by Amanda Twigg
“Shall I find a bigger rock?” she asked.
“No need. This Soul bead carries plenty of power, despite its size.”
“Soul bead?” she said, stepping back. His use of the artifact wasn’t surprising after all he’d said about magic. She wondered where Father had found this soldier. His loyalty to Warrior-kind was questionable, and he’d obviously spent too long roving the remote lands alone.
“I guessed you might have a problem after that fuss over the hethra. I was hoping to light the fire before you got back, but the wind’s giving me trouble.” He hunched over his working hands to shield the spark from the breeze but without any luck. “Give me the Collector.”
It sounded like an order. She removed the knife from its sheath and let it hang by her side. The weapon was more than just a knife. She knew that. It came with a world of problems and was never intended to be shared—or to strip meat from a carcass. Her fist squeezed tight around the handle.
“Now.”
She proffered the knife, and her perception shifted. Would it be a bad turn of events if he kept the Collector? True, he had issues, but he was infinitely more capable of carrying out the chief elect duties accompanying the weapon.
Thisk locked her gaze with his own. “It can’t be passed along,” he said, as if reading her mind.
“Chief Hux passed it to me.”
“Did he? If he simply gave you the knife, then he broke with tradition.”
“It wasn’t exactly a gift.” She rubbed her bruised throat.
“Ah! That explains a lot. Are you inviting me to fight for the Collector, Chief Elect Hux?”
Can I? If you take the knife in a fair fight, will the responsibility pass to you? It was a tempting notion, and Father couldn’t complain if she lost the weapon in a legitimate challenge. Still, if the chief had wanted this responsibility to go to Thisk, it would have been easy to arrange. She stopped torturing herself with doubts and accepted the inevitable.
“Not today, Warrior Fourth.”
“I thought not. But I only want to borrow it.”
He yanked the knife out of her grip and repositioned the vegetation on top of the Soul stone. With a sharp snap, he dashed the Collector’s blade against the pebble, and incandescent pink sparks sprayed from the contact. A singing tone accompanied each strike. Landra’s sensitized aura quivered with each blow, and her mouth gaped. The reverberating ping clashed against her senses and made her skin tingle.
Stop! Please, just stop.
“Is breaking an heirloom better than losing it?” she asked.
The Warrior struck the Collector against the stone again, his aura swelling in time with the blow, and a smoldering odor rose in the wind.
“Thisk! If you break that, I might as well take myself to the remote lands now. Taking a snapped blade back to Chief Hux would be...”
Unimaginable.
He waved her concern away. “Homeworld weapons are stronger than they look, and the colored metal creates better fire. The built-in magic makes it burn hotter and longer.” Sparks flew in searing pink streaks from the Collector, and the tinder burst into flames with a pop. He dropped the wisp pile onto his twigs, and unnatural pink fire grew up around the wood.
Landra couldn’t have been more horrified if the Collector had sprouted wings. Seeing Thisk deliberately utilize its Soul power was too much to bear. She wasn’t afraid that Thisk would expose her flaw. Her sick-filled throat came from fear that he would encourage her to grow it.
“Does my father know what you do?” He glanced up at her, appearing to consider. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. Some soldiers are more sensitive to the Soul than others. He might not even be aware when magic is used.”
“But you are.” A world of accusation edged her words.
“There you go again, trying to banish me. I might have learned a few tricks on my travels, but that doesn’t make me a Templer.”
The fire roared, and Thisk offered her the Collector back. She hesitated for a moment before accepting the weapon. It surprised her that the Warrior had made Fourth, and she wondered if Chief Hux would let him keep the rank once she reported. If there was any part of her that appreciated his ideas, she buried it deep. Others might be able to dabble in old-world skills, but holding a strict soldier line was her way only to avoid discovery.
She slid her eyes shut and dared to consider the knife. Its lifeless handle sat in her palm, carrying no noticeable warmth or thrum of power.
Father carried you, along with generations of our family before. Shouldn’t I feel that in the blade?
