by B. J. Keeton
If he had, he would have never been able to imagine the agony that actually came from having the flesh, muscle, and connective tissue torn and ripped until they were no longer part of his body.
If there were one positive for Ceril in that situation, it was that his arm was already broken. He was at least spared experiencing that pain at the same time he lost his arm. It was as though the Jaronya’s high priest allowed him to atone for his heresy with an installment plan.
He saw his arm tear. He saw the flesh rend, and he saw the blood gush. The pain was the only reason he knew that it was happening to him. In one way, he felt disconnected from the torture, like he was watching a holovid back in his quarters at Ennd’s. In another, far more painful way, he was connected all too intimately.
His screaming peaked when his arm was actually severed and dropped into the Conjured flames beneath him. Ceril watched his former flesh bubble and constrict, burn and char like any meat would. There was no indication that it had once been a part of his body. Blood flowed freely from the wound, fell into the fire, and sizzled into coagulation rather than pooling.
You Conjure as though you were the messiah, the high priest said inside Ceril’s head. You blaspheme. You wear their divinity on your skin. You are a heretic. You wield the Ancestors’ sanctified weapon as though you were a god. You commit sacrilege. Your presence here desecrates my temple. You kill my flock with no remorse. You are not welcome here. You are not divine. You are not the ones who will save us and return the Jaronya to their glory. You are pretenders, and you will die for it.
She stood in the fire, its flames licking her robes, but not burning her or her clothing. The fire might as well not have existed for her.
Ceril panted between screams. He managed to say, “I—never claimed to be—your messiah.”
You did. Oh, you did. You came and you had their magic. Somehow, you had one of the swords.
“Yes,” Ceril said. “We Conjured.” He panted between words and sentences. He gritted his teeth and continued. “We are Charons—”
You lie, the priest said calmly. She waved her hand toward Ceril, and his head whipped to the side as though he had been slapped.
“No,” said Ceril. “We are Charons—”
His head snapped in the other direction. You will not speak the sacred name of the Ancestors in my presence, unbeliever. You will not dishonor the gods.
Ceril closed his eyes. “If they are your gods, priest,” he gasped, “then…I am not…an unbeliever.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “My name is Ceril Bain, and I am the leader of a Charonic—”
Ceril barely felt the snap when the priest twisted one of her holographic symbols to break his femur. The loss of his arm had almost numbed him to lesser forms of pain.
“—team on a mission to find our way home,” Ceril finished through clenched teeth. “I never claimed to be your messiah. We never meant to kill…anyone. We only did what we…had to do,” he panted.
As do I, the priest said. She walked gracefully through the fire to Ceril. The lowest symbol on her collar became active, and she tapped its surface with three fingers.
Ceril dropped a few feet toward the flame, but he was still pressed solidly into the wall. His eyes became level with the high priest’s, and their gaze met and lingered. The situation would probably have made Ceril uneasy under different circumstances.
It has been my duty longer than you can understand to protect the Jaronya. My people. My place. I will not believe that the messiahs referred to in the Text are careless, callous, ignorant whelps who abuse divinity.
Ceril had nothing to say to her. No amount of logic was going to help him. She was a zealot. He could try to reason, to explain what he and the others were doing, but she wouldn’t understand.
Maybe she couldn’t understand, given her interpretation and understanding of what Charons were.
Do you deny the charges? she asked.
Ceril almost laughed. They were in a noxious Instance where Charons were revered as gods. His leg was broken, he was missing an arm, and his friends would probably burn to death soon.
Yet, the part that Ceril wouldn’t get past, the part that he felt was the most ludicrous was that this priest actually thought she was bringing him up on charges. The fire pit, the guards, all of this was her idea of a trial.
Of justice.
“No,” Ceril said, his teeth clenched. “I don’t deny anything.”
I expected more pathetic lies. More of your heresy. I am impressed at your ability to recognize the truth in your final moments.
