by J M D Reid
The look of gratitude on Chone’s face twisted the guilt in Ary. He should do more. He should be running with Chone or standing up to the investigator. Ary was tainted for seven years and did nothing to hurt the Autonomy.
But . . . there were so many selfish reasons not to do more. Chaylene. His freedom. His promise to Theisseg.
Chone turned and sprinted the other way, his long legs carrying him towards freedom. Ary leaned against the wall, the world suddenly spinning around him. He could do this much for Chone.
Estan appeared before the sailor, bursting from around a corner.
Ary’s hope vanished.
Chone gasped and bolted to the left to juke around Estan. The scholarly marine grabbed the sailor’s shoulder with one hand and jerked him back. Chone stumbled into Estan. The sailor threw a punch. The Vaarckthian marine seized Chone’s wrist and pivoted. Using his hip as a lever, Estan slammed Chone to the ground on his back. The sailor landed hard, body spasming. Estan continued the maneuver and planted his knee into Chone’s throat.
“Riasruo Above!” Estan groaned through clenched teeth, his left hand clutching at his ribs.
Ary reached them a moment later, dropping to his knees to grasp Chone’s kicking feet. Ary had no choice now. He had to keep up the facade. He couldn’t meet Chone’s eyes as the sailor thrashed and cursed. Other marines arrived. Vay snagged one of Chone’s flailing arms, Zeirie the other. They pinned the thrashing sailor to the ground.
“Please,” Chone begged as he fought like an eel in the fisherman’s nets. “I’m not tainted. Please, please! It’s a mistake!”
I know, Ary thought.
“You caught him, Sergeant,” Corporal Huson said as she slowed to a stop by Ary.
“Secure him,” Ary commanded. His stomach churned, bile burning the back of his throat. The other marines swarmed in. Ary released the sailor and stood. Sweat poured down his face. He panted, blood screaming through his veins.
Trembles raced through his limbs.
“I’m not tainted!” Chone howled as Vay and Zeirie hauled him to his feet, the pair pinning his hands behind his back. “Just let me go! Say I escaped.”
Ary stared down at his feet. One order. One command . . . Why does the right thing to do have to be so Storming hard?
“Ary?” Estan asked, his voice soft.
“Secure him!” Ary snarled, his fists clenched, fingernails biting into palms. He savored the pain. Welcomed it. He deserved far, far more.
“I’m not tainted!”
Ary led his detail back to the investigator, Zeirie and Vay clutching the thrashing Chone beneath the armpits as they dragged him away, the rest of the marines formed up around them. Ary fought the waves of nausea. Clammy sweat soaked his shirt.
The crew watched in stoic silence as the marines hauled Chone forward. Ary felt all their eyes on him, judging him. You’re just like him, he could almost hear them saying. His wife watched him. He didn’t glance at her. He didn’t want her to witness his cowardice. He dreaded what he’d see in her eyes.
“I’m innocent, Investigator,” Chone begged when the marines threw him at her feet. “I wasn’t touched. Nothing happened.”
“Able Sailor Xoaren reported that you were struck by lightning and rendered unconscious for hours,” she said, voice colder than winter.
“No!” Chone sobbed. “I was hit in the head by a Rider’s mailed fist. I wasn’t struck by lightning.”
“Sergeant, pull up his shirt,” the investigator commanded. “If he was struck, there will be evidence.”
“Zeirie,” Ary ordered, queasy bile bubbling up his esophagus.
Zeirie hauled up Chone’s shirt and revealed a puckered burn, half-healed, glaring waxy pink on his right side. Ary fought the urge to touch his own side, his own matching scar. Estan peered down at Chone, his forehead scrunching.
“He was tainted,” the investigator declared.
Chone’s howls echoed through Ary’s mind.
*
Estan dipped his quill into the ink.
He forced back his yawn, his ribs throbbing, his limbs leaden. Honest work wrung out his body. After the disruption of Investigator Thugris and the arrest of Chone, the entire crew had had to work twice as hard to load the ship with supplies. He wanted to sleep, but he needed to write his letter. The Dauntless sailed on the morrow. Rest must wait.
Quill scratched on parchment, forming the script of Dawn Luastrian, a language dead outside small, academic circles.
