“Tanit? Is that you?”
For a split second, Syl almost forgot the name she’d given as her own.
“Hello, Lista,” she said, turning.
“Wow! What are you wearing? What a beautiful dress. Are you not working today?”
“No,” said Syl, thinking quickly. “I have a family connection to the wedding party, so I don’t have to work—but I wish I did.”
“Goodness! Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I feel exposed in this dress. It’s too tight, and I’m used to having my hair covered.”
“You’re so weird. I’d die to have a dress like that.”
There was longing in her eyes, and her hands smoothed her plain robes absently.
“Well, why don’t we swap? Just for a bit.”
Lista hesitated.
“We could exchange clothes, for fun,” Syl urged, “and then meet here in a few hours to change back.”
“I don’t trust you, Tanit. You never returned my cartograph, and no one in the Service Sisters had heard of you when I tried to find you. I got a right telling-off when I applied for a new one.”
Syl thought fast, and in her head she willed Lista to comply.
“Oh, Lista, I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant that part at least. “I lied that day because I didn’t want you to know who I really am. That’s why I was in Service robes. When people hear I’m related to the Archmage Syrene by blood, they always act differently around me, like they have to wait on me . . .”
As she spoke, the girl’s features softened. Her mind felt pink and doughy beneath Syl’s probing. The combination of Syl’s will, and Syrene’s name, was making Lista malleable.
“Please?” added Syl.
Lista grinned. A doorway to a storage closet was set into the wall farther along the corridor, and she pulled Syl toward it. They squeezed inside, where they quickly exchanged clothes. As they spilled out again, Lista was giggling.
“How do I look?” she said, twirling bashfully.
“Beautiful,” Syl replied. Tenderly she smoothed the girl’s hair down, for it was mussed from her headscarf, which now covered Syl’s own hair. She felt guilty, hoping the girl wouldn’t be in dreadful trouble once the deception was discovered.
“It’ll be fun to be waited on for once,” said Lista.
“It’ll be nice to go unnoticed,” said Syl.
They smiled and then hugged each other.
“See you back here in, what, three hours?” said Lista.
Syl nodded, and Lista skipped away.
• • •
Syl went in the other direction. She rounded a corner, preparing to lose herself among the mingling guests, and almost collided with a figure in blue. Quickly she turned her face away as Sarea shoved past her rudely, scowling at the obstruction, and then moved purposefully on. The doorway to one of the private VIP quarters stood open in the corridor behind her. Syl was certain that it was from there that Sarea had come. She was tempted to follow her old nemesis, but she was curious to discover what the Novice had been up to in this section of the palace. She padded noiselessly to the door and peered in.
Two bodies lay on the floor. One wore the formal dress of a Military officer, the other a Civilian’s robes. Their throats had been crushed, as though a great weight had been dropped on their necks and then removed. Syl stared at them for a moment longer before checking the name on the room’s display panel. It read FORMIA DESHAN, but it meant nothing to Syl. She moved on, hurrying to catch up with Sarea. She spotted her just as she was joined by two more Gifted, Xaron and Mila. A fourth appeared: Nemein, that plague rat, and with her was a Half-Sister whom Syl didn’t recognize, but the blue piping on her hem and cuffs gave her special status away.
Guests were heading for the Grand Hall to take their seats for the ceremony, but the Gifted moved against the flow. In the middle of the tide of Illyri, like a rock around which everyone was forced to pass, stood a final Blue Novice. Tanit was waiting for her Sisters to join her. Close beside her, smiling happily, stood Ani in her own robes of blue. Syl ducked her head, moving carefully now, not daring to use any of her own psychic abilities for fear that it might draw her friend’s attention to her. Or Tanit’s. Instead she relied upon the crowds, and the Service robes, to hide her.
