“No can do, General.” Zayden didn’t look up from the small fire he was building. “I would remove the boots before you burn your feet through them. The sand doesn’t react well to the material of your soles,” he explained calmly.
“Don’t tell me what to do, and don’t call me general,” she grumbled.
They barely talked for the rest of the day. Denita had taken herself off to explore the dense forest of swaying palms, and he had removed his shoes and rolled up his pants to enjoy the gleam of the suns bouncing off the golden ocean. “She’s back.” He smirked hearing her stomping through the brush madder than a wet gresh.
She eyed the pile of discarded crab. “You ate already,” she accused him with disgust, laying her catch beside the fire. She stared at the ribbed muscles of his chest, gleaming in the firelight. He had the rough, pebbled skin of the Darracians; she saw that his chest was a lighter gray than the rest of him, with big, purple bruises covering half his torso. She knew he was still in considerable pain. His shoulders gleamed in the firelight. The shadows played off the sculpted angles of his lean face.
“Didn’t you hear the dinner bell?” Zayden looked up innocently. “You snooze, you lose.”
“I wasn’t sleeping. Unlike some I was checking this place out for a way to get off. And I trapped a pozin as well.” She kicked it toward him with the toe of her boot.
Zayden held up his index finger. “One, we are alone. My family owns the rights to Fon Reni, and no one can come here without permission. Two,” he touched the next finger, “pozin are foul, nasty rodents that have a scent sac that makes them inedible.”
“You could have left me some crabs. Who is your family?”
Zayden ignored her question and simply said, “Look in the basket.” He pointed to the container with a small wave of dismissal.
Denita walked over to him, leaning against the side of his ship. “We go to Planta?” she asked hopefully.
“No. We are going home.”
“I don’t have a home.”
“But I do.”
Chapter 6
Tulani raced through the treetops, her arms grabbing one branch after another effortlessly. Her upper torso had developed, and she wasn’t the soft cloud dweller anymore. She grabbed the slippery vines with her calloused hands, but still worried she would slide down and find herself on the wet Desa floor if she wasn’t careful.
“Wait up, you Keywalla!” Bobbien called from behind her.
She was faster than her grandmother and smiled, her white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Her hair bounced against her back, her braids thick and numerous. “Faster, Grandeam. I want to get out of here. It’s pouring.”
It had started raining in the last moon phase and never stopped. It was a steady downpour; the randam crystals rotted on the bark. Flowers failed to bloom, and fruits were scarce. This was unprecedented, and the Quyroos complained but failed to see the impending disaster. Food stores were running low. Even the Wysbies had disappeared, their wings too fragile to fly in the downpours.
She was headed for Aqin, their home. They had moved into the vast chambers to be closer to Ozre. Tulani had so much to learn, but try as she might, the Element was elusive. Bobbien used the time to teach her about the herbs and medicines of the forest, but Tulani was miserable. She missed V’sair, and felt she could not return until she understood her role in this world. No longer a servant, not quite a healer, a half-fast high priestess, she was floundering in her own insecurities. She needed to make a connection to her people. She knew her role was to serve as conduit to the king, but she felt as removed from them as she did when she lived in Syos, the city of the clouds.
“Just go to V’sair if you are unhappy here,” Bobbien told her, clearly out of patience for her lovesick sighs. “I am tired of seeing Seren’s nasty face stalking you.”
The big Quyroo hadn’t given up, and frequently could be found just watching their home. She would often catch a glimpse of him, hiding in the treetops, his narrowed eyes cold.
“I am not afraid of that one.” She dismissed Seren with a disinterested shrug. “I can’t leave, Grandeam. V’sair wants me as his queen. I don’t want to be an ornament; I want to make a difference. I fear I know nothing. I need to be able to help. I want to make a difference.”
“Yes, I do agree, child. Time—you need time to learn to use the Elements to achieve greatness, I think. Yes, you do.”
“But the Quyroos still don’t accept me.”
