Spyridon (The Spyridon Trilogy Book 1)

by Lillian James

  Yellow light winked on between them, and Bavoel stared back at her, his pale-blue eyes cast sickly green in the ladder glow.

  He snarled, and she jumped, her hand going to her throat. She told herself to run, but her legs were rooted to the floor.

  Flight, fight, or freeze.

  She’d picked the worst option, but she couldn’t make herself move. She would die in the dark, alone but for the presence of a madman.

  Then he grinned, and her jaw clenched. He was enjoying this, just like he’d enjoyed all the rest. He’d taken lives as if they were worthless, and then he dared smile at her as if he was winning a game.

  Heat flashed through her, a new, righteous kind of heat that had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with bringing this asshole to justice. And suddenly she could move.

  She snatched the baton from his belt and swung it into his injured shoulder. He screamed and grabbed at the spot, and she thrust the baton up between his legs. When he bowled over, she drove it hard into the base of his spine.

  Then she rushed away on legs fully healed.

  Valaer stretched his sedfai, the imprecise display on the bracelet a maddeningly limited form of assistance. The light indicated he’d found Seirsha, but he saw only the dark, empty rooms of long-abandoned living quarters. The amethyst light moved ahead one pace, and he almost threw the bracelet in frustration. Then he heard the clang-clang-clang of footsteps on metal.

  His head shot to the right, and he was moving before the thought had fully formed: they were in the walls.

  Mikhél scanned the hall for an access panel. Seirsha was in the next sector and moving quickly, but Bavoel was closing in. She sent staccato bursts of perception and image: Bavoel’s face grinning at her in the sallow light. The knife glinting in his hand. His breath on her neck again and again and the imagined chill of silver against her throat.

  She was losing ground, and she couldn’t wait for Mikhél to reach her by traditional means. He glanced back to make sure Eithné had closed the doors behind him—and he froze.

  Two men held the old woman captive, her arms spread wide as tears slid down her brown, furrowed cheeks.

  His hand went to his weapon, and he said evenly, “The alna has committed no offense. Release her.”

  And a dozen Nhélanei appeared out of thin air.

  Fareg, of the golden eyes and melted face, stood before him, flanked by Watchers. More of them poured from the assembly room, filling the hall from end to end.

  And every damned one of them held a weapon.

  Jane called open the panel, and then Mikhél’s voice filled her mind.

  Not here. It’s not safe.

  She slowed. Behind her, Bavoel dove, grabbed her ankle, and pulled. Her face slammed into the metal, shredding the skin of her jaw. She kicked back as her bloodied face began to heal, one well-placed thrust that connected unerringly with his cheek. She felt-saw the bones in his face crunch, felt-heard his howl of rage and pain. Felt grim satisfaction swell within her, even as he grappled his way up her legs.

  Don’t have a choice, she sent to Mikhél.

  She rammed her foot back again and connected with his swollen groin, and he let her go. She tumbled into the hall at Mikhél’s feet and thought she’d never been happier to see him.

  Then she felt the others.

  She felt the blood drain from her face as she stood and saw the army before them. Hundreds of Nhélanei watched her, and she knew she’d been discovered. And she wanted to scream.

  It had been for nothing. Her parents. Aida, Betha, Bhénen. The crew on this ship who had given their lives for a cause they knew nothing about.

  And then, so clear and sharply beautiful it might have happened yesterday, she thought of the cave on Vorhódan. The underground lake, the dance of the lens, the wonder of music turned to light.

  The look on Mikhél’s face as they’d stood so close in the silence.

  In that moment she knew she wouldn’t accept defeat easily. She looked at Fareg and braced for combat.

  Then she felt the knife at her neck.

  Bavoel’s teeth sank into her hair, and he yanked back her head to bare her throat. The blade dug into her skin, and her body tried to heal around the metal. The first time he’d hurt her, she’d survived. This time he’d sever her head.

  Even a healer couldn’t survive that.

  He released her hair and growled, “I know who you are.” Then his voice rose and echoed shrilly through the corridor. Her eyes flicked nervously to the Watchers and then back to Mikhél. And then, when she felt another presence in the darkness, they flicked down toward the access panel.