She sensed nothing. Returning the knife to its sheath on her back, she fell into a moody silence.
“Everything good?” Thisk asked, as he plucked the bird.
She tried for an angry face and pierced him with her most vicious stare. “No. My life’s more tossed around than one of Barthle’s salads. How can anything be good?”
She settled into a snug ball in the shelter of the fence. Peeping over her knees, she watched him gut and slice the bird, spear chunks onto his sword, and then wedge the sword tip high enough into the fence so that the flames licked the meat. He stoked the fire into a greedy inferno before settling down to gaze into the heart of the flames. It seemed like he’d forgotten she was there.
The moment was peaceful, despite the whooshing wind, snapping fire, and muffled vibrations of a siren below. Swathed in padded clothes, she felt comfortable enough to reflect. The vivid colors here sparkled brighter than in the midlevel, like her father’s strong aura when he was stirred to anger. The rich sky color matched the mid-blue shade of a two-bar’s uniform rather than a deep Warrior hue. She knew this place was dangerous, but the freedom of outside held an attraction.
“Warrior Fourth Thisk?”
He jabbed the fire, but a new stiffness straightened his spine. After a moment, he fixed her with an intent brown-eyed stare.
“Yes, Chief Elect Hux?”
She gathered her courage. “Did you know my mother?”
A crease appeared at the bridge of his nose. “Does that have a bearing on your training as chief elect?”
“No, but I’ve been thinking about her recently. Do you think she died from an animal attack? Because I heard she used to work in the remote lands. A visiting cadet told me and…” Her words dwindled away.
“This is hardly appropriate, Hux. I’m here to train you. At least, I think it’s what I’m supposed to do.” He scratched his bearded cheek. “The mist knows why this job fell to me. I’m hardly suited, but here we are. As for anything else, it’s not my place to say.”
Landra sighed. “Really? Because it doesn’t seem like it’s anybody’s place to tell me what happened. After all these years, visiting cadets know more about her death than I do. I’ve imagined it happening in so many ways.”
The Warrior stared into the fire.
“Warrior Ranger Fourth Thisk, as chief elect I am asking you to tell me what happened.”
He chewed his lip, considering, and then suddenly relaxed. “Oh! For a moment, I thought you were going to give me an order. Then, I might have had to answer. If you expect to command, Hux, polite requests aren’t going to work. You need to make decisions and give orders.” He pulled the sword from the fire and examined the charred meat.
“But if my mother patrolled the remote lands, maybe—”
“Forget it,” Thisk said, steel in his voice. “I did know your mother. Loni Hux took the Warrior’s run, so if you’re thinking of finding her living in the remote lands, forget it.”
The Warrior’s run? The ceremony for desperate soldiers who wanted to end their lives in one last battle? The Warrior’s route to suicide? You left me for that?
Landra couldn’t breathe.
Surely Thisk was lying, but why would he do that? The suggestion hit her harder than any body blow. It had to be a mistake. Even considering the possibility forced tears to well, and she stiffened her face to hold them inside. He didn’t deserve the satisfaction of see
ing her pain.
“That’s not true,” she said.
Thisk kicked the fire, sending cinders twisting off on the wind. “Oh, really? You think you know more than me? I see uncertainty twisting you in knots, Hux. As chief elect, you need to focus on our society’s future, not the past. So, I’m telling you, by my Warrior’s Oath, I worked the run that day and saw your mother on the path. She died in the city on that day. Move on.”
Landra felt as chilled in her guts as she did in her toes. She couldn’t look at Thisk. Of all the ways that she’d imagined her mother dying, she’d never considered this form of abandonment or cowardice. Another excruciating agony made her shake. “You worked as a Warrior on the run? Did you kill her?”
“No! No. She wouldn’t have put me in that position. I’d guarded a couple of her engineering expeditions to New City. We lost touch, but I knew her well enough.”
“But if she’d come your way, you would have struck her?”
Thisk paused. “If she’d come my way, I would have performed my duty. It was her right to ask that of me.” His words grated, making him sound older than his true years.
