by J M D Reid
But Chaylene did, a new voice whispered. She saw your shadow getting ripped out of your body when the Eye pulsed. What if someone else did?
Ary’s skin tightened. A tremble afflicted his limbs. His right fist clenched. His feet itched to bolt. To get away before the investigator sniffed him out. A prickling, animalistic urge to survive seized him. He resisted, refusing to let anger or his fear dominate. He made his choices. Nothing would be guiltier than running.
No one saw a thing! He clung to that. I would’ve heard about it. Only Chaylene did, and that’s because she was up in the crow’s nest.
The path rounded a warehouse. The bustling docks lay ahead, sailors grunting as they ferried supplies onto the Dauntless and the larger Adventurous, the Spirituous floating forlorn at her berth. The fourth dock lay empty. Admiral Grelen’s personal ship now hovered over the Storm, freeing up space for the approaching merchantmen. At the ship’s railing stood a woman in a black dress.
The griffin.
*
Estan noticed Ary’s tension as he speculated about the investigator. The scholarly young man made a study of his friend’s back. Ary’s reactions strengthened Estan’s hypothesis of the true nature of his friend. Unease twisted through his guts. Beyond the problem of figuring out a way to broach the delicate subject with Ary, he hoped the Dauntless would have sailed for Onhur before the investigator arrived and . . .
Estan frowned as they marched towards the arriving ship, his mending ribs throbbing with each step. How had the investigator traveled from Rhogre to Les so swiftly? Six days to sail from the western skyland to Les wasn’t impressive, but it would have taken at least as many days for the news of the Cyclone to reach Rhogre.
Unless her business isn’t about the Cyclone, he mused, studying the woman in black, and it is only a coincidence that she showed up today. Estan discarded that. He could think of no other event in Camp Chubris the last three months that would warrant a griffon’s scrutiny.
Estan marched with the other marines onto the pier, the wood creaking beneath their feet, gray peeking through the gaps. They formed up on the docks as an honor guard before Captain Dhar, Admiral Dhamen, and Admiral Grelen.
The ship’s Windwarden controlled the breezes to ease the merchantman into port. Rough-clad dockworkers waited to catch the thick hawsers, cables made from braided ropes, and tie the ship to the pier. The vessel came alongside the dock. The investigator stared with a blank expression at the assembled groups of marines and officers. Her face was tan, her forehead wrinkled, her blonde hair pulled back in a bun as tight as the corporal’s. Her yellow badge stood out on her black waistcoat, a cane clutched in her hands. She pursed bloodless lips. Estan shivered as her light-red eyes fell upon him. Her gaze rooted through him for any secrets he might conceal. Estan swallowed, his stomach tightening as the forbidden poems of Nzuuth sze Hyesk blossomed in his mind.
Wrapped in light
Chained with pain
Bound to chaos
Tied to life
Our life
Her pain
Estan forced himself away from even thinking the heretical poem, an irrational fear spilling through him. It mixed with superstitions Master Rlarim had wrung out of him long ago: But what if she can read minds?
Those penetrating eyes slid off Estan. He flushed at his errant thoughts.
The merchantman slowed to a stop. The dockworkers secured the hawsers while sailors ran out on the gangplank. Estan snapped a salute along with the rest of the marines as the investigator limped down the gangplank, leaning on her cane. She took each step with deliberate care, her right foot, hidden by her skirt, dragging.
“Welcome to Camp Chubris, Investigator,” Admiral Dhamen said, striding forward with his hand extended, his normally ruddy face drained to an ugly tan. “I am the superintendent of the camp.”
“Admiral,” the investigator said, shaking his hand.
“Admiral Grelen, commander of the Eastern Fleet.” He shook her hand, too.
“Admiral. I am Achene Thugris, Office of Special Investigations. I must interview all Naval personal who were exposed to the Cyclone on the Ninth of Isamoa, in the Year of Vaarck Founding, 399. I will need a suitable office to conduct my interview.”
How did she get here so fast? Is there a way to detect Cyclones? A new engine devised by the College of Material Philosophy? Estan shoved down his bitter disappointment at his father denying him the opportunity to study at the prestigious University of Rlarshon.