“They are leery of you, they are,” Bobbien said with a sage nod. “Don’t trust you, don’t trust nobody, the Quyroo. You understand why, don’t you?”
Tulani thrust out her lower lip. “It’s all so exhausting. We are caught in this terrible limbo. V’sair strives to make peace, Darracians act superior, the Quyroo don’t trust them.” She plopped down next to her grandmother. “Some mountains are too hard to climb.”
“Defeatist talk!” Bobbien yelled at her, her red face turning an unbecoming shade of magenta. “Remember you not Ozre telling you to look inside your heart?”
“I have, and all I see is love for V’sair.”
“Then go and live only for your love!” Bobbien got up to angrily ready their next meal. She threw ingredients around like a mad chef, and Tulani bit back a smile. “Whiney, whiney,” said her grandmother. “You think everything should come in a snap?” She held up her hand and snapped her long fingers impatiently. “You have just learned of our healing ways, crammed years of training into mere months. If you want to be accepted by your people, you have to become one of them.”
“I am Quyroo,” Tulani told her defensively.
“Physically, yes, but up here”—she pointed to her temple—“I think not. Do not blame others for your lack of success. Search your mind to see what more you can do.”
“Did Ozre tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to,” Bobbien replied curtly, then turned back to pound some forest edibles into a pulp.
So they settled in the caves, gathering the roots, making potions. Tulani studied the Quyroo, and slowly began to see their way of thinking. Every night she threw herself onto the cold stone floor, called for Ozre, but heard nothing. “Why have you deserted me, Ozre,” she cried out. “I need your guidance.”
The echoes of her pleas were her only response.
Chapter 7
“Highness, we must schedule the coronation,” General Swart stated from his seat on the Orbitus Chamber, a group that met daily with the king.
“I am still in mourning, General. It is out of the question,” V’sair answered absently, his gaze on the condensation coating the wall of windows. “It’s filthy out there today,” he added to no one in particular.
“A strange occurrence, for sure.” Brault, the chanter, added with his querulous voice. “The weather is strange. We have not seen Rast or Nost for months. Rain, rain, rain, it’s making the whole Desa run red like blood.”
“Enough, Chanter Brault,” V’sair said curtly. He didn’t like the man. He had been appointed to the head of the Temple for the Elements, and V’sair hadn’t warmed to him. It had been a fair appointment; he was chosen by a group of lesser chanters. Due to his seniority it was a given that he should lead the temple. Short and dumpy, he had a long, thin nose and beady eyes that seemed too close together. Chanters shaved their head when they took their religious orders in order to be able to hear the Elements better. He wore the maroon robes of high office, with a golden breastplate signifying he was the most high warrior for the Elements. V’sair thought him an ugly little man, whose wrinkled and faded skin gave him the appearance of something that lived underground to tunnel in the soil. He was small minded, hated the Quyroos, and basically made life in the Orbitus Chamber very difficult for V’sair.
But it was true—the weather had changed. It was a few degrees colder, and they’d had unexplained record rainfalls. V’sair had appointed a committee to study the problem. He had yet to hear anything from them. V’sair fiddled with a pen.
“Enough about the weather.” He glanced up at a map of the Desa that hung suspended in midair. He motioned with his hands, and the images changed, from topical, to bird’s eye, to frontal. V’sair studied the screens, searching every face for the familiar one so dear to him. He saw panicked people, filthy and shocked, their homes destroyed. “How many people were hurt?” There had been a major mudslide with many casualties. V’sair wanted to organize relief efforts.
“The coronation, Sire,” Swart appealed.
“Will wait. What happened on the hills of Aqin?”
“It’s all this rain. The bottom dwellers have been flooded out of the illegal settlements. We have set up refugee camps in the Plains of Dawid.”
“How do you expect me to think about things like coronations when my people suffer?” V’sair rounded on General Swart.
“How can you call them your people when you haven’t been properly crowned!” Swart stood angrily. “Perhaps all this is a sign from the Elements.”
“What kind of sign?” V’sair’s back went rigid as he inquired quietly.
