Inheritors of Chaos

by Barbara Ann Wright

  Pool’s limbs waved about. He hopped onto one that took him higher, his power reaching out to heal what he could. He let his senses flow through the limbs and sap, repairing burnt or blasted branches. He eased the suffering of the drushka until he came to Pool at their heart and pictured his power as a rush of cool water flowing over her.

  “Ah, shawness,” she thought, “you are the dearest of balms.” She shared a memory: losing herself to pain and anger, she’d killed one of the yafanai, one of the mothers-to-be. As one who’d often lost himself, he forgave her, but others might not. One of the branches placed the body at his feet.

  Simon didn’t know her name, but there was no saving her. But the child within? She lived. Simon restarted the circulation in the mother’s body, hoping the child hadn’t been deprived of oxygen for too long. He needed a knife and sent a thought to Pool. She dropped down beside him, handing him a sharp sliver of bark.

  Pool put her hands where he instructed and crooned almost like a shawness as he cut the baby free. She stripped off her shirt and wrapped the squalling infant as Simon sealed the umbilical cord. When she held the baby, he didn’t offer to take it, letting her send him where he was needed.

  In the branches above, he found that Reach had delivered one child. He helped with the other two and heard about how some of the attacking yafanai had escaped and were now being pursued by Cordelia, Miriam, and some of the drushka. The yafanai—including all the mothers—had separated themselves into two camps: those who’d given up the Storm Lord and those who held out hope. The latter group were further split into the escapees, those knocked unconscious by Cordelia, and several deaths.

  Simon checked the unconscious people but left them sleeping, deepening their unconscious state. He kept his power pumping into the tree, too, sparking the broken limbs to regrow, but that would take time. When he strode over to the yafanai who’d given up on the Storm Lord, he felt calm, almost wondrous, lost in his power and certain of his course. Maybe he should get knocked in the head more often.

  The yafanai jumped when he laughed, and he curbed his mirth. “I need a telepath, please.”

  They glanced at one another, but when he sent a soothing wave over them, one stepped forward, shyly holding up her hand. “I’m Kara,” she said. “I’ll help if I can.”

  “When I was delivering the first baby,” Simon said, “there was a signal.”

  Kara nodded eagerly, as did a few of the others. “A message saying the Storm Lord needed help again. It got stronger and stronger.”

  And then his control had slipped. “Could you tell where the message came from?”

  Kara closed her eyes as if that would help her remember. “I still feel something, but I’m not powerful enough to—”

  “That’s fine. Just stay with it.” His senses flowed over Kara, finding her power center, then following her power outward, beyond her reach. Something flickered at the edges of his senses, a monumental output of power that danced teasingly in and out of focus, possibly telepathic in origin.

  Horace? He didn’t know, couldn’t “hear” telepaths unless they wanted him to. Perhaps Miriam could help, but she was with Cordelia.

  The answer floated up through the calm haze that enveloped him: he could go see for himself.

  He walked away without a word, silently asking Pool to lower him to the ground. Reach caught up to him as he waited. “Shawness, where are you going?”

  “To look for Horace and see what that signal is. Pool?” he asked aloud. “Down, please.” She was probably very busy.

  “Is that wise, shawness?” Reach crooned softly around the words. “The queen can take you to Sa, and once the last of the miscreants is caught, and the tree has had time to heal—”

  Simon laughed at her attempt to calm him. Couldn’t she see he was already as calm as could be? The coolest cucumber. “Now, please, Pool.” She couldn’t be that busy. He’d hate to have to climb all the way down. Maybe if he jumped, he could prepare himself for the impact and heal himself on the ground.

  Then he’d experience that lovely rush of freedom again.

  A supple branch plucked him up, Reach with him, and lowered him to the ground.

  “You don’t have to come if you’re too busy,” Simon said to Reach as she stayed with him in the fading sunlight.

  “Ahya, of course I must! You will need your power for other things besides relaying all you see to the queen. She will follow soon.” Her cheer sounded false, though he didn’t know why. Nothing bad could happen when he felt so good.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Night fell on the longest three days in Fajir’s life. She’d started a captive of the drushka, then had escaped, been snared by her nemesis, walked from dawn to dusk, fought a few vermin, and now had come back to where life had begun: in the hands of her Lords.