“How long will this take, Investigator?” Admiral Grelen growled. “My ships sail tomorrow.”
“As long as it takes to satisfy my investigation, Admiral.” Her voice held no warmth, her gaze unflinching. “If your ships are delayed, then so be it. I’m sure the Fringe can survive.”
Admiral Grelen’s boil-scarred face darkened. “Mind your tone, Investigator. I serve on the Admiralty board and—”
“And you will follow the Revised Codes and Statues of the Autonomy as well as the Autonomy Naval Regulations. Both require your assistance with my investigation.”
“Only if you have orders signed by the chief investigator.”
There wasn’t even a hint of a smug smile or triumph on her face as she pulled out a folded parchment from her coat’s inner pocket. “I believe this will suffice.”
Admiral Grelen snatched it from her hands, read it, then handed it back. “I'm sure Admiral Dhamen can assist you.”
“I would be happy to,” the superintendent said. “Captain Dhar, have your marines escort her to the administration building. She may use my office.”
“My thanks, Admiral,” the investigator nodded. “Shall we, Captain?”
Estan glanced at Ary. He kept his face stony, but beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. Signs of strain trembled through his body. He needs to calm down. She will read his fear. She will pry his secret out of him.
Estan couldn’t allow his friend to be quarantined.
Chapter Seven
Isamoa 16th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Ary warred against the dread clutching at his belly. Fear prickled his skin, urging him to flee. The investigator marched behind him, her cane crunching on the gravel path. He felt like an insect before a hungry bass. Despite her crippling limp, Ary had never met a person more intimidating. The Sergeant-Major was a brute and a bully, but compassion had sometimes glimmered in his eyes. Ary had faced the three Shardhin boys without hesitation and fought against the Stormriders.
But the crippled woman terrified Ary. Her eyes—pale-red, almost colorless, and as hard as crystal—crawled across his back. It was like she skinned him with ease to study the pattern of his muscles, bones, and viscera beneath.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and soaked his eyebrows.
She’s gonna know. She gonna see right through me. The moment I open my mouth, I’m done.
Ary opened the door to the administration building with a violent tug. He fought his quickening breath as Captain Dhar, Admiral Dhamen, and the investigator swept by him. The captain paused, glancing at Ary. “Pass word along, all crew not loading the Dauntless are to remain around the barracks.”
“Yes, Captain,” Ary choked.
“Are you okay, Sergeant?”
He cleared his throat. “Fine, Captain. Just . . .” Fear dazed his thoughts. He swallowed. “Just a sore throat. Maybe I breathed some bad vapors.”
She nodded then strode into the building.
“Orders, Sergeant?” Corporal Huson asked.
“You heard the captain. We stay by the barracks. So mess hall and parade grounds, nothing farther. Pass the word along to everyone you see.”
She nodded and did an about face, barking commands Ary scarcely heard.
His thoughts wandered through dread’s maze on the short march back to the Dauntless’s section of Camp Chubris. Over and over, he reminded himself that he wasn’t stuck by lightning during the last Cyclone. When Ary had assaulted the foredeck, Estan was right behind him the fi
rst time Theisseg summoned his soul.
What if Estan witnessed the same thing as Chaylene? He was so close, how could he have missed it?
But wouldn’t Estan have brought it up before? Unless he knows I’ve been touched. He knew that poem. Ary wished he could remember the exact words Estan had quoted because they sounded like they described Theisseg bound in the Storm.
If Estan suspects, will he be silent or will he . . .? Will he prove as disloyal as Vel?
Ary halted at the parade ground and faced his marines. He studied Estan’s expression, searching for any sign of mistrust or fear, for any lingering suspicions. Estan’s expression was calm, his reddish eyebrows lifting in question.
“You look unwell, Ary,” Estan said. “Perhaps you should see your wife. I’m sure she can come up with some remedy.”
Ary nodded.
He scanned around the parade grounds, his eyes flicking from the barracks to various warehouses, wondering where his wife was. His eyes settled on the window on the second floor of the stables. A certainty that she was up there filled him.
“Who’s his wife?” Messiench asked as Ary marched away.
“Oh, I can tell you some stories about that strumpet,” Zeirie said, then laughed. “She’s Vaarckthian, so you know she’s friendly.”