  “You tried to hide it,” Bavoel said. He looked at Endetar, and his lips peeled away from his teeth. Then his gaze moved to Mikhél, and he pulled the blade closer. “Traitor! You long for the old world, the old ways. You long for the Baanrí. But my Spyridon is Lhókesh’s Spyridon. My Spyridon has no Baanrí!”

  She shuddered as his words parroted her own. Then he drew the blade from her neck, and she realized what he meant to do. In his lunacy he didn’t understand why she still lived. He wasn’t going to sever her head; he was going to stab her through the heart.

  A blade that long would go right through her delicate frame and into him. And where it would cause her pain and likely unconsciousness, it would kill him.

  Don’t stop him, she sent to Mikhél when she saw his hand move to his weapon. I’ll survive, but the Watchers won’t know.

  Then Endetar stepped forward, and chills iced her skin. He was too thorough to leave her fate to Bavoel. He would finish what Bavoel would fail to do. And if Mikhél tried to stop them, his true allegiance would be known.

  As the knife began its downward arc, she sent him one more thought.

  Don’t give yourself away. If I die you’re the only one who can stop Lhókesh.

  Valaer rose behind Bavoel, his fist gripping the knife. He saw Endetar, and his hand tightened around the handle. For one hot, blind moment, he imagined throwing the blade into the Watcher’s unmarred eye.

  Then Bavoel started to bring down his weapon, and Valaer drove his knife into the soldier’s temple.

  Bavoel’s hand loosened, and his knife fell. He uttered a strange, gurgling sound, and a warm flood gushed down Jane’s back. His body took a sick slide down, pulling away from hers with a horrible sucking sound, and then he was gone.

  She knew before she turned that Bavoel was dead. Valaer stood grimly behind him, his body drenched in blood. He turned to the crowd and stepped in front of her even as Mikhél grabbed her arm and pulled her back, so in one fluid motion they stood before her in a protective wall.

  Endetar raised his weapon, and Mikhél drew his. Valaer sank into a combat stance, so his body blocked hers. She glanced at Eithné, and the old woman lifted her chin in blatant challenge even as tears ran down her cheeks. And Jane closed her eyes against the knowledge of what would happen next.

  More lives lost to protect her when she’d done nothing to protect anyone else.

  She opened her eyes and stepped forward, palms up. When Mikhél tensed beside her, she turned to him and said, “No one else dies because of me.”

  Endetar’s eyes narrowed on her, but she stepped clear of the men. And she said, “I know what happened to you.”

  “What do you think you know?”

  “I know that Lhókesh’s son gave you those scars. And I know he did it to save your life.”

  He looked at Mikhél. “You know his lies.”

  “They aren’t lies. Lhókesh would have killed you for saving that girl. Mikhél convinced him to let you live. Fareg, we mean you no harm.”

  “I stopped using that name the day he called me to action.” He turned to Mikhél, a grimace twisting his face. “You made me who I am. You bore me to fight for Lhókesh, and in so doing created the nightmare you now face.”

  “Endetar,” Mikhél said grimly.

  “No,” he replied, his golden eyes dark with triumph. “Endetar i
s a mask. I am Tauruk.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “Tauruk.” Valaer whispered the word beside her, and he grabbed her arm and leaned against her. She looked at him, her eyes wide, but he was staring at the man Bhénen had died trying to find.

  She turned back to Tauruk. “We’re fighting for the same side.”

  His weapon lowered slightly, but he glanced at Mikhél and then raised it again. “He’s brainwashed you.”

  “He hasn’t. Tauruk,” she said sharply when his eyes paled. “We’re not fighting for Lhókesh. We’re fighting for the Nhélanei. We’re fighting for freedom.”

  He studied her and then Eithné, Valaer, Mikhél. His eyes lingered on the son of Lhókesh, and Jane tensed. But then he turned back to her, and his eyes began to darken.

  He said, “Baanríté.”

