Apostate: Forbidden Things

by Nikki Mccormack

  Determined not to lose whatever ground she had gained with these men, she took the blade and drew it across her palm as she had seen the others do. She couldn’t stop a small intake of breath in response to the sudden pain and a few of the suacs grinned, though their expressions were more teasing than mean as she might have expected. Holding her hand out, she let a few drops of her own blood fall to join the mix in the red tinted water, then offered the hilt of the dagger back to Therah. Giddy pride swelled in her chest in response to his reluctant nod of approval when he accepted the weapon back. Chozai gave her a quick warning glance and she accepted the cloth he offered to stop the bleeding rather than giving in to instinct to heal it.

  Chozai made his offering last and swirled the cup. His eyes met hers expectantly. Not sure how to respond, she gave a nod, hoping that was sufficient. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Turning away, he dumped the bloody water back into the well and she winced slightly at the thought of the blood mixing in with the village’s water supply.

  “The Dursik un Kar is initiated,” Chozai announced. “We fight the Grey Army as one tribe.”

  There were solemn nods around the circle.

  “We will rest tonight and head out with the morning sun,” Suac Kipith said.

  Indigo tensed. “Can we not leave today?”

  Twelve pairs of dark copper eyes turned toward her and she regretted her words, wishing she could disappear from their cold scrutiny.

  “The trek across the desert is a hard one, Indigo un Ani, and we have traveled at great speed,” one Suac explained. “We must rest.”

  Remembering Chozai’s lessons, she identified his tattoo as that of the Shirid tribe. Their tribe was the furthest south on the western edge of Kudan. They had indeed traveled far, but she feared that they would come to Yiroth too late if they delayed much longer. She opened her mouth to argue, and stopped, catching the small shake of Chozai’s head. Working to calm the worry that made her nerves dance, she inclined her head to the Shirid suac.

  “Of course. You have indeed traveled far.”

  Chozai took a few moments to call in several women who he set about the task of helping the other tribes’ suacs settle in around the village. As the group dispersed, he stepped in close to her.

  “Go to the hut and rest. The journey ahead will be a hard one. Walk if it will help you keep your path clear.”

  From his tone, she understood that the walk he was suggesting didn’t involve her feet. Perhaps he was right. If she used the sucar again, maybe she would be able to find Yiloch, or perhaps check on events in Caithin. The added bonus of strengthening her connection had its own appeal as well. What could it hurt for her power to grow, if that truly was what was happening when she used the drug? Lyra would need her as strong as she could be.

  She nodded and left him, returning to his hut. A young woman followed her, somehow privy to her purpose, and stood by in silence while Indigo collected the sucar and arranged herself on a rug. Drawing out the stopper, she grimaced at the stench of it and her stomach clenched in dreadful anticipation. Steeling herself, she took a swallow of the thick fluid. The woman stepped forward and took the skin. She stoppered it and put it back in the cabinet before leaving the hut.

  Swaying, Indigo focused her thoughts on Yiloch. She wanted to know what was happening in Caithin, there were people she cared about there, but she had to know that he was still alive first.

  Blackness embraced her and the falling sensation was brief this time, the cramping in her stomach an annoyance she was learning to cope with. When the falling stopped, she still drifted in a sea of blackness. Swaying with the strange motion the drug incited, she waited. Nothing changed.

  Yiloch. She projected her need into the darkness, feeling a tickle of apprehension at the base of her spine. I have to know what’s become of Yiloch.

  What if something was wrong? What if she never left the darkness this time?

  There was a dizzying sense of motion then. When it stopped, she stood in the center of a circle of tall mirrors. There were more mirrors than she had ever seen in one place, every one perfectly flat and smooth as though created with ascard. Images of her own swaying form reflected a thousand times over. For a minute she could only stand in awe of the display, then her eyes refocused on the primary reflection in the mirror in front of her.

