ElyriasEcstasy

by Amber Jayne

  It occurred to Urna as he sat up that he really didn’t know his age. Nor Rune’s. That was just another piece missing from the overall memory puzzle.

  Whatever else, though, he felt rested. He was still sitting in the open-air carriage but it had stopped moving. Bongo was no longer beside him and that gave him a little jolt. His military instincts asserted themselves quickly, however, and he surveyed his surroundings.

  The transport was halted at another platform. This one was different from the first one. It was lit with several torches, which cast a warm flickering ambience. And there were quite a number of people milling about, some two dozen or so.

  More than a few of these figures were looking at him. Others, engaged in conversation with one another, sneaked periodic peeks at him. The driver was no longer at the sled’s controls and Urna didn’t see him among the crowd. He was much more concerned with Bongo’s whereabouts.

  He rose and stepped onto the platform. It was clean, its stony surface swept, though its age still showed. The light showed Urna how blocky columns supported the roof. Symbols that he didn’t recognize were painted on the walls. They had a bizarre artistic look to them and they were drawn with vibrant colors.

  Urna paused in his scanning of the scene when he spotted one among the symbols that he did recognize, though it took a small mental effort to realize where he’d seen it before. A complex curlicue. Just like that tattoo Bongo had.

  As if the thought had summoned him, Bongo stepped out from behind one of the pillars and strode toward him, grinning.

  “You’re awake!” Bongo crowed, as though the fact required celebrating.

  “How long was I out?” Urna asked, still feeling adrift, time-wise.

  Bongo halted before him. “We pulled in maybe ten minutes ago. We both slept the whole way. Must’ve been an hour.”

  An hour. Urna tried to estimate what distance they’d covered, remembering the speed of the transport, but the calculation was beyond him.

  “But anyway,” Bongo said, gesturing grandly, “we’re here!”

  “Great. Want to tell me where ‘here’ is?”

  Urna’s flat tone didn’t dampen the other’s grin. “It’s one of the junction points. A place where travelers can meet, rest up, get some hot food. You hungry?”

  Waving away the question, Urna asked, “I mean, where are we in relation to what’s above? What part of the Safe?”

  “I could show you on a map. Would that really matter, though? This is the underworld, sweetheart!” He laughed.

  Urna noted the man’s ebullient mood. He wondered if he’d already gotten his hands on some alcohol. The others on the platform were still sneaking looks at him, evidently intrigued. Made sense, Urna thought. They probably didn’t get a whole lot of former Weapons riding their rails.

  He still wanted some concrete information, though, and so asked, “You’ve been down here before?”

  Bongo shook his head. “I’ve known about it, though. In fact, I’m the only one from back at that town who did know about the underground.”

  “You’re something special in the—the Order of Maji, then?” The name still sounded vaguely foolish to Urna.

  Pulling on the collar of his shirt to reveal the edge of the red corkscrewing tattoo, Bongo said, “I wear the sign of magic. You don’t get one of these if you just dabble, if you’re some muttering wannabe revolutionary who’s just envious of the Lux’s wealth and wishes he was one of them.”

  “And now the Guard know your name. From that pass at the checkpoint.”

  “The name was fake. And it’s not like I haven’t had the Guard on my ass before. Don’t worry about me.”

  “You people are organized?” Urna hadn’t quite meant that to be a question.

  Bongo arched a blond eyebrow. “Got your ass out of town, didn’t we?”

  Urna managed to keep from frowning. He silently granted that Bongo’s group had more or less effected his escape, but he had many more questions about the Maji, about how widespread this society might be and how their beliefs figured into things. Could it be that all these people assembled here on this platform—and who knew how many others—really believed in magic? Did they accept the Farsafe as an absolute reality?

  Instead, he asked, sweeping a hand broadly, “What do your people use all this for, then? This underground.”

