by Amanda Twigg
“Then don’t,” Gallanto said. “Stay here.”
“And who will fight to bring you home? Chief Templer Albys will close the portal for good if he gets his way, and that scene you caused at the council vote didn’t help. He holds you responsible for starting the war with the Sevions.
“Those dratted leeches invaded! Was I supposed to stand by and let them take our lands? Look how many of our people they killed.”
Meftah laid her flat palm against Gallanto’s cheek. “No, Gall, you did what you had to do, but Albys thinks we should have negotiated sooner. The killing didn’t start until our army confronted them.”
“Until I confronted them! Do you agree with Albys? Can’t you see the Sevions are sharp swords in feather sheaths? They sweet-talk the temple council, but given a chance, they’ll turn and crush you. I’m sure of it, and who will be there to protect you when all our finest Warriors are exiled up here?”
“This isn’t exile, Gall. It’s a pause. Negotiations couldn’t continue with you at home fueling the fire of confrontation.”
“I ask again,” Gallanto said, “if the Sevions turn nasty, who will protect our people?”
“We Templers have a few tricks locked up in our staffs. You know that better than anyone. If things get bad, we can use our magic, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Bide your time, Gall. They’ve agreed to talk once you’re here, and when we reach an agreement, we can bring you all back.”
“Is that where Albys will go with the negotiations? To bring us back?”
“Of course. Never doubt that. I know he’s angry about the part Warriors played in escalating the war, but you are our husbands, wives, children, and parents. This isn’t exile, just a breathing space to find peace. Surely you don’t want to fight if you don’t have to.”
Gallanto quieted, but the heaving of his broad chest showed how hard he tried for restraint. “How long do you think it will take?”
“Three cycles at the most. That’s only a hundred and eighty days.”
Gallanto sighed. “It will come as a shock to our Warriors. The transport order outlined off-world training without any mention of sending us out of the way. There’ll be trouble when our first cycle is up and we can’t go home.”
“I’m sure you can handle them. After all, you voted for the deception at the council meeting.”
“Don’t think it means I like the solution. If everyone knew how long we’ll be gone, some Warriors would refuse to come. Where would that leave us? Our army split, unable to muster enough force to make a difference in a fight. And the negotiations would fail. Once Albys issued the order, it had to include all Warriors, including Sonlas.
Another shadow of grief passed over Meftah’s face. “Look after our daughter.”
“Of course,” Gallanto said. “At least, this way, you have a chance for a future.”
“You say that as if you don’t believe you’re coming home.”
Oakham noticed stiffness in the chief’s spine, suggesting he believed exactly that. “I know you will try to bring us home,” he said.
Meftah glanced over at Oakham. “The boy’s overheard everything. Will that cause a problem?”
“He’s been my runner through this entire nonsense. I trust his discretion.”
“Still, he’s only a cadet, and there’s no need for him to stay. The exile order only applies to Warrior-class soldiers.”
Oakham stepped forward and snapped to smart attention. “With respect, Lady Templer, ma’am, my duty is to Chief Gallanto and I want stay with him. He’s had me make a Soul memory of these events, and it’d be a shame to leave it half-formed.”
Gallanto looked at Meftah. “With so many Warriors on base, it’s good to have a cadet who’s happy to do basic errands. We’re in danger of having too many chiefs up here.”
“You chose well, Gall. The boy’s aura radiates loyalty.”
“I don’t need the sight to judge his worth, Meftah. Soldiers are my business. Is everything ready?” he asked Oakham.
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Gallanto said.
Landra, as Oakham, held her breath as the chief took up position at the platform’s edge. Gallanto posed in statuesque stillness, surveying his people with an air of admiration and pity. His features suddenly hardened, and he raised one armored fist above his head. He breathed then bellowed, “Open the portal!
Chapter 20
As dark swirls formed between the two arching elba trees, the image broke apart. Landra’s actions, viewpoint, and emotional pain became entirely her own again.