Landra couldn’t hold back her tears any longer, and they streaked warm down her cold cheeks. “My father allowed this?”
“It isn’t my place to say.”
Her tears erupted into sobs.
He gave her a hopeless look, as if he didn’t know what to do with her. “Fine. The chief wasn’t in charge then, so he had no official power to stop her. I don’t know what went on between them or why she chose the run. Loni was a fine soldier and as strong-willed as they come. If things had been different, she might have been chief.”
“Really?” That’s news. “Different how? Was having children a problem?”
“Forget the self-blame. Loni took motherhood in her stride, but the council would never let her rise to the top spot. Engineers are too valuable a resource to waste on leadership.”
“Too valuable to be chief?”
“What use is a leader without a world to command?” Thisk said. “More systems turn off every day, and we have to find new ways to live on this rock.”
“If she was so valuable, why did they let her do the run?”
Honest bafflement furrowed the Warrior’s weathered brow. “I don’t know but if she’d made up her mind, I don’t think Griffin or the council could have interfered. They respected her wishes, and so must you.”
Never. Landra relived the betrayal with every breath, but Thisk was relentless.
“Griffin took you and the boy out of the junior barracks straight after her run and has kept you close ever since. Many soldiers think too close.”
“Like you?”
“I did say that, but I’m only the Fourth.”
Landra wanted to rage at the Warrior, but none of this was his fault. She’d wanted the truth, and he’d supplied it without censor. Now, she wanted to shout and scream, but she choked it all inside. Vague memories of leaving the barracks came back, but no one had ever mentioned her mother’s death. That news had come later. Pain welled inside her, and she exploded in another sob. Thisk sighed and turned away to stare into the fire. The wavy edges of his aura thinned and fluctuated, as if her emotions unsettled him. A wonderful smell rose from the cooked bird, and she resented its intoxicating aroma. How dare something smell so good when she felt so betrayed? She couldn’t remember her mother’s touch or the lilt of her voice. She’d lost her long ago, but now her treasured image had been destroyed too. She wanted to kick the fire to cinders, but instead she hugged her knees tighter. Thisk ignored her outburst, and she was grateful for the space. If the Warrior thought emotions made her weak, that was his problem. He’d been there when her mother had died. Maybe he could have stopped it. He was the nearest target for her anger, and she didn’t care about his opinion anymore. She sat clenched tight until he served up the food.
The bird was the most delicious meat she’d tasted and, at the same time, the most gagging. They finished it quickly, drank water from Thisk’s bottle, and cleared away like a storm was coming. The Warrior whisked up his belongings and set out toward the heart of Central City, where a copse of treetops rose through the midlevel. He spared no look to see if she followed.
Landra glanced back at the Hux Hall shaft then scrambled after him. She joined his march, which was both forced and silent. As the trees neared, she dared to ask, “Where are we going?”
Thisk didn’t look at her to deliver the news.
“The temple.”
Chapter 13
The direct path to ring seven took less than ten minutes to reach, and Landra still hadn’t gathered her thoughts when they arrived at the shaft door. She’d avoided temple visits for so long it was hard to know what to expect. Sweat moistened her palms inside her gloves.
“Do we have to do this?”
“No, we can go home,” Thisk answered.
“Great.”
“But I won’t trust you as chief elect if we do.”
He stamped his boot heel on the trap door.
She sighed and sank inside her cloak, waiting for the panel to open. Almost at once, it swung over and crashed to the roof. A guard’s head and sword tip peeped out from the hole. “Identify yourselves.”
“Ranger Warrior Fourth, seeking permission to enter,” Thisk said. “Returning from overlevel duties with my apprentice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Apprentice?” Landra asked, once the guard had disappeared.
“It works for now.”
They clambered down the shaft and deposited their outer garments in a laundry crate. Landra’s citizen uniform was more creased than she liked, but stripping in front of the Warrior wasn’t going to happen. She flattened her uniform fabric and brushed her used hat over her boots.
