by Amanda Twigg
A tickle on her senses snapped her thoughts to the present, and she opened her eyes. The old soldier stood behind the plaque, a few strides away. He wore the aura of a Templer, despite his uniform, and he definitely wasn’t dead.
Her hand flew from the plaque, as if she’d been caught in a guilty act. He didn’t look dangerous, with his gnarled hand leaning too heavily on a stick and his stooped frame looking ready to crumble. One blow of breath would topple him. Yet his presence unnerved her.
She looked for his rank, but his long wisps of sprouting white hair weren’t abundant enough to sport an insignia. He lacked the tattoo bald soldiers favored, and his collar badge was missing, making him the first rankless soldier she’d met.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you there.”
He peered sightlessly from cloudy grey eyes, but she could have sworn that he’d singled her out from the other visitors. A chuckle shook his shoulders, ending in a coughing fit that sprayed spit across the plaque. As his shuddering eased, he turned his sightless gaze on Landra.
“I saw you,” he said. “I see you!”
Landra’s mouth flapped wordlessly as she tried to form a response. Confusion had obviously taken the poor soldier, but his ominous greeting sent echoes of fear through her body and a shout from behind made her jump.
“You moving or what?” a cadet said. “We all need to see the message, or what’s the point of being here?”
The interruption gave her a wonderful excuse to escape, and she couldn’t do it soon enough. Protocol made her stand to attention. “Good day, soldier,” she said, fully intending to back away and run back down the ramp at a disrespectful speed.
“I’ve not seen a good day in these many years,” he answered. “Do an old veteran a favor and see me back to my seat before you go, dear. I’m not as steady as I used to be, and I’ve tumbled once today already. This old body’s just about done, seems to me.”
Landra froze like an animal stuck in magic-light. Shelk to the mist and back. Why did I speak instead of escaping? Now she felt required to assist the man, and his claim to veteran status made her doubly obligated. She weighed that with Thisk’s order to keep to the track, view the plaque, and come straight back. It didn’t allow for deviations, and she was certain his instruction meant no conversations either, but she’d already broken that rule.
Rounding the plaque, she approached the veteran, but she paused at the limit of his aura rather than breach its boundary. His head wobbled in a knowing nod. Up close, the old training scars ridging his paper-thin skin were obvious, documenting a life of soldiering, at odds with his blazing aura.
“Two-bar soldier Oakham,” he introduced himself.
“Citizen Landra,” she offered, conscious of the furor her Hux name would cause in the temple.
Oakham lifted his free elbow in a request for help, and she moved into his space to support his arm. His aura shrank from the contact, pinching tight to his body and making the color deepen. She tightened her own aura, and the two-colored shapes buffeted against each other like swords on stone.
The old man weighed nothing on her arm and a stoop made his head dip to her shoulder, but she suspected he’d been taller in his youth.
“What are you doing here, soldier?” she asked, relaxing into her task. “A veteran like you deserves to be home, resting in the barracks.”
“Home,” he said, the full, round utterance conjuring an impression of contentment. Then, his entire body shuddered. “I can’t go home. Anyway, my place is here, on guard duty.”
“Guard duty? You mean someone assigned you this job?” She paused in her stride and looked into Oakham’s glazed eyes. They disappeared into the sockets of his wizened face, and she bridled at the inexcusable misuse of the veteran. “Who gave you this duty?” she asked, meaning to report the brute to Father.
“Chief Hux, of course.”
“No! That can’t be true. You’re confused, old man. Chief Hux doesn’t abuse old soldiers.”
“Oh yes, it’s true. Gallanto stood right where you are and assigned me sentry duty. I remember the moment like it was yesterday. Then everything changed, and life turned to shelk.”
Landra wondered if he believed what he was saying. The sooner he settled into the medical barracks, the better. She wanted to guide him down the ramp, but he looked unlikely to make it to the bottom, so she encouraged him back to the chair, thinking to bring help.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” she said in her gentlest voice. “Gallanto died nearly fifty years ago.”