Salutations, Master Rlarim,
I hope your health continues to flourish. I know it has only been days since I penned my last letter, but events are moving at a precipitous pace. I have yet been unable to start a dialogue with my Stormtouched compatriot. I fear today’s events will only serve to guard his tongue most strongly.
An investigator arrived. Madam Thugris possessed a commanding demeanor that brooked no questions to her authority. She worked most diligently to complete her duties and uncovered a second Stormtouched, one who was exposed to Theisseg in that most desperate fight against the Cyclone. The unfortunate sailor was arrested and will face a life of useless quarantine. Imagine what we could learn if he were interviewed instead . . .
Luckily, my companion went undiscovered.
I did observe one interesting detail that I fear we have overlooked. A Stormtouched is struck by lightning. Neither of us deduced that such a vigorous method of contact would have a substantial physical effect on the Human body. The sailor arrested was marked by a puckered scar the size of my clenched fist. The wound was still raw and fresh, but I could only surmise that the scar would never fade over the course of an individual’s lifetime.
I have seen my compatriot shirtless a few times, but I must confess I did not give much consideration to his form and cannot recall if I observed any such mark upon him. Perhaps if opportunity permits, I shall witness the scar upon his body and use it to broach a dialog. Conversely, he has mended the rift that marred his marriage. I am convinced he has divulged his secret to his wife. It may prove easier to establish a dialogue about her husband with her than my compatriot. We already have a rapport when it comes to discussing matters of intellectual interest.
In the morning, the Dauntless sails for the port of Onhur on the skyland of Tlele. I will write further when I arrive. I hope to gain the trust of my compatriot or his wife by then. I am eager to delve into what knowledge he may actually possess. Chance has landed me in this most fortuitous of circumstances, and I plan to make fulsome use of this opportunity.
Yours in fellowship,
Estan Bthoovzigk
Estan sanded the letter and waited for it to dry, his thoughts whirling with the possibilities of unraveling the mystery of the Storm, Theisseg, and her Riders.
*
Every muscle in Chaylene’s body protested as she slumped into her cottage well past sunset. Despite that, euphoria still clung to her. The investigator was gone. She hadn’t discovered Ary’s secret. Now Chaylene yearned to collapse on her bed and fall asleep after hours spent loading the Dauntless with supplies, helping the sailors catch up after the investigation had devoured so much time.
The sight of Ary collapsing into a rickety chair arrested her. He stared down at his hands, his shoulders sagged, his head bowed, brow furrowed. She expected the same giddy elation brimming through her to be animating him. Not this weariness . . .
She sighed in realization.
“Would it have changed anything if you’d surrendered yourself with him?” she asked as she padded to him.
“No.” The words were blunt, almost a grunt.
“You would just be imprisoned with him.”
“I know that.” The muscles in the back of his neck tensed. “Doesn’t change nothing. Doesn’t make what I did right.”
“But it was necessary.” She kneaded his shoulder through his white shirt, the wool thick against her fingers.
“Do you think that?” he asked after a long pause. “That it was necessary?”
“Yes.”
“Not the act of a coward?”
“It’s the act of a man who knew he couldn’t change anything.” Her fingers dug deep into tense muscles.
“Is there a difference?”
She pursed her lips at his words, his shoulders tensing beneath her touch. “Would you have told everyone you’re Stormtouched?”
“I should have.”
She sighed. “And what good would that have done?” She moved around him, studying his expression. He stared down at hands clenched tight before him, eyes shadowed by his brow. “Would that have saved him?”
“Chone?”
“Yes, him.”
Ary’s shoulders shifted. “I didn’t have to chase him. I could have . . . I could have objected.”
“Could you? You’re a marine. You follow orders. Captain Dhar gave them. You had your duty.”
“The same duty that says you should report me for being Stormtouched?” he growled.
“Is that what you want?” Chaylene’s stomach twisted. “We could go down to Captain Dhar. You could tell her the truth. You could throw away your life. Our life. Why? So you can rot in a cell with him? That won’t change anything. That won’t help Her!”
His shoulders shifted. “Her?”
Chaylene lifted her golden eyebrows. “Heeerrr. Theisseg. How are you going to free her if you’re trapped?”