Thisk settled his dark curls over his insignia and set his sword on one hip. The weapon looked ready for action rather than a display of power, but if this was an attempt at anonymity, Landra judged it would fail. His uniform held the dust of years and couldn’t fail to attract attention, but it wasn’t his clothing or the insignia badge pinned to his collar that would give him away. The ranger carried himself like a man who expected to be obeyed.
She watched him firm and darken his aura as if he were adopting a different character, and she wondered if he knew what he did. Not likely. His free-flowing colors had rippled unchecked on the overlevel, but now they condensed to a hard-edged ring around his body, like uneven armor.
“Stay close and don’t talk to anyone,” he said as they emerged onto the concourse.
Landra clamped her mouth so tight she had to breathe through her nose. They passed
a darkened pod station and made their way down a gentle slope, where a smattering of red robes broke up the soldiers’ blue uniforms.
“I thought there’d be more Templers,” she whispered.
“You won’t find many out here. Most have their movements restricted to inside the temple.”
He gripped her shoulder like she were a runaway child, but the control was preferable to him marching off again, especially here where she felt misplaced. As he nudged her farther down the ramp, a tickling sensation crawled over her skin like swarming ants.
Something’s wrong. Dread—fear. What the…?Not my own.
She shuddered, panic suddenly cramping her heart. Nothing made sense. Thisk’s aura crowded her space, battering her Soul with agitated fluttering. A flash of red robes headed for them, and the Warrior’s apprehension rattled through her as clearly as if it were her own. The grizzled ranger, who could survive the planet’s worst and wasn’t against using magical artifacts, found something so unsettling about Soul practitioners that he would rather be elsewhere. Anywhere.
So, it’s not just me. Why did we come here, Thisk?
She couldn’t ask. The Warrior’s purposeful stride didn’t betray his feelings, but his aura broadcast his distrust unchecked. She couldn’t help admiring his outward bravado.
The re
d-robed figure closed in, skimming by as if they were invisible. His face hid beneath a baggy hood, but a brush from his wan blue aura flashed more awareness through Landra’s consciousness than she wanted. His thoughts were… No, not his thoughts. These were her thoughts now.
Tyrants, the lot of you. Die, soldiers. Die.
Landra absorbed the vile hatred into her Soul, taking the bitterness and resentment as her own. And here was Thisk: powerful, dominating, and the enemy.
Kill!
She reached for the Collector.
Stab him. Plunge the knife into his heart. Watch his blood drain to the floor and the light dim from his eyes. Quick.
The Templer kept walking. One stride, two strides, and he disappeared into the crowd. His violent thoughts went with him. Landra stemmed a squeal as the murderous impulse drained away.
What the shelk?
She brushed her wayward hand over her scalp and slowed her heavy breathing. The Collector still sat in its sheath, and a glance up at the ranger sensed no recognition of the terrible assault she’d been about to commit.
Her aura ranged in swirling threads, and it couldn’t be left that way. This is dangerous. What if it touches another Soul? What if…? Take control.
She sucked in a breath, as if to draw her aura close—useless. Echoes of the alien emotions still haunted her memory, and the trembling reached her fingers. Do something. On impulse, she recited a math problem to shut out invading thoughts.
Two times one equals two. Two times two equals four.
Her aura responded to the logical reasoning by settling into orderly patterns. She found some peace. As she mentally chanted, her aura’s surrounding colors folded in and bound tight to her frame, giving her a chance to breathe. She glanced up at Thisk, but another snatch of his distrust wafted over her.
Two times three equals six. Peace. Oh, Thisk, is this mutual fear and hatred you wanted me to see—feel?
“I’ve seen enough now,” she told him, but the Warrior guided her to the back of a snaking queue, which led to the temple.
“Hardly,” he said. “This is your chance to face the fear of magic, soldier. I had thought to spend a night in the local flop shop. Now, I’m thinking to get this over with. We’ll go inside the temple and be on our way.”