  And he dropped to one knee and laid his weapon on the ground.

  The men on either side of him did the same, and then the people next to them. One by one, and then all at once, every person in the hall bowed to her. And that word rippled in the air, a reverent whisper that grew until the hall echoed with the thunder of it.

  They said, “Baanríté.”

  Valaer sank to his knees beside her. Mikhél lowered his weapon. Eithné was still crying, but her eyes were dark. And the crew continued to shout that word until it was all she could do not to cover her ears against the sound.

  She wanted to tell them to stop. That something had gone wrong, that this wasn’t how this fight was supposed to end. But she couldn’t say a word. For months she’d hidden from the crew, certain they would allow their fear of Lhókesh to provoke them to murder. But Lhókesh had no more than a physical hold over them. They held their own hearts. They guided their own choices as much as they could. They chose their own leaders.

  And they had chosen her.

  Spyridon had a Baanrí after all.

  CHAPTER 37

  She didn’t know what to say. It seemed she should say something meaningful or inspirational, or perhaps she should voice a validation of their struggle, but her mind was blank. After minutes that felt like hours, the hall quieted. One by one the crew stood.

  And she felt as if she’d let them down.

  Beside her, Valaer slumped onto the floor. Naiya rushed over with a med kit and knelt to examine his thigh, which was covered from hip to knee in a metallic silver band that looked for all the world like duct tape. Eithné grabbed Jane’s arm, and she turned to find herself engulfed in the old woman’s embrace. She stood frozen for a moment and then buried her face in Eithné’s shoulder and held on.

  When something hard dug into her back, she pulled away and glanced down. At the sight of the bracelet in Eithné’s hand, her heart dropped. “Leima.”

  Eithné’s eyes paled. “I don’t know where she is. I found this—”

  “She’s in the safe room. He used her to get inside.”

  She turned and raced down the hall, the sound of the others at her heels.

  They found the trail of blood first, a wide swath that streaked the floor for half a sector before ending beneath Leima’s unconscious form. Eithné and Naiya rushed toward the fuel processor, their hands working furiously to drain the lung and seal the wound.

  Jane sank to the floor beside her friend. “Will she live?”

  Eithné secured a life mask across Leima’s mouth and nose and then ran her link over the gardó’s body. She nodded briskly and began to treat the injuries to Leima’s arm, and her voice was steady when she answered.

  “Her lung has reinflated. Provided it doesn’t collapse again, she’ll recover quickly. She’ll require observation and rest for a week, perhaps more. Her arm…” Eithné pursed her lips as she examined the diagnostics on her link. “That will take longer. Her wrist is broken, and bone heals slower than soft tissue. It requires immobilization.”

  She looked to Naiya, who nodded and began to retrieve materials from the med kit. Leima moaned, and her lids fluttered. Jane whispered to her and brushed her hair away from her face. Her lids lifted, and pale-silver eyes looked up at Jane and then fixed on Eithné. The alna smiled and touched Leima’s cheek.

  “You’ll be fine, my dear. Just rest, and let us take care of you.”

  “Seirsha.”

  Jane looked up at Mikhél and then beyond him, into the nightmare the safe room had become. The floor was slicked with orange, and at the foot of the bed a wide, dark panel of it rose and fell in midair.

  Kai.

  She hurried over and sank to her knees at his side. When she touched him, he showed her his torn and bleeding flesh. Her hands trembled, and her eyes filled, but she forced back the tears. This was not the time for them. Later, she told herself. When all of this was done, she’d find a dark corner somewhere, curl up in a ball, and cry until she was dry.

  She sat by Kai while Leima was tended. Sooner than she’d expected, Eithné was by her side, clucking over his wounds. A strange, rhythmic squeak sounded from her left, and she looked over to see Valaer limping into the room, propped up on the shoulder of a blue-eyed med tech, a cane dragging along the cushioned floor at his feet. He made his way to a chair beside the bed as Mikhél carried Leima in and laid her across the sheets. Tauruk strode in behind him, and Mikhél called closed the door. Eithné murmured as Naiya began to put away their supplies, Kai’s wound cleaned and sealed.

