“Yo, remember that first night we met?” Jean asked cheerfully. “Told ya we were fuckin’ sailors.” She gave a jovial laugh. “Ah, those were the days…”
Chari didn’t like remembering that night. It wasn’t for the arrival of her friends, who had enriched her life in then-unimaginable ways, but how she’d felt hours earlier—the way she’d seen herself reflected in the Inquisitor’s sword as she’d studied it in the dead of night. Back then, it had seemed the only way to escape the secret hell her life had become.
“But for the smallest changes, Cordom seems as we left it,” she said aloud, then shook her head and admonished herself. “Of course it would be. It has not been even a year. Little would likely change in such time.”
“We do not leave for Terrias until daybreak,” Poe said. “Is there some place you wish to visit while here?”
“No.” Chari had only pondered Poe’s suggestion for a moment; in it, she’d climbed the tallest trees bordering Siehron Manor and scoured the windows through her rifle’s scope. Inquisitor Thunau would pass one eventually and, since her departure, Chari had become an adept sharpshooter. “It’s better if I pass through as though I were never here at all.”
“You’ll be okay?” Flynn asked.
She smiled, and nodded back at him. “I’ll endure.”
As they passed from the docks into the city streets, they had to keep their voices low—the hour was late and the guards were on patrol. Chari expected to return to her home and find it ransacked by the church following her disappearance. But it stood quiet on the street; doors shut, curtains drawn.
It was like she’d never left.
At first, she reached into her robes out of instinct, but realized she’d abandoned the key somewhere long ago.
“I got this,” Jean said as she shoved her way to the front. She clasped a hand over the lock and it rattled low and fast until the handle gave way. The hinges creaked with rough familiarity as the door swung open.
“Inside, swiftly,” Chari urged, taking care to ensure the door was shut before lighting the candles.
Dust had settled on her undisturbed property, blanketing the books that lined her wall and coating the withered flowers her laity had left the day before she’d vanished from Cordom. This silence brought an ache with it, an acceptance that her presence had perpetuated a system she wished no part of, and that her absence changed nothing.
“Thought you’d be at least a little happy to be home,” Zaja said.
This brought an ironic smile to Chari’s face. “You’ve suffered my dismal recitations. Would I be welcomed back? Almost certainly. But would joy escort such a homecoming?”
Zaja nodded, understanding. “If I returned to Quema, they’d probably chain me to the bed. I’m sure my family’s worried sick.” She grew downcast, but went on. “How they kept me, though, it wasn’t living. It was just keeping me alive.”
Chari stroked Zaja’s cheek to comfort her, and her friend smiled back at her. She then took her leave, exhaustion catching up with her, but there was one last task she wished to attend.
Across from the living room couch was a door, the only one in the house the wall of books had been allowed to obstruct. Chari knelt down and began moving the stacks aside, that the door might be fully opened with ease. It should have taken only minutes, but she slowed at times to survey familiar titles. There wasn’t the luxury of time to settle in and read, however much she wished for it. It had been so long.
A pair of hands came down in her peripheral to help move one of the stacks. “I take it this is the door that hides our way?”
“Zella,” she acknowledged. Still kneeling, Chari brushed her fingertips across a book’s painted surface. “My attic is a place where I buried things that haunted me. Instruments of my family’s legacy, articles of my prescribed ‘faith.’ Oddly fitting that something else be secreted away here as well.”
Zella seemed pleased with this. “This is a historical site. My father’s confrontation with Airia Rousow and Kayra Kwarla culminated just meters above us. It’s a little humbling.”
Chari rose back up, her legs stiff. “It’s disquieting. Still we reap the aftermath of their discontent.”
Zella’s pleasure faded. “Are we obligated to carry that weight? Whatever Einré has suggested, I doubt there’s much we can contribute in what’s to come. What if we were to part ways here?” The question came with an eager, excited turn. “Let Poe finish the mess himself?”
