The Light That Binds

by Nathan Garrison

  Twin bright lights, glowing violet and gold in the evening gloom, preceded the descent of two figures. Seeing them reminded Jasside of a different type of distraction. A kind she craved.

  Gilshamed and Lashriel touched down lightly at her side. They dismissed their wings—and the glow that came with them—sinking the knoll in shadow. Jasside felt better at once. She’d worked with darkness so long it had become more comfortable to her than light, but that wasn’t the real reason for her relief. Shadows did a better job of hiding the fatigue.

  As the couple clasped, winding around each other as if they’d been created for that very purpose, Jasside found another reason to embrace the darkness.

  It masked the ache she couldn’t keep from blanketing her face.

  “My apologies,” Gilshamed said after a moment. He disentangled himself from Lashriel, yet still kept hold of one of her hands. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  Maybe the shadows aren’t as deep as I thought. “Nonsense, Gilshamed. You don’t have to apologize for being happy. Especially after what you two have been through. I’d be ashamed to know you if you ever let go.”

  The pair brought their eyes together, love enough to overcome anything writ there as plain as day. But in Gilshamed’s eyes was also something else—the barest twinge of what could only be guilt. Though it was gone just as quickly as it appeared, Jasside remembered the last time she’d seen it on his face: when the revolution decided to diverge from his vision, to step down a path they had to take that came with a high probability for failure.

  Not long after, he’d abandoned them entirely.

  Is that where your guilt stems from, then? Not from enjoying love amidst so much death, but from fighting the desire every day to take that love and run away from it all.

  Jasside cast her gaze over the northern horizon. Towards Sceptre.

  Towards Mevon.

  Not that I can blame you. It’s an urge I understand all too well.

  “Well,” Lashriel said. “It’s been a long, trying day. I think we could all use as much rest as our adversary will allow.”

  “Agreed,” Jasside said.

  The two valynkar bowed their heads to her and began strolling off.

  “Before you go,” Jasside added, bringing both their heads around, “I just wanted to say . . . you don’t have to feel guilty for having found love in a time of war, you know. If anyone has earned it, it’s you.”

  Grateful smiles made each of them seem to glow, far brighter than had their wings.

  Jasside lingered after they’d gone, exhaling deeply to release at least some of the day’s tension. She pulled her braid over her shoulder, loosened the tie, and began unwinding the long, blond threads.

  “Does that statement apply to you, as well?”

  Her heart skipped as she swung around. Insensate from the day’s battles, she hadn’t noticed anyone approach. And the voice that spoke was one, she now realized, that she’d been dreading to hear.

  “Daye,” she said. “I . . . was not expecting you.”

  He smiled at her. “I’ve learned how to lighten my steps. Helps that I’ve lost so much of myself since the invasion began.”

  Jasside studied his frame, obviously much leaner than the last time she’d seen him. Not a surprise, considering most soldiers were engaged in combat daily. While his face sported slightly sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, it still appeared quite inviting, quite kind—and quite obviously happy to see her.

  “No,” she said. “I mean, I thought you were leading the ground defense of the Kaunese war group.”

  “I am. We’re a week out still, but I rode ahead to confer with my brother in person about merging forces. Chase said you liked to land here after a sortie.”

  She flung her mess of hair back over her shoulder. “Why are you here?”

  “To see you, of course. See how you were holding up. I heard you hadn’t gotten any rest since all this began, so I came to ask if there was anything you wanted, or needed me to do for you. Anything at all.”

  The offer was made with innocence and sincerity, neither feigned, and he’d long ago proven a gentleman in most respects. It was a gift without strings. Even so, it still implied the possibility of things to come. Things she might have welcomed, once.

  Things she almost had.

  “Thank you, but I’m fine,” she said. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t weary, but there are few among our race who can claim otherwise. You’re better off putting your energy towards your duties.”

  She hadn’t meant the words to be harsh, but knew she’d failed by the grimace flashing across his face.

  “Sorry,” she said, much softer this time. “You . . . didn’t deserve that.”

  “It’s fine,” he said, smiling in an attempt to look like he meant it. “I suppose that means I have your answer.”

  “My answer to what?”

  “To the first question I asked.”

  She had to think back, past the startlement of his appearance, before conjuring up what he’d said. Then, even further back to glean what he was referencing.

  “No,” she said at last. “It applies to me, as well. To everyone in fact.”

  “Everyone but me, you mean.”

  “It applies,” she continued, “to those who choose each other.”

  “You know who my choice is.”

  “Yes.”

  When she said no more, he averted his gaze, sighing. Joy bled from the cuts she’d given him, supplanting his handsome features with pain. Even knowing who awaited her, she still fought the desire to plunge herself into his arms, to touch his face and see the wound reversed, to cleave herself to a man worthy of any woman’s love . . .

  . . . any woman but me.

  “He must be something special,” Daye said. “This . . . Mevon Daere.”

  Jasside cleared her throat. “Yes, he is.”

