Spyridon (The Spyridon Trilogy Book 1)

by Lillian James

  And God, how she’d wanted him to.

  His heart pounded, and she felt that as if it was her own. She looked up, and he was watching her, a look in his eyes that made her blood heat and her toes curl. He stood and turned away, hands flexed at his sides, and she heard that mumbling sound again.

  “My apologies for that,” he said hoarsely. “I was caught in the pull of the nexus, but that’s no excuse. It won’t happen again.”

  “What…” The almost kiss. She closed her eyes as the blood rushed to her face, and she wished she could crawl under the rug and hide. “You can hear my thoughts, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  A dozen images flashed through her mind that she would have preferred to keep private, and she buried her face in her hands. “All of them?”

  “For now, yes. In a way.” He turned around, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “It goes beyond hearing them. Some of them are half formed. Sometimes it’s just an image, a sensation. A scent, a feeling. Once you learn to control it, I’ll hear only what you want me to hear.”

  The echo of his voice was fading, the faint mumble that seemed to have no source slowly disappearing. She realized they were his thoughts, moments ago as clear as his voice but now almost imperceptible. “You’re controlling it now,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know how to do that?”

  He hesitated, and then, “I was linked with my mother before she died.”

  And when she died.

  He set his jaw as his voice flowed through her, and she knew he hadn’t meant to send her that thought.

  And then the memory hit her.

  Lhókesh standing over Aida’s headless body, the blood on his dagger a perfect match for the red of the jewels encrusted in its hilt. Punishment for hiding Jane’s birth and helping her escape.

  Mikhél’s already pale skin went bone white, and she realized he saw what she saw. The image ran through her mind again unbidden, and he made a sound that chilled her core. Desperate for a distraction, she looked through the window and focused on the shrinking planet of Vorhódan. She brought the lake to mind, remembered the len light, the cool air. The music. And she felt his heartbeat gradually slow.

  After a while he said roughly, “My gratitude.”

  She rested her forehead against her knees. “Will you teach me to control it?”

  She heard another mumble, and it rode in on a wave of regret mixed with an emotion so warm and lovely she couldn’t bear to give it a name. And he said, “I’m planning to reverse it.”

  “It can’t be done.” Eithné stared at them from across the storage room, her fingers twisting together. Mikhél started to pace, and her eyes paled as they followed his movements. Jane watched them both, her sight unhindered by the dim of the room as her sedfai pulsed and deepened. Something about the nexus was making it stronger, and she saw—at least within the scope of Mikhél’s sense range—more detail than she ever had before.

  “There has to be a way,” Mikhél said. A wave of frustration washed over Jane, so intense she almost couldn’t stay still, and the glow outlining Mikhél twitched and spiked. His frustration, she realized. His emotions, flowing through her as if they were her own.

  “My apologies,” Eithné was saying, “but I have read everything I could find on the subject. I’ve been researching it since we realized it was a possibility. The only way to end a nexus is through death.”

  Jane’s heart plummeted. Her eyes filled, and her hands trembled, and she almost fell to her knees under the weight of inconsolable guilt. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and she could barely make herself meet Mikhél’s gaze. “I did this. I—”

  “No,” he said, and his face was open again. Bare, honest, as it had been when she’d accused him of helping to murder her parents. “It’s not your fault, Seirsha. It’s mine.”

  His guilt, not hers. His frustration, his fear. How could she even figure out how she felt about the nexus when his emotions were so powerful they overwhelmed everything else?

  “My apologies,” he said. “I’m trying to control them. I just…I let this happen. I knew better, but I let it happen.”

  She tried to pull her own thoughts from the morass of his emotions, but all she could think was that he didn’t want this. Just like he hadn’t wanted her comfort the week before, like he hadn’t wanted her company at the lakes on Vorhódan. Every moment that had felt like a connection had been only this: the nexus, growing between them while she was foolishly unaware.