“Ah!”
Oakham stooped lower and rubbed the back of his neck as if it hurt. “Is it really that long? My memory tricks me sometimes, but I still recall older times. Not that I want to. It was a sad day when my chief died, and I try to forget. The coughing illness took him. No one thought it could fell a man built like a barrel tree, but he went in less than a cycle. I think he missed Meftah too much to muster any fight.”
Landra waited patiently at Oakham’s side, hiding the storm of emotions raging in her Soul. Could you have really worked for my great-grandfather? She tried to work the numbers back, and it did seem possible.
Oakham turned his blind gaze on her again, saying, “You have his eyes and his Soul. I’d have known you were his, even if it were a hundred years from now and a million miles away.”
Her grip tightened on the old man’s arm, and her mouth dried. He had to be guessing. His milky eyes were too dull to take in her likeness, so she couldn’t think how he’d made the jump to her identity. More than ever, she wanted to get him back to his seat so she could leave.
She contained her anxiety during the final slow steps to the chair. Turning him slowly, she supported his elbow and eased him down. As she let go of his arm, he toppled sideways, and it seemed like there would be no escape. Too nice. She reached to catch him. Damn Thisk to shelk.
Oakham rested his head on the great tree trunk and set his flat palm on the silver bark. His eyes were closed, and he took on the grey look of a man who may never wake up, yet his aura churned with life.
A faint groan rumbled in his throat. He coughed and then spoke without opening his eyes, as if drawing words from far away. “Guard duty was easier when Gallanto first gave the order. There were five of us then, so we could take it in shifts. Ballam, Clipper, and… shelk. Darndest thing, not being able to remember my friends’ names. They died over the years till I was the only one left. I pledged to do this duty for Chief Hux, so I had to stay. I’m the last sentry.”
Too many details rang true in his fairy tale. Landra knew she shouldn’t stay to listen to his ramblings. It was dangerous and Thisk would be furious, but there was something compelling about hearing stories of her great-grandfather. If Oakham had really worked for Gallanto, he could share family details not known elsewhere. It was too great an opportunity to miss. She kneeled at his side, cautioning herself to expect disappointment. His memory was patchy and possibly untrue.
“You had a team of soldiers to protect the plaque?” she prompted.
“Not the plaque, dear. No, no. Not the plaque. That came later. Our team was here to guard the portal. Of course, we needn’t have bothered. After exile, no one left on base had enough magic to work the darned thing. We didn’t have to worry about escapees, and them shelking buggers on the home planet weren’t about to come back to rescue anyone. We always hoped, of course. All of us had relatives on Jethra, and we thought, for sure, one of ‘em would change their minds and come back. I think that’s what broke us, knowing our families wanted us stranded here.”
Oakham’s tale offered a personal view of Warrior exiling that Landra had never found in textbooks. She felt his anger and sense of betrayal through his aura, and fury churned her gut. Two times ten equals twenty. The exercise helped her relax. She couldn’t begrudge her people’s heavy editing of history texts. If everyone shared this outrage, there would be no way to keep the peace.
“The chief scaled down the temples
when he realized they weren’t coming back,” Oakham continued.
“Why keep them open at all?” she asked. “Was it to keep the power running?”
“Not really. The Templers stocked the well with enough magic to run the base for generations.”
“So, why protect the temples with Eternal Law.”
“Ah, bless him. Gallanto never gave up hope of opening the portal and going home.”
“It still works?”
“Who knows?” the old man said “We’ve never mustered enough magic between us to find out. Never will now.”
He shook his head, as if to break free of painful memories. “Anyway, enough of old-world nonsense. It’s all in the past. What goes on in our cities?” He still hadn’t opened his eyes, and his skin remained grey. A rattling noise accompanied each of his breaths.
Landra didn’t know which of his tales to believe and became lost in wondering. The soldier broke her daydream by setting a hand on her shoulder. It wasn’t Thisk’s controlling grip but the tender touch of an elderly relative. His eyes opened, and his milky gaze turned on her, asking the question again. “How’s my city?”