  “It’s more what it will be used for,” a sedate feminine voice cut in. The woman stepped around Bongo, a head shorter than the green-eyed male. Her hair was a vivid disarrayed red, inevitably suggesting flames licking up from her skull. Prominent cheekbones drew her face into an elegant mask. Her small, rounded chin pointed slightly upward, and her eyes were large, almost oversized. She was quite striking, exuding an air of calm authority.

  Urna felt a vague urge to perform some sort of ritual greeting or acknowledgment, realizing only after a second or two that it was the same instilled impulse from the military—the reflex to salute an officer.

  Covering his surprise at his own reaction, he asked her, “In that case, what’ll you use these tunnels for? Future tense.”

  She smiled, and it was a beatific smile, brimming with peace and wisdom, despite that she looked no older than twenty-five or so. She wore sturdy work clothes that couldn’t entirely hide the litheness of her shape.

  Instead of answering, she turned that smile on Bongo. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’ve done well in bringing him this far.” Her words were couched in a tone of gentle dismissal.

  Bongo actually dipped his head in an approximation of a bow. Shooting Urna a last look, he withdrew, going off to mingle with the others.

  “My name is Kath.”

  “I’m Urna.”

  Laugh lines appeared briefly at the corners of her large eyes but she made no audible murmur of laughter. “Yes, Weapon Urna. Everyone here knows your name.”

  “I’m not Weapon anymore.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Kath. “Care to come with me, to where we can talk?”

  Her offer aroused a different instinct this time. Urna found he had to clear his throat before he could say, “Yes. Yeah, I’d like that.”

  * * * * *

  Hearing pounding on one’s door in the middle of the night was never a good thing. Fortunately, at least, Virge Temple wasn’t asleep. She hadn’t even dragged herself up to her loft yet, too restless for bed. Instead she’d been sitting in her cluttered front room, draining the last of the Fire from its bottle, wishing she had more of the fine stuff. Probably she should’ve gone with some rotgut to put her to sleep. This was reminding her too much of Bongo. They had shared this bottle the last time they’d fucked.

  Well, hopefully not the last time ever, she amended a little wistfully. Her feelings surprised her. Hadn’t she always thought of Bongo as exasperating, irresponsible?

  There was no denying, though, that he had quickly organized a plot to smuggle Urna out of town. Whether that had worked or not…

  A second round of hammering started on her house’s front door. In the ill-lit room, Virge lurched to her feet and started toward it. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her jaw setting. Probably this was the Guard. That meant trouble. More serious trouble than usual, most likely.

  When she undid the lock, the person on the other side didn’t wait for her to pull open the door. Instead, the intruder burst through, causing Virge to stagger back a step. Anger surged within her. Fucking Guard!

  But this wasn’t a Guard member, much less the expected squad of black-clad enforcers. Rather, it was Vika who’d stormed in and now turned to hastily shut the door behind her. She was breathing hard, hunched over from exertion. It took a moment before the woman with the head of graying stubble could straighten and address Virge. Vika was one of Bongo’s cohorts. Virge was barely more pleased to find her in her home than the Guard. She had no liking for the gruff woman, who’d left an unpleasant impression on her previous visit.

  “You’ve probably…” Vika heaved another brea
th. Her nose was running. “Probably got less than ten minutes. The Guard are trashing your lab.”

  The haze of alcohol instantly burned away. Virge grabbed hold of the bigger woman’s shoulders. “What did you say?”

  Vika didn’t repeat it. “We created a little commotion earlier, to draw away the local garrison of Guard. It worked. Urna and Bongo got past the checkpoint. But they had to take out a Guard there. Now, somebody high up has figured out that smoke means fire. A whole unit of Guard have rolled into town. We’ve had scouts out all night. The Guard went straight for your lab and—and—” Vika swiped at her runny nose. “You’ve got less than ten minutes before they come here, looking for you. Call it five, just to be safe.”

  The thought of Guard tramping through her laboratory, upsetting things—trashing it, Vika had said. It felt like a blow. Like physical trauma. So much of herself she’d put into that place, the research, the concocting of medicines. To have it damaged, even ruined…it was almost impossible to imagine.

