The Complete Season 1

by Michael Underwood

  She hadn’t wounded Bellona seriously with the rose branches. And the Mertikan was too disciplined to lose focus completely. Bellona stepped into and past Michiko’s lunge, levering her blade in an awkward parry that nonetheless did the job. “Traitor,” she spat—as if it needed to be said. “Turning against us in a time of war? I thought Kakutans had some notion of honor.”

  Michiko didn’t waste breath on speech. Instead she pressed her momentum, trying to keep Bellona on her heels and off tempo. Her own style shifted with each move, as if she was shaking off the strict geometry of the Mertikan True Way, reverting to the Island Styles from which it had evolved. Was the Golden Lord with her somehow, guiding her hand?

  Bellona kept up her spiraling retreat, constantly forcing changes of direction that denied Michiko an opening. And Michiko couldn’t afford to back off to the range that would favor the Island stance, because this was no formal duel of blade, with craft outlawed; given a moment of breathing space, Bellona would use it to carve a sigil.

  Or even half a moment. What she thought was a mistake from Bellona, stepping too close, turned out to be a maneuver. Bellona’s foot hooked Michiko’s own, and although Michiko managed to keep from falling, her stagger was opening enough.

  An arc of flame raked along her left side, narrowly missing a direct strike. Michiko dove behind a cluster of bushes as a second and third blast seared the air. She hastily scribed Impervious Air around herself, just in time; a moment later, the bushes detonated into splinters and smoke.

  But with that sigil armoring her, Michiko could afford to take a few breaths to further augment herself. She got through Gale Step and Eye of the Needle before Bellona slammed her own blade down through the Fury of Sky and Stone, shaking the ground beneath Michiko’s feet. This time Michiko did fall. But from her prone position, she managed to carve Eagle’s Talon and yank Bellona’s feet out from under her.

  They rolled upright at the same time, already breathing hard. The quick victory Michiko had hoped for was gone; now they were in it for the duration. She made the split-second tactical decision to sacrifice any opening in favor of bolstering herself with Eternal Wind, and fought down the irrational urge to laugh when Bellona did the same.

  Movement caught her eye. Of course: they couldn’t wreck the garden and not attract attention, especially on the night when the Quloi warder had nearly been assassinated. Michiko’s heart sank. So much for the endurance granted by Eternal Wind; once the guards involved themselves, this would be over very quickly.

  But Bellona whirled and carved another sigil, not aimed at Michiko. A shimmering wall of force sprang up, cutting the two of them off from the rest of the embassy, with the guards on the far side.

  Bellona turned back, smiling viciously. “Your blood is mine. No true Mertikan needs help to cut down a pathetic traitor like you.”

  Foolish arrogance—but Michiko couldn’t deny her own moment of foolishness, failing to strike while Bellona’s back was turned. She whispered a quick prayer to her ancestors and closed again.

  On empty air. When had Bellona scribed Aerstone Stance? She soared over Michiko’s head, and only a quick dive roll forward saved Michiko from the flames that thundered down from above. But she came up on one knee and carved a Mud Pit just as Bellona returned to earth, then laughed in satisfaction to see the other woman sink to her knees in the sucking morass.

  Not for long. The hilt of Michiko’s sword grew scorchingly hot in her hands. Hissing in pain, she tried to hold on, but her body wouldn’t obey; her palm and fingers began to blister, and the instinct of self-preservation forced her to drop the weapon.

  Bellona should have taken that moment to finish her. But Mertikan dignity meant she focused instead on climbing out of the pit. And while she did so, Michiko snatched out her belt knife and cut a sigil with its tiny blade.

  She could barely feel the resonance guiding her as she shaped the form. But she’d seen knifecraft all over Twaa-Fei, on the lifts, in the dueling club, and if it wasn’t as powerful as the effects one could achieve with a full-length blade, it didn’t need to be. She just needed to cool her sword enough to pick it up again.

  “What are you doing?” Bellona snarled—too late.

