Overture

by K R Schultz

  Kyonna’s Windrider friends gyrated and bounced to the rhythm of the music out on the dance-floor. Nearby, her friend Aiyo danced with Loran, a lanky fellow Windrider. She nudged Rais and pointed at them. “Look at the way they’re dancing. How long have those two been together?”

  “Pretty much since spring.”

  “The little minx never said a word to me, and I’m her best friend. I’m deeply offended, and I’ll make her pay.” Kyonna cackled and rubbed her hands together in mock villainy.

  Rais shook his head and pursed his lips in simulated disgust. He paid the bartender and reached for the drinks. “The house band sounds better than usual tonight.” He perused the murals and graffiti art from young lower-class Sokai artists, which covered the polished basalt walls and glowed in garish neon colors. The eclectic mixture of street-art paintings and social commentary covered the walls to the lofty ceilings, where thousands of tiny blue lights sparkled like a sky full of stars.

  Rais was about to hand Kyonna her beverage, but suddenly looked away and stared past her left shoulder. “What’s going on over there?” Rais pointed, and Kyonna turned to see what had attracted his attention. A wedge of burly figures in black masks and dark clothes sliced through the swirl of dancers and headed straight toward the bar.

  “Oh crap. Not again, and please not tonight,” Kyonna said through gritted teeth. Rais put their drinks back on the bar.

  The music faltered and stopped mid-song because the band had seen the commotion. The musical group scrambled to pack their instruments and fled the stage, and once they reached a safe distance, they peered at the confrontation.

  Rais put his fingers in his mouth, creating a shrill whistle to other Windriders in the crowd that carried above the confused babble of the manhandled dancers. The Windriders responded to his signal and moved to cut off Virtue’s goons before they reached the bar.

  “You troublemakers don’t want to stand in our way.” The black-masked leader of Virtue, perpetual protesters, glared at Kyonna, Rais, and the other Windriders who stood between them and the bar that surrounded the bandstand.

  “Why not?” Rais said. “Are we supposed to fear you because you wear black masks? You’re not as scary as you think. Do the math. Windriders outnumber you, and we won’t let you crash our party tonight. We’ve come together to honor one of our members, and you’re disrupting our celebration.”

  “Virtue aims to close this den of iniquity and social unrest. Don’t stand in our way, or you will be judged.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already judged us,” a tall, bony Windrider chimed in.

  “He sure sounds judgey to me,” Kyonna added.

  Rais scoffed, “Social unrest? We promise to be perfectly restful if you leave. There were no problems in The Greenhouse until you arrived and caused them. How many people did you injure when you pushed your way through the crowd? How many do you intend to harm to reach the bar? You brand us troublemakers, and yet there was no trouble here until you arrived. So who are the real troublemakers?”

  “Enough talk.” A masked goon stepped forward and grabbed Ky by her ringlets to move her aside and gain access to the bar. “Get out of the way, slut. We’re shutting this down right now.”

  “I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you,” Kyonna said. The Windriders surged forward to help her. “It sounded like you called me a slut.”

  “You understood me just fine, skank. I said, move aside.” The masked hoodlum yanked her hair to force her obedience. Kyonna staggered but stood her ground with gritted teeth and fire in her eyes. She grabbed the thumb of his free hand and bent it back. Her attacker leaned to the side to relieve the pressure on the joint.

  “Let go of my hair, asshole, or I’ll break your thumb.” He released his grip on her curls. “Now, apologize for calling me a slut.” The fellow groaned and gritted his teeth against the pain as Kyonna applied additional force. Rais and the other Windriders surrounded Kyonna and her assailant and pushed the other black-clad bullies away from the confrontation.

  “Do you need any help, Wild Child?” Rais grunted and stood nose to nose with Virtue’s leader. The spokesman for the group tried to push Rais aside and rescue his friend, but Rais pushed back; the men were too evenly matched for either to make any progress.