Chari’s eyes pierced Zella’s; there was more she wanted to say to the person who had contributed so little in all the dangers they’d faced. “I would not remain on TseTsu a minute longer than necessary.”
Zella was taken aback by the harshness of her response. “I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“I know.” Chari breathed out, found the doorknob. It did not turn. “I stood for years on an altar and kept silent while speaking. I prayed inwardly that there were no gods and left to find that beings very much like them exist. Even now, we seek to depose one tyrant while leaving the throne vacant for a possible other.” She turned to Zella with fierce determination. “I despise knowing a supposed god could dare preside over me. If my involvement allows any chance to undermine that system, I would not miss the opportunity.”
For her zeal, Chari knew Zella must think her mad. Her breathing had become ragged in her ranting and as she calmed herself down, Chari was overtaken by a fierce yawn.
“You’re courageous,” Zella said as she hugged her.
“I spent my whole life scared.”
Her agitation toward Zella had subsided, and forgiveness found its way in easily enough. They’d endured too much together to carry a grudge, and it was only reluctantly that Chari said goodnight. There was something apologetic in Zella’s smile that would stay with Chari through the night, though she wouldn’t understand why until morning.
*
For the momentous day that awaited, a sense of restlessness pervaded Chari’s home. There weren’t accommodations enough for everyone, to start—only one guest bed was available, as well as a sofa in the living room. One of their party had recused herself from the discussion of bedding arrangements entirely; it was by the window that Poe found Jean leaning, peering out the curtains.
He considered approaching her at first. But Jean had no love for his company and, looking back, it was hard to blame her. If he could return to the day they first met, calm his own bloodlust, would they be better friends?
Poe had already learned he could not change the past. Still, he found himself caught in it—as suddenly as he was surrounded by them, his companions were gone. The house was empty and the time had changed. As he walked through, it seemed the same, until he found the guest bedroom.
Jean and Mack were asleep, and time itself slowed around him to dwell on this one moment. Jean was on the right side of the bed, sleeping on her side with her back turned to Mack. Her friend, meanwhile, was sprawled across the left side, both arms hanging out. There was less than an inch between the bare skin of her shoulders and Mack’s curled, waiting hands.
They shared the space out of habit, necessity, and between them Poe saw two shades of the same tale: for Jean, her best friend lay beside her, secretly lusting after her. Mack, meanwhile, waited for the moment she might subtly shift in her sleep, brushing against his fingers as a fleeting tease to what he one day hoped to have.
But Poe knew how the story ended. Even if they found each other again, there would be no happy ending. Jean had rejected the one-eyed boy, and left him on another world. There had been no outpouring of emotion, no secret yearnings brought to the surface. Out of pity, Poe reached out for them.
And suddenly, he found himself in the present, his hand on Jean’s shoulder. She startled at his touch, looking back in ire.
“You needn’t keep watch,” he said.
She studied him for a moment, then looked back out the window. “Seems like someone oughta. Pissed off the guards last time. Fuckers�
��d probably love another shot at us.” Still, Jean thought for another moment, then pulled the curtains tight. “Shouldn’t ya be snoozin’ by now? Big day tomorrow.”
Poe felt fine. He craved neither food nor water nor rest.
“I don’t seem to need such mortal indulgences any longer.” He recalled Yetinau, and his love of wine. “Even so, I think if I desired rest, I could have it. But I may function as well without.”
Jean pushed away from the window with a yawn. “Must be real fuckin’ nice. Fine. You can have the damn job, Guardian.”
She stepped aside, and Poe settled in in her place. It seemed a waste of his status, but there was little else to do; he wasn’t going to rush ahead before his companions. Past impulsiveness had caused him a great deal of distress.
“Yo, Poe?” Jean hadn’t made it more than two steps. “When this is over … Mack—”
“I’ll help you find him,” Poe promised, though he didn’t know if there was anything left to be found. Perhaps he could go back and look, when he understood how to do it at will.
“I’m surprised,” she admitted. She was trying her hardest to give him an earnest smile. “Thought you’d figure little shit like this was beneath ya.”