“I . . .” He shook his head. “Still . . . I helped arrest him. I tried not to, Chaylene. I did what little I could, gave him a chance to escape. I let him run, but it just wasn’t enough. Then I had to drag him blubbering to the investigator.” His shoulders shook. His face grew pallid. His gaze fell. “He’s not a danger, Chaylene.”
“I know.” She ran her fingers through his short hair, feeling the bristle-like feel of it on her palm. “It’s not right. So . . . so let’s figure out how to free Theisseg. Maybe . . . the Stormtouched won’t have to be feared.”
“You think they’ll free Chone?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” She gripped his hair and lifted his face up to hers. He didn’t resist. She stared into his eyes and put a smile on her lips. “You can help him by helping Theisseg. That will free you both from the quarantine and the assassins. Until then, Chone will be fine. The Autonomy won’t mistreat him.”
“Really?” She witnessed the aching hope in his eyes, the desperate need to believe her. He didn’t deserve to be put in this position. He was too good of a man.
“Really.” She swallowed. “Maybe . . . we could talk to Estan?”
Ary’s expression darkened. “I don’t know.”
To Chaylene, Estan’s education supplied their only route to freeing Theisseg. Her frustration crashed into Ary’s obstinacy. “Do you really think he can’t be trusted? He’s our friend, Ary.”
“I thought Vel was our friend.”
Chaylene drew in a deep breath. She braced herself, clammy hands squeezing her heart. She feared the next words out of his mouth, the accusation. The smothering anger and outrage that would snuff out their marital fires.
But it didn’t come. Ary didn’t hurtle his accusations. Instead, he croaked, “I don’t . . . want to lose you, Chaylene.” He gripped her waist, stretching the material of her blouse taut over her torso. “I can’t . . .”
“You won’t.” She hugged his face to her belly, stroking his hair. “We’ll be careful with Estan.”
*
Isamoa 17th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Wriavia’s talons clicked upon the wooden dock, his head bobbing as he strutted towards the gangplank. The Estele floated beside the pier, shifting and bobbing. The slight movement creaked the hawsers binding the merchantmen to the docks. The ship promised a return to his mission after the last two days chaffing for a vessel sailing to the Fringe. He kept himself confined to the temple for the majority of that time, pestered by Acolyte Bwuoutria’s painful flirting. The young hen did not respect his vow of celibacy. She would corner him in any part of the temple, even the solar, with her trilling words, praising the beauty of his red feathers, the sweep of his tail, and the polish of his beak.
Some of her comments ruffled the assassin’s feathers with their boldness.
He’d slipped out of the temple early in the morning, well before Riasruo’s sun rose. He left a note for Priestess Srioatrii explaining his need to return to southern Les to keep rooting out heresy.
“You the bird we’re carrying?” a gruff sailor barked from the ship’s railing, studying Wriavia with a sour eye.
“I am,” Wriavia said with a bow, ignoring the man’s slight. “You may call me Iasrioa, good sailor.”
“Eesureoh?” the sailor said, his thick lips tripping over the name. Wriavia winced at his butchered pronunciation. “Well, come aboard. Cap’n’s lookin’ to slip hawser and put to sky.”
With a flap of his wings, Wriavia launched himself into the air. He cleared the railing and settled on the deck. The sailor blinked in astonishment. Wriavia ignored the dumbfounded Human and spotted the captain striding towards him, a fat man whose belly jiggled beneath his tight shirt.
The captain clasped his pudgy fingers together and said, “Ah, Iasrioa, welcome, welcome.”
At least he can almost say my name right, the assassin thought with bitter disdain. He knew no Human could capture the full richness of Luastria vowels, their vocal chords too limited, but an oily mood clung to his feathers since his failure two nights ago.
“Thank you for your generosity,” Wriavia said instead, speaking brightly. Though no rumors of a murderous Luastria had reached him, it was only prudent to assume an alias.