Part of her railed against the fracturing reality, and she longed for its return. The promise of a magical vortex felt like a wonderful dream, stopping short of its climax. She recalled the rich colors, sweet sounds, excitement, and pain. Now, the gurgling dregs of a depleted power well, hard wood beneath her body, and a dying man in her arms became her truth. She felt deafened by something that was missing. The world felt empty and thin, like there was an absence of Soul.
Her shoulders heaved with grief and emptiness, but there was more pain here than a lost fantasy. This was betrayal. Utter betrayal. The broken Templer promises wrenched her guts. She’d grown up knowing of the exiling, but to experience the moment of separation hurt beyond reason. This was personal. Her great-grandmother had promised to return. Now, Landra carried the entire resentment of Warrior-kind in her heart. She resented Meftah for her good intentions, her lies, and her magic.
Yes, great-grandmother, I blame you for my flaw too.
Pink strands of mist, which had congregated around the Collector, broke loose and drifted free. They gathered beneath the underside of the spiraling path. Had her great-grandfather left with them?
“Chief Gallanto?”
“Find a way, child of my life,” the ghost chief replied, and then his presence thinned out of existence.
Hey, wait. Find a way to do what? You can’t leave me with that.
No answer came.
Shelk!
She wanted to reach for him again, but Oakham’s slipping hand dragged her back to reality. The old soldier slumped against her body, flaccid and scrunched with his head lolling to one side. She felt his rattling breaths on her chest.
“Oakham?” she said, giving him a gentle shake.
His kaleidoscope aura swirled slower now, fluttering weakly at the edge of her blue Soul. A single breath escaped from his gaping mouth.
No, no, no! Don’t die.
“Don’t do this,” she said, rolling him away and settling him on the wooden path. She removed her jacket and folded it under his head for support. The sight of his sunken features hit Landra like one of her father’s fists. His skin was grey, but his aura was greyer now, and its swirling slowed with each passing moment.
“Soldier Oakham!”
He cracked his eyes open to slits and turned his weary, blind eyes to her face. Rasping punctuated each of his ragged breaths. “Did you see?” he asked.
Landra hesitated, not wanting to share her experience.
But this is a dying man’s last wish. He deserves an answer. “Yes.”
“Ah!” Oakham breathed, and his body relaxed. “That was the last… We were supposed…”
She cradled his hand in her lap and stroked the thin skin. “It’s time to rest, soldier. We’ll sit awhile. Then I’ll carry you up to the platform and call for transport. You’ll feel more comfortable in the medic barracks.”
“No, dear! Leave me here. I’ll not desert my post now. This is where I…”
He stilled, as if the energy to speak had departed. His mouth worked small motions as if trying for words, but no sound came. Then another short breath puffed through his lips.
She didn’t need a medic’s training to see the mantel of death hanging over him, but his end shouldn’t be here—not like this. He deserved better. A gurgling sound rattled in his throat.
Shelk.
Landra wanted to tell Oakham that everything w
ould be fine. It wasn’t true. You will die, the power’s nearly gone, and we’re heading for civil war. Your vision changed nothing.
Instead, she tugged her uniform straight and set her arm across her chest with the Collector in her hand. She couldn’t give Oakham life, but she could show him respect.
“Soldier,” she said, her own breathing heavy with emotion, “the execution of your duty has been exemplary, and now it’s time to pass the burden along. I can take it from here. Time for you to rest.” She saluted with her free hand, trying to still her shuddering shoulders. “Three-bar soldier Oakham, you are dismissed.”
His face relaxed and then stilled into a slack smile. His noisy breathing marked out time, but the space between each rasp lengthened until the next one never came. She sat in silence, the soldier’s hand resting on her knee, and his aura expanded around her body. In that moment, she knew him again as he had been in his youth, with his passion to serve and dedication to tasks. He’d chosen his duty, and now he’d chosen his moment of death, as if he’d waited until she could share his end.
