Taren sighed. “So I’m hopeless, then?”
“Not at all. Have you not sensed your improvement in the way of stamina?”
He realized he had. He was able to draw and expend a steady flow of magic for much longer periods of time without exhausting himself. His control was markedly improved also.
Nera smiled at his realization. “And like any warrior could tell you, the more you work a particular set of muscles, the stronger they get. So we’ll continue working. Endurance and finesse is the goal. And creativity.”
“And what of psionics?” he asked, ready for something different.
“What of it?” she answered in his mind.
“How do I use it?” He knew from experience she could “hear” him that way, but she was a powerful psionicist and attuned to collecting unguarded thoughts. That didn’t necessarily mean he himself had any particular talent in that regard.
“Just like so, but I can barely hear you. If I wasn’t receptive, I doubt I could at all.”
He focused, trying to push his thoughts stronger. “How about now?”
Nera yawned and reclined on her elbows. “Were you saying something?”
Taren clenched his jaw in irritation and tried to focus.
“I think you should pursue that pretty little redhead,” Nera said with a smirk. “She could use you by her side—your talents could help her cement her reign. She’d make a good wife. Smart, courageous, strong. A little feisty. Good child-bearing hips—”
“Will you stop?”
Nera flinched slightly although the smirk remained in place. “Ah, there we are. Good. Now you just need to thrust your thoughts out like so to reach an unattuned person. Try to contact Mira or Ferret.”
***
Mira had contented herself with spending the majority of the past couple weeks in the castle gardens, meditating and cycling through her fighting forms, to keep herself in peak shape and mentally centered. Unlike Ferret, who she sensed teemed with pent-up energy and boredom, Mira rather enjoyed the quiet, uneventful days spent in Nexus. After the long and often hectic weeks on the road, rest and peaceful contemplation were a welcome relief. She also spent a good portion of her time reading in the library.
She saw little of Taren during those first weeks, other than when they met for morning and evening meals, but she knew he couldn’t be in better hands than with his mother.
Ferret often roamed the castle hallways and grounds, clearly anxious to return to Easilon and the Hall of the Artificers in search of her cure. She had hoped to watch Taren training but couldn’t locate wherever it was they went even though the castle occasionally reverberated from the magics being unleashed. Yosrick, Nera’s gnome friend, eventually cornered Ferret and offered to teach her letters and sums. She at first declined, but Mira suggested the knowledge would only aid her in her personal quest to become a bard, and she relented, having realized the wisdom of her suggestion.
The past week or more, Mira had seen little of Ferret, with the girl either studying with Yosrick or spending her free time going into the city. She’d invited Mira to accompany her, but the city was intimidating with its crush of alien people and beasts, and she declined.
Mira warmed up her muscles with some stretches and exercises before going through the forms of her Crimson Fist fighting style. She slowly worked through the basic positions and moves before increasing in speed and intensity, cycling through the various forms until she’d worked up a light sweat and was satisfied with her performance.
Just as she sat down to meditate, she thought she heard someone call her name. Mira looked around, but she was alone in the garden as she was used to. She listened for a moment, but the sound didn’t repeat itself, and she realized she’d probably misheard one of the guards or servants out in the bailey. With a shrug, she closed her eyes and focused on slipping into her meditative state.
***
Taren closed his eyes and pictured Mira’s face in his mind. With her rigorous physical and mental discipline, he suspected she would be more receptive to telepathic contact than Ferret. He could see her close-cropped brown hair, cut short to deny any opponent an advantage in a fight, he suspected. Her warm honey-colored eyes and shy smile completed his mental picture. Once he had her face in his mind, he sent a tentative thought to her.
“Mira.”
No response. He tried again, this time more forcefully. As Nera had said, for someone not psionically attuned, more power would be necessary, at least until they were used to such communication, if that was possible.
“Mira.”
“Taren?” Her response was faint, a mere whisper, but it was there.
“Can you hear me? Try focusing harder, I can barely hear you.” He wasn’t sure “hearing” was exactly the right word—“receiving” would probably be more apt—but it got the point across.
“How is this?” Her thoughts were stronger, more focused.
“That’s good. I’m working on my psionic mind-bender talents, poor as they are.”
“So I surmised.” He sensed the amusement in her thoughts and smiled. The connection was established now, and he thought he could maintain it for some time if he concentrated on it.
“Try to see what she sees,” Nera suggested. “Ask if she will share her perception with you. Think of it as if you are a tiny bird perched on the top of her head, seeing and experiencing everything she is at that moment.”
Taren tried to do so, sending her more a rush of images than actual words. “If you don’t mind sharing, could you try to open your mind?”
“Please come inside,” she replied.
And just like that, Taren was there, as if sliding down a rope linking them and landing in her mind. He sensed her thoughts around him, her mind an orderly, uncluttered place. He ignored her private thoughts, sensing he could have read them as long as she allowed him in there, but he was afraid to appear an unwelcome intruder, rummaging through an unattended room while the host had her back turned.