  Nico offered Nemesis and Fajir separate tents, saying their owners could bunk together. Nemesis seemed torn, and Fajir was strangely proud. Fajir wouldn’t hurt Nemesis now—she felt that in her bones—but she had before, so Nemesis was wary. But when surrounded by potential enemies, it was always safer to face the danger one knew.

  “We’ll share,” Fajir said, deciding for them both. And despite her earlier pride, she felt a thrill when Nemesis looked relieved.

  Nico turned away, but Fajir caught a look of shock, perhaps jealousy. Fajir ignored him and shepherded Nemesis into the tent. She lit a small candle and surveyed the blankets and rugs. Nico hadn’t given them a lamp. Maybe he feared they’d start a fire.

  Nemesis leaned close, smelling of grass and sweat. “Are we going to sneak away in the night?”

  Fajir chuckled. “Like secret lovers?”

  Nemesis’s cheeks went slightly red, and Fajir’s stomach fluttered.

  “Nico is an accomplished guard,” Fajir said. “We would be caught and would no doubt spend the rest of the journey bound.”

  “Why are they keeping us at all?”

  “So we do not tell others of their presence. That would be my reason.”

  Nemesis snorted. “You would have killed us.” She waved vaguely. “Or two hypothetical people who got in your way.”

  “Not if I had a use for them.” And that begged the question, but she feared discussing too much, not knowing who might be listening. “But I have never had much use for hypothetical people.”

  Nemesis swallowed rather than laughed, her gaze roaming over the small tent. Fajir tried to think of some way to soothe her, but it had been so long since she’d had to put someone at ease. Ever since Halaan died, she’d thought of others’ emotions as none of her concern. Or if those emotions belonged to an enemy, they were something to be used.

  As if she was any better at that than soothing.

  Then she noted the blood still spotting Nemesis’s face and remembered one instance when she’d spoken longingly of baths.

  “Wait here a moment.”

  Fajir ducked out, seeking their guard. She knew him of old, and when she barked for a washbasin and soap, he obeyed, and it arrived mere moments later.

  Fajir placed both inside the tent. “It’s not a bath, but…”

  Nemesis regarded her coldly. “Are you saying I smell?”

  “No! I only…” Fajir groped for words, stomach plummeting.

  A wide grin appeared across Nemesis’s cheeks. “Kidding! I know I smell. This is fantastic. Thank you, Fajir.”

  Fajir’s cheeks burned, and her insides heated. Why couldn’t her organs just stay normal and still? “I’ll give you privacy.” She stepped out and let the flap fall behind her. “And you’re welcome, Nemesis.”

  “Lydia!” came the cry from within.

  Fajir smiled and stood to guard the tent, trying not to listen to the gentle splashing. Perhaps Nemesis would require someone to scrub her back.

  “Seren?” Nico’s voice asked.

  Fajir nearly jumped, shaken from her strange reverie. She tried to keep any wistful emotions off her face. “Yes?”

  He cleared his
throat and stepped forward, a lamp in one hand and a bundle of cloth in the other. “I’m…I’m sorry, Seren. For leaving you in that house and every mournful thought I’ve had about you since.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. “I wanted you to know that I didn’t speak of you to anyone. I started no rumors, but I must apologize for not quelling those I heard.”

  Fajir took a deep breath and didn’t know what to feel. “I understand.” She stepped closer, desperate for at least one person from her old life to know the truth. “When I was alone, captured by the enemy, I asked the Lords for aid, and they denied me, Nico. They feared angering Simon Lazlo.”

  He blinked, his mouth falling open. “That…that cannot…”

  “Do I ever lie?”

  “No, Seren, but…”

  She kept her gaze steady even though she wanted to shake him. “They would not help me escape. They didn’t offer to kill me. They abandoned me, Nico, not the other way around.”

  He swallowed so hard, she could see it in the dim light. “Then…now is your chance to make peace.”