His aura threads rose in a cloud, but instead of frittering away or melding with the pink clumps they darted about. A few twists later, they arrowed toward the remnants of the magic well and plunged through the surface. A gurgling swell welcomed the addition of Oakham’s Soul before the pool stilled.
For all Landra’s soldier bravado and Warrior ambition, she mourned the veteran soldier with the raw passion of a young girl. Wiping tears from her cheeks, she wondered at her reaction. She’d known him for less time than it had taken her to visit the overlevel, but he’d touched her enough to awaken grief.
Why should I be surprised.? You shared the torment of our people, old man.
She had to adjust to the last sentry’s death, the betrayal of her people, and a magical vision too. What was she supposed to do with that now? The veteran had declared a Soul memory unbreakable. Yet the experience faded from her thoughts, leaving a plundered emptiness in its wake. She recalled the events, but there was no play-like repetition of the scene in her head. She could no more recapture the actuality of each moment than she could recall the physical pain of her father’s beating from the night before. She remembered Chief Hux’s fists around her neck, her fear, and that it had hurt, but recapturing the sensation of pain was impossible. The Soul memory felt the same.
I indulged in magic, and for what?
Her face crumpled and she felt dirty, as if she’d done something wrong. Her great-grandfather’s permission for the sharing meant nothing. In Landra’s world now, a dead chief’s order provided no validation.
“Find a way,” Chief Gallanto had said.
Bah! Find a way to do what?
She was still kneeling by Oakham and resting the Collector on his chest when noise came from above. Thisk’s angry voice came to her ears loudest of all.
“What have you done with her?”
“She’s there, Warrior Fourth. I can see her in the pit.”
Thundering steps rattled the walkway.
Landra dragged a sleeve across her tear-streaked cheek but she felt too weak to stand. The Warrior charged down the path toward her, his features locked into a mask of worry and the whites of his eyes shining starkly in his bearded face. He stopped a stride short of where she held Oakham and swayed, as if taking in the scene. “What are you doing? Are you all right? Put that knife away,” he stuttered out like shot-fire.
“She killed him,” another voice said. “She killed the last sentry.”
Several robed figures crowded behind the Warrior, and the press of their anger was palpable. Dark lines shot through their auras in a furious collage.
Thisk grabbed Landra’s arm and hauled her to her feet.
“Run!” he ordered, and she didn’t dare disobey.
Chapter 21
The Warrior Fourth dragged the knife from Landra’s hand and replaced it in its sheath. He hooked his fingers into her collar and forced her into motion. She didn’t want to leave Oakham’s body, but Thisk gave her no choice. He charged up the spiral path with her in tow, barging several startled priests aside.
“Thisk?”
“Run.”
Stiffness tightened her thighs, but a strange slackness ran through the rest of her body, like it would fall apart if she continued. The combination made her stumble often, but Thisk’s strong grip bounced her up each time and pushed her on with barely a pause. They made it up to the platform, and the sight of Oakham’s empty chair flustered her badly. She stumbled to a halt. The Warrior resorted to dragging her past the plaque.
The ramp was clear of visitors now, as if the Templers had expected trouble. It made flight easier, and Landra felt relieved to have few witnesses. This would make prize gossip once word of her undignified departure spread.
Shelk in a basket. I’m in a nightmare.
Thisk didn’t slow as he approached a group of priests who barred the way at the ramp’s end. He barged past them, careless of who he sent scuttling or whether Landra’s face clashed with flailing limbs. One Templer staggered back, catching his boot in his robe hem. Landra’s last sight of the priest was of him toppling backward over the guard rail.
They came to the great doors, and it was hard to know what to take in first. Landra glanced at the immense structures, barely believing she’d seen the doors open in her vision. With rusted hinges and vines growing across the center line, it didn’t seem like they could have opened in years, but her attention moved to another Templer, who sprawled near the base of the doors. Fiery swellings marked his face, and another priest sat bowed over his limp arm. The limb sagged as if dislocated from its socket.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I happened, so unless you want jail time, I suggest you keep moving.”