  “Nope, I’ve dealt with handsy jerks like this all my life. I live under a curse. Guys think I’m an easy mark because I’m tiny and beautiful. Everybody wants to touch me.” Kyonna flipped her curls with her free hand, smiled her most alluring smile, and applied more force to the offender’s thumb. He whimpered and dropped to his knees but still refused to apologize. “Last chance before I dislocate it. I’ll help you get started. It goes like this. I’m…sorry…” Kyonna gave the thumb a little extra twitch of encouragement and flashed her victim an expectant look.

  “All right…I’m sorry…I called you a slut.”

  “And…you’ll never do it again…right?” Another little twitch of encouragement elicited a scream.

  “I’ll never do it again, all right, I’ll never do it again.”

  “That’s good because I find that language demeaning. I imagine it’s as humiliating as a girl making you cry like a baby with only one hand.” She released her grip on the offender's thumb. “Okay, you can go now. I forgive you.” She raised her voice. “It was an obvious case of mistaken identity. You mistook me for—your mother.”

  Several Windriders near enough to hear the exchange laughed.

  Aiyar and her dance partner had elbowed their way through the crowd. Aiyar giggled at the exchange, elbowed Loran, who stood beside her, and they chorused, “Ouch. That’s gonna leave a mark.”

  By the time Kyonna’s assailant regained his feet, everyone in The Greenhouse, encouraged by her actions, had surrounded Virtue’s posse. The goons realized they could never carry out their mission in the face of such united resistance. “We’ll be back.” The leader backed away from Rais and glared at the crowd. “And there’ll be more of us next time. A lot more. We won’t stop until we close this hell hole.”

  “Everyone is welcome here, but next time leave your mask at home so we can discuss your issues face to face like civilized people, no pun intended. Remember, tolerance is a virtue.” Rais’ eyes narrowed, and he pointed toward the entrance. “The door is over there. “Don’t let it hit your asses on the way out.”

  “Only gutless whiners hide behind masks.” Kyonna’s violet eyes blazed with fury at the fellow who cradled his injured hand. “If you want to change things, take your concerns to our leaders. Don’t barge in here and threaten people,”

  “Okay, Ky, dial it down. We won this round,” Rais said. “Virtue is headed out the door. It’s your party—oh, here’s the drink I promised.” Rais picked up their drinks and handed Ky her beverage. The band returned to the stage, tuned up, and prepared for their next number. “You must be thirsty after that scuffle. Chug that drink, and let’s dance.”

  “Thanks, humiliating bullies is hard work, and it always makes me thirsty.” Ky downed her brew and tossed the cup to the bartender, who caught it and winked at her. “Try to keep up, old-timer.” Kyonna grabbed Rais’s hand and dragged him to the center of the dance-floor, where the Windriders had gathered.

  Ky and Rais led the gyrating, bobbing crowd. Anger fueled Kyonna’s energetic moves where she and Rais danced, surrounded by their friends, who chanted, “Wild Child, Wild Child” in time to the music.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Himish and Leela

  “Good morning, my dove,” Himish said as he watched Leela’s unique amber-colored eyes flutter open. Most Sokai had eyes in shades of violet or blue. He had watched his wife sleep while sunbeams lit her face and crept across the floor of their Upper West Rim apartment.

  The residences on the west side of the crater’s rim, reserved for senior members of the Synod Council, provided the most prestigious accommodations in Abalon. Housing assignments confirmed every Sokai’s social status and authority. Councilors and senior officia
ls lived high on the rim while common laborers lived on the south side near the caldera floor. It meant that laborers needn’t ride the overcrowded lifts to their workplaces. Workers merely walked out their doors to tend the fields and orchards, but the steep caldera wall perpetually shaded their homes. The upper classes looked down on shadow folk their term for the working classes.

  Himish and Leela had married forty summers ago. Although her physical beauty had faded, Leela’s compassion and tenderness increased over the years. Her strength of spirit shone through her aged flesh with more brilliance than when she was younger.

  “Good morning to you too, you old fool.” Leela’s eyes widened. She rubbed the sleep from them, yawned, and stretched. “Were you watching me sleep again?”

  “Yes, I was. Does that bother you?”

  Leela shrugged and pursed her lips. “It’s your time, and you can waste it looking at an old crone if you wish.”