  She leaned back on her heels, not expecting that. He held out the bundle of cloth, and she took it, unfolding it to reveal a warrior’s robe that tied tightly around the waist and had close-fitting sleeves. An embroidered moon graced the back, and someone had quickly lined the symbol in charcoal, the mark of a widow.

  As if her tattoos were not enough. But the garment was also for her to see when she took it off at night. As if she needed reminding. But that was the point of widows; they were never to forget.

  She expected to feel anger at such dark thoughts. It would be so easy to don this robe, forget the past few weeks, and return to the comfortable rage that had guided her in the months since Halaan’s death. Soon, he would be dead a year, but that didn’t matter. Grief and anger could go on and on and on.

  She swung the robe around her shoulders, wearing it over the clothing the drushka had given her. The fit was slightly off but could be adjusted.

  Nico smiled proudly, and she read an offer in that look: to behave however she wished. She could return to being a palace guard. She could hunt the Engali responsible for Halaan’s death again. Nico would follow her regardless. And perhaps one day, he would repeat his pledge of love. Perhaps not. And perhaps she would accept him. Perhaps not.

  She breathed, waiting for rage to come, but it denied her, leaving sadness instead. Rage had been her closest companion since Halaan’s death, but now it felt as far away as the moon.

  Fajir opened her mouth to crush the hope in Nico’s eyes, but she felt as if Halaan whispered in her ear, urging her to wait. He’d always been so much better at deception.

  She didn’t want to lie, so she simply nodded, letting Nico think whatever he wished. He beamed and nodded awkwardly before walking away without a word. If he thought she’d returned to the fold, she had a better chance of slipping away. Someday, if she survived this coming catastrophe, she would journey to Celeste and tell him why she’d chosen this path, why widows should be allowed to choose.

  If she could ever think of the words. Perhaps Nemesis would help her.

  * * *

  Cordelia followed Miriam’s directions through Pool’s branches. Everything might be fucked, but at least hunting criminals was fun. It had always been one of her favorite parts about being a paladin.

  Nettle soon joined them, proving Pool was feeling better. Cordelia paused long enough for a quick kiss.

  “Shana’s moving quickly,” Miriam said. “And I sense she’s not alone.”

  “Can you slow her down?” At Miriam’s cold look, Cordelia added, “Never mind.” She’d been around ultra-powerful people for too long. Even Horace, who’d been specially augmented, had trouble connecting to a mind that wasn’t in front of him.

  Miriam kept leading them down. Pool wouldn’t have lowered Shana to the ground, but she appeared to have made it on her own. Maybe she’d been planning an escape the whole time. Her trail through the grass led away almost due east, and the sun was disappearing in the west.

  “I can track them in the dark, Sa,” Nettle said.

  Cordelia shook her head. “Not without me and my armor—which I’ll have to go get—and more backup. If Shana and her allies had an escape plan, they could have people following from Gale. Let’s hope the Storm Lord calling for help put their plans into effect earlier than they’d hoped.”

  “Did you see him?” Miriam asked. Her baby hadn’t made a peep on the journey through the branches, and Cordelia wondered if she could soothe him telepathically. Handy.

  “If you mean the Storm Lord, he’s not in his body,” Cordelia said. “He’s sharing Liam’s.” She cracked her knuckles, trying to stave off the desire to chase someone through the dark. “But we’ll put it right.”

  Miriam seemed thoughtful, but Cordelia saw the way she clutched her child tighter.

  Nettle must have seen it, too. She rested a hand on Miriam’s shoulder. “Worry not. He shall only have the children if the drushka lay dead.”

  Cordelia shuddered. This day had proven that the drushka weren’t invulnerable. She turned back into the branches. The drushka lit candles that bobbed like stars in the darkness. When Nettle grunted, Cordelia barely had time to brace herself as she got another worried thought from Pool.

  Simon was venturing into the plains on his own.

  Cordelia shouted a curse as she got the rest of the story: Simon had done some healing before marching off, Reach in tow. Pool had feared he’d harm himself if made to stay, and she’d hoped oncoming night would turn him back, but no such luck. Reach had been forced to light a candle when Simon kept walking in the dark.