  Daye turned half away from her, giving her a clear view of his jaw as it worked back and forth, grinding his teeth together so that she could hear it.

  She felt, for some reason, as though she owed him an explanation. That she and Mevon had met during a tumultuous time in their lives. That they were both broken, but gave each other their imperfect hearts anyway. That what they found was more than either of them had ever hoped for. And that the only reason they weren’t together now was that they both thought the other dead.

  That we both turned out to be wrong, well, I have to believe that means something.

  At last, Daye sighed. “I guess love doesn’t work like they say in all the folk tales.”

  Jasside furrowed her brow. She was unsure exactly what he meant by that, but it didn’t seem a good time to disagree. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “And I suppose, in times like these, we can’t allow ourselves to become divided over something so . . .”

  He paused, and in that momentary silence, Jasside couldn’t help but complete his words with one of her own.

  Meaningless.

  “Something,” Daye continued, his inflection grown stale, “that doesn’t pertain to our survival.”

  He turned without another word, without glancing back even once, and disappeared among the domicile’s streets. Just another soldier doing what was expected of him, no matter how much it might hurt.

  Jasside wished she could have put it in a way that didn’t cause such pain, but knew, no matter how gentle she might have been, that there was no easy way to accept rejection.

  Chapter 9

  The ruvaki vessel loomed three hundred paces in front of Tassariel’s hiding spot, blocking out half the stars in the sky. Lit from below by bonfires, its bulbous, multifaceted skin appeared like an amalgamation of horrors pulled from her worst nightmares.

  But it was nothing compared to what had been happening on the ground.

  Hundreds of humans, of every shape, age, and sex, encircled each of a dozen pits of burning wood. Stripped of every scrap of clothing, most sat or lay in awkwardly hunch
ed positions: modesty fighting with the need for warmth.

  She’d been watching for the better part of a day now, and had yet to see them be fed. Their only source of water was a single wide trough that had looked, in daylight, more brown than clear. A ring of feces had sat around them until the ruvak guards made them start throwing their waste in the fires, which, if anything, had only made the redolence worse. And every so often, someone would get pulled from the group and marched up into the waiting bowels of the skyship.

  Not a one of them had returned.

  “It’s time,” Draevenus said, crouched at her side. “Are you ready?”

  Tassariel nodded. “More than ready.”

  “You’d better be. This was your idea.”

  That the ruvak were taking prisoners was itself a shattering discovery. Draevenus had reported the fact to his sister through commune, but that hadn’t been enough for Tassariel.

  If it is time to make our presence felt, what better way than to rescue those caught by the enemy? she had said.

  What good would it do? Draevenus had replied. We could free them, true, but what then? We can’t escort even one group back to safety. And gods know how many others there might be.

  They could travel in small groups, keeping to the hidden paths like we have. It’s not much, but it has to be better than simply leaving them to this!

  In the end, he’d agreed. As much because it seemed the right thing to do, as it was a perfect opportunity to take the next step in her training. She didn’t care about his reasons, though. She just cared about doing the one thing that made sense to her.

  Tassariel swiveled her knees and took a single crouching step down the path they’d already determined to take.

  Draevenus laid a hand softly on her forearm, stopping her from taking a second.

  “Leave the spear,” he said.

  She pinched her face up, to keep from yelling out. He knew it was her favorite. But with a sigh she backed up, then slid the spear under the pile of branches concealing their packs. “Anything else?”

  “The rest of your large weapons. You won’t need them.”

  “Only if things go perfectly. And do you really expect that on my first time?”

  After a moment, he dipped his head. “You can keep your sword in case we run up against the unexpected. But lose the rest. They’ll make too much noise where we’re going.”

  Regretfully, she loosened her weapons belt, removing the laden sheaths for her axe, hand scythe, and morningstar, then retied it with only the sword scabbard still in place. Under the leaves they all went, as well.

  “Good,” Draevenus said. “Now check your knives.”

  “Again?”

  “Constantly. You have to keep them oiled and loose in their sheaths so you can extract them in silence the instant you need them. Of course, the drawback to this is they have a tendency to fall out if you’re not cognizant of your movements. Again, though, that’s why you must always be checking them.”

  “Understood.” She began patting herself down. Two thick-bladed daggers on her hips, a pair of stilettos strapped to her calves, four throwing knives on the inside of her forearms, and the sheath planted in the small of her back, which held what Draevenus called the last dagger—for when all other plans have failed.

  The last one was empty.

  Just when she was about to panic, she saw him twirl a small blade across his knuckles. Flipping it up, he snatched it by the point and thrust it towards her.

  “You knocked it out when you were taking off the axe,” he said.

  She grasped the handle with a sigh and placed it back where it belonged. “Lesson learned,” she said.

  His black face unreadable in the darkness, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Tassariel trailed behind Draevenus several paces, crouching low—if not quite as low as him. They swept around in a broad, jagged arc, moving slowly. He paused every score beats and listened intently, yet briefly, before continuing on. Her own breath seemed the loudest thing, drowning out the crackle of the bonfires and the faint scuffle of her feet through the underbrush. From Draevenus, she heard nothing.

