CHAPTER EIGHT
Jelaza Kazone
Surebleak
“You agreed to stay shielded!”
Anthora came to Miri’s side, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I am shielded,” Miri snapped. “Though why I let myself be talked into any part of this—”
“No, I see; it is an action of the bond; it seeks to reestablish itself,” Anthora murmured, probably to herself. She was looking somewhat over Miri’s head, her eyes unfocused—or, say, focused on something she could see and Miri couldn’t. Though she could feel it, assuming “it” was the lifemate link she shared with Val Con. In fact, she could even sort of see it, through the fog of the shield—an interlocking pattern of color and shape, fluid and persistently fascinating.
“Miri, do you require assistance?” That was Ren Zel, soft-spoken and gentle. She grit her teeth and pulled the shield back together the way they’d taught her.
“Nah,” she said, feeling a pang as the pattern was lost once again in the fog, “I’m good.”
She had agreed to stay shielded, yes, she had.
If she’d been only half as smart as she’d needed to be, she would’nt’ve agreed to any bit of shielding; nor agreed to let him trust his brain and his life to Old Tech.
She’d agreed because he’d been so damn afraid when he thought of what it might do to her, who had never been an Agent of Change, nor much of anything, except a street rat and a soldier. Afraid it might break her, that’d come through; afraid it might taint her, which she might’ve laughed about, if she hadn’t been half-sick with his fear.
So, in the end, she’d agreed, though she’d made him work for it, and given him time to think of another way, if there was any other way at all . . .
’S’what you get, she told herself wearily, for coming to a skirmish unarmed. She closed her eyes and reached for an exercise to calm her jangling nerves. She’d lost last night’s second round of . . . negotiation when they were still in the ruckus room.
Because she’d felt, right then, just how much this chance to maybe redeem the remaining agents of the Department of the Interior they’d captured meant to him. It was like each one of them, strangers all, held a piece of his soul, and if he didn’t release them from their training—the training he’d had and that Rys had—if he didn’t at least buy them a chance to get back what they’d lost, he’d never fully heal.
She’d never had the training, but she’d seen what the training did; she’d felt the shadowy echoes of what the training did, and it filled her with a sort of cold and helpless fury, that it had been done to Val Con.
And all that was why she’d agreed to remain muffled, cut off from the one sense she’d never thought to have, or want, that had become the center of her own life. To stay here, calmly at home, playing cards with Anthora and Ren Zel while Val Con . . .
. . . risked his life.
You knew he had this hobby before you took him on, Robertson.
So she had.
“Miri? Will you play another round?” That was Anthora, sounding not quite as flutter-headed as usual. In fact, she sounded a little strained.
Right, then. She wasn’t the only one in the room who was worried.
“Sure,” she said, walking over to the table. “Another round it is.”
Ren Zel dealt. She took up and considered her cards. They were using a Liaden deck, which almost didn’t throw her anymore, playing pikit, which required a fair amount of attention on the cards, especially three-handed. She could have wished for something even more demanding of her brain power, and space knew there was work to do, but both Ren Zel and Anthora had advised against making any difficult decisions until the link was reestablished.
Miri sighed, and made her discard.
Fine, then. She’d stay shielded and busy while Val Con got on with risking his brain and his life.
She just wished he would hurry up and get it over with.
He strode down a dark, odorous hallway, floorboards uneven beneath his determined feet—twelve steps, a brisk turn, a sharp halt before a peeling door.
His off hand came out of his coat pocket guided by neither his thought nor his will, and knocked, three sharp raps, before falling lifeless to his side.
It came to him that he was shivering far more than the frigid hallway demanded. It came to him that he did not want to be here; and that he certainly did not want to meet whoever was about to open the door.
He turned—he tried to turn, but his feet were rooted to the uneven floor; nor could he move his gaze from the warped portal before him.
Home. He thought it; his thoughts, at least, were his own. In his mind’s eye, he saw their apartment, Miri kneeling before the fire, heavy copper hair falling in waves around her, pale skin glowing between the strands.
He threw every ounce of his will, and every erg of the terror that filled him into a simple command: Go!
. . . and yet he remained there, shivering and stupid, yearning to be gone, until . . .
. . . the door opened.
A stranger came forth, regarding him with a polite absence of expression, while he stood there, heart pounding, and afraid.
She smiled, then, and spoke his name. Neither her face nor her voice were familiar. He wished to tell her that he was come to her door in error, but his voice was dust in his throat.
The woman stepped forward, and cupped his face in her hands, as if they were kin, or lovers, or—no. As if she were delm and he the least of the clan. As if she owned him. Her smile widened, and she spoke again; his ear didn’t quite process the sounds.
