Things Unseen

by C. J. Brightley

  Things Unseen

  A Long-Forgotten Song Book I

  C. J. Brightley

  Egia, LLC

  Contents

  Things Unseen

  Copyright

  Also by C. J. Brightley

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Afterword

  Sneak Peek: The Dragon’s Tongue

  Things Unseen

  C. J. Brightley

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  THINGS UNSEEN. Copyright 2014 by C. J. Brightley. All rights reserved. Printed in the United Sates of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact info@cjbrightley.com.

  Also by C. J. Brightley

  Erdemen Honor

  The King’s Sword

  A Cold Wind

  Honor’s Heir

  * * *

  Erdemen Tales

  Street Fox

  Heroes

  Color

  Heroes and Other Stories

  * * *

  A Long-Forgotten Song

  The Dragon’s Tongue

  The Beginning of Wisdom

  * * *

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  For Daddy

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you for being my hero, Stephen. I am immensely grateful to my parents for their encouragement and advice. I also owe a debt of gratitude to my wonderful beta readers Sarah, Megan, Laura, Pat, and Doug.

  Chapter One

  Researching this thesis is an exercise in dedication, frustration, making up stuff, pretending I know what I’m doing, and wondering why nothing adds up. Aria swirled her coffee and stared at the blank page in her notebook.

  Why did I decide to study history? She flipped back to look at her notes and sighed. She couldn’t find enough information to even form a coherent thesis. The records were either gone or had never existed in the first place. Something had happened when the Revolution came to power, but she didn’t know what, and she couldn’t even pinpoint exactly when it had occurred.

  The nebulous idea she’d had for her research seemed even more useless now. She’d been trying to find records of how things had changed since the Revolution, how the city had grown and developed. There were official statistics on the greater prosperity, the academic success of the city schools, and the vast reduction in crime. The statistics didn’t mention the abandoned buildings, the missing persons, or any grumbling against the curfew. At least it was later now; for a year, curfew had been at dusk.

  She glanced around the bookstore at the other patrons. A man wearing a business suit was browsing in the self-help section, probably trying to improve his public speaking. A girl, probably another student, judging by her worn jeans and backpack, was sitting on the floor in the literary fiction section, completely engrossed in a book.

  Aria flipped to the front of the book again. It was a memoir of someone she’d never heard of. She’d picked it up almost at random, and flipped to the middle, hoping to find something more interesting than dead ends. The words told of a walk in the forest, and for a moment Aria was there, her nose filled with the scents of pine and loam, her eyes dazzled by the sunlight streaming through the leaves swaying above her. She blinked, and the words were there, but the feeling was gone. Rereading the passage, she couldn’t figure out why she’d been caught up with such breathless realism.

  It wasn’t that the words were so profound; she was confident they were not. Something had caught her, though, and she closed her eyes to imagine the forest again as if it were a memory, distant, faded, perhaps not even her memory. A memory of something she’d seen in a movie, perhaps, or a memory of a dream she’d had as a child.

  Something about it troubled her, and she meant to come back to it. Tonight, though, she had other homework, so she pushed the book aside.

  Dandra’s Books was an unassuming name for the best bookstore in all of the North Quadrant. Dandra was a petite, gray-haired lady with a warm smile. She also had the best map collection, everything from ancient history, both originals and reproductions, to modern maps of cities both near and far, topographical maps, water currents, and everything else. She carried the new releases and electronic holdings that were most in demand, but what made the store unique was the extensive and ever-changing selection of used and antique books. If it could be found, Dandra could find it. Aria suspected she maintained an unassuming storefront because she didn’t want demand to increase; business was sufficient to pay the bills and she refused to hire help.

  Dandra also made tolerable coffee, an important consideration for a graduate student. Aria had spent hours studying there as an undergraduate; it had the same air of productive intellectualism as the university library but without the distraction of other groups of students having more fun than she was. She’d found it on a long, meandering walk while avoiding some homework. Something about the place made concentrating easier.

  Except when it came to her thesis. Aria told herself that she was investigating what resources were available before she narrowed her focus. But sometimes, when she stared at the blank pages, she almost admitted to herself the truth, that she was frustrated with her professors, her thesis, and the Empire itself. She didn’t have a good explanation, and she hadn’t told anyone.

  Something about this image of the forest felt true in a way that nothing had felt for a very long time. It was evidence. Evidence of what, she wasn’t sure. But definitely evidence.

  She finished her homework and packed her bag. She put a bookmark in the memoir and reshelved it, resolving that she would come back later and read it a bit more. It was already late, and she had an early class the next day.

  After class, there were errands and homework, more class, and lunch with a boy who’d seemed almost likable until he talked too much about his dysfunctional family and his abiding love for his ex-girlfriend, who lived down the hall in his apartment building.

