by Lou Hoffmann
Han stood against one wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, looking more pissed than worried.
I guess I’m all right, then….
“Yes. You are.”
Lucky hadn’t meant the thought for Han, though he realized he was to blame for not blocking it. He spoke aloud. “You could have ignored that. I just woke up from being passed out. Give me a break.”
“True,” Han said. “I’m sorry. I’ve been pretty worried about you, though, and that’s your doing.”
The words hurt, though Lucky wasn’t sure why they should. “I… I’m sorry too, then,” he said, squinting to clear his vision and meet Han’s gaze.
Han took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and shook his head. “Oh, Luccan. It’s okay. You weren’t hurt, right?”
Lucky sat up slowly, found a cup of water on the bedside table, and took a long drink. Then he took a quick inventory. The dizziness and blurry vision had both receded, and he didn’t seem to be injured except perhaps a bruised elbow—maybe he’d landed on it when he fell. His stomach growled, which surprised him. “I guess I’m hungry. Other than that, I’m fine.”
Han smiled. “Hungry—how unusual.” Then he grew serious again and came to sit beside Lucky on the edge of the bed. “The problem is, Luccan, you could have been hurt. You just took off—didn’t ask or even tell anyone. From what Tennehk and Olana say, you seem to have been under some sort of compulsion. Do you remember?”
“Compulsion… I don’t think so, Han. It was like she—the Terrathian Echo—she called me, and I just knew it was important. Someone was trying to hurt her—”
“Echo?”
“That’s what she called herself. And the other one is called a Prime. I think I understand why.”
“Interesting, but as to why, maybe tell that to Thurlock. About someone trying to hurt her, I know. Tennehk caught the man and brought him back. He says he doesn’t remember why he did it. Barely remembers doing it at all.”
“So that’s compulsion, right?”
“Likely.”
“That wasn’t what happened to me, then. I just knew it was important,” he repeated.
“Okay, fine,” Han sounded irritated again. “I get that, but following blindly after such a call can be dangerous. You can be deceived, or you can walk into a situation you can’t handle. You need to learn to think and keep control of your own impulses, no matter what you hear or feel from outside. Practice that, Luccan.”
He knew Han’s ire was due to worry over him, but that didn’t make it feel any better. In fact, he felt worse. He was tired of trying so hard to do right only to mess up anyway. He fought back tears of frustration. “I’m sorry.”
Han must have seen how close Lucky was to a meltdown, because he took hold of Lucky’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug. “Hey. It’s really all right. You’re learning. And it isn’t easy. You weren’t hurt and that’s what counts—though I admit I don’t quite understand what happened.”
“Me either, Uncle,” Luccan said.
Thurlock cleared his throat, which made Lucky jump. “Gods, Thurlock,” he said. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“I was practicing being very quiet,” Thurlock said. “Or else I was napping. I didn’t hear all of what you said, but I believe you said something about the ‘Terrathian Echo’ and the ‘Prime.’ What did you mean?”
Han rolled his eyes. “And he means to say he’s glad you’re okay too, Luccan.”
Thurlock snapped back, “I don’t recall assigning you to speak for me, Han.”
“I apologize, sir,” Han said, but his eyes seemed defiant.
Lucky wondered what was going on. Clearly, Thurlock and Han weren’t in harmony as they usually were. He figured, and hoped, they’d just had a minor disagreement. It scared him to think what might happen if the two of them ever had a serious falling out.
“It’s all right, Han,” Thurlock said. Then in a different tone, “You’re right. I should have said I’m glad our young man is not harmed. I truly am. Han, I do want to talk with him now, but we both left the reception before things were quite finished. Could I prevail upon you to go and make sure everything ended well.”
“Yes, sir,” Han said. He stood, gave Lucky’s shoulder a squeeze, and strode to the door. There, he turned and looked at the wizard. “Thurlock, I am sorry—I was out of line.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Han. You know you’re forgiven, and in fact you were quite correct. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. So much going on—we’re all stretched a little thin.” He turned back to Lucky then, and repeated his question. “Now, about the Echo and the Prime?”
