Future Dreams

by T. J. Mindancer

  Argis frowned. She couldn’t spot Jame in the gathering crowd. Jame had promised she would be there after she got fitted for new leathers.

  Tas let out a low appraising whistle. Argis spun around. Jame and Jyac strode across the meadow toward them.

  “Nice leathers,” Tas squeaked then cleared her throat. “If she had worn those last night, you’d be facing three times as many challengers.”

  Argis stared at the Jame she thought she knew and wondered where that confident stride had come from. She was dying to get to know Jame all over again, so intriguing was this new sparkle in her eyes and huskier timbre in her voice. Her challengers didn’t have a chance against what she perceived to be her destiny.

  “Good morning, Argis,” Jyac said. Argis tore her eyes away from Jame, who smiled at her. “Ready to meet your challengers?”

  “I’m always ready to meet those who dare challenge my heart and soul,” Argis said, feeling a soaring nobility from Jame’s smile.

  “Well spoken words, don’t you think, Jame?” Jyac said.

  “Very well spoken.” Jame squeezed Argis’s arm. “Good luck.”

  Jyac laughed. “Come, we can’t have people thinking there’s any favoritism going on.”

  “I’ll see you when the challenge is over and ask you to the Festival of Flowers.” Argis grinned at Jame’s stunned expression.

  THE LENGTH OF the shadows across the courtyard told Tigh that the nervous lad with the evening meal tray would be emerging from the kitchens in another sandmark or so. She sighed and wondered what her life had come to when a tray of food was a daily highlight.

  Her parents were returning to Ingor in the morning, having accomplished their mission. She knew they cared for her but after being away from the sheltered world of the merchant for so long, she no longer knew how to think like them. I was ready to turn my back on that life before I became a Guard. She shook away her tears. Now there isn’t anywhere I can fit in.

  Her enhanced hearing picked up the footfalls of, she guessed, a travel boot. Not the well made solid-soled boots of her parents. A more utilitarian boot . . .

  Tigh spun around and blinked at a tall, thin, young woman with soulful brown eyes and long strands of wispy pale hair standing outside the door. Meah—wrapped in a plain travel cloak. A pack hung from her fragile shoulder. She had last seen Meah at the victory celebration after the campaign on the plains of Hillian ended the Grappian Wars. She’d been known for her wild hair and even wilder battle lust.

  “I, uh, heard you’d been brought in. I was released a couple of days ago and thought I’d stop by before I left.” Meah flicked shy, uncertain glances at Tigh.

  “So you’ve been through the process?” Tigh asked.

  “Yeah.” Meah nodded, not meeting Tigh’s eyes.

  “Do you feel cleansed?” Tigh tried not to sound desperate. “Do you feel ready to walk out of here and rejoin society?”

  Meah’s sad brown eyes filled with tears and her delicate features betrayed her agony. “No. But they think I am.”

  “I heard that they can’t cleanse away the blood lust, the need to fight.” Tigh knew the healers preferred to believe the superficial results of their work rather than delve into what really haunted the dreams of a cleansed Guard.

  “They suggested joining a militia or a defense force to satisfy that need.” Meah wiped away her tears. “They tell us we can go back to the way we were before. But that’s impossible if all that’s left of us is the need to fight.”

  Tigh’s hope of attending the University of Artocia and immersing herself in scholarly study lay shattered on the wooden floor of her cell. “I thought it was too good to be true.”

  Meah took a breath as if she wanted to say something, but shook her head instead. “I’m catching the evening coach, so I’d better be on my way.” Tigh nodded and Meah turned away from the door.

  “Meah.” Tigh’s voice cracked under the strain of her world collapsing around her. Meah looked back. “Good luck.”

  Meah mustered a sad smile. “You too, Tigh.”

  From the window, Tigh watched Meah walk across the plaza and through the city gate. Physically free but still caught in a mental prison.