  The tattoo on her reflected cheek had nearly healed. One line started a little under her eye, dropping down and then sweeping back up in a graceful arch that traced along her cheekbone then curved back down, ending in a spiral near her hairline. There were two dots just above the end spiral. Below her cheekbone at the center of the gradual arch, a short detached line swept down toward her lower jaw, with a second shorter line angling back from the center of that line towards the corner of her jaw. In front of the downward line were two more small dots.

  All said, it was a graceful pattern, far more attractive than some of the tribal symbols and far less masculine than the warrior tattoo. A faint smile curved the reflection’s lips, a hint of amusement with the way the honored symbol moved with her expressions. Then the smile dissolved. There was something different about the reflection in the next mirror over.

  Turning, she regarded her reflection in that mirror and gasped. The eyes that looked back at her were dark copper, the exact image of a suacs eyes. Unnerved, she turned to the next mirror. Here, the tattoo was gone and her eyes were blue again. In the next, she wore an elegant gown of Lyran make. In another, the tattoo was back and her eyes were mostly blue, flecked with copper. In the next…

  She stepped back from the mirror, the reflections around the circle moving with her. The image that stared back at her was much like the first, but her hands were red with blood. Blood dripped from her fingertips, landing in stark red splotches on the pale skirt of the dress she wore. The eyes staring back at her were dark, almost black, the face expressionless. The ink of the tattoo bled from her cheek, running down in black rivulets and dripping from her jaw to mix with the blood on the skirt.

  With a cry, she staggered back and stumbled, sitting down hard in the midst of the mirrors. The image before her remained standing and replaced the images in all of the other mirrors. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Her gaze darted around, searching for a way out, or, at the very least, something else to see, something that might offer a glimmer of hope amidst the fear.

  “No.” She screamed at the image, pulling her knees in to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She hid her face in the circle of her arms and whispered the word over and over again. “No, no, no, no—”

  “Indigo un Ani.”

  The voice was firm and strong hands shook her shoulders. Opening her eyes, she saw Suac Chozai’s copper eyes staring down at her, his brow furrowed in concern. Twisting away from him, she heaved up the remaining sucar on another rug. A woman came and collected the soiled rug, retreating quickly to leave them alone in the tent. Lying back, Indigo panted and wiped at the sweat on her brow. After a few seconds, she became aware of the tears that trailed down her cheeks and wiped those away as well.

  Without looking at Chozai, she asked, “Do you always know what your walks with the gods mean?”

  He gave her a level look. “Meaning is not always clear at first.”

  “I—”

  “No.” She flinched at his harsh tone and looked over to see him shaking his head, warning her to silence with a stern glower. “When we walk alone, we do not share what we see. That is between the walker and the gods.”

  Staying still, she focused on the vivid images from the mirrors. The images of blood on her hands and ink running down her face remained burned into her mind. Why? What did it mean? Were the images meant to represent some future possibilities? If so, what decisions would lead her to that final image? Or did its taking over all the mirrors mean that she’d already made those decisions?

  She surged to her feet and started for the door of the hut muttering, “I need to wash my hands.”


  Chozai watched her leave in silence.

  Outside the hut, she walked to where the wash water was kept in a separate pool. They refreshed that water only when necessary to avoid waste. Grabbing a rough cloth, she squatted down and scrubbed her hands until the skin was raw. The image of blood on them couldn’t be washed away. Sighing, she dropped the cloth and stood. The thousands of voices drowned out the sounds of the desert. Warriors stretched as far as she could see. Escaping the village to find a quiet place wouldn’t be easy. She selected a direction at random and began to walk.

  The sun blazed down brutally now, its unforgiving heat supporting the decision not to begin the trek to Lyra today. She had left her wrap in the hut, so she surrounded herself with ascard, a cocoon of pure, strong, and refreshing power. Dark skinned warriors, women, and children stared as she passed, unaware of the sin she committed before their eyes. When she was beyond the bounds of the village itself, only warriors watched her walk. They moved out of her path quickly, bowing their heads so fast that she wondered at her own expression. Did her distress and intensity show through that strongly? Whatever it was, it was more than simply the tattoo. She hadn’t gotten this much of a reaction before.

