Shield and Crocus

by Michael R. Underwood

  The fight went on like that for nearly a minute, with Valence taking a beating, only able to drop two of the warlocks with her heavy strokes. First Sentinel fought a losing battle, crowded by five of the guards. I pushed a guard at a time away, all the while feeling as if my middle was about to collapse.

  My senses faded to nothing more than the fight before me, the flashes of anger from the guards as they approached and the desperate thoughts of my friends too far away to help. There were no thoughts from civilians watching from the windows, no birds overhead. Just the battle, and even that began to grow dim.

  The record of what happened next was patched together from my memory and what little First Sentinel would tell.

  A warlock’s staff-swing connected with the back of First Sentinel’s head, dropping him to a knee. The others had driven Valence to the ground, blasts of magic crashing in waves over her back in sickly hues.

  The warlock above First Sentinel raised a curved dagger, and I felt First Sentinel’s mind snap. He reached out, and the warlocks stopped. Not just the one above him, all of them. Their minds went silent, no longer even filled with the echoes of their master. The skittering thoughts were gone, too. Nothing was left to them, nothing was left of them. They were as the dead, but still living.

  I don’t read the threads, but Valence told me that in that instant, the burgundy strands of control that tied the warlocks to Yema as puppets were shredded. They were cut off from their master, no longer slaves but still not free, each of their hearts locked away in Yema’s vault.

  But their other threads had been shorn, too, the dull remnants of their former lives, all gone. They were left with nothing, no connections, no emotions tying them to anything or anyone. The houses of their mind were empty, no lights, no furniture, nothing.

  First Sentinel and Valence pulled me up after the warlocks’ strings had been cut, and carried me to safety.

  * * *

  We did not see Aria for a week after the fight with the warlocks. Wonlar and I went to her apartment over a dozen times, but she would not open the door. I felt her mind through the doorway, reached out to touch it.

  After that fight, it was as if a tornado had run through the house of Aria’s mind, damaging memories and staining emotions.

  Aria’s voice carried through the door. “Go away, both of you. I need to be by myself.” I sorted through the pieces in her mind, looked at the breaks at the edge of her memories, and felt the signature of First Sentinel’s power. She had been in the middle of the crowd of warlocks when First Sentinel had lashed out.

  I heard Wonlar’s voice, muted but tender.

  “Please, love, let us in. We’re worried about you. Whatever’s happened, we’re here for you.”

  Nothing. Aria appeared above me in her mindscape, arms crossed. [Get out of my head.]

  I withdrew my presence, returned my attention to my surroundings. Wonlar was still pounding on her door, tears at the corner of his eyes. I reached out and touched him on the shoulder, spoke in his mind.

  [we need to go. She doesn’t want us here.]

  “I don’t care. She needs us, we can make it better, I can repair the threads, and you can fix her memories.”

  [no. It is not our place to do those things without her leave.]

  I pulled Wonlar away from the door, and he struggled against my power.

  “Aria, please.” His voice was softer, almost resigned.

  “Go away. Please. Leave me be.”

  [Wonlar,] I said again in his mind.

  He was kneeling then, hands stretched out to the door. “I’m sorry, love. I was trying to protect you.”

  [She knows that, First Sentinel. Of course she knows.]

  His voice grew loud in my mind. [Then why won’t she let us in?]

  [She has suffered a great wound. When she wants help, she will reach out. Have faith.]

  [City Mother, please look after your daughter…] Wonlar began to pray as he stood, and I led him away from Aria’s apartment.

  * * *

  We returned home, and First Sentinel locked himself up in his laboratory. I felt the rooms of his mind fallen to shambles, wracked by grief and guilt as he tried to lose himself in work.

  I will go to ask Aegis for counsel, for I am at a loss with them. May the City Mother guide Aria, Wonlar, and all of us. I pray that this is not the end of the Shields, torn apart from the inside by one grand misfortune. I fear that if Wonlar does not forgive himself, he will carry this guilt diligently to his grave.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sapphire

  Rova returned to Bluetown for the first time in the better part of a month. Between Wonlar’s injury and the summit, she hadn’t gotten east of lower Rib. Story time was on an indefinite hiatus.

  The Ikanollo guards at the edge of the district took one look at her skin and waved her through. Getting in to Bluetown wasn’t the problem for Freithin—it was getting back out once they were done. Omez had no objection to letting Freithin live together, as long as they stayed in the ghetto they claimed for themselves after the unchaining. Some Freithin had moved to neighborhoods outside of Omez’s domain, but most had never left Bluetown. Cheap labor wasn’t as good as free labor, but for Omez, it was far better than letting any of the other tyrants have their strength.

  Across the threshold, the buildings grew half again as tall in an instant, doors and roads, steps and bicycles. The whole neighborhood was Freithin-scaled, rebuilt after the Unchaining. Stocky blue children tussled in the street, chased after balls the size of a grown Ikanollo’s torso. Sweet scents rose on the steam from rolling carts. One by one, she picked them out by the seasoning: flehchi, blue soup, Miller’s meal, the half-dozen Freithin dishes she’d grown up on in Omez’ cages and the work houses. Most of it was horrible, but familiarity was comforting at times.

  Rova stopped to sample some of the flehchi and nibbled on the packed cake, crumbs spilling down in a sporadic trail behind her. She let the sights and smells surround and suffuse her, breathed them in so she could store them away in her mind. Who knows when I’ll be able to come back?