  And then seven faces turned to stare at her.

  They thought she should say something. She felt as if she was back in the hall, staring at hundreds of bowed heads as their words echoed in her head. And in an abandoned room, staring at the proof of her dreams while Eithné confirmed a title that made no sense. And in the medical center, staring at four strangers as she heard her given name for the first time.

  She felt like an imposter.

  She looked at Mikhél, and her mouth opened, but no sound came out. He was watching her, and she wondered at the unfairness of his ability to so completely hide himself from her when she was bared through the nexus. Even if she was successfully blocking her thoughts, he could surely feel the cowardice coursing through her.

  He walked to her side and put a hand on her back, a touch that was as comforting as it was brief. Then he turned to Tauruk. “You have the loyalty of the crew?”

  “All except those in this room and your second-in-command. I thought I could regulate him if I kept him close. Clearly I was wrong. My deepest apologies, Baanríté.”

  He bowed his head to her, and she nodded and looked away.

  “The whole crew,” Mikhél said. “How is that possible?”

  “This was my second flight on this ship. Almost a hundred of us came from the same center. The rest we recruited over time. I thought it would be beneficial to control one of the largest fuel processing ships in Lhókesh’s armada.” He cocked his head. “You thought we were Watchers.”

  “You used the Watchers’ words.”

  “Only to determine the loyalty of the Baanrí. I infiltrated their ranks years ago.”

  “How did you convince them to let you in?” Valaer asked.

  “They wanted my gift.”

  “You can camouflage yourself,” Mikhél guessed. Jane glanced at Kai, concealed and sleeping.

  “In a way,” Tauruk said. “It’s a projective gift. I can hide anything within my range, so it can’t be seen, heard, smelled, or sensed. Only physical touch will reveal it.”

  “You’ve been watching us this whole time,” Eithné said. “I felt it, but I didn’t understand.”

  He nodded respectfully toward her. “I offer my apologies for any alarm I caused.”

  Mikhél asked, “How long have you known about Seirsha?”

  “I suspected she was more than you said soon after you brought her onboard. You guarded her far more closely than you would a mere khénta. When her clouding lifted, I saw the resemblance to her mother.”

  “And Bavoel?” He ground out the name, and Jane glanced at him as she felt his tension rise. “Did he recognize her too
? Or did you tell him what you suspected?”

  Tauruk stiffened. “My every action was taken with her well-being in mind. I said nothing that would jeopardize her.”

  “Bavoel was a truthseer,” Valaer said. “All he had to do was touch someone who knew or suspected they knew.”

  Jane felt as if she was eavesdropping on a conversation she had no right to hear, and she had no desire to remind them of her presence. It was safer that way. No one looked at her or expected her to take on this ridiculous role they somehow thought she deserved.

  But no one else was asking the right questions.

  “Why didn’t you come forward?” She bit her lip when everyone turned toward her, but she couldn’t take back the words. And they needed to be asked. “So many people have died. If we’d known who to trust, we’d have known Bavoel was dangerous. We could have stopped him.”

  “I knew Niyhól was preparing you for war. I feared he was conditioning you to serve Lhókesh. I couldn’t risk revealing our cause until I was certain of yours.”

  Six crew members dead, five of them innocent, and all because no one knew who to trust in this godforsaken war. They snuck around each other in the dark and spoke in whispers, different limbs of the same beast, cognizant only of the need to hide from one another.

  She ground her teeth as her fingernails dug into her palms. The bracelet slid against the scar on her wrist, and she wanted to take it off and throw it across the room. She wanted to go home, back to her apartment in Atlanta, where her fate was almost surely the same as here, with one exception. There, she would die in peace.

  Then it hit her.

  Six bracelets, each with its own jewel, the colors matched to their eyes. Except for the sixth, which held a clear jewel.

  Clear—or invisible.

  She sent to Mikhél, The sixth bracelet is for Tauruk.

  He turned to her, and she could all but see his mind working. Then he looked at the medical assistants leaning against the wall.

  “Leave us.”