  “He’s risking a broken neck,” Cordelia said. “Exactly the reason I didn’t want to go!”

  “He thinks the telepathic signal was from Horace,” Nettle said. “He risks all for love.”

  Miriam shook her head. “It wasn’t Horace. It was way too powerful. If he would have stuck around, I could have told him.”

  “Fuck!” Cordelia said.

  Pool lifted them all higher, into her presence. Another drushka stood beside her with a candle, bathing them both in soft light.

  “What the fuck does Simon think he’s doing?” Cordelia said.

  “I would send drushka after both him and the captives, Sa,” Pool said, “but they fear to leave me.”

  Cordelia nodded. She didn’t want to leave Pool either. “If we leave Simon alone out there, he might get into trouble he can’t handle, and if we leave Shana and her cronies, we’re handing the Storm Lord a bunch of yafanai. Fucking perfect.” She walked in a circle, weighing her options. “Okay, I’m going to armor up and go after Simon. I’ll take a few paladins with me.”

  “I am with you as well, Sa,” Nettle said.

  Cordelia’s gaze flicked to Pool, and she lowered her voice. “You sure?”

  “Ahya.” Nettle wrinkled her nose. “The queen will be better protected with Simon returned. And Reach is out there already. I cannot be afraid to tread where she has gone before.”

  Cordelia laughed at the rare show of drushkan pride. “Okay.” She regarded Miriam and Pool. “Can you wake up one of the captives and squeeze their plan out of them?”

  “Are you approving a deep scan?” Miriam asked. “Because I’m not one of these gods who can change people’s thoughts like they change shoes. There are risks for a deep scan when it’s done by mere mortals like me. That’s why it takes the mayor and the paladin captain to agree for a deep scan.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you’re the Storm Lord.”

  “Well,” Cordelia said, trying to control her temper. “The mayor’s come down with a case of jerk-in-the-brain, so he’s not available, and I’d say this situation meets the life or death rule about deep scans.” She stepped close. “And if you ever compare me to the Storm Lord again, I will knock you on your ass.”

  Miriam’s lips quirked up. “Just checking.”

  Cordelia was tempted to hit her anyway, but she’d come far from her
brawling days. She restrained herself to an eyeroll so extreme, it stung. “Get to it, then.”

  Miriam turned away, still smirking. Cordelia hoped one of the paladins had remembered to bring her armor back to the tree. Oh, how things had changed. There was a time when she’d have rather left her limbs behind than a suit of armor.

  “Wait, Sa.” Pool’s long fingers completely encircled Cordelia’s bicep. “Wounds and all,” she said, looking down with a serious expression, “call for me, and I will come.”

  “No offense, Pool,” Cordelia said covering Pool’s hand with her own. “But stay here and heal your ass.” She chuckled as she blushed, doomed to always be a little embarrassed around her queen. “And every other part of you.”

  Pool grinned and bent down. Her hug lifted Cordelia clear off the branch. Cordelia squawked, laughing, until Pool set her on her feet. For all her words about healing, Cordelia knew she would carry Pool’s promise with her into the night, and it made the going easier.

  * * *

  The constant stumbling and tripping cut into Simon’s good mood. He began to see his emotions of the past hour the way Horace would: an overreaction to stress masquerading as no emotion at all. Beyond rage was an eerie calm, a flat ocean in the eye of a hurricane. But sooner or later, he would have to deal with the rest of the storm.

  At least walking through the dark was better than waiting for Pool to heal or a yafanai to knock him around again. He stopped, looking at the hints of terrain he could see by the light of Reach’s candle: an inhospitable lot of grass and rocks and holes in the ground.

  “I know I’m being a fool,” he said.

  Reach stepped up beside him and lifted her unencumbered hand. “We have all lost our reason now and again. When Paul was killed, only Sa could keep me from killing the one I held responsible for his murder, even after I knew her to be blameless. I simply wanted blood.”

  Simon put a hand to his chest, feeling as if his heart had seized. “Oh God, what if Horace is dead?”