  Even the almost kiss.

  “Seirsha—”

  “Don’t.” She held up a hand and shook her head. “I know you can hear what I’m thinking, but that’s only because I don’t know how to block it. It’s not an invitation for you to respond to every thought I have. And don’t you dare feel sorry for me about any of this,” she added when she felt the remorse well up within him, mixed again with that warmth she couldn’t quite identify. “Trust me. I’ve been through far worse.”

  And I came out swinging, she added silently, knowing he could hear that too.

  “You don’t understand,” he began, but she cut him off.

  “Just stop, please.” She wanted to throw something, to growl, to shout. Had she ever been more humiliated? At least this time she could be sure it was her anger running through her veins. “I don’t need an explanation. Let’s just please change the subject.”

  The muscle in his jaw began to tick, and she heard a mumbled thought she couldn’t understand. Even his ability to muffle those was infuriating, and she shook her head and turned away. Then he said, “Use your gift on her.”

  Jane turned back to see Eithné look at her hesitantly. The alna stepped toward Jane, hand outstretched, and Mikhél said, “No. Through me.”

  Jane stared at him as understanding dawned, and then she looked at Eithné. The old woman stood frozen, eyes wide, and then she slowly took his hand.

  And a memory flooded Jane: a playground, children, laughter, and sunshine. Gravel digging into her back. Her palms, bloodied and shaking. Her eyes filling, though she didn’t quite understand what had just happened.

  And her teacher, standing over her, horrified at what she’d just done.

  The image dissipated, and Jane swallowed and stumbled over to a storage container. She sat heavily, or perhaps her legs gave out from under her, and she looked at Mikhél.

  “The first valfaen,” he guessed. He was trying to bury his sympathy. Strange that she could still feel it and that she knew he hid it only because he thought it was what she wanted.

  “Yes.” When her voice broke, she cleared her throat.

  Eithné was staring at her hand, shock clear in her face. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I’ve had this gift for over seventy years, and I had no idea. And I thought it had nothing new to show me.”

  “Whether you access her consciousness through me,” Mikhél said, “or detect the memories I’ve collected from her, the effect is the same. And you can detect more than memories. Location, intent. She’s not safe as long as we have this connection.”

  “How did you know?”

  He didn’t answer. He just paced away and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. A mild reaction, Jane thought, considering the fact that he’d prefer to punch a hole through the wall.

  So they had this thing. A thing he didn’t want at least in part because it made them both vulnerable. But it was also a thing that wasn’t going away any time soon. The way she saw it, her only option was to learn how to use it.

  So she formed a thought and imagined directing it toward him. It might help if she knows about your mother.

  He stiffened, and she knew he heard her. And then she heard him think, No one knows about that but you.

  His voice was different this way. When he sent it deliberately through the nexus, it was deeper, richer. Sensual in a way that went beyond sound to flow through her like a caress, and she shivered before she could stop herself. She closed her eyes, cleared her
mind, and then sent, You can trust her.

  It’s not a matter of trust. The Nhélanei blame my mother for the war. They think she brought Lhókesh to Spyridon.

  Eithné’s different.

  She could almost hear him considering her point. Then he nodded and turned to the alna. “My mother and I had a nexus.”

  “Oh, Mikhél.” She looked as if she wanted to hug him, but she said only, “So you know.”

  “Yes.”

  They fell silent, but whatever they referenced had his grief and worry buffeting off Jane like wind. She looked from Eithné to Mikhél and asked, “Know what?”

  He opened his mouth, but then he turned away. Eithné said, “He knows the pain of death.”

  His mother. Jane thought again of the memory she’d seen and then immediately pushed it from her mind. She didn’t want to make him relive that. But she realized now there was more to it than she’d felt before. Beyond her shock and his grief had been bone-crushing agony.

  “You felt her die.”

  “Yes. And that’s—” He stopped, looked at Eithné, and set his jaw. “That’s why I want to sever this connection. It makes you vulnerable in ways you can’t even imagine.”