  Eventually, she stopped and stood in the midst of a sea of dark skinned warriors, most of who now sat in groups in the sand, gazing up at her with curiosity when she didn’t move. There was a lull in their conversations. After a short time, they resumed talking, but in lower voices. She swept over them with her gaze.

  How many of you will die in this fight?

  Whose blood would she have on her hands when this was done? Even if things went well, some of them would die. More would be injured. She rubbed at her hands. Could she live with more bloodstains upon her soul if it meant Yiloch was safe? It wasn’t only him anymore, though. It wasn’t even the others she cared about who were with him. The Grey Army posed a threat to more than Lyra if they defeated that empire. How much blood would have to be spilled to stop them? How many lives stood to be saved?

  Once again, she looked over the warriors around her, seeing their faces this time, not just their forms. They were strong and beautiful in their own magnificent way, every one of them.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured in Caithin, knowing they wouldn’t understand her. It was probably better that they didn’t.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Despite the power Ini-jnai had at his disposal, it was becoming apparent to Myac that the foreigners didn’t diversify widely in their uses of ascard. Primarily they used it for binding and for protection with a few other applications branching predictably from there, such as using barriers to push things away. In order to create a barrier as strong as those Ini-jnai created, a portion of every ability he drew upon had to be dedicated to that skill, including his own. Only Ini-jnai and Ksa-jnai appeared to have branched away from that primary skill set in some ways, but even they had not done so significantly from what he had observed.

  Given how seamless Ini-jnai’s control of the combined power of their adepts was, Myac suspected it was a common practice among their people to have one lead adept running a large number of others. With so few adepts in control of their own power, it made some sense that there might be less individual experimentation and, as a result, less diversity of skills. There was so much they could learn from him if they could only understand the language. That alone gave him a reason to appreciate the communication barrier, despite the other challenges it presented.

  Efforts to pick up on their language were minimally productive. The structure was different from anything he knew and the sounds strange to his ears and tongue. Rather than waste time on that, he pondered ways to escape, running scenario after scenario through his head. It would be so much easier if he could simply bolt. The opportunity to try to flee had presented itself a few times already. Unfortunately, bound to Ini-jnai as he was, he would be leaving his power behind as long as he left the adept alive and they would always be able to track him through that connection. He could run with the intention of finding help, but then he risked not getting the chance to destroy the adept and regain his power. Death was far preferable to life with some other adept’s binding keeping him from controlling his ability. Therefore, whatever he did, it had to involve Ini-jnai’s death.

  When he wasn’t running through futile scenarios in his head, he let his consciousness ride along on the link to Ini-jnai, learning what he could of the adept and the army that way, or wiled away hours cursing Indigo in his head. In many ways, she had helped bring him to this dismal situation. It did no good to think of her though. Every time her image coalesced in his mind, desire rose to greet it, desire for her power and beauty, desire for her suffering. The desire was like a fever that refused to break. It clouded his reason, making it hard to think rationally, and he hated her for that.

  Most nights he found it almost impossible to sleep, his hands bound before him, his mind restless and defiant for all the good it did him. Through the binding on his inner aspect, he could feel when Ini-jnai slept. The controlling adept had no trouble at all drifting off into peaceful slumber, while Myac’s lack of sleep wore away at him. During the day, his sleep-deprived mind wandered more and more, distracting easily. If he hoped to take advantage of an opportunity to escape, he needed to be sharp, but tonight was no different from any other. Sleep eluded him.