The castle gardens stretched around him. Shrubs and hedges were neatly tended, varied shades of green, flowers bright spots of vibrant color providing contrast. The air here was clean in his nostrils, the city’s plethora of industrial odors replaced by those of earthy things. The noise was muted as well, lending a great sense of calm. The chirps of songbirds could be heard in the background, and a bright purple bird flitted across his field of vision and disappeared back into the foliage. He sat on a carpet of lush grass, the blades cool against his bare ankles. His body was relaxed and limber, sitting in the customary meditative pose.
For that brief time, he was Mira, at least a part of her.
“Isn’t it tranquil?” Mira asked, her thoughts comforting and close, as if she were sitting just beside him, their shoulders touching. She welcomed his presence, and her open acceptance humbled him.
“Very much so,” he replied, nearly overwhelmed for a moment by the experience. “I’m very fortunate to have you for a companion, Mira. You’re much too good to me.”
He could feel the warmth of her happiness. “I’m honored to play a role in all of this, Taren. And not just for the sake of my Balance Quest. But because you are my friend.”
He felt himself smiling as well, back in his body. “Thank you for welcoming me so openly. I’ll leave you to your meditations.” He could sense Nera speaking to him.
Their connection gently separated, like clasped hands reluctant to part, and then he was back in the training room with his mother.
“That went well, I sense.” She regarded him curiously.
“It did. I think she is more receptive because of who she is.”
“Indeed, as I suspected. Try the young one now. Try to contact Ferret.”
Taren tried to focus on Ferret, picturing her smooth metal face, the glowing amethyst eyes, the warm aura of her self swimming deep inside the mechanical carapace. But he sensed nothing after a couple minutes, as if she didn’t exist. After a moment, he realized that approach wouldn’t work,
and he felt foolish for not seeing it sooner. The automaton was not who Ferret truly was. It was a mere shell.
Instead, he focused on the young waif he remembered from Ammon Nor, her sharp brown eyes that missed very little, thin face and cheeks, mouth that rarely smiled but was a welcome sight when it did.
“Ferret.” Once he got a sense of her, he pushed the thought with about the same force he’d used for Mira the second time.
The reply came, very faint. “What’s this?”
“Ferret. It’s Taren.”
“Taren? Is this some of your magic?”
The connection was wavering, difficult, and Taren poured more energy to try to stabilize it and create a firm conduit as he had with Mira.
He smiled. “Something like that. Psionics—mind-bender stuff. Seems I have some small talent in that also.”
He got a much more guarded impression from Ferret than Mira. The girl had walls established—not organized mental defenses, merely a result of her being cautious by nature, an instinct to conceal her true thoughts and feelings as much as possible—a defensive measure developed for survival during a life lived on the streets, he suspected.
Her piqued interest surged strongly through the link for a moment, but her thoughts were flitting, distracted easily. “You should ask your mother for a break.” She sounded wistful. “Come into the city with me. It’s so strange… odd and wonderful and kind of scary all at once.”
Something drew her attention, and the connection wavered, nearly gone, but he held onto it. Perhaps she’d seen someone flashing coin about.
“I can help you. To train, you know. Or whatever you need since you’ve done so much for me.” A sense of boredom, loneliness, a desire to be helpful and make herself useful reached him before it faded, the conduit shaky and threatening to break down.
“You see how it can be with those unattuned. Those lacking the mental discipline.” Nera’s cool thoughts broke in, overlaying what he was receiving from Ferret. “She might become more receptive with practice, but not like Mira will ever be. But this is good. Let her go now.”
Taren tried to push a feeling of reassurance to Ferret, feeling guilty for leaving the girl on her own so much. “I’d like that if you can help me train somehow. And I’ll see if Mother will let me take a few hours off. We can explore together.”
“Aye, that will be nice!”
After feeling her brief surge of joy, he broke off the connection. Rather than the earlier sensation of gently letting go, it simply fell apart this time.
“Time off, huh? I’m too much a brutal taskmaster?” Nera regarded him with amusement. Before he could protest, she waved a dismissive hand. “You’ve done well this day. Go, spend some time with your friends. One of these days, I’ll have Arron make himself useful and show you around the city if you like.”
He smiled, thinking that would be a nice way to spend an afternoon.
Chapter 43
A celebration was underway in the villa. A veritable feast was laid out in the mess hall. Wine was flowing heavily, and naked slave women were being passed through the barracks to be used by the gladiators.
Elyas chose to ignore it all, for the most part. He ate and drank enough to sate his hunger and thirst but then retreated to his small alcove of a room, which he had regained the privilege of occupying following his success in the arena that night. Dirich apparently hadn’t expected him to prevail and was clearly impressed at his victory and felt generous even though said victory felt like just another defeat. Elyas did his best to ignore the drunken laughter and shouts and squeals heard outside.
Instead, he was reliving the battle of earlier that evening and his friend Harlan—Dorian—falling in battle. Then his final words to Elyas:
“I guess we knew both of us surviving was long odds. The gods have chosen you, Elyas… for a reason. Make these bastards pay. Kill Nesnys… Tell my mother and Sianna I never gave up. I died a fighter.”
