, his voice, now harder than Eisa’s heart, commanded, Get out now!

  As if at the end of a whip, she hurtled through the ship toward the launch bay, her feet carrying her but Roi’s words the force that drove her. I can’t leave them, I can’t do this, I am a Knight, my duty is to Vaka Aster, I am breaking my oath if I go . . .

  On and on her mind yammered, but not loudly enough to stop her. She reached the launch bay and opened the hatch, the bite of the outside air sharper than normal against her panic-hot skin. They had gained more than a little altitude, but Magdaster still sprawled beneath the ship, though her view was too limited to see the approaching warship.

  For the second time in so few days, she launched the small scout with her mind whirling in a cyclone of fear and dread. As soon as she cleared the Vigilance, she brought the craft high enough to see in all directions—and there it was.

&nb
sp; A monster, like something from the depths of a sea, a kraken plated with pure-black metal and gleaming onyx ports in the hull. It filled the sky with its blankness, no lights emitting from the massive shape. Iit seemed to have the power to reverse light, to suck all ambient glow from the ether and twist it into something dead and poisonous. Shaped like a manta ray the size of a city, it glided toward the Vigilance.

  Oh Vaka Aster, she couldn’t watch it destroy the people she cared about. Without thinking, she fired the emberspark cannons, once, twice, their liquid-light projectiles rocketing into the warship’s hull with the force of storms. They flared explosively on impact, then dissipated into the air as if they’d never been. The enemy ship absorbed each strike with barely a mark left on its hide.

  But her shots did not go unnoticed. As the gap between the warship and the Vigilance closed inexorably, dozens of shining black ports speckling the hull began scissoring open. Mylla knew the Ravener attack ships would be coming forth. Simultaneously, a seam split lengthwise along its blunt bow and spread wider with the slickness of a treacherous smile. She recognized the seam as a hatch, a yawning mouth to swallow the Vigilance.

  Her mind cycled rapidly among many options. Stay, for they could not see her. Go, for she had no chance against so many. Or . . .

  No. You would have to be more than insane, she told herself as her mind tentatively explored this third choice.

  Why not? Infiltration was an option, wasn’t it? If she snuck inside the warship, she might remain undetected, she might be able to rescue her friends. Mightn’t she? She began to steer the dragørfly scout toward the warship’s opening hatch. If she was brave enough—

  A force struck the scout hard enough to pitch it into a sideways dive, like a leaf blown from a tree by a strong gust. What . . . ? But the question remained unfinished as she scrambled to get control. Whatever struck her hadn’t come from the warship, and the Magdastervian artillery could never reach this high.

  The falling sensation, the thing even her nightmares’ monsters feared, grew worse as the scout gained speed toward the earth. Her training, all the endless repetition of it, kicked in. She gripped the steering yoke as her feet feathered the pitch and yaw controls with something best described as panicked luck. Above her, the oscillating insectile wings that gave the dragørfly ships their name hitched in their out-of-sync frenzy, two on opposing sides stopping briefly. Then, by some miracle, all four resumed in a harmonious buzz that brought the craft back to parallel with the ground.

  Not a moment too soon. The high limbs of the Howling Weald reached out not a sword’s length below, trying, it seemed, to yank her down. Three heartbeats later, she knew the worst of the danger was behind her, and the ship was still aloft. Whatever had hit it had not damaged much.

  What had hit it?

  All that training did you some good, I see.

  Eisa! At the sound of the Knight’s voice along the Mentalios link, Mylla flicked her wystic lens over one eye and scanned the area wildly. Through the bulbous cockpit cover, she finally spotted Eisa hovering overhead in the other scout.

  Consider that a warning shot, novice. Your Mentalios discipline has never been your strongest skill. I could hear from here what you’re thinking about doing. Don’t even try to get aboard that warship. Unless you want to die with them.

  Skimming the boundary of the forest, she tilted the craft to rise and meet Eisa, asking, And what is it you’re thinking of doing, Eisa?

  Stay away, novice. You may yet find a fate that serves you. Or that you’ll eventually—perhaps willingly—serve. Eisa’s scout executed a nimble turnaround and began flying directly away from the usurper’s warship, which had now swallowed the Vigilance, sending the parting words: You’ve been warned.

  Of all the treachery and deceit she had witnessed in the last days, even in her full three hundred and some odd turns combined, this one hurt like no pain ever had. Eisa was running, leaving her companions to a fate none of them could guess, betraying them and everything they’d all sworn as an Order, almost as a family, to protect. And only Mylla, the youngest of the Knights, the greenest and most novice, stood a chance at stopping her.

  With all the haste the scout’s engines could make, she flew toward Eisa.

  Knight Nazaria, you can’t abandon the Knights, or your oath. If you don’t come back and help them, I swear to Vaka Aster I will make you.

  The gap closed between the two scouts, and Eisa brought hers around so they hovered nose to nose. Mylla could see her clearly, and the intensity of the elder Knight’s glare felt like it would burn her. You don’t know what you’re doing, novice. You’re no good to them dead. Come with me, if you have it in you. Back to Dyrrakium where we can rally the worthy people of Vinnr against the war you know is coming.