“I meant nothing, Your Highness. I am only looking for the good of the monarchy.” Swart leaned closer to V’sair. “Walk with me, Sire.”
V’sair stood and strolled the chamber next to his grand mestor, their feet echoing off the slick floor.
The general waited until they had passed a distance to give them privacy. “I have information.”
“Yes?” V’sair looked at him intently.
“The interrogations of the assassins have been troubling.” Swart frowned.
“What have you discovered?”
Swart looked around the room, his eyes darting to every dark corner. “I am taking every precaution for your safety. But, Sire, I am not happy…I feel that we are missing something.”
“What, General? You did an excellent job. You intercepted them before anything happened.” V’sair placed his hand on the general’s stooped shoulders. “I know I am a sore trial to you, my lord general, but, like my father before me, I trust you with my life.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“You used to call me V’sair.”
“I am worried, my…V’sair. Although they have talked, I suspect they know someone close to you is involved. I am nervous.”
V’sair shrugged his shoulders. “I feel secure in your hands. But please, General, make sure my mother is safe.”
“I have doubled the guards, on you both.”
V’sair placed a trusting hand on his shoulder. “I knew I could depend on you.”
“But, Sire, I would feel better if we had the coronation. It would give you legitimacy as the king. Besides, all the people love the pageantry.”
“Well then use funds for all this pageantry to get supplies to the ones suffering down there.” He pointed a finger to the grayness outside. He watched the general shake his head and go back to the large, stone conference table where the rest of his counsel argued. Walking slowly to the window, he was oblivious to the discussions taking place behind him. He glanced through the gloom, wondering if Tulani was safe. Warm, dry, and safe.
He didn’t want to be crowned. It felt so final, as though his father was really gone. He stared at his reflection in the window, and the room receded as mist hovering changing shapes over his head. It spangled the air, filling it with the smell of ozone, and his hair went static, rising off his scalp. All sound receded as he watched the image of his father materialize in the window. The face floated, becoming fuzzy, indistinct. It became more clear as a familiar body took shape next to V’sair. The reflection smiled sweetly, the eyes lit with incandescence. Drakko was healthy and whole, taller than V’sair. The boy rubbed his eyes, afraid to blink lest the apparition disappear. He glanced to his advisors, noting them locked in heated comments, then looked back at the specter. A smile spread across his father’s generous mouth. He nodded to his son, and V’sair felt tears sting behind his eyes. Pressure landed on the young man’s shoulders; V’sair touched the spot, knowing without a doubt his father had just squeezed him affectionately. Strong hands reached up, lifting the crown from his own dark head to hold it over V’sair’s blond one. The jewels sparkled with the reflection of the waning light, and he watched in wonder as his father placed it on his head. Though he knew nothing graced his pate, he felt the crown’s heavy weight resting there. Their eyes met to make a peaceful communion. Drakko pointed back to the council and shook his head with sorrow, letting V’sair know he was not happy with the discord. He watched those eyes rest on each of the Orbitus representatives, and while he frowned, V’sair couldn’t read his father’s thoughts. Then the lips moved with a soft whisper, and V’sair distinctly heard his father say “Reminda.” The shimmering reflection winked, dissolving into nothing.
V’sair touched his head, then the corner of his eye, wiping a crystal tear that gathered there. Beyond speech, he cleared his throat noisily. Turning slowly, he looked at his councilors arguing over petty nonsense. He tried to figure out what his father was trying to tell him, but the whole thing was a muddle, from the councilors to the wet planet surface. Great Sradda, he wished Zayden was here to help him. He had to take command; the apparition, his father had indicated it. Taking a deep breath, V’sair made a decision. “General, arrange for my coronation for the first moon phase. We will do it in the temple. I want representatives from the Quyroos equally present. In fact, I will have one from the Quyroo League crown me.”
“Out of the question!” Brault fumed. “That’s my job. That is our custom!”
“We will circumvent the custom.” V’sair turned his back. “That is all for today. Send in my mother.”