  Michiko’s blistered hand screamed at the contact, but she snatched up her sword and hurled herself into range, and Bellona chose the wrong direction to try circling away. They wound up body to body, too close for any proper form. Michiko threw an elbow into Bellona’s face, striking one of the cuts opened by the roses’ thorns, sending blood into her eye. At the same time, a burning line traced itself across her calf—maybe not even a deliberate attack, just Bellona’s sword swinging wild as she stumbled. They broke apart and came together again, technique disintegrating as they hammered each other with any weapon that came to hand, from blades and hilts to hands and feet to whatever brief sigils they could carve in the gaps.

  They’d trained together too much. Both of them fought clear long enough to scribe something, and in that instant they chose the same sigil: Thunderstorm Front. The two effects slammed together and detonated, knocking both of them across the ground.

  Michiko rolled and came to her knees, gasping. On the other side of the garden, Bellona did the same.

  Beyond the wall of force, the guards were preparing. The sigil’s effect was a clear message, but they weren’t about to let their warder die in an unsanctioned duel; as soon as it faded, they were going to come through. And Michiko couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

  But neither could Bellona.

  They both remained where they were, in mirrored poses, on one knee with the other foot planted to rise. They were bleeding and filthy and burned; Michiko could barely grip her blade. Whoever made the next mistake would pay dearly for it—but it was a coin toss which one of them it would be.

  Bellona isn’t my target.

  She wasn’t Michiko’s friend, either. But it wasn’t worth dying here in the garden of the Mertikan embassy just for the chance to take Bellona out. The real enemy was elsewhere, and bigger: the empire itself.

  The instant Michiko moved, Bellona surged to her feet, drawing a defensive sigil. But she miscalculated, because Michiko’s own sigil wasn’t an attack.

  Aerstone Stance carried her up and over the garden wall, into the street behind the embassy. As she came down, Michiko carved another sigil, this one to hide her from view, but it wasn’t necessary; no one followed. She staggered off down the street, body aching as her augmenting effects faded.

  She hadn’t won. But she hadn’t lost, either . . . and the war had only just begun.

  Chapter 8

  Adechike

  Tears kept blurring Adechike’s vision, but he refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn’t help Ojo. Crying wouldn’t stop the war. Nothing could; Maduenu and Takeshi had done everything in their power for Ojo, and the war was out of anyone’s hands, in too many hands at once for any hope of control.

  The only thing Adechike could do was hunt down the people responsible, and make them pay.

  If the assassins had been more cautious, they would have split up. But questioning one of the lift operators revealed that a group of five people had gone down to the lower island right after the attack on Ojo, armed and out of breath. “Rumikans?” Adechike asked, his gut tight. The word had slipped out of Ojo in his delirium.

  The young woman tilted her hand from one side to the other. “Couldn’t say. They were dressed Twaan, and they all looked pretty clearly male or female. Didn’t say anything, either.”

  That proved nothing. Rumikans could choose to shape themselves to one form or the other just as easily as something between.

  He hated the way the lift forced him to stand still. Every time he stopped moving, every time he let himself think, he saw Ojo again in his mind’s eye, helpless and bleeding out.

  Ojo. Who had done more than anyone on the three islands to uphold the ideals of the Circle.

  Ojo, whom Adechike had turned his back on. Their last conve
rsation had been a fight. If Adechike had listened to what Ojo had to say—if he’d gone home to reconcile with his uncle instead of attending Bellona’s stupid dinner party—

  He choked down those thoughts. They wouldn’t do anybody any good now.

  “Hey!” the lift operator called as they reached the lowest island and the few passengers stepped off. “Is it true the Quloi warder—the other one, I mean—was attacked?”

  Adechike’s fingernails cut into his palms. “Yes.”

  She hesitated, glancing around. Then she beckoned him closer. Adechike approached warily, ready to defend himself; the young woman was Twaan, not Rumikan, and armed with only a tiny knife, but he couldn’t take chances anymore.

  “Somebody met them in the street,” she said softly, as a handful of people boarded the lift. “Then they all headed toward the docks.”

  Or toward the refugee camp. “Was that person Rumikan?”

  She shook her head. “No. Zenatan, I think.”

