She stopped at the door, the last one out of the room, and turned.
The prisoner met her gaze. “You,” he mouthed and smiled, teeth fully bared. Blood welled from a thin line stretching across his neck, dripping down his skin and staining his clothing.
She shuddered again and left the room, not feeling comfortable until she had three levels and two buildings between them.
His mission was her.
What did that mean?
Chapter Eighteen
The setting sun transformed the rounded white roofs of the city a mixture of crimson, rose, and vermillion as it sank toward the horizon, its rays streaking across the dark, murky blue waves of the sea.
Melin took in the sunset with wonder. She didn’t think she was in Jidda or Veskia but had no idea where she was.
She stood on a balcony of what she thought was a castle—she couldn’t see the rest of the structure—of white stone similar to the ones in the houses on the hill below. Trees and other greenery swayed between the buildings. The air was hot and humid, the night breeze lifting the gossamer curtains behind her. She ran her hands along the finely carved stone bannister, wishing she could feel the stone to see if it had retained the heat from the day or if it was cool to the touch, wondering what would happen if she tipped forward. Would she slip through the stone like a ghost? If she did, would she fall through the sky into the houses below?
A woman stepped through the gossamer curtains and onto the balcony, her full green skirts and shimmering golden crossbody wrap a sharp contract to the red curls tumbling to her knees. She wore a simple silver crown on her head. Her skirts swished as she walked, and the dying sunlight bounced against the golden bands on her upper arms and wrists, turning her skin from moon pale to burnished yellow.
“Mari,” Melin whispered.
The woman—more of a girl, now she was closer—collapsed against the broad stone railing and stared down at what must be her city and her people. Despite her youth, dark circles lined her eyes, and her mouth was downturned in exhaustion. Her eyes were the same jade as Melin’s with the same cat-like pupils.
The whisper of fabric behind them caused Melin to turn, then gape. A half-human, half-horse creation had emerged from the curtained room. No way. She was not looking at a centaur. Its human features were covered in a sheer white crossbody wrap similar to Mari’s that continued through its horse half.
Their blue tail swished as it moved toward the girl. “Everything has been prepared, milady,” they said.
Mari straightened but continued to face the city, her eyes fixed into the distance beyond the setting sun and the horizon. “And the queen?” she asked.
“Yolanda gave her more kinnit,” the centaur replied. “She’s awake but in pain. It’ll be soon.”
Mari gathered her skirts into her hands. “I’d best go see her.”
They left through the curtains as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the sea’s horizon, and the colors shifted to the dark blues, grays, and purples of night. Melin stared at the darkening cityscape, wondering if this was the point where she’d wake up and then followed the pair.
The room beyond the balcony had been ransacked—not that she had any previous experience of how a castle should be furnished—with only an overturned bed, bedding strewn everywhere, and shattered knickknacks scattered about the floor.
The destruction continued throughout the rest of the castle. Melin dodged, ghost-like, the few individuals hustling through the hallways as she followed the centaur and Mari. There were no rugs on the hallways, no paintings or hangings on the walls, nothing but brighter spots of paint indicating something had been there recently.
As they wound deeper into the castle, the amount of people grew. All were engaged in some sort of massive cleaning or moving effort—taking down tapestries, carefully wrapping candlesticks, rolling up rugs, appraising crystal sculptures.
They turned a corner, and the atmosphere immediately shifted to one of silence. A group of individuals stood outside a room, their garb varied. Several wore red robes, similar to the woman in Zakuska, while others were dressed in simple blue-and-gold tunics and brown trousers. They all bowed deeply upon catching sight of Mari, who waved them off impatiently as she strode into the room beyond.
The centaur paused, causing Melin to run directly into its rump—and fly right through him in her noncorporeal form—as it faced the small crowd. “The time is now,” they said. “Go.”
Several bowed and vanished while a small group of the blue-and-gold-dressed individuals stayed behind. These people were armed and prepared to do battle. The centaur swished their tail at them and entered the room.