The five Gifted gathered around Tanit and Ani. Some words were exchanged, and then Tanit bent and whispered into Ani’s ear. Ani flushed, staring up at Tanit with delight, and nodded vehemently. Tanit kissed her cheek, and Ani turned to leave. Syl watched her go, and as she walked, Ani morphed before her eyes, fluidly becoming a second Tanit. The Gifted watched, and Tanit nodded in satisfaction. Then together they moved off.
And Syl followed.
• • •
Tiray was gazing down at Kellar’s body. The junior consul’s features were barely recognizable beneath the tumors that had sprouted like dark, dire flowers from his flesh. Tiray was unable to speak, so great was his shock and sorrow, but what could he have said anyway? There was nothing to say, nothing that would bring Kellar back to life, or explain how he had died.
“That’s it,” said Paul. “We’re getting off this rock now.”
He activated the communicator in his helmet in order to contact Steven and Alis, but heard only static.
“Peris,” he said. “I can’t get through.”
“Let me try.”
Peris spoke aloud, relying on his Chip to make the connection.
“Peris to Nomad. Come in, Nomad.”
He got nothing.
“Something is blocking our transmissions,” said Peris.
“Then we’ll just have to convince a couple of Sisters to take us back to our ship in one of their nice shuttles,” said Paul.
“And how are you going to do that without a gun?” asked Peris.
“I can be very persuasive,” Paul replied. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll knock them unconscious and you can fly us up there yourself.”
He gripped Tiray’s arm.
“Councillor, we have to go. If you stay here, you’re going to end up as dead as your friends. We all are.”
Tiray didn’t move. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved soundlessly. If Paul hadn’t known better, he might have said that Tiray was praying.
“Councillor—”
But now there was movement behind them, and Paul caught glimpses of rich blue, like birds gently alighting. He turned to find five young Illyri females blocking the exit from the room, all dressed in royal-blue robes.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Tanit,” said the eldest of them. “And these are my Sisters.”
And Paul’s skin began to prickle as the first of the heat blisters appeared on it.
• • •
They had left Bela in the corridor to guard the door. The Half-Sister watched curiously as Syl approached, and Syl felt Bela’s consciousness probing her own.
Lista. My name is Lista.
Bela’s brow furrowed. She looked confused, and then confusion gave way to concern. She opened her mouth in warning, but Syl stilled her tongue. Then, with little more than a passing thought, Syl forced Bela to run headfirst into the far wall.
• • •
Paul’s left hand felt as though it were being held over an open fire. He tried to move, but he was frozen in place. He could not even open his mouth to scream. Beside him, Tiray was gurgling, his face growing redder and redder as he struggled to breathe. Peris, meanwhile, was watching in horror as the fingertips of his right hand turned inward upon themselves and seemed to melt toward the knuckles.
The burning was spreading to Paul’s forearm when suddenly it began to ease. The Nairene who had been staring so fixedly at him, the one who was strangely beautiful, even as she tortured him, tilted her head in puzzlement.
“This one is not Illyri,” she said. “This one is . . . human!”
Her words seemed to have an effect on the two Nairenes at either side of her, and on the pair who stood behind them, hand in hand, their features almost identical though one was shorter and broader.
“A human?” said the Nairene on the right, the one whose attention had been focused on Peris. “But, Tanit, it’s not possible.”
The brief break in their concentration gave Paul the chance that he needed. His right hand shot out, the punch connecting squarely with the nose of the one called Tanit, the one who had been burning him, and he felt it break beneath the impact. Peris reacted seconds later, swinging his uninjured hand at the nearest of the young females, but he was right-handed by nature, and the blow from his left missed its target by inches. Paul tried to press home his advantage, but suddenly he found himself flying through the air, and his back hit a wall with enough force to stun him briefly. He went down on his knees, his helmet sliding to the floor, unable to see anything but flashes of pain for a few moments.
When he recovered himself, he looked up to see a vision of rage before him: Tanit, with the lower half of her face bathed in her blood, and her robes spattered with it. Tiray lay on the floor behind her, his body arching as he choked to death. Peris knelt beside him. The malady that was infecting the old soldier was a flesh-eating disease: already it had consumed his right arm up to the elbow.