Swart grumbled as he stuffed his notes into a briefcase. “Now he wants the coronation and within weeks. How am I supposed to get this done so quickly?”
Chanter Brault nodded, his face gray with indignation, and whispered, “I knew nothing good would come from the Planta influence. A Quyroo crown him, indeed!” They walked out of the room, Brault tense with anger.
Reminda floated in, her face serene. “You asked for me?”
V’sair took her hand and kissed it. “Yes, Mo’mo. I have decided to go ahead with the coronation. You must find Tulani. I want her by my side.”
“I will do my best, Sire.” She smiled and bowed her head.
Chapter 8
V’sair stalked to the temple, walking purposefully down the long aisle to come close to the altar. It was a high-ceilinged room, the walls made of clear quartz, polished to a sparkling shine. Fossils of tiny prehistoric insects were frozen in the depths of the rock walls, testifying to both its age and majesty. It was a cool room, and when filled with Darracians, the walls reflected the array of colors adorning its inhabitants. Today it was empty, so the sleek, ice-like walls mirrored his bleak mood.
The altar stood before him on a high platform, completely carved from clear, solid rock. The legs were a bas relief of his ancestors holding aloft a giant beam for the grand chanter to sing the Songs of Sradda, the prayers of his people. Behind the religious leader was a wide block of wall, polished so that it mirrored the service taking place. It had cracked sometime when Aqin erupted, and as a result the light refracted, allowing for one person to be multiplied into a hundred. V’sair looked up, seeing his face split in two, imitating his own internal schism.
He slid into his place, a pew just like the rest, nothing decorating it to make it special. Ornamentation could distract the pious from their sole purpose of communing with the Elements. A great pit with the eternal flame of the Elements burned bright, its orange and blue flames creating a show of dancer-like movements on the smooth surface. The shadows were compact and small, and as they traveled toward the rear of the temple, they stretched to become distorted images on the wall that seemed somehow threatening. The vast chamber echoed with the hiss and crackle of the flame. His father had stripped religious houses of all ostentatiousness, insisting that in the temple all Darracians would be heard by the Elements equally.
He bowed, placing his head in his hands, praying for guidance. Positioning his fingers in the appropriate spot over his heart, he cleared his mind, letting his cares fall away so he could devote himself to finding solutions. V’sair concentrated on calling out to the Elements, picturing them, recalling the sound of Ozre’s voice, feeling nothing with the exception of his own desperation. He was missing something, his answer just out of his reach. It was as if it were one giant puzzle and the center was missing. The comet, Ozre, the nonstop rain—the solution was hovering before him in a jumble of answers that he could not sort out. He heard the echo of his whispers bounce off the polished, clear walls, but no response was returned.
At the opposite end of the temple, Chanter Brault gripped the chalice in his pudgy fingers. His lips thinned with rage, his eyes darting through the empty chapel. Weak sunlight filtered in from the tall, narrow windows, and he asked for a sign. It had been a close call, but nobody had talked. He was safe, and yet, the king was alone. Could he not finish the plan and kill him in the Temple of the Elements? Wind chimes called the faithful to prayer; the window of time would soon be lost. Brault reached under his robe to touch the hilt of his Fireblade, unused since he had been elevated to the temple. It was purely ceremonial now, and he wondered briefly, if he activated the flame, would it burn the red of his youth, or the new blue flame of Darracian justice?
He withdrew it, his eyes widening as it jumped to life, bathing his face vermillion, and he suddenly realized he didn’t care about the color anymore. He had heard that the prisoners had died, taking with them the secret of his role in the overthrow, as well as the instigator of the assassination. He walked toward the chapel, his Fireblade humming at his side, just beneath his robe. Trembling with excitement, he thought it was almost too easy.
As if the king heard him, he looked up, his face innocent in its youth, and he smiled at the chanter. “Have you come to lead me to the Elements?” V’sair asked.
Collision: The Battle for Darracia - Book 2 (The Darracia Saga) Page 6