  The shadows across the plaza told Tigh that the nervous lad would be collecting the evening meal tray from the kitchen. She hoped he brought soup. A chill always came with the growing shadows.

  Chapter 4

  Jame had never seen such inspired fighting as Argis introduced the point of her sword to each her six challengers’ throats. She saw the proprietary rage in Argis’s eyes. Every move Argis made shouted, “Don’t go near her, she’s mine.”

  I should be flattered. Argis’s attentions used to be flattering. Jame studied her as she accepted the congratulatory thumps on the back from the other warriors.

  Argis’s attentions used to be important. She examined that thought a little closer. Did the fact that she wasn’t flattered or that Argis’s attentions made her feel closed-in mean her overall feelings for Argis had changed? Or did they simply mean she had matured beyond the simple youthful feelings of love?

  “You have to admit, she’s a splendid fighter,” Jyac said. “Especially when she’s inspired.”

  Jame turned and caught the mischievous glint in Jyac’s eyes. “I just wish I felt as certain as she seems to feel.”

  “You need to take the time to get reacquainted,” Jyac said. “We all feel unsettled in the ways of the heart, especially after a long separation. But the two of you have always been close and have a deep affection for each other. You just need to allow those feelings to flow again.”

  Jame nodded and tried not to tense when Argis broke free of her friends and strode toward her. She realized she didn’t reflect Argis’s happy grin. If she couldn’t be happy about the reason the challenges were fought, she could at least show appreciation for Argis’s warrior skills. She mustered a smile. If nothing else, Argis was her friend and friends shared in each other’s victories.

  Argis stopped a pace away from Jame, dropped to her knees, and pulled her sword from its sheath on her back. She pressed the flat of the blade to her lips in a salute and lowered the sword until the point touched the ground. “I dedicate the victory over these challengers to my princess. It’d be a great honor if you’d accompany me to the Festival of Flowers.”

  Argis’s eyes glowed with such confidence, Jame knew she couldn’t refuse her without both hurting and humiliating her. “It would be my honor to accompany you to the Festival of Flowers.”

  Having said the words, Jame thought she would feel better and wondered why her uncertainty was stronger than ever.

  “OH DEAR. OH dear,” Minchof muttered as she scanned the contents of the scroll in her hand.

  Her small band of apprentices blinked up from their spell practice and witnessed their mentor jiggle in a little dance.

  Minchof held up the scroll. “Do you know what this is?”

  “A scroll?” Yana, a fifth year apprentice, had a twinkle in her eyes.

  “This, my dear apprentices, is an invitation from the Military Tribunal at Ynit.” Minchof grinned at her pupils’ puzzled looks. “They’ve invited me to create a spell that will forever erase the knowledge of how to enhance a soldier and to make it so no one can ever stumble upon the secret again.”

  “Is that possible?” Renar, a first year apprentice, asked.

  “Everything is possible.” Minchof rewrapped an airy shawl around her ample shoulders. “But not everything is easy. I won’t be able to do this alone. I’d be lucky if the research alone took less than a season. It’ll also require me to go to Ynit to study these Guards first hand and to learn how they were turned into Guards.”

  “Ynit?” Yana cried. “That’s such a long way from here.”

  “As much as I want to take all of you with me,” Minchof bestowed a fond look on her pack of apprentices, “I’ll only be able to take a few. So I can choose fairly, only those who get the highest marks on the next quarter exam
will demonstrate to me the skills and dedication needed to create this spell.”

  Minchof smiled at the faces already set with the desire to work as hard as necessary to be chosen to go to Ynit.

  “Excuse me, Minchof,” came a quiet voice from the corner of the room. Goodemer, just fourteen, sat on a stool—her wolf head amulet clutched in her hand. “Will the apprentices with more experience have a better chance of going than us beginners?”

  Minchof smiled at the tall, gangly girl with the red-brown wavy hair. “The highest scores, no matter the level, will guarantee a trip to Ynit.”