  The army as a whole rested well. Lord Inaki’s distraction had been their only organized resistance since they had taken Myac captive and that had been less effective than his own confrontation with them. To Inaki’s credit, the suicidal attack had allowed him and Lady Shyalis to make good their escape with the majority of their forces. Perhaps Lord Terral and the others realized the Lyran army was still too scattered and weakened by Yiloch’s campaign to face this army on open ground. Secure behind the walls of Yiroth, they might hold out for a while, but the people along the route would continue to suffer. On the other hand, maybe Lord Captain Adran and Commander Hax simply refused to make a move without their precious emperor to guide them. Either way, it looked as if this army would reach the capital virtually unchallenged.

  Myac sucked in a breath of surprise as the ropes fell away from his wrists. He stared for several long minutes at the frayed objects lying on the ground. Ascard. An adept, or more likely several adepts, outside the camp had managed to move power in undetected and free his hands. What did they hope to achieve? Was this some act of heroism to rescue a fellow Lyran or did they hope he would lash out against his captors and create a distraction. It didn’t really matter what they intended, there was only one way he was leaving this camp and that was with Ini-jnai’s blood on his hands.

  Without getting up, he glanced around to see if any of the sentries were watching. They rarely paid him much attention and now was no exception. When he felt confident that no one was looking his way, he moved to push himself up with his freed arms. It was all he could do not to cry out as muscles in his shoulders and back flared with agonizing protest. For many days, those muscles were restricted to a limited range of movement and this was the price of that restriction. Rolling on to his back, he moved the muscles a little at a time, his breathing punctuated by the occasional soft grunt as he tried to work through the pain.

  Some miserable time later, he checked the sentries again and rose to a cautious crouch. He could feel where Ini-jnai was in the camp and began to pick his way through the sleeping bodies. A few horses shifted as he passed, not upset by his movement as much as they were simply curious. A tiny glint of steel in the moonlight caught his attention when a warrior he was close to shifted in his sleep. A knife lay on the ground alongside the man. Myac waited for a minute, crouched in the shadow of a stocky mare until the man’s breathing was even again. When the man settled back into deeper sleep, he eased the blade away and moved on.

  Ini-jnai was close now. In a Lyran army, the warlord and his officers would have some kind of tents erected for discussion of strategy and sleeping. Ksa-jnai lay on the ground wi
th the rest of his men, his ranking warriors arranged around him. The adept, Ini-jnai, and the young favored warrior, Na-jnai, were also in that circle.

  Myac paused outside the circle, struggling to keep his focus. Hatred pounded through him like a drug in his veins, the nearness of freedom more intoxicating than any alcohol. Emotional and physical weariness from the days of captivity clouded his thoughts, counteracting the heightened alert of his nerves. He rubbed at the wrist of the hand holding the knife, feeling abrasions on the skin and a deep ache in the muscles from the ropes.

  It didn’t matter if someone woke while he was still there, so long as they did so after Ini-jnai was dead. With his power back in his control, he could escape the army and take many of them down in the process, of that he was confident. At the absolute worst, he would die trying, which was better than this raping of his power, better than feeling that power lingering just out of reach while someone else did with it as they pleased.

  His lip rose in a silent snarl and he crept forward. Closer. Softly closer. Pause. Hold breath and watch for movement. Inch closer again. The adept was sleeping, the grey flesh of his throat giving off a dull gleam of reflecting moonlight. The first strike had to be fatal. If the adept got any chance to fight back, it was over. The mere thought of such an outcome sent a shudder through him. It had to end now.

  Closer.

  A short distance away, beyond the sleeping form of Ksa-jnai, Na-jnai stirred. Myac froze and waited. He stayed there for a few minutes, each second passing with agonizing slowness. There was no more movement. Wishing the blood would stop pounding so loud in his ears, Myac closed the remaining distance. The thrill of victory waited, coiled in his chest in anticipation of the lethal strike. He sneered down at the adept. Sound asleep, his protections inert, he was as vulnerable as any man. His power slept with him. The power of all of the adepts slept with him. Tying off such a massive working in order to keep it active even in rest was too much for even him. If Ini-jnai died, would the other adepts be ready to control their own power. Would they come after him?