  Now, though, was no time for contemplation. If the Guard were willing to destroy her lab, which was valuable to the military and thereby to the Lux, then they wouldn’t handle her any more gently. No mere questioning session for her this time. No possibility of a hapless ally like Nick Daphral. She’d be shackled and thrown in a dark hole, maybe even tortured.

  Tonight was an ending. She could meet that end. Or she could flee. Run away, like Urna had run.

  Would that the Weapon had picked some other laboratory to raid, she thought grimly. But she didn’t dwell on it. No time for bitterness either. She had to act.

  In the space of three minutes she’d gathered clothes, a few essential papers, the very last food in the house, and stuffed it all into a bag. She grabbed her coat, hoping Vika here had a plan in mind. Hoping it ultimately worked out as well or better than the one that had apparently gotten Urna and Bongo out of town.

  She nodded tightly to Vika, who opened the door and led the chemist out onto the curfewed streets.

  * * * * *

  A floral scent pervaded the snug room, one Urna couldn’t identify. What the hell did he know about flowers, anyway? But it was pleasant, a warm odor laced with the promise of budding life, of vivid colors aching to burst forth.

  He shook his head, amused at these atypically poetic thoughts as Kath drew the beaded curtain closed behind him. Really, this wasn’t a room so much as a nook. He suspected that if you stripped out all the cushions and colorful wall hangings you’d be left with little more than a stony hollow. Obviously these were the quarters of those who lived in and tended to this elaborate underground.

  Kath—or whoever had decorated it—had made the space quite habitable. They’d walked together to the far end of the platform then through a short series of interconnecting tunnels. The hubbub of conversation was far behind. It was quiet here.

  “Sit, if you like,” Kath said, gesturing. She seated herself on a faded but still cheerful pillow. A few random furnishings were wedged into the corners. Cupboards and boxes. A candle glowed on a small stand. The flowery scent, Urna realized only now, was rising from that candle. The wax had somehow been treated to release the odor.

  He sat cross-legged on a cushion immediately opposite Kath. He felt a kind of sure calm coming over him and wondered if he were merely taking some subliminal cue from this female who exuded such a serene air. She gave him her enchanting smile again. He did his best to return it.

  “You’re Order of Maji too?” he asked, even though she’d invited no questions.

  Kath nodded. “As is everyone you’ve seen since coming below.”

  “And, uh,” he looked around again, but the room held no clues, “what does the Order do, exactly?” When she didn’t respond immediately he felt the need to add, “Bongo’s told me something of it. Magic above technology. You oppose the Lux.”

  She picked up on his hesitation and offered a soothing gesture. “I know you’re not with the Lux, Urna. We have a few contacts among the Guard. Word of your escape and the subsequent search has spread through their ranks. I daresay that such gossip will be reaching the general population soon, if you’re not recaptured.”

  Daresay? Urna smiled at the quaintness of the word, at the easy flow of her speech.

  “Besides,” Kath went on, turning to reach behind her, “people are going to start to notice when you stop appearing on the broadcast screens. Without Passenger kill numbers from Urna and Rune, who shall the common folk cheer for? Tea?” She turned back with a pot and two cups.

  “Yes,” Urna murmured, unsure if her mention of his and Rune’s popular mission statistics was some sort of condemnation or not. Could she disapprove of the killing of Passengers, those monstrous creatures from the Black Ship? Who could object to their slaughter?

  He accepted a cup of the tea, tepid but strongly flavored. He watched as Kath savored a sip, closing her eyes briefly. Opening them again, she said in a more forthright manner than before, “The Order of the Maji is as old as the Order of the Lux. So our lore says. We base our trust in magic, yes, while the Lux embrace industrial science, mechanics. I don’t say one way is good and the other evil, although you could find people on both sides to make that argument. But we’ve chosen our way and it serves us.”

  “To do what?” Urna winced slightly at his own emphatic tone. Then again, why should he care about being rude? Being delicate with other people’s feelings wasn’t his usual way. But oddly, he did care.