Ceril opened his eyes and stared at her. Her eyes unnerved him. She had been too far away for him to notice, but now that they were inches from one another, Ceril saw that her eyes had no pupils or irises. She saw the world somehow through pale whiteness. Ceril was barely lucid enough to note the irony.
“These are not my final moments,” he said.
The priest sighed. Both her hands manipulated the glowing symbols projected from her collar. She twisted one to the left, another to the right; her hands working the holographic sigils like an expert musician would her instrument. She finally aligned the glyphs, reset each one’s position, and finished by pressing them like a sequence of buttons.
As the last one depressed, Ceril felt a weight press against him, pushing him further into the wall.
He found it hard to breathe as the pressure forced the air from his lungs. He felt his ribs strain and then crack, one by one, the sound echoing dully in his torso. His fingers and toes snapped under the weight of the invisible force, and Ceril screamed. He barely even noticed his other leg breaking. His voice wore thin, and within a few seconds, no sound came when he tried.
The high priest waved at Ceril and his head snapped back and forth. He eventually found himself staring at her again. She said, It is time, heretic.
Ceril closed his eyes and tried to find calm, but all he found was fear. Anger. There was no cause for this. There never had been. He and the others had been taken against their will when they were just trying to do their job. They were trying to find a way home, to find some way to protect the people of their world from terror. The Jaronya had kidnapped them, held them prisoner, and then this priest had killed Swinton, maybe all of them. They were just kids, not even Rited Charons yet. None of them deserved this.
Ceril couldn't see if Chuckie's barrier was still active. If it was, he knew Chuckie had to be running out of juice soon.
Ceril focused on his fear and anger, hoping that his nanite skin had recalled to him after killing the last Jaronya. If it didn't, then he had no hope. He would die here. If it had, there was still a very good chance he would die, but at least he might be able to save his friends.
He thought about them dying senselessly. He thought about himself dying senselessly. He thought about never seeing Gramps again. His heart ached at the thought of the gentle old man, of the garden that they both loved. He thought of the twin suns beating down on them and the stories he had loved to hear at night. He became angry that he was never going to get to hear another one, never get a chance to give his grandfather another hug.
He thought about all the time he spent on his thesis, doing research that served no greater function now than to be archived away and probably never read again.
He thought about Ethan Triggs, and how the boy had been no older than Ceril was right now when he died. Ceril became angrier at the thought. Even though he had tried to atone for killing him, had worked hard to move past being a killer, the fact remained was that he had taken someone else’s life.
Ethan Triggs had been roughly as old as Ceril was now. Which meant he was far too young to die. He had been able to leave nothing behind. Even if it had been an accident, Ethan was still dead.
Ceril thought about how young he was himself. And how in his mind, he, too, had accomplished nothing. He had left nothing behind, either. He had made it his unspoken goal to amount to something because Ethan couldn’t. And now, Ceril couldn’t.
<
br /> That made him angry. That scared him. He was scared of his existence meaning nothing.
So he visualized the nanites shooting from his face to the high priest’s, penetrating her eyes, eating into her pores, filling her mouth and nose. He could see in his mind's eye the blackness burrowing its way through the soft tissue of her head and into her brain. He could see in his mind the nanites flowing across neural pathways, preventing synapses from firing, blocking vital electric current from reaching their destinations, making her body unresponsive.
He visualized the tiny machines releasing any energy they had left, depleting them and severing the bond that bound them together in order to liquefy the grey matter that controlled the priest. He could see the terrifying white eyes collapsing under the strain of the tsunami within her head. Ceril pictured her brain tissue, sodden with inert nanites, pouring from her eye sockets, her nostrils, even her ears and mouth. He saw the grey liquid, speckled with black clumps of tiny machines and streaked with red blood, dripping on a floor barren of fire.
He saw the priest's body go limp, her knees unlock themselves, her leg muscles no longer able to support the weight of her body.