  TIGH STARED AT her door for several heartbeats, knowing she was supposed to go to Pendon Larke’s office after her morning meal. Despite her slow and deliberate consumption of the food, the tray sat empty outside the door. Unsettling evidence that she had to be on her way.

  She inspected her face in the tarnished mirror. She looked a little better than she had a few days earlier. At least she didn’t look like Bal’s ghost. She straightened to her full height and studied the spotless white tunic and leggings. The nervous lad had brought a clean set for her with the meal. White was not as utilitarian a color as the black she had gotten used to and the cotton weave was harder to keep clean than good leather. The clothing’s lightness made her feel vulnerable and that was the last thing she wanted to feel.

  She turned to the door. She had to leave soon or they’d come and get her. In her army that would be humiliating and Guards didn’t react well to humiliation. She swallowed down the memories of that person she used to be and searched within herself for the sword-strong backbone she had once possessed.

  “I can do this,” she muttered. “It’s just a door. I’ve walked through thousands of doors without a thought. It’s not like I have to go outside.” Her breath caught as she pushed down a panic attack. What did they do to me that I fear walking in the sunshine and fresh air? “You’ve as much backbone as a newborn lamb. Just step through the door. You can always turn back.”

  Soothed by that thought, she took a step and fell into a Guard trick by raising her consciousness to a state that felt as if she was floating outside her body, removing herself from her actions. She was out the door and staring down the corridor without even realizing she had moved.

  The assistant healer gaping wide-eyed at her from his little table at the end of the corridor helped her relax. People staring at her in fear was as familiar as her favorite boots and the healer’s stare made her forget the Elite Guard was no longer within her.

  She walked down the corridor, concentrating on stretching her leg muscles. As far as she knew, she hadn’t been on her feet for any length of time during the past several weeks and her legs screamed from the neglect. She glanced through the barred doors of the cells that had once belonged to her comrades and confirmed she was the only one left on that floor. She wondered if watching over this floor was considered a prime assignment or a punishment for the assistant healers.

  Tigh stopped a few paces in front of the table. The assistant healer looked as if he was trying to say something, but all he could manage was a straggled noise in his throat.

  “I was told I have to sign in and out,” Tigh said.

  The assistant healer stopped his efforts to communicate with visible relief and nodded. “Here.” He pushed his chair to the wall, pointed to a ledger, and snapped his hand out of the way.

  Tigh picked up the pen, scribbled her name, and, after glancing at the sand clock on the wall, the time. She straightened and captured the assistant healer’s eyes with her own. His wide brown eyes brimmed with near panic. “I’ve been down the corridor with my door unlocked for two days. You’ve no reason to be frightened of me.”

  “That’s what Pendon said,” the assistant healer said in a shaky voice.

  “He should know. He helped cleanse me, after all.” Tigh raised an eyebrow and turned down the short corridor to the central stairs. The clatter of the chair dropping back on all four legs echoed behind her. The world was as afraid of her as she was of the world. The thought was not comforting.

  She paused at the top of the large stone staircase. Her mind flashed to the last time she had walked down those steps, when she had to fight against the surging flow of black clad Guards in full battle gear. They had been on their way to the plains of Hillian for what had been the last campaign of the war. She fought back memories of that bittersweet event that had marked the end of her career as a Guard and the start of her two years as a fugitive.

  The fall of her soft boots on the worn stone stairs penetrated the silence of the stairwell. She could almost see and hear the Guards huddling on the steps, jogging up and down the flights to keep in shape, testing the echo with midnight drunken vocalizations . . . the central stairwell had been a living place. Tigh couldn’t remember it ever being empty or silent.

  She walked numbly down two flights. The silence overwhelmed her with a profound sense of loss, and she collapsed onto the glacial step. The idea that she would never see her comrades again or raise a sword in battle alongside them brought on a wave of grief the depths of which felt bottomless. Five years of her life, filled with the heightened reality that the Guard enhancements gave her, had been stolen from her. She loved being a warrior and a Guard. Nothing compared to the feeling of invincibility in battle or the elation of victory. Even if she couldn’t face Tigh the Terrible’s ruthlessness, her heart ached for the company of her comrades in arms.