  It was a week before she made it back to Dandra’s.

  The book was gone.

  Dandra shook her head when Aria asked about it. “I don’t know what book you mean. I’ve never had a book like that.”

  Aria stared at her in disbelief. “You saw me read it last week. It was called Memories Kept or something like that. Memory Keeper, maybe. Don’t you remember? I was sitting there.” She pointed.

  Dandra gave her a sympathetic look. “You’ve been studying too much, Aria. I’m sorry. I don’t have that book. I don’t think I ever did.”

  Aria huffed in frustration and bought a cup of coffee. She put too much sugar and cream in it and sat by the window at the front. She stared at the people as they came in, wondering if her anger would burn a hole in the back of someone’s coat. It didn’t, but the mental picture amused her.

  Not much else did. The thesis was going nowhere, and the only thing that kept her interest was a line of questions that had no answers and a book that didn’t exist.

  Was the degree worth anything anyway? She’d studied history because she enjoye
d stories and wanted to learn about the past. But the classes had consisted almost entirely of monologs by the professors about the strength of the Empire and how much better things were now after the Revolution. Her papers had alternated between parroting the professors’ words, and uneasy forays into the old times. The research was hard and getting harder.

  The paper she’d written on the Revolution, on how John Sanderhill had united the bickering political factions, had earned an F. Dr. Corten had written, “Your implication that Sanderhill ordered the assassination of Gerard Neeson is patently false and betrays an utter lack of understanding of the morality of the Revolution. I am unable to grade this paper higher than an F in light of such suspect scholarship and patriotism.” Yet Aria had cited her source clearly and had been careful not to take a side on the issue, choosing merely to note that it was one possible explanation for Neeson’s disappearance at the height of the conflict. Not even the most likely.

  For a history department, her professors were remarkably uninterested in exploring the past. She scowled at her coffee as it got colder. What was the point of history, if you couldn’t learn from it? The people in history weren’t perfect any more than people now were. But surely, as scholars, they should be able to admit that imperfect people and imperfect decisions could yield lessons and wisdom.

  It wasn’t as if it was ancient history either. The Revolution had begun less than fifteen years ago. One would think information would be available. Memories should be clear.

  But they weren’t.

  The man entered Dandra’s near dusk. He wore no jacket against the winter cold, only a threadbare short-sleeved black shirt. His trousers were dark and equally worn, the cuffs skimming bare ankles. His feet were bare too, and that caught her attention.

  He spoke in a low voice, but she was curious, so she listened hard and heard most of what he said. “I need the maps, Dandra.”

  “You know I don’t have those.”

  “I’ll pay.”

  “I don’t have them.” Dandra took a step back as he leaned forward with his hands resting on the desk. “I told you before, I can’t get them. I still can’t.”

  “I was told you could, on good authority.” His voice stayed very quiet, but even Aria could hear the cold anger. “Should I tell Petro he was wrong about you?”

  “Are you threatening me?” Dandra’s eyes widened, but Aria couldn’t tell if it was in fear or in anger.

  “I’m asking if Petro was wrong.”

  “Whatever you were promised was wrong. I couldn’t get them.” Dandra clasped her hands together and drew back, her shoulders against the wall, and Aria realized she was terrified. Of the man in the black shirt, or of Petro, or possibly both.

  Aria glanced around as she rose and stepped to the counter. Everyone else seemed to be pretending that absolutely nothing was going on. It was up to her to help. “Excuse me? Can I help you find something?” She smiled brightly at him.

  He glanced back and she had the momentary impression he was startled at the interruption. He stared at her for a split second with cold blue eyes, then looked back at Dandra. Without another word, he brushed past Aria and out the door and disappeared into the darkness.

  Dandra looked at her with wide eyes. “That wasn’t wise, but thank you.”

  “Who is he?”

  Dandra shook her head. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to. Go home, child. It’s late.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  Dandra shook her head wordlessly and glanced at a note she held crumpled in her hand. Was she holding that earlier? I don’t think so. The contents seemed to disturb her even more and she announced in a slightly unsteady voice that the store would be closing early for the evening.

  Aria pulled on her gloves and shoved her notebook back in her pack. Dandra shooed out the few remaining customers and locked the door with a sigh of relief.

  Aria looked around, but the man in the black shirt was long gone.

  “You want a ride home?” Dandra asked.

  “No, thanks. I’ll walk. It’s not far.” She hesitated. “Are you okay, Dandra?”

  Dandra’s smile and nod were so forced it was obvious even in the reflected lamplight. “Goodnight.”