But Paul could not help them. He could not even help himself. Like a puppet having its strings manipulated, he felt his left arm being raised, and the fingertips of his hand spread before him.
“I’ll make you sorry you were ever born,” said Tanit.
And Paul’s hand ignited in a white-hot flame.
CHAPTER 73
Whoever or whatever Syl had expected to see as she entered the room, it was not Paul Kerr. She was so astonished at the sight of him, his left hand raised before him like a fiery emblem, that it took her a few seconds to react. When she did, it was with a fury that matched the heat of Tanit’s own anger.
Tanit was so lost in her own wrath and pain, and in the pleasure she was deriving from torturing the human male, that at first she did not feel her feet leave the floor. The sensation of levitation was one that she sometimes associated with the deepest of psychic trances, and only when the soles of her shoes were already inches from the carpet did she recognize the involvement of some outside force. But by then Syl was already flinging her across the room, and she landed painfully on an antique sideboard, sending flowers and ornaments scattering.
The fire on Paul’s flesh went out, but the agony remained. His hand was charred black, the damaged skin split in places, like a volcanic landscape cut by rivulets of red lava. Tears ran down his cheeks, so that the room became a blur to him. Through it he saw another Nairene dressed in white robes, eyes wild, a headscarf slipping from a familiar bronze mane of hair. He blinked, and his vision cleared a little.
“Syl?” he said.
But Syl did not hear him, for she was beyond the reach of words or reason.
Syl was a being of pure rage.
• • •
Mila and Xaron turned to find Syl standing behind them. In their surprise at her appearance they released their grip on each other’s hand. Together their power was squared, not doubled, but apart they were vulnerable. Xaron—older, more experienced—was the immediate threat. Syl felt Xaron’s mind probing, and the pinpricks of her power as she tried to inflict pain all over Syl’s body. But Syl pictured her own skin as steel armor through which Xaron could not penetrate. She allowed Xaron time to react, letting her increase the intensity of her efforts while she waited for Mila to join in, reaching for her sister’s hand, for her sister’s strength. Syl felt them come together, and she allowed them to go deeper and deeper into their killing trance so that they were lost in the single-mindedness of it. That’s when she intervened, turning the force of their own potency against them like a series of double-pointed darts hurled back against their source.
Xaron’s eyes widened with hurt as invisible needles pierced deep into her body. She turned to Mila, panicked, stretching for her with her free hand, hoping that together they might save themselves, but Mila was already past salvation, and her fingers slipped from Xaron’s. She fell to the floor, her eyes sightless, her legs twitching as the last of the life left her. Xaron joined her, but by then Syl had moved on to deal with the others. Xaron’s last thought was that Syl could not even be bothered to watch her die.
By now Paul was on his feet, even as Nemein and Sarea prepared to tackle Syl. They were circling her, trying to divide her attention and weaken her ability to strike at either one of them. Syl concentrated on staying out of Nemein’s reach. She didn’t think that Nemein, walking virus that she was, was strong enough to infect her without touching, and even then she’d have to hold on for a while in order to break through Syl’s defenses. But Sarea was different. Something inside her was broken in the worst possible way. She was a sadist, a creature entirely without mercy, and that gave her fearsome power. Already Syl could feel pressure at her neck, her temples, her kidneys, her heart, as Sarea’s mind squeezed.
But Sarea’s love of inflicting pain was also her weakness. She could not control it properly. Once unleashed, it was like a torrent. So Syl did as she had with Xaron and Mila: she let Sarea’s power come, taunting her to be stronger . . .
Come on! You’ve wanted to do this for so long. Hurt me. Kill me!