“That’s what she’s called—her type, I mean. She… it’s hard to explain, but she showed me. They… her and the tall skinny one—he’s what they call a Prime—they’re the same person. It’s just, the Primes are all about being super smart, and I guess a long time ago they found a way to split off the part of them that feels so they could think better. I know it doesn’t make sense, and it’s awful. It’s gross. They know they were wrong because after they did that… I’m not sure why, but it destroyed their world—Terrathia. But, even if they want to change things back, they can’t. It’s too late.”
“Behl’s sweet light, yes it’s awful!” Thurlock’s face was screwed up in disgust.
Lucky had never seen the wizard react that strongly to anything, but talking about the Echo had reminded him of much more urgent information he needed to share. “Thurlock, there’s something else.”
He told Thurlock about the visions the Echo had plucked from the Prime’s mind and played out for him, finding that he could remember better what he felt than what he saw. He recalled blades and blood and zombie-like drones, wraiths and children, fire and ice. But it seemed all the specifics of place or person had been driven from his mind by horror.
“Except I remember seeing my mother—what she is now. I remember her very well. She smiled at me, and out of everything I saw, that was the very worst.”
He then spent the next fifteen minutes trying to answer questions, and as tiresome as it was, it did help him remember a few additional bits. Thurlock’s cool, dispassionate voice might have been maddening, because it felt like the old man hadn’t even registered the great terribleness of the whole disgustingly scary vision. But then, Lucky realized someone had to maintain a cool head, and maybe if he could do it too, he might do more to make the vision pay off in greater safety for everyone.
“You say the shadows were there, like in your dreams?”
Lucky nodded. “I want to call them mist-shadows, you know? They’re dark, but there’s more to them than shadows.”
“Not a bad name for them, if they’re the same thing Henry and I encountered. So yes, mist-shadows works for me. And you saw wraiths, and an apparition of your mother, also like in your dreams?”
“Undreams. They weren’t dreams, not really. So… undreams?”
“Ah, yes. Well, then undreams. It’s good to get the nomenclature set. But… answer the question?”
“Yeah, she was the same. Only maybe more… bloodthirsty?”
“Not sure why you’re asking me. But let’s move on. Do you think… did the Echo show you more of these Terrathians? I mean here, for these battles?”
“Uh… no. Wraiths and… people being killed. Children. Zombies….” The memory of the machine-like hum suddenly came to mind, and he told Thurlock about it, adding, “I think maybe stuff was hidden in the mist-shadows. Maybe the Terrathians were there?”
Thurlock pursed his lips. “Could be.” He scratched his beard for a moment, and though his eyes remained aimed in Lucky’s direction, he didn’t seem to be actually seeing him.
During the lull in the conversation, Lemon Martinez came into the room and jumped up on the bed, sniffing around as if thoroughly checking Lucky out. Surprised, because Lemon never sought him out, Lucky greeted him softly and petted him as much as the cat would allow. When Thurlock’s gaze snapped back to Lucky, he started to spe
ak, but Lemon looked at him and voiced an annoyed-sounding meow before jumping down and trotting out the door.
Lucky watched him go, and then turned to Thurlock. “What was that about?”
“No idea,” Thurlock said. “Where’s Han Shieth when you need him, right?”
They exchanged a smile, which somehow eased some of the tension Lucky had been feeling, trying to convey what the Echo had shown him. But then Thurlock’s expression sobered again, and he leveled a direct gaze at Lucky.
“Now, this is very important, Luccan. I want you to think carefully. I understand you saw this violence happening in more than one place, but you don’t remember much about the locations—”
“Wait! A city. A forest. A… big hill by a valley.”
Thurlock waited a moment, but eventually Lucky just shook his head. That was as detailed as he could get.