“Oh!” she sighed. “You know. Same as usual. Warriors fear Templers; Templers resent Warriors. It never gets better.”
Sadness wrinkled more lines into Oakham’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that. It wasn’t so black and white in my day, or I should say red and blue. Time was we were one people.” His head drooped forward, and she thought he’d fallen asleep. “I always thought I’d go home,” he said, raising his head as if it carried an unbearable weight. Tears tracked down his cheeks.
“I can take you home. Which barracks are you in?”
His face creased with enough pity to bring a flush of embarrassment to Landra’s cheeks.
“I wasn’t born on base, dear. My home is on Jethra, running through long grass on sunny days, skinny-dipping in the light pool, and growing elba trees for Mother.” His shoulders heaved, and a twisted sob added more tears to his face. “She’s dead now, of course, and I never said goodbye. Not properly. Not the way I would have if I’d known.”
Landra gasped. Considering Oakham’s age, it was obvious he’d lived when travel between the base and Jethra was still possible. Until now, homeworld tales had held almost mythical status in her mind. She stayed silent to allow him to recover.
“It’s home to all of us and we should be there, but if those of us left can’t work together, there’s no hope of survival. Thank the mist, I’ve not long for this world. Seeing the end would tear me apart. I’ve held this line for so long and...” His words dwindled away. The old man sounded more bewildered with each revelation, yet his story came alive with more sense at the telling.
“You make it sound hopeless,” Landra said, irritated at his dismissal of base life. This was the world she knew and had been chosen to lead. “We’ve survived exile for seventy years. There’s no reason why that shouldn’t continue.”
“I see youthful hope in your face,” he said, a futile note creeping into his words. It sounded condescending.
“What do you know, old man? There’s more than a decade’s cloud over your eyes, so stop talking as if you can see.”
Oakham’s jaw sagged open as if words would fall out, but he hesitated.
“I see,” he said. “But not with my eyes.”
Chapter 17
Landra had always worried she’d meet someone else with aura sight. Her nerves jangled as she assessed the implications of Oakham’s words. Can you see my magic, old man? Will you give me away?
“I need to show you something,” he said.
Digging his walking stick into a flooring panel, he levered himself up and tottered around the tree. Tap, tap. The stick echoed as it hit the floor. “Coming?”
Thisk was a hard man to read, but it didn’t take an academy education to know he would expect obedience. She should head back now, but leaving Oakham felt dangerous. He knew too much.
She touched the Collector at her back, more aware than ever of the responsibility it carried. Her duty was to Chief Hux and the people, not Thisk. She couldn’t allow the old soldier to jeopardize her position. It was unlikely anyone would believe his ramblings, but she had to be sure.
She followed him around the tree, thinking to convince him to silence. Failing that… Landra didn’t know what she would do if her plan failed. A quick glance back showed a cadet had given up on her leaving the platform and was viewing the plaque. Pilgrims blocked her view of Thisk, and she decided that was for the best.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Oakham smiled and linked elbows for support. “Into the pit.” He cocked his head toward the platform’s edge, pushed a barrier aside with his stick, and led her down a narrow path. It spiraled around a tree trunk in a downward slope, so she gripped him tight in case he fell.
“Soldier Oakham?” she said, not quite sure how to broach her concerns.
“Save your questions, dear.”
Teeth grinding, she kept walking. She couldn’t interrogate the man here or order him to silence. Humor him. Gain his support. As they descended, the tap, tap of his stick sounded louder than the fading music.
“One of my jobs is to check the reservoir levels,” he said. “I’ve not made it down for years, so it’ll be good to perform my duty one last time. I think Chief Hux would be proud.”
She knew he wasn’t referring to Father. Gallanto was his chief. It didn’t seem like checking the level should take long, so she didn’t argue. At the first bend, Oakham rested heavily on her arm and pointed his stick to a dark line on the tree trunk.