Ceril watched in his mind the symbols from her collar go dark, as though they required her very life energy to exist. With them gone, he saw himself falling to the ground, and he could see Chuckie's black-and-white dome still intact. He could see any remaining fire the priest had Conjured die, the nanites being recalled to the octagonal stakes to which his team members had been bound.
Ceril saw all of this in his mind, focused on the outcome he needed, and with a tenacity and necessity he hoped was really inside him, he loosened any of the nanites still connected to his consciousness and made his vision a reality.
Chapter thirty-three
“I can't hold it for much longer,” Chuckie said.
“Can you give me two or three minutes?” Harlo yelled.
He panted. “I doubt it.”
Harlo went to work quickly. She placed her fear into the nanites, urging them to work faster. She needed to help Saryn, and Chuckie was giving everything he could so that would happen.
Then something changed. It took a moment for her to figure out what had happened. Harlo whipped her head toward Chuckie, who still held his palms to the ground, panting and shaking. She was pretty sure he was drooling, too, but she wouldn’t mention that to him. He said between pants, “I think Ceril did it.”
Harlo pursed her lips and turned back to Saryn. Regardless of whether that was true, Chuckie kept his Conjured shield up, and she worked more quickly, just to be sure. She was just putting the finishing touches on healing Saryn's burns when the shield disappeared, and Chuckie collapsed.
The Conjured fire from the stakes was gone, and Harlo looked around. She was the only conscious person in sight, which had its own special way of creeping her out. Saryn seemed to be stable for the moment, so Harlo took a few seconds of downtime to breathe and try to stop shaking. As she glanced around, she saw Ceril against the far wall. He looked like he was in bad shape.
Rest be damned, she rushed to him. She had seen a lot of things, had helped patch up some people who everyone but Professor Howser had said were too far gone, but when she looked down at Ceril, she was thankful she hadn’t eaten in a while. Both her hands covered her mouth, and she dropped to both knees.
He was missing his left arm, and the wound was oozing blood, but not pouring it. He was lying in an unnatural sitting position, which indicated that more than one of his leg bones had been crushed. If she was correct and his posture was any indication, the right leg had sustained the worst injury. Harlo examined his arm more closely and saw his nanite sleeve covering as much of the arm wound as it could. That explained the lessened blood flow, but it would not keep him alive forever. She had to do something, but she had just spent everything she had—both in terms of her energy and her nanites—stabilizing Saryn’s burns. There was no way she could help Ceril with this magnitude of injury with a depleted nanite sleeve and no other supplies. They had to get him out of there.
Chuckie stirred eventually from his position on the floor. His breathing was hard and ragged, but he forced himself to stand and go over to Swinton’s body. He knelt down beside his friend and said, “I'm sorry, man.” The high priest’s Conjured fire had incinerated Swinton alive. The corpse could barely be recognized as having once been human. Chuckie was careful not to disturb the figure; the slightest touch could easily make it crumble, and for the moment, those ashes were still Swinton. Chuckie spoke slowly, quietly. “I'm sorry it was you, man. I am. But thank you. For letting it not be me.”
Chuckie stood up and wiped his eyes. He moved beside Harlo and asked, “Did you see Swinton?”
She shook her head.
“He's gone.” The words were harder to say than they were to think. “Ash.”
Harlo understood. She pointed at Ceril.
“What the hell?” Chuckie said. “Is he—?”
“Not yet,” she said. “He will be soon, though. I can’t do anything for him, Chuckie. Not with him like…that.” She swallowed audibly.
“This is a temple, right?” Chuckie asked.
“I would assume. Or a prison or something. I don’t know. Sure, temple sounds good.”
“Well,” Chuckie said, “that means there very well might be something that can save him here. Some healing magic or some kind of mojo the priest had.”
“Maybe,” Harlo agreed.
“How’s Saryn?”
“She needs to sleep, but when she wakes up, she should be just fine. It may take some time, though, for her to wake up, and that’s what worries me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Ceril doesn't have time. If we wait much longer…”
Harlo saw Chuckie run the tip of his tongue across his front teeth. Then he blinked once and stood up. “Wake her up,” he said.