But it was no matter; terror slipped away from him, all desire to be elsewhere with it. He was abruptly and completely content. This was where he was wanted; where he was needed; he had duty, and one to direct him.
And, indeed, she directed him, and he willingly obeyed her; pleased to be of use once more.
His brother cried out, but he did not choose to wake. Rys, on his knees at cotside, felt his hand gripped so violently that he feared for the bones.
Silain glanced at the face of the device, and the meter that measured how long the dream had run.
“He has been reacquired,” she said, from her seat on the blanket at the cot’s further side, one hand resting lightly on the dreamer’s shoulder, the other atop the dream-reader, ready to cut the feed off, if it seemed necessary.
Rys marked how pale Val Con had become, his dark brows pulled tight, sweat—or tears—gleaming on his cheeks.
He teased a kerchief from his pocket, raised it in shining metal fingers, and gently wiped his brother’s face. Caught in the dream, the other did not notice, and neither smiled nor recoiled.
It is too much, Rys thought, watching his brother’s chest heave as if he were sobbing. No one can bear this—not twice. His heart will break.
“Grandmother, the switch!” he said hoarsely, but Silain shook her head.
“A moment, and the choice will arise. Courage, Grandson. Trust your brother’s strength.”
Miri was cold. Well, of course she was cold, she was on Surebleak. Speaking of idiotic moves. She’d get up after her turn and get another sweater from—
The fog between her and Val Con burned away in a blare of agony so encompassing that she didn’t hear her own scream. It was like—it was like hot lead being poured directly into her heart; it was like a million knives slicing into her brain, excising memories, stitching in patches with burning needles . . .
“Miri!” Something cool wrapped her, only to evaporate inside the boiling pain, and she was disappearing; she was being remade, by blade and fire, and everything she’d ever known was twisted; she was twisted, and there was a stretched, agonized time that might have been measured in centuries, when she thought—when she knew—she would shatter like a sheet of ice . . .
A bucket of cold water crashed over her head, she was wrapped in fog a mile deep and more, so thick that she barely felt Anthora’s arms around her, holding her steady; or Ren Zel, when he picked her up, carried her to the sofa, and laid her down, while a blanket shook itself out, and drifted down to cover her, where she cowered and cried.
Orders came; he bent his whole self to obedience; he accepted directives with neither qualm or question. There was work, a great work, to be accomplished. He was important; he was vital to the success of the plan; no one but he could do what was required. Pride in his abilities joined his complacency, his contentment in orders. He took the rifle that was given to him, and went to the place she had designated. There were deaths required, but that did not concern him. He had dealt death before, many times. It had been necessary.
It was a wonderfully clear and freeing thing, duty. His was simply to obey; to do all and everything that was required of him. He was therefore content, as he knelt at the window, and made sure of the rifle, one more time.
He checked the sights, and smiled, satisfied. All was well; his weapon would not fail him.
Soon, the targets would appear. Soon, he would do what duty required: two deaths. He was skilled at dealing death; he felt satisfaction, recalling this.
There! The targets were approaching. As had been foretold, a man, and a woman with long red hair—
No! he heard his own voice inside his head, even as he brought the gun to position.
No! his voice screamed again, destroying his contentment, his satisfaction.
His hands shook; he thrust the voice away, found his focus, and sighted.
“NO! That’s Miri!”
He brought the rifle down; he lifted it—and hurled it away, sobbing . . .
There was silence in the tent, save for his brother’s ragged breathing. Rys used the kerchief again, gently, pity warring with guilt.
“Now,” Silain whispered.
Val Con screamed, every muscle rigid—and collapsed, boneless as a cat. The anguished grip of his fingers relaxed, though he did not entirely relinquish Rys’s hand.
He drew a breath, deep and unsteady. Another. And another.
His form blurred, and Rys raised the cloth to wipe his own eyes.
“He has chosen,” Silain said, and touched the switch at last.
Duty was gone; purpose deserted him.
He was alone in a darkness so complete he could not see his own soul.
Gasping, he thrashed, a drowning man flailing after the lifesaving rope. He threw himself—forward, backward—knowing that it must be near; knowing that she would not leave him alone. Her strength would rescue him; he needed only to find the link . . .
But it remained outside of his grasp.
Silain leaned forward, carefully removed the mesh crown from his head, and draped it over the box.
“Wake,” she said, the full power of the luthia’s will resonating in her voice. “Wake, Val Con yos’Phelium, and greet your brother!”
There came another breath; a twitch of dark brows; the gleam of green eyes behind thick, sheltering lashes.
“Gone.” His voice was a ragged whisper. “Gone.”
He flung himself into Rys’s arms, weeping.