  “Time spent admiring your beauty is never wasted, my love. I still see the beautiful woman who captured my heart all those years ago.”

  “Sweetheart, you must have incredible eyesight to see past the wrinkles and gray hair. You should have fallen in love with someone who could cook.”

  “I credit your cookery for my youthful vigor and boyish build. Unlike most of my friends, I lack the corpulence of my contemporaries, who could pass for pregnant women.” Himish arose, turned sideways, sucked in his stomach, and pointed to it with both hands. “See what I mean? I shall live forever because of your culinary prowess, my dear. Besides, I wouldn’t want you any other way. Our life together, just the two of us, has been full of adventure and passion.”

  Leela giggled. “Adventure, yes, and passion, ha, precious little of the latter lately.” Leela feigned anger, but her eyes betrayed amusement at her husband’s antics. “Your flattery will get you nowhere, husband. Since I’m no longer the young innocent you courted, I’m immune to your honeyed words.”

  “It’s an altered form of passion, my love. We have found alternative ways to express our love, is all.” Himish loved their verbal scuffles as much as he loved the woman he sparred with. Leela’s wit and wisdom had attracted him as much as her beauty. Leela’s black hair had gone snow white over the last few years. Wrinkles lined her face and age spots dotted her hands, but her mind remained sharp as flint.

  “Enough of this flattery. You know I don’t believe half of the nonsense you spout.” Leela sat up and slipped her robe over her nightdress to ward off the chill in the room. “I’ll make breakfast for us; besides, don’t you have appointments?”

  “I have appointments every morning, but my most important appointment is time spent with you.” Himish snuck behind Leela, wrapped his arms around her age-thickened waist, nuzzled her silvery hair aside, and kissed the back of her neck.

  Leela pushed his hands away, twisted around to face him, and threw her arms around his neck. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “There was a time when that trick would earn you a return trip to the bedroom, and you would miss all your appointments,” she teased.

  “I know, but we are oh so much more responsible in our old age, aren’t we?” Himish changed the subject. “Eideron and I have a meeting before the Synod assembly. Shall I give him your greetings?”

  “Of course.” Leela paused, her eyes focused on some distant object, deep in thought. “I have an idea. We should invite Eideron to our quarters for supper sometime soon. I could invite Ayana Sesani—her husband died two winters ago. Ayana and Eideron would be a perfect match.” Himish held his hands over his eyes and shook his head until his wife asked, “What’s the matter, Himish? Eideron’s been alone too long, and they are a perfect match.”

  “The reason he rejects your invitations, my love, is not your cuisine. It’s your ceaseless efforts to marry him off to one of your widowed friends. So, Ayana is the widow of the month, is she?”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Himish interrupted. “Eideron won’t visit unless I can promise him you won’t ambush him with another of your friends. I know you want him to be happy like we are, but he has no space in his heart for another love at this late stage of his life. After Sidi died fifteen years ago, he swore he would never remarry, and his apprentices are his life since her death. Your intentions are pure, but stop meddling, for the sake of our friendship with him…and my sanity.”

  “But the Housing Commission is about to evict her from her apartment. The commissioners say she takes up more space than her allotment. Ayana is a single woman with no dependents, and the committee will move her to the widows’ barracks, and conditions are horrible down there.” Leela stared at her husband and waited for his response.

  “Yes, horrible conditions are everywhere. The Housing Commission and the engineers chisel more quarters from the crater walls every day. But it won’t be soon enough to save your friend from the widows’ barracks.” Himish’s attempt to calm his wife failed.

  Leela scoffed and stomped into the kitchen of their quarters, muttering about men and their shortcomings. Himish thanked the Creator that his hearing was not what it used to be: he didn’t need to hear her disparage him and men in general. Himish hadn’t won the battle or even achieved a truce. It was a cessation of hostilities and only that. Once Leela seized an idea, he could never dislodge it without high-powered explosives—Himish wasn’t sure he could withstand an all-out verbal war with his tenacious wife. A man must choose the hill he wants to die on, someone once said, and I’m not ready for the afterlife yet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ehlbringa Weapons

  Rehaak pushed the large bundle wrapped in oiled skins toward the youngster. Laakea unwrapped the package and instantly recognized the objects inside it. “How is this possible? Did I make these?” Eyes wide, he ran his hands over the shiny objects inside the skins.