“It's not that easy, Chuckie. She has nanites in her system that—”
“Wake her up. I'll get Ceril, and we're getting out of this room, cell, furnace, whatever.”
“I don’t think—”
“Do it, Harlo.”
Harlo was not used to that level of sternness in Chuckie's voice, so she obeyed. She went to Saryn and gently nudged her, willing her nanite sleeve to stimulate those she had left inside her teammate’s body. Saryn's eyes popped open, and she pushed herself off the ground like nothing had happened.
“Easy, Saryn,” Harlo said. “You got a pretty bad burn, and you’re still healing.”
“I’m—I’m—” she stuttered.
“Yeah, you're going to be fine. Right now, we have to go. Ceril's in pretty bad shape, but I think he saved us.”
Saryn said nothing as Harlo helped her to her feet. The two women moved slowly toward Chuckie, who was now holding Ceril like a mother cradling an infant. Chuckie pointed in the direction the priest had entered the room and said, “The bald bitch came from that direction. That's where we go.”
Saryn and Harlo followed Chuckie. They passed by Swinton's ashy corpse and did their best not to disturb it.
They approached the wall that had opened up to grant the high priest access to her prisoners, but nothing happened. The wall remained solid. Aside from the exit into the city, there was nowhere else to go.
“Now what?” Saryn asked.
“She came from here. I saw it. She came through the wall.”
“But how do we do that, Chuckie?”
“I don’t know.”
Harlo touched the wall and nothing happened. She then held her palm open to Conjure the nanite scope she had used in her and Swinton’s cell, but she had too few nanites left in her sleeve for such a complex construction. Saryn touched the wall, trying to find some passkey in the symbols that glowed along its surface, but the wall stayed solid.
Chuckie touched the wall just as Ceril had a fit of coughing. He began to spit up blood, and Chuckie readjusted the way he carried his commanding officer. As he shifted C
eril’s weight, one of Ceril’s broken legs swung wide and kicked the wall. Ceril grunted in pain and coughed again. The wall began to shift immediately.
Instead of opening like it had for the high priest, two large purple doors shimmered into life in front of where the four of them stood.
“Something’s going on with the boss,” Chuckie said.
“We’ll worry about that if we make it out of here,” Saryn said. “There’ll be time for questions when he’s not as good as dead.”
“Guess we’re going in?”
“It doesn’t appear that we have a lot of choice in the matter,” Harlo said.
Chuckie yanked on the handle and stepped through the door without even checking what was on the other side. Saryn and Harlo followed after him. They stepped into a bright room, with no doors, no walls, no ceiling. It was like they were surrounded by intense violet light, supported by it, standing on it.
Then the floor fell from beneath their feet. A hissing sound filled their ears, and with a whuff-pop, they found themselves outside under the harsh purple light of the world's twin suns. Wind gusted at them, and they had to squint to see.
Chuckie almost dropped Ceril, but he found his legs quickly. Saryn dropped to her hands and knees, and Harlo had to brace herself against one of the spires lining the edge of the platform.
“What was that?” Chuckie asked.
“I…think we were teleported,” Saryn answered. She shook her head and looked up at the two suns. Her back hurt, but when she looked at Ceril, she stood up and tried to hide the shakiness she felt. Always someone worse off than you are, she thought. But why’d it have to be Ternia?
“Where to?” Chuckie asked.
“My guess is on top of the temple,” Harlo said. “From the looks of it. Swinton and I were in a cell pretty high up in the tower, and this looks like it could be kind of similar.”
“Well, how do we get down? I don’t think the boss is gonna do a whole lot of healing up here. It’s not exactly a hospital.”
“I'm not sure we get down, Chuckie,” said Saryn. She pointed toward an altar in the middle of the platform. It was raised slightly, with stairs attached to it. She walked unsteadily toward it, and a man appeared in the center of the raised section. He was old, but one could only tell by the greying of his hair. He had bright eyes and smiled at Saryn as she approached.