  Kath, evidently taking no offense, said, “We’re preparing. We’re getting the Safe ready. It’s slow work, but I’ve seen progress, even in just the last few years. A decade ago this underground wasn’t remotely operational. Now we’ve got a substantial range of movement. When the time comes, we can transport people, supplies, weapons.”

  “Weapons? Really?”

  The laugh lines came to the corners of her eyes once more. “You thought we were pacifists?”

  He shrugged, sipped more tea, enjoying its taste. “It’s just that Bongo, on the way here, was awfully insistent that we not kill a Guard.”

  “We’re not interested in death where it can be avoided. I wouldn’t say that’s a philosophical stance, precisely. There is a lot of practicality in not wanting to partake in any rampant slaughters.”

  Again Urna wondered if that was indirectly aimed at his former career as Weapon and Passenger slayer. Why, he wondered, was he being so sensitive about that all of a sudden?

  The Maji, then, were a group of true rebels—or at least preparing to become rebels, presumably when the time was ripe. They had to be serious. This underground network was proof. But how much of a threat to the Lux were they really? He couldn’t say. All he was sure about at the moment was that this woman impressed him. She had the bearing of a leader. Not a military commander perhaps, but then again, maybe the coming conflict between Lux and Maji wouldn’t call for militaristic means. Maybe it was a whole different brand of warfare that was planned.

  Or maybe he was reading far too much into what little solid information he’d gotten from the red-haired woman.

  “So,” he said, draining his tea cup, “for now your people—what? Resist the Lux in subtle ways. You abet fugitive Weapons?”

  Kath answered with a laugh, light and sweet, like chimes. “You’re the first of those, Urna. Though I hope not the last.”

  He set down the cup. His gaze wandered the walls. Intricate tapestries were hung there. Some depicted symbols and characters like those painted on the walls surrounding the platform where their transport had halted.

  “Well, good luck to you,” he said. Then added wryly, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  A hand alit upon his knee. Her touch was soft but he could feel the individual pressures of each fingertip. “We’ll let you know how you can help—later,” she said, with a first hint of huskiness in her tranquil voice.

  She was leaning slightly toward him. Urna made up the distance, stooping forward a bit. The tips of their noses
grazed and he drew in her scent, an aroma more animated than the floral fragrance emanated by the candle. When she blinked he felt her lashes brush his own. A soft tingling crossed his scalp, starting at the widow’s peak of his long silver hair. Their foreheads butted gently. She shifted, skimming one high cheekbone against him.

  When their kiss finally came it held promise and mystery, pulled by a delicious undercurrent of uncertainty. Maybe this was all it was to be, Urna thought as his lips made contact with hers for the first time. It was a still, tender touching, without ravenous movement, without the sudden needy urgency to which he was more accustomed. Such had been his way with women. Women had been brought to his room for him to fuck. None of them had ever offered him a dainty kiss then retreated without opening her body wholly to him.

  But it might this time. Which was why he was careful to note the kiss, to absorb its every detail, to commit to memory the feel of these particular lips—moist, but still chastely shut—pressing lightly on his own. It was an almost electrical contact. Intense. Exquisite.

  When that connection ended, Urna felt himself still adrift, still savoring. His eyes had closed. The sensuality of the moment remained acute, almost excruciating.

  “Come…” she said, and a hand pulled upon his hand. Rising and scuttling a few steps, they settled together onto a mound of soft pillows which must be her bed. She came into his arms and he held her, pressing her tightly atop him, feeling the sweet, taut curves of her body even through the coarse work clothes she wore.

  With a quick series of wriggles and flexings, she shed the clothing. Her flesh was drum-tight, the musculature beneath somehow delicate and durable at the same time. She had a paleness that rivaled his own, offset in startling manner by the vibrancy of her flame-colored hair. Urna’s hands roved her body and again he appreciated its every swell and line as though he must commit it to his mind. High on her left buttock, he saw a tattoo very like Bongo’s, the curlicue that represented magic, he’d said.