Melin followed, pausing at the threshold.
Unlike the rest of the well-lit castle, this room was dark, lit by a single lantern burning beside a large canopy bed. Her eyes adjusted to the light.
This room remained untouched from the chaos outside, a glimpse into the past. Rich tapestries and large portraits adorned the walls, carved wooden furniture cluttered the space, and every horizontal surface was filled with knickknacks and things that glittered.
Mari knelt by the bed, gripping the hand of someone small and shrunken. Melin crept closer, reeling back at the sight of an old woman close to death. “You’re still here,” the woman rasped.
“Everything is ready, Your Majesty,” Mari said, voice soft and filled with sorrow. “As much as it can be.” She pressed the clawed fingers to her lips.
The woman’s chin dropped to her chest for a moment before her head rolled to the ceiling. Her eyes closed. “I’m so sorry it had to be this way,” she whispered.
“It was inevitable, Your Majesty. We may be pacifists, but we won’t roll over to Cyrus’s demands,” Mari asserted.
“No.” The woman turned toward her again, eyes lit with a fierce and burning light like a candle’s last flames, valiantly sputtering in defiance of the dark before accepting inevitable death. “My people.” She coughed. “Promise me, Mari, promise me you’ll care for them.”
“I promise,” Mari replied.
“Don’t give Cyrus a reason to harm them,” she said. “Bow to their demands.”
Mari’s head dipped briefly, her lips thinned in a firm line. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” the old woman gasped and closed her eyes once more.
“Milady,” another half-human, half-horse creature stepped toward Mari, gently touching her shoulder, “I need to give her more kinnit so she can sleep.”
Mari leaned forward toward the old woman, still clutching her hand and whispered, “They can claim Gy’tara in body but never in spirit.” She released the other woman’s hand and stepped away.
The old woman’s lips curled in what might have been a smile or a grimace of pain, but she was too far gone in pain and the steepening slope of death to tell for certain. Mari stared at her for a long moment, watching as the centaur gently poured some liquid into the old woman’s mouth. The centaur paused halfway through the draft, a question in their eyes.
Mari nodded sharply. A tear tracked down her head.
The centaur’s eyes closed, openly weeping as she poured more and more liquid into the woman’s throat until the potion spilled over, dribbling down her face. The old woman didn’t fight the treatment, but coughed once, twice. Her body bucked and deflated in a long sigh that sunk her deeper into the bed, slack-jawed and closed-eyed in death. None of the attendants moved from their places at the edges of the room but held their breaths as if they too were on the brink of death.
Mari and the centaur stared down at the body, heads bowed.
“Healer Markhet,” the centaur called after a long silence.
A man in long black robes stepped forward from his place in the threshold, gently touching the old woman’s wrist. He lowered it to the bed with reverence, smoothing out the embroidered silk.
“The queen is dead.” His hands trembled, and he looked up at Mari with heavy eyes. “Long live the queen.”
&
nbsp; Both centaurs repeated softly, “Long live the queen.”
Mari let out one brief sob, hands covering her face.
She inhaled, turned her back on the shrunken body on the bed, and straightened her shoulders. Her hands dropped to her sides. Her eyes were red and puffy, but her face was resolute and firm as she addressed her people.
“No one is ever ready for an invasion.” Her voice was soft, yet it carried through the room, drawing all eyes. She faced the bed again and bent over to smooth the old queen’s hair, arranging the limp strands into a loose coil on the pillow. Her mouth opened and closed, throat bobbing as she fought another sob. “A country is its people.” She glanced up, facing her subjects. “We are ready. We are strong. We will leave our enemy nothing and deny them everything.”
Her hand lowered. Tears ran down her cheeks freely now, but her voice didn’t waver. “Burn it down.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
*
Alarms blared, jolting Melin awake.