“All right. That’s useful, perhaps. But to get to the crux, can you tell when any of what you saw was to take place?”
Lucky shook his head again. He hadn’t seen or couldn’t bring to mind enough about the scenes to gage even the season. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t be. One more question, then we’re done here and you can rest some more. From what you can remember, from how it feels to you, is it possible any of the visions were images of events from the past?”
“I don’t think so, Thurlock,” Lucky answered with a fair degree of certainty. “But I don’t really know. Do you want me to see if I can get the Echo to talk to me again? Maybe she can show me more—”
“Ah, well. As to that. I’m sorry, Luccan. Her… heart light went out an hour or so after you were with her. Olana tried to revive her, but to no avail. She and her counterpart have been moved back to the Night House.”
Lucky almost choked on a confusing welter of emotions. A towering sorrow competed with confusion over how he could possibly feel grief for such an alien creature. He certainly felt no sorrow for the loss of the Prime, and since they were truly part and parcel of the same being… how can I sort that out?
“Luccan, I can’t tell what you’re thinking—I’m no Han Shieth to read your mind. But I can tell the news has upset you further. Do you care to tell me?”
“It’s just… confusing. I mean, it hurts so bad that she’s gone. I don’t know why, though.”
“Oh, well. You spent some time inside her mind, didn’t you? And she was a gentle creature. Even if she was only half a being, she was the half you knew, and it seems to me that is a very intimate way of knowing. A gift, perhaps, Luccan, but a sorrow too.”
Thurlock’s words didn’t exactly call everything into clarity, but Lucky felt better for them nonetheless. He took a deep breath and nodded to show he’d heard.
Thurlock squeezed Lucky’s ankle—always a comforting touch—and rose to his feet. “I’d best be getting on, then, and let you get your rest.”
“No!”
Thurlock had already started for the door, but he turned around when he heard Lucky’s exclamation.
“Thurlock, I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home. Um… your house, I mean.”
The great, tall, mighty wizard seemed to soften, and he smiled. “Come, then. Get dressed. Your room awaits.” And then, as if an afterthought, “And of course, you are welcome to think of my house as your home for as long as you like. Please, never hesitate.”
Chapter Twenty-Three: Sword, Ciarrah!
LUCKY WOKE very well rested, his long sleep having been uninterrupted by any dream he could remember. The smell of mocha wafted from a steaming mug on his night table—somebody must have told Thurlock he’d started to like coffee. He spent a few bleary moments wondering whether the wizard had brought the hot drink to him or magicked it in, but of course it didn’t matter. It was thoughtful and a sweet welcome to the new day either way.
He sat up carefully, as he was very near the edge; Maizie had claimed most of the bed. After indulging in a slow, languorous stretch, Lucky picked up the mug and took a careful sip to test the temperature. It was perfect, so he followed up with a more substantial swallow. He flipped back the covers and rose, then carried his mocha to the window—which he’d left open to the cooling summer evening when he’d gone to bed—and stood looking out at the early morning world. He smiled as Maizie thumped her tail twice, but otherwise didn’t stir.
It was unlikely the day would be a peaceful one—they never seemed to be lately—so he made the best of the few moments’ peace he had right then. Birds sang in the maple tree, newborn sunlight limned the leaves with a glow of gold, and the air was the freshest Lucky had ever breathed except on the slopes of Gahabriohl.
A knock came on his door just as he’d finished his cup and turned to go out, ready to discover what the day would hold. Without asking, he knew it was Han who’d come to see him.
“Come in, Uncle,” he said, smiling at the coincidence in timing.
“Good morning,” Han chimed as he entered. “You’re well, today?”
“I am! Slept really good. You?”
“Well, I’ve slept better, but it’s still a good day to be alive overall. Better than the alternative, anyway.” He smiled.
“What’s up?”