“The little things matter,” he said. “Though, even if Mack is to be found, what resolution do you hope to meet with him?”
Jean shook her head. “Dunno yet. Just can’t let shit end the way it did with him. Need to see his face again, let him know I’m sorry. Hear him say it’s okay.”
“What if he can’t forgive you?”
“Mack will,” she said with conviction.
Poe wished to know for certain. But while he could fumble his way into memories of the past, there was no going forward. He couldn’t see what had not yet come to pass.
*
A tin cup shook in Zella’s hands, clasped tight to keep the steaming tea from spilling out. Zaja sat opposite her, vexingly at peace despite what awaited them. There would be no casual approach to the Living God’s sanctum, and if anything, resistance was assured.
People were going to die.
“Guardian Poe should be braving this alone.” Zella spoke with reservation. Poe, at the distant window, did not stir at his name. “This is no longer our affair.”
“Cold feet?” Zaja teased.
“Absence of faith,” she replied. “Tell me, Zaja DeSarah, what is left that we can contribute? We guided a mortal to divinity, and in doing so, he has eclipsed us.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Zaja gave a downcast glance.
“It does,” Zella affirmed. “Whatever protection Poe grants, your lifespan will stand diametric to his. You’re already unwell.” She took Zaja’s hand, and stroked a finger across the damaged skin of her wrist. “If you falter—”
“Then I die.” Zaja’s certainty chilled Zella, and she took her hand back. “Better to die useful than live useless.”
Zella fell back in her chair. There was no arguing, neither from stance nor belief. Although Zaja was speaking of herself, it was Zella whose death could aid the cause of her father or his foes, all depending on the circumstances. It was Zella whose continued existence aided none and put all in danger.
Useful or useless.
At last, her hands stopped shaking.
Zaja shared a soft smile as Zella walked by her, not knowing it would be for the last time. She gathered her belongings; there would be no goodbyes. Chari was sleeping, and Jean was settling in; her back was turned, and she didn’t even notice Zella peering in. Shea had stepped out for a smoke with Flynn in her company, and so only Poe remained at the entrance.
“I’m getting some air,” she told him, keeping her belongings out of sight.
Poe barely looked at her. “Be careful out there.”
“I shall. Thank you, Guardian.”
There was more she wished to say, but it was not the time. If he knew what she was doing, Poe might try to stop her—she had to hurry, until he could not find her except by chance.
Zella shut the door to Chari’s house softly, and felt the brisk night air tickling her skin. It was a decision she should have made long before, but wasn’t prepared to commit to. Time and again, she’d hoped her heart would find peace in the sacrifices to come, but Zella simply didn’t believe. As she hurried down the road, she was afraid to look back, that someone might convince her otherwise.
“Not even a goodbye?”
She froze in her tracks. It was the voice she feared most, one of reason and guile. “Flynn.”
He stepped out from the shadows, hopping over a root to meet her. “You knew—” she accused.
“That you would leave,” he agreed. “Even before you did.” No sooner had she asked when, than he interrupted, “Since the Isle. Maybe before then.”
Zella was disgusted with herself. “You know me better than I know myself.”
“I gathered what conclusion you would reach.”
“Then you’re here to stop me?” she accused. “Why else would you make such a timely intervention?”
Flynn placed a hand on Zella’s shoulder. “I’m here to talk.”
At last, she looked back. No one had followed, not to save her. She resigned herself, and sank onto the engorged root of a massive tree. Her sweat-beaded skin chilled in the breeze. Flynn sat across from her, his eyes glowing eerily in the moonlight.
“Why now?”
“I have seen death before,” she confessed. “I have watched it, felt it near my neck—” She caught herself, and for once knew what Flynn might say before he did. “This is not about the incident on Breth, though it all started there.” Zella shook her head. “Never before have I been reduced to a bargaining chip. But I have faced circumstances in your company that were either fight or die, and I did neither.”