“Wait!” an order screamed out from behind. Landra’s backward glance spotted a chasing Templer group, but they couldn’t match the pace Thisk set. Neither could she, but the Warrior dragged her up to his speed. They hurtled along the small path, plowing through the visiting cadets who were making their way out.
More witnesses, and ones with flapping tongues. Great.
Ogling stares followed their passing, and Thisk’s bulky shoulder jostled one girl into the wall.
“To the shaft,” he growled in her ear. They exited onto the busy concourse. The crowd had swelled again, so they wove their way through, careless of who blocked the way. At a shout from a temple guard, the Warrior ducked them down a smaller corridor and turned several corners.
“What will your father say about this?” he demanded under his breath. “We’ll be lucky to stay cityside.”
Shelk to the mist and back. What will Father say? Preoccupation with the momentous historical events had left little room for processing the real-world implications of the day’s trials. Chief Hux would never understand if she told the truth, but she couldn’t face that problem yet. She had an enraged Warrior Fourth to deal with first. The overlevel had never seemed like a better place to visit, so she drew up the will to match his pace. She charged for the shaft.
Thisk didn’t make for their original entry point but found another narrow corridor to head down. “Festival visitors stay here,” he said, “so it should be empty now.”
His prediction stayed nearly true. They only passed one soldier before reaching a shaft door. The one-bar soldier turned his head to follow their movements, his cloth poised over a corridor plaque. He watched them depart, his hand rubbing the Ring 11 sign in automatic movements.
A familiar outline came into view on in the wall. Rather than produce a key to open the shaft door, Thisk booted it, sending it swinging open. A bleary-eyed sentry stumbled from behind the shaft’s tree, snuggling a quilted blanket over his padded clothes. The extra wrapping didn’t stop his breath from puffing white into the chilled atmosphere.
“Report,” Thisk demanded, still clutching Landra’s collar.
“What?”
“Are you guarding the shaft or bunkin
g up on duty time? Looks like you’ve quite a nest back there, and these lights are on daytime settings.”
It was true, Landra realized. The shaft was much brighter than the ones she’d used before, but the piercing cold still reached her core. She thought of her jacket and remembered leaving it under Oakham’s head.
Thisk dragged Landra to the store rack and released his grip to ransack the shelves. He padded up, as if ready for a novice sword battle, and threw warm-weather garments her way. Already gasping from the chill, she didn’t need more urging to dress.
As they changed, the sentry poked his head around the tree to watch, a mixture of fear and bewilderment widening his tired eyes. His mouth sagged open, but his eyes fixed on Thisk’s insignia and he didn’t ask questions.
“What’s this?” the Warrior asked, launching a furious kick at a pile of blankets that blocked the ladder’s base. The movement uncovered a sword. The Warrior snatched it, twisted the hilt in his fist, and launched it toward the sentry, point first. “I think this is yours.”
The young man ducked, but the weapon planted in the tree beside his head with enough force to hold it in a horizontal position. Landra shuddered, sensing the force of Thisk’s temper wasn’t meant for the sentry. He radiated fury like an inferno, and when he punched the trap door at the top of the ladder, it slammed open and bounced back. He flung it again. This time it stayed, creating a vortex of swirling leaves throughout the shaft. His disappearance through the hole left her scrambling into the rest of her clothes and chasing after him.
She emerged onto the dismal overlevel. An invading storm carried a deeper cold now, one that made her want to curl into a ball and stop running. Tiny lights twinkled from a nearly dark sky, and if it hadn’t been for subtle overlevel lighting and the shine of Thisk’s aura, she might have completely lost his shadowy silhouette.
“Thisk.”
He continued onward. It didn’t take brains to work out she should follow. The midlevel priests had labelled her a murderer; without the Fourth’s support, her defense wouldn’t carry weight. What was she supposed to say if temple guards caught her?