He lay back on his pallet, hating himself for their failure to escape, which led to their punishment and ultimately his friend’s death. To chain them together and expect them to survive armed with mere daggers was madness. He scratched at the poultice across his chest, the skin beneath it itching from its healing work. Edara had patched him up as usual, cleaning and mending the menagerie of wounds across his body, but she seemed saddened at Harlan’s loss also, a companionable melancholy settling between them.
He tried to cast aside the bitter memory of the battle, but the only thing he could think of was Dorian’s broken body and final plea. He was spared further recrimination when the door burst open, the noise of revelry intensifying. Shoat’s ugly face and bleary red eyes regarded him in the dim candlelight.
“You fought good today, Ironshanks. You should take a woman to celebrate. And wine.” Shoat held up a ceramic jug and took a deep drink, wine dribbling down his lantern jaw.
Elyas shook his head. “My friend died. There is no reason to celebrate.”
“Yet you live.” Shoat shrugged. “I’ve lost many friends to the sword. Adder was too weak for the pits. Lucky he survived so long. But his death was a good one—he fought with courage and skill.” He wobbled unsteadily and turned away then looked back once more. “You sure you don’t want a woman?”
An idea popped into his head, certainly a mad one, and he hoped he wouldn’t jeopardize her safety. “Edara, the healer.”
“Eh?” Shoat blinked slowly, clearly bewildered.
“I would see Edara the healer if I have my choice of woman.”
Shoat bellowed laughter. “The healer? She’s no slave.”
“Aye, I know. Yet if she’d consent to see me, my wish is to spend time with her.” What are you doing, fool? Yet that stubborn idea persisted, a desperate chance.
“Bah! You’re mad, Ironshanks!” Shoat staggered a couple steps farther into the room and handed Elyas the jug of wine. “Wine might help wash away those foolish thoughts.”
Elyas accepted the jug and drank deeply. The wine was of a good quality—surprising that it was being wasted on slaves. Yet a pleased lord could be generous indeed, and such generosity spoke to his wealth.
“Will you send a guard to her with my request?”
Shoat laughed again and staggered out the door. “You keep that wine—you’re gonna need it. I’ll send your request, Ironshanks. But you’ll be lucky if she ever stitches you up again afterward.”
Then he was gone, and Elyas was berating himself. What was I thinking?
He had no desire to try to bed Edara and wouldn’t have insulted her with the thought of it were this not important, yet he believed he’d established a personal connection with the healer so she might entertain the thought of at least speaking with him. It wasn’t unheard of for free women, even nobles, to seek out the beds of gladiators on occasion, at least going by gossip heard in the barracks, but how much of that was truth he had no way of knowing. Certainly, many of the gladiators boasted of how they’d be delighted to service Lord Pasikos’s consort if she ever got the urge to lie with one of them. But he simply had no desire to spend that night in solitude.
Also, he had a request for Edara. His plans had gone up in flames, and with Harlan’s death, he was on unsteady ground and not sure what he would do next. Yet the idea that had popped into his head wouldn’t go away.
After what felt like an hour filled with self-doubt, the door of his chamber opened, and a visibly angry Edara bustled through, a smirking guard behind her.
“Enjoy yourselves,” the guard said before the door shut.
Elyas stood up and crossed the tiny room. “Edara, I—”
She delivered a stinging slap to his cheek. “I am neither a slave nor a whore! I resent such an implication.”
He gently caught her wrist before the next slap could land. Then he caught her other wrist when she tried instead to smack him with her left hand.
“Edara, please! Will you listen? I’m sorry if I insulted you by such a summons, but it was the only way
to speak with you.” He looked into her face earnestly, hoping she’d calm down and listen.
Her cheeks were bright with spots of anger, eyes furious, but she eventually calmed, and he released her. She glanced around his small alcove as if afraid of what she might find, a pitying look on her face, and he realized she’d likely never been inside the barracks before.
“Please, will you sit and hear me out at least?” He gestured to his pallet, the only place to sit in the room.
“Very well, I’ll hear you out.” She smoothed her skirts beneath herself and sat down on his pallet.
“Wine?” He offered her the jug Shoat had left. “Sorry, I don’t have any cups.”
“I’ll make do without.” She raised it to her lips and drank. “Now, what is this about?”
“I need you to do me a favor, if you please. My friend died already, and I fear I’ll never get free of her clutches—Nesnys. You know of whom I speak?”
Edara shuddered and looked away. “So you’re the one that… creature claims as her own?” When he nodded, she said, “I’m sorry for you. I heard the rumors in the manor but didn’t know it was you.” She took another, longer drink then offered him the jug.
Elyas took his own long drink. “Aye. She defeated me on the battlefield, and for whatever reason, instead of granting me an honorable death, claimed me as her damned toy.” He briefly related the story of the battle, the fall of King Clement, and his experience aboard the galley. At some point, he sat down beside her on the pallet without realizing it, the two sharing the wine jug.
“And that’s why I need to try to make the attempt at least,” he finished. “To slay her and end this madness, free Ketania of her evil, if possible. But I’d be happy to just see her dead.”
Edara was silent a long time, digesting his story. “What is it you would have me do?”
“You are an herbalist as well as healer, am I correct?” When she nodded, he continued, “And would that mean you are familiar with poisons as well?”
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