She saw Sarea smile, and watched as the muscles in her neck grew tighter and her fists began to clench. Syl felt as though her skull were being crushed in a vise, and her lungs were struggling to get enough air. Something popped painfully in her chest—Sarea had cracked one of her ribs—but at the same time Syl felt her urging Nemein to keep her distance.
Stay away from her. She’s mine.
Yes, I’m yours. Do it. Do it, you evil bitch!
Sarea’s power was ratcheted up to ten. Syl’s skull was seconds away from fracturing. Just as it seemed that it must surely break, Syl shot one simple image into Sarea’s head, clouding her mind, and then stepped aside.
Before Sarea stood Nemein, but to Sarea she was Syl. Nemein, defenseless and unready, took the full force of Sarea’s desire to crush and break. Syl heard a sound like the snapping of dry twigs, and Nemein’s body crumpled into a lifeless heap.
And Syl’s only thought was that, like Oriel’s, Nemein’s death was quicker than she deserved.
She looked down to see Peris lying at her feet, his right arm almost entirely eaten away, although there was no blood. He was deep in shock, and barely seemed to register Syl’s presence. Beside him lay the body of another Illyri, but he was clearly dead, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.
Sarea was staring at Nemein’s corpse. Now she spun toward Syl.
“Look what you made me do!” she screamed.
Syl thought of Elda, and the two bodies she had recently found with their throats crushed. Sarea was like a rabid animal—what Syl was about to do to her was almost a kindness.
She willed Sarea into the air, but nothing happened. Absorbing all of that pain, all of that hate, had weakened Syl momentarily, but a moment was all that the Blue Novice needed. Syl felt Sarea trying to hurt her again, and was too drained to resist. An intense pain exploded in her skull, and death reached out a hand to her.
The pain eased. Sarea shook her head, as though trying to dislodge an insect from her ear.
“I always knew you were cruel,” said a familiar voice, and Ani emerged from the hall outside. “But I never realized how unworthy of those robes you are.”
The distraction was all that Syl needed, and Sarea’s body hit the old stone wall of the palace with enough force to kill her instantly. Momentarily Syl felt weak, sapped of all energy, and she was sure that her legs must surely crumble beneath her, but instead her body shuddered, and a charg
e ran through her as her strength returned. She was momentarily amazed by the force of it—strangely, she felt even more powerful than before, but there was no time to consider it, for she had more pressing concerns.
She looked at Ani, but her friend had turned away, staring slack-jawed at the carnage around her. Syl wanted to say something, to explain, but as she opened her mouth to speak she felt heat on her left arm: the sleeve of her robe was on fire. She smelled burning hair, and realized that one side of her head was aflame too.
“No,” she said, and the flames went out.
“Oh, now I understand,” said another voice. It was Tanit. She was standing by the window, and beside her was Paul, his arms outstretched, his feet barely touching the floor, held in place by the force of Tanit’s will.
“So this is the one you have feelings for,” she sneered. She sounded both amused and disgusted. “Yes, Earth-whore, Dessa told me about your perversions. You should be ashamed.”
“Let him go,” said Syl.
Tanit did not. Instead she tried to burn Syl again, but this time the fire was extinguished before it was barely more than a spark.
“You hid yourself well,” said Tanit, her voice smooth and soft. “We never suspected that you had that kind of power.”
“I didn’t know the extent of it either—until now.”
“The Sisterhood will forgive you for what you have done here,” said Tanit. “With your abilities, they would probably forgive you if you killed Syrene herself.”
“I may yet do that,” said Syl. “For now, I’m giving you a final warning: let him go.”
But Tanit shook her head. She still believed that she could sway Syl.
“Join us,” she said. “Join me. Me, and Ani. We could do so much for the Sisterhood, for all Illyri. We’re the future. We will change society. We will alter it with our minds. Tell her, Ani. Tell her that I’m speaking the truth.”
Ani stood to one side, equidistant from both Tanit and Syl, like the third point in an awkward triangle. Tears ran down her cheeks, and Syl was horrified to hear her reply.
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