She rolled over in surprise, falling onto the floor and grabbing her knife from under the mattress. She crouched for a moment between the bed and the window to catch her bearings, then sprinted toward the living room in her bare feet, nearly running over Izzie and Accalia.
They squealed and clutched their hastily donned flak jackets.
Melin waved a hand for silence, gestured them to the never-used kitchenette as she checked the entire house.
Empty.
Sirens continued to wail outside, the noise hammering into her skull.
A shudder of electric static shot through her.
The sirens stopped, the silence eerie, broken only by shouts from outside.
Melin flicked a light switch, and everything stayed off, the house dark and brooding. Tech was down.
A different alarm wailed, the rising and falling cry of a hand-cranked siren.
Melin crouched behind the couch, gestured sharply for Izzie and Accalia to take cover as bootsteps thumped up the ramp to the house and someone banged on the door.
“Open up!” someone shouted.
“Identify yourself!” Melin yelled back, ignoring the whimpers of the two girls behind her.
“Lance Corporal Va’try, embassy guard.”
“Okay.” Melin moved until she was next to the entrance, pressed against the wall, hand on the knob. “I’m opening the door. Don’t shoot.”
Lance Corporal Va’try stood with two other soldiers she didn’t recognize. All three carried now useless rifles with equally useless makeshift bayonets taped below the barrels. Fear oozed from them. Their eyes were so wide she could see the whites even in the night. Their frantic panting echoed through the house.
“What’s going on?” Melin asked.
“We need to search the house,” Va’try replied, her eyes darting into the darkness. “Is there anyone else in here?”
“Just Seras Meridian and G’Darion,” Melin replied. “They’re in the kitchen.”
She stepped aside as Va’try entered and conducted a quick sweep of the tiny building with her compatriots. Melin remained at the door, knife hidden along her forearm to prevent undue alarm.
“Okay it’s clear,” Va’try said. “We’re evacuating everyone into the embassy. There’s a safe room for embassy personnel.”
A low moan of fear escaped from behind the kitchen island.
“What’s going on?” Melin repeated as the two soldiers gathered her housemates.
“The prisoner escaped,” one of the other soldiers replied before Va’try shushed him with glare. Izzie clutched one guard so tightly Melin feared their arm would fall off.
“What?” Melin asked. “How?”
“Don’t know,” Va’try replied. “We have to move, now.”
Melin didn’t argue and took charge of her housemates, marching them before her as they all ran across the embassy grounds and into the main building, the soldiers following in front and behind. Melin barely felt the rough concrete against her bare feet but winced in sympathy for the other two, who minced along, crying in terror and pain.
Someone had lit lanterns in the hallways and in the one of conference rooms on the ground floor. About fifteen others already gathered, collapsed into the conference chairs, all dressed in a mixture of night clothes and body armor. Everyone looked both groggy and shaken. The ambassador sat at the head of the table, shouting with increasing volume at Major Dar’Tan.
“How did the fuck did you let this happen?” he demanded.
“Ser, I’m not sure. We just don’t—” Major Dar’Tan broke off when he saw Melin, gesturing for her to join them. “Sera Grezzij, I need a favor from you.”
Melin came closer cautiously, leaving her two roommates huddled in chairs near the front of the room. “Yes?”
He beckoned her closer, then stepped until they were within arm’s distance. The ambassador squawked furiously behind them, demanding answers now. Voice low and tight with worry, Dar’Tan murmured, “I need your help with something. I haven’t been able to go to my office since the prisoner exploded the brig—”
“He what?” How?
“Never mind that.” Dar’Tan sighed through his nose. “My people are tapped with disaster mitigation and security sweeps. Can you run upstairs and check my office? I must continue manning operations here and on the wall. I think Ravi was up there, and they haven’t come here yet.”
Melin nodded. “Do you have anyone who can come with me?”
“I really don’t, but—” Dar’Tan frowned, and turned. “Private Herring!” Melin blanched as a young man with a bruised neck ran toward them, limping slightly. “I need you and Sera Grezzij to go to my office and check it out for any damage. Copy?”