  His blood chilled. A descendant of the people whose island Quloo had cut from the sky.

  “Thank you,” he said, by reflex. Then he headed for the docks, not quite at a run.

  •••

  A thick fog was drifting through the streets, making Adechike’s skin crawl. Nights like this were a time for conspiracy, for madness. For murder.

  The hour was late enough that it was almost early again. The various stalls and businesses that lined the streets were closed, but a thin trickle of people was beginning to flow, preparing to open them up again. Some of those people recognized Adechike, and it was clear from the whispers that word had spread.

  Some looked sympathetic. Others—the Rumikans—didn’t.

  He moved quickly, but not without caution. It would be the easiest thing in the world to ambush him down here, in the fog. Adechike kept his hands near the hilts of his blades. Up ahead were the docks, the low, hulking shapes of warehouses and the piers beyond them, stretching like long fingers into the fog.

  And then he did run—even though by then it was far too late.

  A ship was disappearing into the fog. No sensible captain would set sail in weather like this, when the Mists had risen and anything could be hiding in their depths—but there it was, a merchant ship just too solid to be mistaken for a phantom, the Twaan flag flying from its stern.

  Adechike skidded to a halt at the edge of Twaa-Fei, heart thumping with thwarted fury. A nearby dockworker stared at him, and Adechike whirled to grab the front of the man’s jerkin. “That ship! Whose is it? And were there passengers on board?”

  The old man stammered, and Adechike fought the urge to shake him until his teeth rattled. Finally he said, “That’s the Remembrance. Captain Winouhe’s ship. And yes—he took on some people.”

  Winouhe. A Zenatan name. And a Zenatan had met the Rumikans at the lift.

  Adechike’s fingers went nerveless and limp. The dockhand pulled himself free and ran, leaving Adechike there, staring into the fog. It was beginning to thin out, but the ship was gone, barely a shadow in the growing light of dawn.

  It was gone—but something else remained.

  Someone stood at the far end of one of the piers. An androgynous silhouette, staring out into the sky, their left hand resting on the blade at their hip.

  Adechike’s stride lengthened and gained speed as he approached. Kris had their back to the island; Adechike was halfway down the pier before they heard his footsteps or felt them shaking the boards and turned. By then, there was nowhere to flee—except into the empty air.

  Kris didn’t flinch at the sight of Adechike. They looked bone-tired, spine slumping uncharacteristically. When they spoke, their tone was flat, barely carrying over the sound of the wind. “What are you doing here?”

  “Chasing your assassins,” Adechike said. Rage thickened his voice. “But it looks like you got them safely off Twaa-Fei before I could catch up.”

  Kris shifted back a half step, suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

  Adechike’s shoulders ached with tension. “That ship, the one you’re watching sail away! You’re going to stand there and pretend you had nothing to do with it?”

  “I—I didn’t! What ship? I mean, I saw it leave, but—”

  “It was Rumikans, Kris! Ojo said so himself. And you’ve been down in that refugee camp, talking to people—I bet it wasn’t even hard. Just tell them it’s all Ojo’s fault, even though he tried harder than anyone to stop this.”

  Kris’s body jerked at the accusation, and in turn they lashed out. “Oh, he’s so innocent, is he? Tell me this: How did the Quloi ships know to go after the refinery?”

  Adechike flinched.

  And Kris saw it. Their jaw clenched tight in a snarl. “Or maybe it was all you. Such a nice guy, everybody likes Adechike—is that why Quloo sent you here? Because they knew it would be easy for you to get close to me? This whole time you pretended to be my friend, but your real goal was to get me to spill Rumika’s secrets so you could sell them onward. Did you do that on Ojo’s orders, or was all of that your idea? How much of this did you plan from the start?”

  Even with all the fury and pain boiling inside him, Adechike almost apologized. He hadn’t meant to betray Kris like that, truly—he just wasn’t used to Twaa-Fei, where information was the most priceless currency on the three islands. He wasn’t used to keeping secrets.

  But everybody else felt fine keeping secrets from him. Even Ojo had done it, hiding the truth of how badly Quloo was sinking.