  “It makes you vulnerable too. If Lhókesh finds out you’re working against him, he’ll kill you.”

  He went still, though she knew her statement couldn’t be a surprise to him. Then he said, “That is not our priority.”

  “It is for me.” When he stepped forward, she put up a hand. “Don’t. That’s not what I meant. I just mean I can’t do this alone.”

  “Seirsha—”

  “Wait.” She frowned and turned to Eithné. “You said you knew this was a possibility. How could you know that?”

  Eithné glanced at Mikhél, and Jane realized they shared more secrets. She reminded herself that he’d told her as much, but it didn’t stop her from grinding her teeth through the pause.

  He said, “We’ve been sharing dreams.”

  “How do you know—oh.” The paintings. He’d dreamed of those places too. No wonder he’d seemed so tense the day she’d found them. “How long?”

  “Over a year, as far as I can tell. The dreams are the reason I decided to come for you. I wasn’t supposed to until you approached the age of the jagat.”

  “So we started forming a nexus before we even met? How is that possible?”

  He shook his head. “We met just after you were born, remember?”

  When he was a child, and they’d made him her devesh. “So that’s why I didn’t form a nexus with Eithné or Leima,” she guessed. “Because it had already started with you.”

  Eithné started to say something, but her words were drowned out by Mikhél’s voice, which doubled for the first time since they’d left his quarters. “You won’t form a nexus with anyone else.”

  “Well, that’s something, at least.” She sighed, more tired than she’d been in a long time. Then she rubbed her hands over her face and stood. “You’re going to have to teach me to control it.”

  “I haven’t given up hope that we can reverse it. That would be the safest course of action.”

  “It’s done, Mikhél.” She felt something from him at those words, difficult to identify but not unpleasant. She supposed he was getting better at containing his emotions, and his skill served only to convince her that she was right. “Whether you wanted it or not, we’ve formed a nexus. And it’s permanent. So let’s use it to our advantage.”

  Mikhél sent Seirsha to her quarters with plans to meet in the training room after a few passes of rest. She was right about the nexus. Even if he could find a way to sever it, she’d be safer in the interim if she could learn control.

  He kept his sedfai on her as she slipped past his range, detecting her easily even when she reached the lifts three sectors away. With his mother he’d been too young to sense her at such distances. She’d flitted in and out of his awareness at the whim of his young, untrained mind. He suspected that with Seirsha, the nexus would be very different.

  When she was several levels above, he turned to Eithné. But the alna spoke before he could. “She deserves to know. It affects her too.”

  “The prophecy affects her,” he said. “Being the Baanrí affects her. You had no problem with keeping those a secret.”

  “And what if I was wrong?” She twisted her hands together, and her eyes were pale. “What if all of these secrets divide us when what we need most is to stay together? How can we expect her to trust herself when she knows we don’t trust her?”

  “It’s not a matter of trust, Eithné. You’re the one who pointed out that she wasn’t ready to know those things until she was stronger, and you were right.”

  She sighed. “And when will she be ready to learn she’s your mate?”

  For a moment he couldn’t speak. Seirsha was his mate. He’d known, of course, since they’d found the paintings, but hearing it put so bluntly made it seem more real and incredibly more vital.

  And yet, somehow, it changed nothing.

  He said, “She must never know.”

  “But you love her!” She snapped her mouth shut, as if she hadn’t meant to say that out loud. And then she pushed on anyway. “And she loves you.”

  “She doesn’t.” The denial ripped out of him with claws. “Nothing about my future has changed. Lhókesh will kill me, and soon. How much worse do you think it will be for her if she knows she’s losing her mate?”

  “How much worse will it be if she learns it after you’ve gone? Mikhél, you could give her a sense of belonging that just isn’t possible any other way. Even if it doesn’t last forever, she deserves to know that feeling at least once.”