Ary’s fist clenched. He rounded, fear metastasizing into true rage. A storm rumbled up into his throat and—
“That is your sergeant’s wife you’re slandering, Private!” Corporal Huson bellowed before he could unleash his fury. “Show respect!”
“I . . .” Zeirie gaped. Then her eyes flicked to Ary. Her pale-beige face blanched white. “S-sorry, Sergeant. I shouldn’t have said nothing about your wife.”
“You will run the perimeter of the parade ground!” Corporal Huson commanded.
“But—”
“I didn’t say speak, Private! I said RUN!”
“For how many laps?”
“That’s speaking! You’ll run until the Storm ends if you say another word! GO!”
Zeirie darted away.
Ary smirked, his storm dwindling, satiated. Maybe the corporal isn’t as bad as she seems.
Then dread crashed back into him.
*
Chaylene studied the detailed map of the skyland of Dudgress, part of Estapf, one of the Agerzaks’ petty kingdoms. The once united Kingdom of Agerz had shattered beneath the repeated invasions of the Vaarckthian Empire. Now it was a lawless place full of warring clans vying with their kings and neighbors for dominance.
She found another likely cove away from any town or village and circled it with her grease pencil. It appeared to be a natural harbor protected from squalls. No one in the Petty Kingdoms worshiped Riasruo, so they lacked Weather Towers. Their skylands were at the mercy of temperamental weather.
The Agerzaks puzzled her. Estan’s words echoed in her mind. He believed they were Stormriders who had colonized the eastern skylands, displacing a Luastrian Empire and several minor Human nations. They’d cleansed the skylands of all traces of the original inhabitants but hadn’t dragged the skylands into the Storm. Her gaze slid to the Great Empty, the vast sky that once contained the greatest skyland: Swuopii. It held the capital of the long-dead Dawn Empire, founded by Riasruo’s Golden Daughter, Lanii, two thousand years ago. Peace reigned until the Great Cyclone had dragged Swuopii and the other far eastern skylands into the Storm Below a thousand years ago.
Why did the Agerzaks colonize while their ancestors destroyed? Her husband believed the Stormriders were trying to free Theisseg. Was dragging Swuopii down into the Storm an accident? Or did the Agerzaks fail? Her eyes grew unfocused as she pondered these mysteries. But her thoughts only circled each other widdershins.
Booming footsteps pounding up the stairs rattled Chaylene out of her thoughts. She glanced at Velegrin straightening up from the map of Lolren, the skyland west of Dudgress. He frowned at the door.
Ary burst through it, his face flushed.
“What’s wrong?” Chaylene gasped, dropping her grease pen.
Ary’s mouth opened then he froze, glancing at Velegrin.
“Oh . . .” The wiry scout smirked. “Are you looking for some ‘private’ consultation with the Warrant Officer, Sergeant?”
“Velegrin!” Chaylene’s cheeks warmed. “My husband didn’t come up here for . . . that.” She glanced at her husband. “Right?”
“What? No.” Ary shook his head. “Um . . . I just need a quiet word with my wife. Velegrin, there’s new orders. Captain Dhar wants the crew sticking around the barracks and mess hall.”
Velegrin glanced at Chaylene; she nodded. He saluted. “Warrant Officer. Sergeant.”
Chaylene shook her head as Velegrin slipped past Ary.
“I see you’re running a tighter ship than Warrant Officer Veld,” Ary said, nodding.
Chaylene groaned as she sat down on a hard chair. “I’m not. Velegrin is playing a game with Zori. Only she isn’t here to be annoyed by it. Just me.”
“So tell him to stop.”
“I did. He doesn’t listen.” She exhaled long and slow. “Maybe Breston was too slack with us . . . I’m sure Velegrin will be bored in a day or so.” She patted the seat next to her. Ary unbuttoned his red coat, exposing his crisp shirt beneath, and sank down beside her. “So . . . you didn’t come up here to talk about Velegrin.”
“There’s an investigator from the Office of Special Investigations.”
“Office . . . of what?” Her forehead tightened. Ary quickly explained. Her guts curdled. “And you’re sure she’s looking for people struck by lightning?”
Ary nodded his head slowly.