  It’s not often that you get to see a master at his craft. Pay attention, and learn all you can. Lives are depending on it. Those to be saved . . . and those to be taken.

  She shuddered but pressed on, putting aside her reservations and fears for another time. She could deal with them later, after all this was over.

  At least she hoped as much.

  After almost twenty marks, they had finally circled around, crawling the last thirty paces until right under the vessel’s belly. The ramp leading into the ship lay just beyond what her fingertips could reach. Prostrate, yet ready to pounce in an instant, she waited. They’d both memorize the guard schedules.

  Any beat now . . .

  A squad of ruvaki warriors, chittering in that strange speech of theirs, came clomping down the ramp. Before the last foot had even left it, Draevenus lunged to the other side of the ramp.

  Tassariel sprang up, hurdling the ramp’s side and landing almost as quietly as the mierothi opposite her. Convinced the bonfires would keep all those outside blind, they stood and walked into the enemy skyship. Comparatively, it felt like a stroll.

  When they’d been making their plan, Draevenus had told her to be ready for anything once they got inside. Now, she could see why.

  At least eleven different passages led away from the small entrance chamber. Four, branching out in cardinal directions, were tall and wide and glowing green, with flat floors and smooth walls. The rest had had portals set well above the floor, leading into narrow, rough-hewn passages that twisted around bends into shadow.

  It was no surprise when Draevenus crawled into one of the latter.

  Clenching her jaw, she went in after him.

  The next half toll was an agony of scraped knees, bumped elbows, and a back bent in no natural way. Her sword had made a seemingly permanent impression against her thigh. She was glad Draevenus convinced her to leave the rest of the weapons behind.

  Thrice they had to scuttle into side passages or darkened alcoves as small ruvak—what they took for maintenance workers—whisked by. Draevenus stopped at every hatch they came to, pressing his ear to listen for what might lie beyond. She counted sixteen of them before he turned and waved her close.

  Kneeling, she bent her head until it was nearly touching his. “What is it?”

  “We’re here.”

  She exhaled in relief that their cramped crawl was over.

  But her next inhale brought a whole different set of tensions.

  “What is my . . . target?”

  “There will be six guards in the room. I’ll take care of those. This passage will lead out just behind the crew controlling the ship. Five of them. You’ll need to take them out quickly.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because if they sound any kind of alarm, it will make getting out of here a much more hectic experience.”

  “I’d almost prefer that to all this sneaking around.”

  He paused, though for what reason she did not know. It was too dark to read his face.

  After a while he sighed, then gently took her hand and guided it down to the hatch. “You feel that?” he asked.

  “Yes. A handle of some kind?”

  “Turn it top side right a quarter rotation, then pull. There will be a short passage beyond, then a second hatch, identical to this. Give me until the count of one hundred to get into position.”

  “Understood.”

  He turned, bracing his arms against the passage walls. “Timing is critical. Once you get to zero, commit yourself to the action. In this business, the hesitant don’t usually get a second chance.”

  “I . . .” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I will try.”

  Again he paused. She could almost feel the tension surrounding him, something he wished to say but could not. Or would not.

  “Start your count . . . now.”

>   One . . . two . . .

  He was out of sight down the tunnel before three.

  Tassariel watched down the shadowed passage for perhaps a bit too long. Some small part of her willed him to come back to her.

  She couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so alone.

  Around the count of twenty, she turned the handle and pulled opened the half-oval hatch, noting the hiss of released air. She slipped down, gripping the regular handholds carved into the rocky walls, and closed—but did not latch—it behind her. Draevenus was right. The passage was not long.

  At fifty, she descended to its end, and pressed her own ear against the hatch leading into the chamber beyond. She heard nothing but muffled voices speaking words she did not understand, and a low but constant hum.

  This must be it. Are you ready to kill again?

  Her breath became labored at sixty.

  Sweat drenched every crevice by seventy.

  Her pulse pounded like drums in her ears at eighty.

  At ninety, she gripped the handle with tremulous fingers. Turned it. Regretfully grateful for how little sound it made and the darkness around her exit point. She stepped out, able to straighten for the first time since she’d entered the vessel, and peered about her. Nothing appeared to make any sense, but there was a door just off to her left—the only normal thing she could see.

  Ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . .

  Breathing deep, she pulled both daggers from the sheaths at her hips and pushed through.

  A ruvaki man sat directly before her, the back of his neck less than an arm’s length away.

  Exposed.

  Oblivious.

  All time and all sense seemed to stand still as she lifted her blade-laden hands.

  Unbidden, memories sprang forth in her mind, taking hold.

  Bitter drink, hands on my thighs, a god gives me strength but far too much.

  Bones snap, blood sprays, steel flashes, my own flesh chars.

  Dagger falls with finality.

  Silence wracked by pain.