  She clenched her fists in anger. That life had been ripped away from them by the Federation Council in an act as ruthless as anything Tigh the Terrible had ever committed. Their victory had not been celebrated with parades and they never received sashes of honor. Their reward had been a relentless hunt to capture them and strip them of the life they had loyally given to the state.

  Tigh snapped her head up. She wiped away her tears with her sleeve and knew she’d been there far too long. The last thing she wanted was to be found sobbing like a lost child. She concentrated on settling her thoughts and emotions and made it down the remaining flights of steps.

  As she stood in the main entry hall of the fortress, she realized she didn’t know which office Pendon Larke had taken over. Gray-robed healers and a few Guards in white tunics passed by, but she wasn’t ready to talk to any of them yet. Her legs moved from habit and she found herself at the threshold of her old office. Through the opened doorway, she was puzzled to see Loena Sihlor behind her old work table.

  Loena looked up and put on a welcoming smile. “Good morning, Tigh. Pendon is expecting you. He’s the next door down.”

  Tigh stared at her, still fumbling with the idea that this was no longer her office. “Thanks.” She shuffled to the next opened door.

  Pendon, seated behind a table, looked up from his work. “Come in, come in. Sit.” He waved a bony hand and Tigh slipped into the office, glanced around it in search of something familiar, and sank into the visitors chair. “Good, very good. And on the first try, too.” The wrinkles around Pendon’s eyes threatened to obscure them as he grinned.

  “First try,” Tigh said.

  “Sometimes it takes days for a cleansed Guard to make that first step outside their room,” Pendon said. “You made it on the first try in only a few sandmarks. Good work.”

  Tigh sat back and stared dumbfounded at Pendon. The compliment did nothing to lessen the pain those few sandmarks had brought. If this was an example of the healers’ blind attitude toward cleansing then it was a miracle a Guard got through rehabilitation sane, much less alive.

  JAME SIGHED AS she adjusted the fragile bracer clinging to her wrist—a gift from Argis. She envied the time when Emoria had been a young territory, and the Festival of Flowers had been a simple celebration of spring. Generations had added meaning to the festival and it soon became a time when couples took the first tentative steps of courtship by attending it together. Identical bracers fashioned from flowers, leaves, and sinewy green stems showed off their togetherness.

  Three d
ays spent with her old friends had been enjoyable and Argis had been an attentive shadow at her side. Argis was far from talkative and Jame had never been bothered by her silence when they’d been younger. But now she felt an odd discomfort when Argis’s quiet was coupled with expressions that alternated between unconcealed adoration and puzzled questioning. Argis didn’t seem to have any problem that two years had passed since they had last been together and that both of them had matured and changed.

  She seems to be certain about her love for me. Jame felt guilty at the joy on Argis’s face when she’d delivered the bracer to her early that morning. She realized this was a dream coming true for Argis and had been her own dream just two years earlier. They had whispered about it while exchanging soft kisses in the night-shaded grottoes of the city gardens.

  “Laur’s waterfalls.” Jame mentally kicked herself. Argis had expected her to be at last year’s festival. She could only imagine the disappointment Argis had felt when she hadn’t returned to Emoria. What was worse, Argis had most likely kept her feelings to herself, like a good warrior.

  Jame tried to remember what she’d been doing at the time. The last two years had been an intense blur of case after case of Guards passing through the rehabilitation process. Most of the Guards had been captured in that first year and the healers and arbiter apprentices had been overworked to exhaustion and beyond.

  Now she felt bad for not even sending word to Argis. But, on the other side of the sword blade, that should have told Argis she hadn’t put much importance on the seriousness of their relationship. By all rights, Argis should have broken off whatever understanding they had.