  Aria wandered down the block and around the corner, holding her now-cold cup of coffee. If she went home, she’d have to work on her thesis. If she stayed out, she could tell herself she was planning. She followed the sidewalk and the lighted windows toward the river. She’d walk to the bridge and turn around; she couldn’t justify more procrastination.

  The cozy shops didn’t hold her attention, though the light and bustle kept the walk from feeling too morose. She took a last swig of coffee and tossed the cup in a trashcan, then stuffed her hands in her pockets. The wind whipped around the corners of the concrete buildings, and she pulled her hat tighter over her brown curls. The lighted shops behind her, she headed into the edge of the shipping district. Her friend Amara would tell her to be more cautious, but Aria had never been afraid of lonely walks. Just stay alert, she told herself.

  One of the ubiquitous posters flapped in the wind, then detached from the light pole and fluttered down the street, finally stopping when it hit a puddle of icy water. She didn’t need to read it to know what it said. See it, say it! Report suspicious activity to the Imperial Police Force. And underneath that admonition: Enemies hide in plain sight.

  She’d never seen any enemies of the state. The warnings were everywhere, but even the Revolution itself had been seamless, with barely a whimper of protest from the old government. Everyone knew things were better now.

  She approached the bridge at an angle, almost ready to turn around. The water was a black void between the lights behind her and the distant streetlights of the bustling harbor on the other side. Now and again a faint reflection would wink at her, a bright spot in the sea of darkness.

  A movement caught her eye.

  Later, when she thought about it, she was surprised she’d seen him at all. He sat on one of the steel girders underneath the bridge, some forty feet above the water. He was doing something with his hands, perhaps writing, but she couldn’t see clearly. One leg swung beneath him, relaxed. He was still in shirtsleeves and barefoot.

  It was cold enough for snow, and she stared at him, wondering if he was crazy. Contemplating suicide? Trying to catch pneumonia? Even in her sweater with a thick coat over it, she shivered in the icy wind.

  Perhaps he needed to see a mental therapist. As she finished the thought, he swung his leg back onto the girder. He rose with easy grace and ran along the slick metal to leap fifteen feet to the ground. He jogged up the slope toward her but turned while he was still some distance away, and jogged another two blocks before entering into a dark building, perhaps an abandoned apartment or condominium tower.

  She slipped into the building a few moments after he did, her heart pounding. The doors were well oiled and silent. The hall seemed black as coal after the brightness of the streetlights outside, and she blinked, hoping her eyes would adjust. After a moment, she could make out the faint rectangles of light from windows in adjacent rooms, but the spaces between remained dark and empty. She crept another step forward, wondering where the man had gone. No light from a distant doorway hinted at a destination, and she hesitated again.

  He twisted her arm up behind her back and clamped a hand over her mouth, so her shriek of fear and surprise was caught in her throat. “Why are you following me? How are you following me?”

  His face was close to hers, his breath nearly in her hair. He lifted his icy hand from her mouth just a little, so she managed to gasp, “I was just curious. No reason.”

  “You are not welcome here.” He opened the door and shoved her outside into the cold.

  And that was that.

  Or it should have been, anyway. She was too curious for her own good, and she knew it.

  Something about him drew her, though she could not say why. The next day, while e
ating lunch at the campus cafe with Amara, she almost mentioned him but stifled the impulse. He was a baffling secret, not meant to be discussed over toasted hummus sandwiches.

  Aria went back to his apartment three days later, after she’d gathered up her courage again. She circled the building and found an outer door unlocked. Perhaps he never locked it. She closed her eyes for several minutes outside to let her eyes adjust to the darkness before she slipped inside. While she waited, she listened for him but heard only the traffic of electric cars on the road to her left, the whoosh of wind through the buildings, and the rustle of a bit of paper caught in the grating over a drain near her feet. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.

  The building felt deserted, long disused. Why didn’t I bring a flashlight? Faint streetlight made it through the windows of the rooms along one side to light the hallway. Long rectangles of light crossed the floor. A stairwell at the end made her pause again, and she crept downward, heart in her throat. The darkness grew deeper, and she remembered her phone. She pulled it out and let the screen shed pale light down the stairs. Another hallway, with a closed door a short distance ahead on her left.

  She put her ear to the door and listened. Silence. She waited, her heart in her throat, for some sound that would tell her he was there. Why am I doing this? Absolute silence, both in the room and in the hallway.

  She glanced around and tried the door tentatively. If he was there, it was dangerous. Even if he wasn’t, it was still dangerous.

  There was no sound from inside, and she took a deep breath before pulling a plastic card from her pocket. The building was old, and the lock looked simple and loose. Perhaps this would work.

  She needed both hands, so she put the phone back in her pocket, wishing she still had its faint light. It seemed to take too long. She held her breath while she jiggled the card, twisting and pushing and hoping.