  Kris shook their head in disgust. “You know what? I don’t even care anymore. I’m done with this.” They strode forward—but Adechike sidestepped to block them.

  Kris glared at him. “Out of my way.”

  Adechike stood his ground. “I’m not going to let you get away like this.”

  “Damn it, Adechike—”

  He didn’t even make a decision. His sword was just in his hand, as if of its own accord, its point trained on Kris’s heart.

  The wind gusted around them both, rising with the sun, tearing the fog into shreds. This was a stupid place to duel—out in public, on a narrow pier where one wrong move could send someone to the Mists—but Adechike didn’t care anymore.

  Bleakness settled into Kris’s eyes. “Fine,” they said. “I guess this is how it ends.”

  They drew their blade, saluted Adechike—and attacked.

  Chapter 9

  Kris

  It was just blades at first, lunging and parrying in a fairly strict line. Out here on the narrow confines of the pier, where any sigil that damaged their support might well kill them both, caution was the only sensible choice.

  But Kris had left sense behind a long time ago. They were past caring about consequences, when every strike felt like a cut to their own heart.

  A swift retreat bought them enough space to draw the Stonefoot Sign. It would limit their mobility, but that was preferable to losing their balance and falling until they vanished into the Mists.

  Out of lunging range, Adechike did the same.

  Kris was faster. A downward blast of wind made Adechike bend, but he finished his defensive sigil and then cut three swift lines that set off a flash of blinding light in Kris’s eyes. They flinched back and heard the heavy, sliding steps of Adechike’s approach. Blinking madly to clear their vision, Kris blocked the first strike more on instinct than knowledge, following it up with a full-body rush that kept them at too close a measure for Adechike to use his blade.

  But it was a mistake to come within wrestling range of a Quloi bladecrafter. Only the Stonefoot effect kept Kris from falling when Adechike tried to throw them, and their sword arm still ended up in a lock.

  As if locking Kris’s arm was enough to stop them. They scribed a tiny sigil with nothing more than a few shifts of their wrist—and Adechike’s body jerked as all the air was torn from his lungs.

  It should have made him let go. Anyone sensible would have dropped the joint lock and carved Freedom of Air, the counter to A
bsent Wind.

  But apparently Adechike had left sense behind, too.

  Only a vicious stomp to Adechike’s instep broke Kris free in time to dodge the incoming blow. By then they could see well enough to defend, and they retreated again while Adechike regained his breath.

  How many times had the two of them fought under Ojo’s tutoring eye? Never in anger, only in friendly competition and mutual learning. The laughter of those happier days echoed in Kris’s memory—before the Gauntlet, before the trade fleet, before everything went wrong.

  And Ojo . . . he was everywhere in Adechike’s movements, coloring the way the young man moved, the angles from which he tried to trap Kris’s blade and lever it against them.

  Ojo had beaten Kris in the Gauntlet. But Adechike wasn’t Ojo—especially not now, with anger undermining his tactics, driving him to the brutal move rather than the effective one. Adechike wasn’t Lavinia, either, to meld those two into a single lethal whole.

  All it would take was a gamble.

  Kris didn’t even hesitate. When Adechike retreated out of range for an instant to reset his feet, Kris made a swift, unobtrusive cut, canceling their own Stonefoot Sign.

  And then they leaped.

  A huge, ground-eating lunge, straight at Adechike. Who parried—but to the inside, letting Kris pass to the outside, ducking under their own warding arm and pivoting to face the direction they’d come from.

  Of course Adechike spun to defend himself. But he was still Stonefooted and slow, and there was a heartbeat where Kris could have sunk their blade into his unprotected back.

  They didn’t.

  Kris hesitated, and then Adechike closed the brief opening in his defense, and the fight went on.

  Why didn’t I strike?

  That question buried its teeth in Kris’s thoughts and refused to let go. They lured Adechike’s guard wide and could have disengaged to cut at his face. They had a chance to stop-thrust against a sloppy attack. Opportunity after opportunity presented itself and then vanished, untaken.