The private ogled Melin, eyes widening and mouth pulled in a stricken expression. “Y-Yes, Ser,” he replied.
Melin winced. He seemed more scared of her than any intruder, which she supposed was good? At least it meant he’d probably listen to her.
When Dar’Tan asked if she needed a weapon, she showed him her knife.
She pushed her way through the crowd, out of the office, and into the darkness of the hallway.
Melin took point, the private trailing her, his rifle with its taped bayonet pointed toward the floor, his boots squeaking on the tile with every step. His breath rasped behind her, drowning out all other sound.
In response to his fear, her own fell away into cold concentration.
She’d only been to the major and Sorem’s shared office several times, but she knew the way. Her feet carried her automatically, knife held in an offensive position, adrenaline honing her focus to a fine point that took in everything from the dust bunnies on the railing to the cobwebs above the darkened light fixture. They reached the second floor with only several pauses to allow Herring to catch his breath.
Melin stopped at the top of the landing, raising her hand to stop Herring.
There was a light on in the major’s office. Someone had been up there recently.
The air was thick and still, heavy with the scent of ozone. A shiver ran down her back. It smelled like the interrogation cell the prisoner had been in, ten times stronger than when tech went down.
A soft noise, like a gasp, came from the room, cutting through the hallway’s stillness and the background noise from the downstairs.
Someone was in there.
Melin raised her fist, holding up one finger and pointing. Herring squinted at her. She shook the finger, and his face paled. His breath came faster. He opened a shaking hand. Melin pressed her finger to her lips for quiet and crept forward carefully, motioning for Herring to follow. She placed one foot in front of the other, heel to toe, pause, heel to toe, her knife gripped in her good hand until she paused at the doorway.
Another gasp, wet and faint. She stilled, pressing her left hand against Herring’s chest to halt him.
Another choking gurgle like someone with blood filling their lungs.
Melin motioned for Herring to follow and sprinted
toward the noise, keeping her head up and eyes swiveling as she ran through the open door of the major’s office and staggered to a halt at the sight before her.
Ravi Guptraja lay on the floor, impaled through the torso by a guidon. Their chest heaved as they weakly tried to tug it from their body, but they were pinned to the floor. Blood trickled from their mouth.
Melin ignored the scientist and scanned the room.
Someone or something had ransacked the place.
A tipped over lantern emitted some light into the room, revealing papers strewn about the floor, overturned desks and smashed consoles. Smoke filled the air from one corner of the room.
Herring coughed but dropped beside the scientist, hands wrapping about the pole.
“Don’t,” Melin ordered.
“What?” he asked.
“Pulling that out will kill them faster,” she replied. “It’s creating a seal on their lungs.”
She walked around the room, sniffing to locate the source of the smoke. It came from behind one of the desks, tiny sparks forming a fire around a giant crumple of paper. She took in the wall behind the desk, stomach sinking. It was the map of Satura. She carefully put out the fire and draped the map over an overturned table, but the damage was already done. It was ruined.
“Go get a medic,” she said. “And tell the major. I’ll wait up here with them.”
Another shock of electricity and she felt the tech come back. It rumbled through her weaker than normal, a faint pulse like it couldn’t break through the heavy smell of ozone and copper and the deep feeling of wrongness that permeated the room. Emergency lights flickered on in the hallway, but the office remained dark. There was no familiar hum of tech, only Ravi’s sucking gasps interrupting the silence.
Herring was frozen, eyes wide.
“Go,” Melin snapped.
He obeyed, running down the hallway and shouting for a medic.
Melin knelt beside Ravi, gently tilting their head to clear some of the blood from their throat. Their eyes were wide and panicked, their fingers scrambling weakly to grip the hem of her pajama shirt. Melin took their hand in hers, squeezing tightly.
That Distant Dream Page 20