“Well, you weren’t struck by lightning during that Cyclone, so relax.” A tremble passed through her as she tried to follow her own advice.
“What if someone else saw what you saw?”
“Who else could have seen it?”
“Estan. Or maybe Lieutenant Tharele saw the second time.”
Chaylene swallowed. “They never said anything. I’m sure Estan would have.”
Ary’s forehead furrowed.
“Estan has to investigate everything. If he saw something, he would have pestered you to know what happened, offering one of his theories to explain the . . .” She searched for an Estan word. “The phenomenon.”
“Yeah.” His shoulders relaxed. “Thanks, Chaylene.”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’re welcome.”
His arm went round her shoulder, pulling her close. She sighed and said, “Just be calm when you talk to her. Don’t act nervous. She’s looking for someone struck by lightning not . . . your . . . whatever happened to you.”
“I’m sure there’s a big fancy name for it that Estan knows.”
“Maybe a trans-soul migration.”
He snorted. “Doesn’t have enough syllables.”
Chaylene giggled. Then the dread crept up inside her and swallowed her mirth. She sighed and rested her cheek on his shoulder. She took comfort in leaning against her husband. Her eyes closed.
*
Ary let Chaylene nap on his shoulder for as long as he could, unwilling to move. He studied her features, her dark face relaxed into peace, her drool darkening the red wool of his jacket. His stomach still buzzed like he’d swallowed a swarm of flies, but the numbing fear retreated. Chaylene was right. If anyone saw, especially Estan, Ary would have heard about it.
After about an hour, the horns sounded once, loud and piercing. There were several heartbeats before the second, mustering the crew. Chaylene started awake. She wiped at her wet chin, muttering, “What’s going on?”
“It’s time for the interviews.”
“Oh.” She squared her shoulders. “It’ll be fine, Ary.”
“Yeah.” He sighed, almost believing her. The flies swarmed faster inside his guts.
After rising, he buttoned up his coat then followed Chaylene to the stairs. The sour stench of dung filled his nose as they strode through the stables
, the pegasi whinnying and fluttering their wings. Most of the crew had already assembled on the parade grounds. Chaylene joined Velegrin as Ary marched to his marines. A panting Zeirie, her light-brown face dripping with sweat, tightened her lips as he approached.
“Sergeant,” saluted the corporal. “Private Shamis wishes to say something to you.”
“Sergeant, I’m sorry I insulted your wife,” Zeirie muttered.
The corporal cleared her throat.
“And it won’t happen again.”
Ary nodded. “Thank you, Zeirie.”
Captain Vebrin, the matronly officer with graying hair, stood beside Captain Dhar before the crew. As the camp’s assistant superintendent, Vebrin disciplined the worst troublemakers. After the fire had almost killed Ary and his wife, they’d faced her judgment and had been blamed for it. A chill passed through Ary. Both of us were so sure we turned off the lamp. What if it was the Luastria . . .?
The Bosun blew her whistle, the shrill sound cutting through conversations. Silence fell. Captain Dhar stepped forward, scanning the crew’s faces. Ary’s guts tightened when her gaze touched him. He fought his quickening breath.
“The Office of Special Investigations has opened an inquiry into the Cyclone,” she declared in a carrying voice. “As per Naval Regulations, you are to cooperate fully. Lying to the investigator can be punished with up to three years’ hard labor followed by a dishonorable discharge from the Navy.” The captain paused. “Just answer her questions truthfully and this will be over swiftly. Captain Vebrin.”
The assistant superintendent stepped forward. “I will escort you in groups of ten for questioning.” Her hard voice belied her almost grandmotherly appearance. “Report back to the parade ground once you’re finished.” She then rattled off ten names, including Estan. They followed her while nervous murmurs passed through the sailors.
The crew stood at a relaxed parade rest, the day growing warmer as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Captain Vebrin returned after half an hour to summon the next ten while the first group was already trickling back.
Ary thought waiting to be drafted had been hard. At least then, Chaylene was with him, feeding him strength. He stood alone before his marines, trying to control his body’s growing trembles. It took all his discipline not to worry at the grass with the point of his boot nor grind his teeth to powder. Gusts of prickling dread surged through him.