  A murmur began to rise from deep in the center of Mylla’s mind. In her hands, Eisa held the Scrylle and Fenestros linked together, and the celestial stone blazed in an iridescent swirl that glinted from Eisa’s eyes.

  Mylla sent: They are traitors to this world, and you’ll be one too if you forsake your oath.

  Her words were like oil thrown onto fire. Eisa’s face morphed into a mask of rage. From her vantage, Mylla saw her reach for something, and she suspected Eisa meant to fire on her again.

  Mylla slammed her palm against the emberspark trigger. A beam of energy like lightning flew from the barrel mounted beneath the engine.

  Direct hit.

  Eisa’s dragørfly scout flared in an iridescent explosion comprising hundreds of hues of blues, reds, greens—which just as quickly faded to nothing.

  You stupid, young, naive novice. Eisa’s fury turned her tone, even through the Mentalios, into hot embers that seared Mylla’s mind. Did you forget? Nothing can kill one who bears a celestial stone, not one who learned its powers from Vaka Aster herself. Maybe in a few hundred more turns you’ll learn something. But they won’t be turns of Halla.

  The murmuring in Mylla’s mind suddenly grew louder, and she realized what it was: Eisa speaking an incantation, something she was pulling from the Scrylle.

  Sensing a threat more terrible than the warship, Mylla jerked the scout’s yoke, meaning to run, to escape. Before she could, beryl radiance split the world, so bright and sudden even her eyelids were useless against it. It was a light she’d seen before, when Lock had broken into Vaka Aster’s chamber on Mount Omina. When the Stallari had disappeared.

  A surge of fire or . . . something . . . went by her, into her. Was she screaming? Was she dying?

  The surge redoubled and pushed her into a vastness as broad as the night sky and just as studded with stars. Distant shining bodies flashed and erupted around her, beyond her. Every glittering shard of their light pierced her like the points of a billion needles. She felt no pain, only a sensation as if she were disintegrating, spreading across oceans of stars, her body fragmenting and transforming into . . . she didn’t know. Her mind, unable to grasp what her being was experiencing, simply stopped struggling. Her final thought was a memory of the day she’d sworn her oath to Vaka Aster, of looking into the face of her creator for the last time, and of how the glittering spark within Vaka Aster’s eyes had been as beautiful as the eternal sea of stars spreading around her.

  Chapter 38

  Shrill wind whistled through the scout and interrupted Mylla’s dimensionless dream. Her eyes, no longer seeing stars, darted around and then fixed on the view beyond the cockpit—a storm of lightning and vapor. The windscreen was shattered, leaving ragged edges in the metal frame, and water slammed inside and drummed into her in painful spatters. All was speed and chaos interspersed with the storm’s crackling strobes. She caught glimpses of an ocean beneath her reflecting the lightning—an ocean she’d never seen before. There could be no question. She was no longer in Ivoryss above the Howling Weald. Had Eisa done this?

  Driving wind slammed into the dragørfly scout and pushed it off course, partly shearing the oscillating wings from its body. Heart beating in a symphony of f
right, she pulled hard on the yoke to regain control. The ferocious buckling and bouncing of the storm would surely crash the ship before she could bring it to heel. No pandemonium had ever felt this intimate or this bent on destroying her.

  As she battled against the elements and the scout’s own quickly unraveling integrity, the water closed in on what was no longer a safe distance below. At her speed, diving into it couldn’t be a worse idea, but the doomed scout clearly had no more intention of staying aloft. It headed toward the sea at a speed that sent her stomach into the roof of her mouth.

  Wrenching the craft’s controls with every muscle in her warrior’s frame, she brought it level at the last moment before it slammed into the waves. Its landing skids skipped across the water, sending her flurrying upward once more. The port wings snapped away with a final screech of metal, but the starboard ones still responded. Mylla forced them into braking position, sending the craft into a sideways airborne spin that immediately began to rotate like a barrel in water, and then was a barrel in water as it touched down on the wave tops once more and commenced rolling. Her body, held fast in the pilot’s seat, already accepted what her mind did not—there was nothing she could do now—and she released the yoke, pulling herself into a tight ball.

  The momentum was enough to keep her bouncing over the ocean’s surface, sending gouts of freezing water into her face again and again. She wondered if she’d drown before she ever sank, but then, with a hard lurch that vibrated her bones like a lute string, the ship jolted to a stop. Her teeth slammed shut on her tongue, the instant agony overriding everything else, even thankfully her sheer terror. She’d somehow, unbelievably, reached a shoreline.

  Everything stilled. Except her heart, which slammed against her ribs hard enough that it seemed to be trying to escape. She couldn’t blame it. This punishment was beyond what she deserved. It took her a moment to realize that by a stroke of luck the lightweight craft had landed midbounce above the waterline and pushed into a gap between large jagged blackish rocks, where it was now stuck fast. She hung from her seat upside down, close enough to reach out and touch the water with her fingers but at least protected from the punishing spray by what remained of the scout’s fuselage. No matter how much time and muscle Stave put into trying to set it right, this ship would never again be airborne. It was scrap at best.