“It dawned on me that it’s been a good long while since I worked with you on fighting skills. I’m going to be really busy later, but if you think you can get by with a very quick bite for breakfast, maybe we could go out to the yard for a couple hours’ practice and sparring. What do you think?”
Although sparring with Han could be brutal despite the care he took never to do any real harm, it actually sounded like a great way to spend some time. “Yeah. I need the practice, like you said. And it will be good to get the kinks out and take my mind off… other stuff.”
“Excellent. We’ll make a pact. No thinking about ‘other stuff’ for a couple hours.”
They went out to a secluded part of the Sisterhold’s main yard, a spot with gentle slopes but no rocks or gullies, surrounded by trees, with one fallen log perfect for taking a break when the time came. Maizie had followed them, but when Han laid out the practice weapons he’d brought—wooden swords, deliberately dulled daggers, and even bows and arrows—she barked once, gave Han a meaningful look, and left.
“She doesn’t approve,” Han said, then asked, “What do you want to practice first?”
“Uh… well, I’m no good at the bow, as you know. So I doubt practicing that will help much—I need hours and hours and hours—”
Han laughed. “Okay, how about hand-to-hand, then daggers, then we’ll spend most of the time on swords. I think it’s important for you to feel good with sword tactics because your blade—the Black—can be a sword you have with you all the time. Your father was a master with it.”
“Better than you?”
Han made a wry face and wagged his head back and forth. “Honestly, I don’t know. Though he beat me that last time we… sparred.”
Lucky knew avoidance when he saw it. “Sparred, or fought?”
“Leave it lie, Luccan. Today, we’ll use practice swords. I don’t want you to remove my arm by accident.”
But instead of swords, they started with reviewing hand-to-hand self-defense techniques—evasions, blocks, blocks that led into offensive blows. Defending against someone taller, someone shorter, someone with a weapon. Han took Lucky through all the moves he’d been taught before, and a few new ones. Then Han pretended to be an assailant, gave no warning about what kind of approach he’d make.
“Defend yourself,” he said, and didn’t allow even a little time for Lucky to think about it.
He came at Lucky directly, leaning forward as if to shove him backward. Lucky turned sideways and aimed a slightly downward kick at the top of Han’s kneecap. It should have worked, but Han twisted to the side and bent the target knee, stretching the other leg behind him for balance, and then came up under Lucky’s arms to throw him to the ground.
When Lucky could breathe again, Han helped him to his feet. “What di
d you do wrong?”
“Um. I was too slow?”
“Yes. What else.” Han had time to inspect the arm Lucky’d fallen on while waiting for an answer, making sure he didn’t get truly injured. “Well,” he finally asked, “any ideas?”
“Yeah,” Lucky said. “I think I didn’t have my balance good enough. That might be part of what slowed me down, plus then I couldn’t move out of your way once you changed things up.”
“Exactly right. Very good. Let’s slow it down on purpose, now. This time, do it just like you did before.”
Han stopped him halfway through and showed him how much more solid he became when he turned his kicking leg in from the hip. “And one more thing. Keep your arms close, like this.” He demonstrated having his kick-side arm in close to his ribs, and his off arm fisted and bent at the elbow. When Lucky copied it, he said, “Good. Let me see you practice the move on your own, keeping all those things in mind.”
Lucky tried it several times and nodded to himself when it felt like he got it.
“So aside from keeping your balance steadier, which makes you faster, what does that position do for you?”
“You can’t come up under my arms as easy.”
“Yeah. Any reason for that left fist?”
“Well, I don’t know, but if my kick doesn’t work, I could hit you maybe?”
“Sure. And suppose I manage to drop my stance before your kick connects—just like I did. Watch how easy it is for you to use my own momentum against me. You simply twist away, and suddenly it’s me who’s off-balance. I probably expect you to turn back at some point to get away from me, but instead you twist farther, open that left arm and swing it right into me. At the least, you’ll push me away and keep me off-balance. At best, that left elbow or fist or both will connect with something sensitive like my nose, or my neck.”