  “We had hoped you could answer that question for us,” Rehaak said. “Now that we have heard your dream, I understand. It was no dream. These items were beside you when we found you on the floor of the smithy, burning with fever and pale as a corpse. You must have made them while you slept, though I doubt you experienced any actual sleep. You made the blades and breastplate, and the process of their creation almost destroyed you.”

  The ehlbringa was different now, brighter, almost translucent, and Laakea knew the runes inscribed into the guards meant Truth and Justice. He also knew the rune worked into the center of the breastplate denoted Righteousness. The swords glowed as if light trapped within the metal tried to escape. Both swords had perfect weight and balance. Laakea tested their sharpness with his thumb and only realized he had cut himself when he saw blood oozing from the wound. The breastplate, thin and light as thistledown, when worn padded and concealed under a shirt, would protect his torso from any weapons the assassins could use against him.

  “I reckon that explains the fever too,” Isil added. “You was in the forge o’ the Creator, and it took you a while to cool off again.”

  “Well, Rehaak, I suppose we can continue your quest since I have the tools to protect you.” He attempted to stand, but Isil pushed him back onto the bench.

  “You still needs to rest, laddie. Makin’ them things took too much out o’ you, and you nearly died doin’ it.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Isil.” Laakea looked at Rehaak for support, but his friend glanced away. “But Rehaak tells me we Eniila heal much faster than you Abrhaani, and I know it’s true. It won’t be long before I’m back to normal. I can wrap the sword grips with rawhide and attach straps for the breastplate. That won’t take long, and it’s easy.”

  “That’s right, Isil. He will heal quickly, but he will eat a mountain of food first,” Rehaak fell silent, looking pensive and troubled.

  “What’s wrong, Spot?” Laakea asked.

  “Oh, just thinking,” Rehaak answered, “At least we know the meaning behind your father’s song. Do you think he ever worked ehlbringa?”

  “No, he didn’t because he had no ehlbringa to use. To
him, it was a work-song, set to the rhythm of hammer blows on the anvil. Pa said no one since Selvyn had worked with ehlbringa. I had a thought. I could be one of Selvyn’s descendants! Ma taught me her genealogy through twenty generations, and someone named Selvyn was on the list fifteen generations ago.” Laakea paused in his recollection, his face solemn. “But that leaves me with an uncomfortable conclusion about the assassin’s blades.”

  “What conclusion?” Rehaak tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips.

  “The flame creature claimed Selvyn was the last Eniila who worked with ehlbringa. If Selvyn was the last blacksmith who worked with it, then Selvyn himself made the assassin’s blades. That is the only explanation.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “Selvyn is an Eniila hero. How could a hero do such wickedness? Those weapons were perversions of the pure metal, designed to murder people for the Dark Ones. We all felt the evil in them when we handled those things because they served the Nethera’s purposes.”

  Isil sat up straight, eyes wide. “That be why they done gave us the creeps.” She slapped the table with her palm. “I knew I weren’t imagining it!”

  Laakea scratched the downy stubble on his chin. “I wonder what happened to Selvyn that caused him to turn away from the light and create those perversions of smithcraft. I said I might misuse power if I received it, and the flame creature said, ‘You have spoken the truth. To Selvyn’s disgrace, he strayed from the Maker’s plan and became corrupt.’”

  “It must be difficult to believe a hero of your species followed the Dark Ones,” Rehaak said.

  Laakea shuddered. “How could Selvyn twist ehlbringa to serve the Dark Ones and bend such beauty to the service of evil? Good has triumphed, despite evil’s nastiest efforts, and now I have weapons to protect you.” He rewrapped the breastplate and the swords in the oiled skins. “Although this metal is immune to rust, these are holy items and must be treated with reverence.” Laakea paused, then said, “I already have rawhide, and I can wrap the grips before tomorrow afternoon.”