“The magic reached here when I was a boy. Stinging stuff, that shelking gunk. You had to watch yer ankles or it’d bubble right over the platform and splash yer boots.”
His stick touched the scummy red line unerringly. Above the mark, the tree bark gleamed silver, but pitted discoloration scarred the area below. Landra thought it a wonder the trees survived. She stared in silence, her curiosity starting to ride rough shod over sense. She had to admit she wanted to hear Oakham’s tale.
With a shake of his shoulders to bring him back to the present, the old man continued down the slope with his stick sounding tap, tap.
“I’d seen twenty summers the first time I left Jethra,” he said. “Second-year cadets weren’t usually allowed to visit the base, but I came over as the chief’s runner.”
“You were a soldier in the academy?”
“Do you doubt it?”
Oakham’s red-stained aura and unnatural sight suited Templer life more, but Landra wouldn’t admit her reservations. “So, you came as a runner,” she said.
“Yep! Truth to tell, I was happy to escape the war back home.”
His aura swirled, fitting tight to his body where their arms linked and melding around Landra’s aura in other places. She couldn’t tell whether it was an accident or something he controlled.
“War?” she asked. “I never heard about a war.”
“Lots happened that’s been forgotten or locked away. Like how Warriors were exiled for their sins.”
Without planning to, Landra stuttered to a halt. If any characteristic defined Warrior-kind, it was honor. “The history books don’t talk of sins,” she said, not sure whether Oakham had drifted into fantasy again.
“And they won’t. Not many books survived the Year Four purge, and what we have now was written by Warriors. But that’s me being bitter. Truth to tell, I don’t think anyone did sin.”
“What are you rambling about, old man?”
“It was a difference of opinion, that’s all. The Sevion race invaded our lands back home on Jethra. Warriors wanted to fight. Templers had other ideas and brokered a peace deal. Our enemies insisted on exile as part of the treaty.” He took a big breath. “I think I’m ready to walk a bit more now.” Tap, tap. His stick echoed as they rounded another bend.
Landra was torn between wanting to believe Oakham’s story and fearing his version of
the truth. The talk of a peace treaty resonated too closely with her present. “What was Jethra like?”
“Big. Warm. Colorful.”
He stopped to point at another scummy line. “Can you read the number, dear?” Even my aura sight is failing now.”
She couldn’t believe how easily he admitted his magic. Rather than make an issue of his admission, she examined the tree trunk. Her keen eyes picked out the flowing script drawn onto the bark. “Seventeen, I think. It’s a bit blurry.”
“Sounds about right. This was the reservoir level last time I came down.” He thumped his stick on the path. “Best see how far it’s dropped.”
Landra peered down, wondering how far there was to go. Scarred and rotting tree roots wound around them as they descended. Cloying hot air hugged Landra’s skin, and a foul stench of decay reached the back of her throat and nose. Every breath sucked in hot foulness. She tried licking the taste away, but bitterness clung to her tongue.
“When I was young, children were trained in both temple doings and soldier craft,” Oakham said. “Didn’t matter their inclination. Take me. Was born with an aura blue as they come, my mamma said. Years of schooling and I took up some understanding of Soul magic. Even developed the sight. Not a common thing to have Soul sight, even amongst Templers of the old days.”
Trying to calm her racing heart, Landra matched Oakham’s slow pace, forced her breaths into long even sighs, and mentally ordered her stomach to silence. She’d never imagined a soldier would expose her secret, let alone kind, frail Oakham. He voiced his magic so openly she didn’t see how to convince him to keep her secret. It’s not possible. Sweat broke on her skin, and a traitorous thought urged her to leave him down here. No one will find him until it’s too late. Can’t. Won’t. Too nice?
The oozing reservoir lapped against the spiral path a short way down from their position. Oakham tugged her toward the well’s edge, and a sweet berry-fruit smell wafted up from the liquid, masking the rotting tree odor. He halted, still tapping his stick in an ominous rhythm. Tap, tap. Tap. Tap, tap.