As the merchantmen slipped hawsers and put out to sky, Wriavia moved to the bow, making room for the sailors to work. His gizzard worried at its stone as he wondered why Briaris hadn’t reported the attack. What secret could a seventeen-year-old Human possess? What could he have possibly done to earn Riasruo’s condemnation? Wriavia had a long career of successful assassinations. They all were members of the clergy. Various priestesses and skeins who tried to promote one form of heresy or another, acts threatening the authority of the Bishriarch and the Synod. Briaris did not preach anything about the Goddess. Wriavia had heard no rumors of it during his two months in Shon.
Would I have heard anything with Theisseg’s chaos shrouding him?
Never had Wriavia struggled to kill a target. Fire, poison, and direct attack had all failed. Wriavia possessed only a slim hope that Vel would find the nerve to infect Briaris with the choking plague. Wriavia needed to find a way to adjudicate Briaris Jayne.
What will happen when the Synod learns that I’ve failed? Will they send another? Will I have to return to the aerie as a complete failure?
Wriavia’s claws dug into the wood of the deck as the ship, propelled by the Windwarden’s stiff breeze, sailed east out into the Xoar Sky. The ship would travel southeast and dock first at Shuutan on Jhov then sail onward to Onhur where the Eastern Fleet, and Briaris, waited. As the ship flew farther from Les, the assassin found himself drawn to the chaotic boil surging beneath the ship’s keel. The Storm churned black and gray, the rippling clouds greedy to spread Theisseg’s foul taint.
Was Briaris touched by Theisseg? mused Wriavia. Is that how he keeps surviving? Is that why Riasruo wants him dead?
Wriavia rustled his feathers, his gizzard churning. He tore his gaze from the Storm to the eastern horizon. Misty clouds, unconnected to the unnatural tempest below, stained the sky. His keen eyes caught the silver flashes of a school of fish flying in lazy circles, feasting on the floating pollen and krill drifting on the winds. At the edges of the school, two sharks prowled, waiting for a fish to drift too far from the others, vulnerable and exposed.
I need to be the shark, Wriavia realized. I must be fearless of the consequences. If Briaris is touched by Theisseg, then he has to die no matter the cost.
Chapter Nine
“You better not fight any pirates until I’m all better!” Zori said, a feisty expression on he
r face as she leaned on her crutch. They stood on the dock before dawn, the Dauntless about to sail. She tried to bounce on her feet only to wince and snarl. “Theisseg’s lightning bugger the Stormrider who feathered me!”
“Zori!” gasped Chaylene at the coarse words gusting from her friend’s lips. Then she swallowed and said, “I think that’s already happened. He died.”
“Right, right,” Zori said, a grimace washing across her face. Then she shook her head. “You keep Velegrin safe, too. He’ll get himself lost if you’re not watchin’ out for him.”
“Are you concerned about me?” Velegrin asked.
“Nope.” Zori said it with a disinterested expression. “Just know Chaylene’d feel bad if you got yourself killed.”
“You are concerned.” He laughed, shaking his head in mirth.
Zori swung her crutch at him. He danced back, a huge grin on his face. She put too much energy into her swing. She spun on her right leg and gasped. Chaylene caught her friend with steadying hands.
“I think I have to worry about you,” Chaylene said, suddenly much more aware of the Storm boiling beneath the dock.
Zori shuddered as she glanced over the pier’s edge. Then she straightened. “Just stay safe. And keep Guts and Ary and Estan safe, too.”
Chaylene nodded her head. “Guts’ll be fine.”
Zori chewed on her lower lip, glancing up the pier where Guts waited, his rucksack piled at his feet. Without a word, Zori hobbled over to him, passing Captain Dhar embracing her husband and nearly adult daughter. Guts lifted Zori up by the waist, and her dangling feet twitched as their lips locked in an amorous kiss.
Warmth rushed through Chaylene.
“Ugh,” Velegrin groaned. “I don’t need to see that. I’m going to get my kit stored, Warrant Officer.” He saluted her.
She groaned, her good mood evaporating. She opened her mouth to retort but only a jaw-widening yawn escaped. She shook her head and snagged her duffel bag. She had it packed with all her possessions, what meager ones she owned. A couple of spare uniforms and shirts, a few dresses to wear off-duty, the bottle of perfume Ary had bought her. She carried her most prized possession in her jacket’s inner breast pocket. The small book’s corner dug into her ribs as she hefted her luggage.