“We’ve defended you as best we can,” Flynn said. “If you leave, there is no one who can protect you from the Reahv’li should they find you again.”
Zella resisted insulting the value of Flynn’s protection; she surmised he knew as much when he said it.
“You have,” she concurred. “And I know what I surrender in leaving. But what are my alternatives, Flynn? To trail you across Terrias, watch you kill the worshippers of the Living God and do nothing?! All while they howl for my blood to make the cruelty stop?” She shook her head, sickened. “I have been changed by my experiences with you, and I’m uncertain I like what I’m becoming.”
“Then wait here,” Flynn suggested. “We’ll come back to TseTsu once—”
“NO.” It was sharp and loud and firm. “I’ve avoided violence long enough, all while reaping the rewards it has to give. It’s hypocritical, to have others fight for you while looking down on them for doing so.”
Flynn ground his palm against his brow. Was she frustrating him, giving some argument he couldn’t readily rebut? Or was he only holding back, trying to find some way to convince her, rather than worm his way inside her head?
“I promised to keep you safe. No matter how many Reahv’li come, if I had to weigh all of their lives against yours—”
Zella stood up. “And that is what it all comes to, Flynn: for both my father and you, it’s the weighing of lives. Value against virtue. It’s a sick war … and I wish no part in it.”
She set back for the road before Flynn could say anything to stop her. But he did not reach for her or call her name.
“There are two ways out, from here,” he said. She stood her ground, resisting the urge to make eye contact.
“Speak,” she urged.
“A stepped fountain in the center of town, and a subterranean chamber beneath the mansion on the hill. Both lead to Sechal. The latter finds an island that connects to Airia Rousow’s sanctuary, and through there are paths I never got to explore.”
Her feet wanted to carry her away.
“I may use neither,” she told him. She didn’t want him knowing how to find her. “I may find my own way.”
“You may,” he agreed.
> Zella’s lips pursed. She wanted to leave it at that. But she’d known Flynn longest, befriended him back on Earth, even if the persona he’d shown her then was a lie. She hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone in a gilded cage beside her own, rendered nearly unrecognizable.
“Goodbye, Flynn.”
She took off quickly, and could not hear his response, if he gave one at all. She would never be one of them, would never fight beside them and, even in death, she would be alone.
This wasn’t the first time Zella had set off on her own, nor the first time she would be on the run from those who demanded the ultimate sacrifice. But for the first time, there was no turmoil in her heart, and Zella felt lighter; she felt free.
*
Shea was waiting just where Flynn had left her: at the base of a Goddess statue, a near-finished cigarette gently smoldering between her fingers. The Goddess’s hand above her had been reduced to an ash tray, a column of smoke spiraling around it. As Flynn settled down beside her, he said, “I’ve got the scars to prove they don’t take kindly to blasphemers around here.”
Her smile was mischievous as she replied, “Hapané objects? Let’s hear it from herself.”
As if compelled, Flynn surveyed the streets in both directions. It was all moonlight and shadows, and he was more concerned with what a band of vindictive guards would do than what any irate goddess might. With nothing further to contribute to the matter, he closed his eyes and settled in.
She gently elbowed his arm, lobbying for his attention. “Handled your errand, mate?”
“Yeah, it’s … it’s taken care of.”
The specter of Zella’s recent departure wasn’t something he wanted clouding this moment; Shea could learn of it along with the others. The harrowing atmosphere of Keltia and the company of his friends had afforded them little private time since their first encounter months ago, and it was something Flynn wished to savor while it lasted.
Still, she wasn’t as content to enjoy the silence as he was.
“Ready for the morrow?”
“Dreading it,” he answered absentmindedly.
“You too?” She sounded surprised, and plucked her cigarette from her pursed lips to hold it out in offer. He contemplated it, tempted, but gently pushed her hand away. “As you like it,” she said, retracting it. “’Bout pissed myself, trying to guess what’s coming.”
Killers, Traitors, & Runaways: Outcasts of the Worlds, Book II Page 38