  It would be so easy to agree with her, to believe that what he wanted most was also what was best. But he knew better. Such happiness would be fleeting and the cost of it unspeakable.

  “She can never know,” he said. When Eithné’s shoulders sagged, he knew the argument was done. “Make sure the others understand. She must never know.”

  Footsteps passed in the hall. Endetar held up a fist, and silence fell. His gift was in place, but it was no guarantee against discovery. He waited until the hall beyond the room was empty once again before he turned to Lagun.

  “You think he’s planning something.”

  “I think we can’t trust him,” Lagun said. “Something’s off.”

  Endetar ran a finger down the left side of his face as he considered Lagun’s concerns. “Can we bend him to our will?”

  Lagun took care with his response, a pause Endetar had come to recognize and appreciate over the years. Finally he said, “I believe so, as long as he feels that our demands align with his goals. He’s obsessed with justice. Any action he takes must lead to that end.”

  Endetar nodded. It was limited, but it was something he could work with. He turned to Naiya. “Status.”

  “The khénta came to Alna Dhújar at the beginning of my shift. She was upset. They left the med center, so I couldn’t hear what they said. But her eyes were pale.”

  Something had happened on Vorhódan, then, or shortly after. He cursed his inability to get his man on that shuttle. “How did the alna seem when she returned?”

  “No different, but she’s difficult to read. Should I turn my focus to the khénta?”

  He understood that she wished to stop following the agent nearly as much as she wished to watch the woman who might be the Baanrí. But he’d already put his best men on the khénta, and none of them had been able to follow the woman for long. She eluded everyone but him without even seeming to try.

  “No, I need you where you are. I need to know if he starts to break down.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You’ll know. Trust your instincts.”

  She paused. “Then I believe he’s close.”

  He glanced at Lagun, who said, “I agree, Endetar.”

  Endetar sighed, but he wasn’t surprised. He turned to Naiya. “We enter the last jump in five
cycles. The closer we get to Spyridon, the sharper the nerves for everyone. Don’t let him out of your sight. When you’re awake and off shift, you should be shadowing him.”

  “And when I can’t be?”

  “You’re not the only one on that detail.” She was the best, certainly the smartest. But she wasn’t alone. “As long as we don’t lose sight of him, we’ll stay in control.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Forty-one days till arrival

  The dreams were coming every night, an inescapable reminder of everything Mikhél wished he could forget. This one was worse than most, and the part of him that sometimes remained lucid during dreams tried to claw its way free. But he was trapped, spiraling down into the dank stench of a memory which would fester eternally in rot.

  He was in the centers. He loathed coming here above all else. Everywhere he turned in those damp, dark rooms, the faces of children stared back at him. Dirty, accusing. Hungry and begging. The monstrous filth was topped only by the reek of the unwashed hordes, the mongrel animals that kept guard, and the piles of rotting food that served as a reminder of what could be had or removed depending upon obedience.

  A little girl was crying.

  It wasn’t a new sound here, and she wasn’t the only one in this hell of a place who was crying even at this very moment. But she was the reason he was there.

  She looked at him, her pale-golden eyes shockingly bright in her small, grimy face. “Please don’t hurt him,” she whispered. “Please. He’s my brother.”

  Brother. A concept as foreign to him as father. Mikhél wondered if she asked him because he too was a child. Did she think he would care more, show more kindness than the soldiers of Gryphon?

  Did she really think he had any say in this matter?

  The clamor on the stairs behind him announced the arrival of Lhókesh. Avron was with him, as always, blocking projective gifts in a radius that seemed to grow daily. Mikhél could feel it like a weight, and he knew that no projective gifts would be used in the center while they were here.

  The guard who led the way for Lhókesh stopped at the girl’s cell. He laughed when she cringed away, a flat, vicious bark that sounded both desperate and false. He ran his weapon across the bars, forcing that laugh in time with the movement.