  Rova had more than just family bringing her to Bluetown that visit. The Shields needed extra hands, and there were still many Freithin in Bluetown who owed their freedom to First Sentinel and the Shields. The time had come to repay that debt.

  She turned left by the open-air market, where dozens of merchants bellowed the praises of their wares at fullvoice. Another two blocks of rolling carts and scrambling children and she reached a wide house with a circular orange door and a white knob.

  None of the houses in Bluetown had exterior stairs or porches. Her people made their houses wide and flat, broad doors and horizontal windows that still looked to her like prison bars. She felt the life inside this house, two hearts she’d known for a long time and another, young and rapidly growing.

  The door opened as she approached, revealing her brother Zong in a grey tunic and white trousers held up by brown suspenders. He let the door open wide and beckoned her in with a toothy smile. Rova wrapped her arms around her brother in a powerful hug.

  Zong said, “I was wondering when you’d come back.”

  She shook her head. “There’s been so much to do, I’ve barely been sleeping.”

  “Nor eating, from the looks of it. Get inside and we’ll fill you up.” Zong stepped back out of the doorway and Rova stepped inside the house that had been her family’s for years.

  Much of it was the same as it had been when they moved in. It had the same bright orange walls and blue trim, the same l-shaped couches facing the fireplace. Paintings and sculptures lined the mantle, including the portrait of Zong, Rova, and nai.

  Nai watches appeared from around the corner, holding a squirming mass in yellow clothes. Nai’s face filled with a smile as she said, “Greetings, sister. Your nephew has been asking about you.” Dom watches-and-Remembers turned in his mother’s embrace and squealed Rova’s name.

  Rova collapsed into the old couch,
shedding her worry like a coat. There would be time to talk war, but it could wait a while.

  She asked after Zong’s business, and Nai shared details of Dom’s milestones. The toddler climbed up into Rova’s arms and collapsed into a big blue sack of dead weight and gentle breathing. After some time, she gently passed Dom back to his mother and stood. I can’t put this off.

  “Zong, I need to find some extra hands for a very important mission.”

  He nodded. “Do I want to know what it is?”

  “Not really,” Rova said. “If the tyrants ever find out who I am, you don’t want to know any details.”

  Zong sighed, but didn’t repeat what he’d said before. Zong would join the Shields himself if not for his family, both his wife and son here, and the fact that Rova had forbidden it. She’d made him swear that he would never endanger himself that way. Except now I’m doing it for him.

  “How many will you need?” Nai asked while Dom happily bashed blocks against one another on the floor.

  “At least a dozen, but not more than twenty. We can’t let the group get too big, and I only want the ones you know can be trusted.” Some of us have never really gotten over being servants. We went from being slaves to sergeants, hired goons, or bodyguards. Not many, but enough.

  Rova was a Shield on her own terms, and she followed orders because she believed in Aegis and First Sentinel. And now, after all the time she and Wonlar had spent with the children, Rova had to ask their parents and siblings to put their lives on the line.

  Zong pulled her from self-doubt as he counted off names. “Gau for sure, Yuu, Oa, and Ken as well. Nai, what do you think?”

  Nai looked up to the corner, thinking. “You’d have to swear them to secrecy, but you can probably get Xej, Li, and the whole Guards family.”

  Zong nodded. “That’s ten. I bet we can drum up a few more. When do you need them?”

  “Tonight. I have the instructions here. Be sure to give them the passphrase.” Rova pulled out a short pile of hand-written instructions on pulp paper. “It’s more important to have a small number that can be trusted than a larger number that you aren’t sure about. If you can’t find twelve, then send every one you can. I need you to be very clear that they’re taking their lives into their own hands by joining us. I can’t guarantee everyone will come back.”

  She felt the worry clench Zong and Nai’s hearts without even having to read it on their face. She continued, hoping to allay their fears. “Everything before this has been a move to win a battle. This time, we will turn the tide of the whole war.”

  Zong nodded. “You’ll have your people, Rova. We remember what the Shields did for us, and if I can’t find enough, I’ll join you myself.”

  Nai’s nostrils flared. “Zong, don’t you dare.”

  Rova looked to Nai, and then turned to Zong. “You belong here. If you show up, I’ll knock you out myself and have you dragged home in a cart.”

  Zong sighed. “I’ll help as much as I can. Please, eat with us before you leave. You’ve earned the rest, and your nephew misses you. He needs something to remember you by.” In case I don’t come back, you mean.

  She stayed, talked with Nai, and played with Dom while her brother went out to find soldiers for the battle ahead.

  * * *

  A lingering winter wind howled through the alley as Sapphire waited for the rest of the Freithin to arrive. The light from the street ended an arm span into the alley. Inches into the darkness, Sapphire stood watch at the door of their staging position. Just after nine o’clock, the sixth volunteer approached.

  “When the light is sparse, how do you see?” Sapphire asked.

  The Freithin’s eyes looked up as he tried to recall the passphrase. “Bring a lantern and light your own path.”

  She nodded and opened the door. Sapphire looked to the end of the alley, out to the street. There was no sign of black-on-black, no movement, no stirring of shadows. And so she ushered the Freithin into the room and closed the door.

  The room was dimly lit by a handful of lanterns, some hung on the walls and two on the table. The table was just three crates pushed together and covered with a cheap tablecloth. Around the table, Ghost Hands had positioned eight crates in a circle as chairs. The walls of the warehouse were blank slate, coaxed or carved out of the cliff-wall hundreds of years ago. Sapphire took a position at one end of the table as the Freithin chatted, nervous.

  Ghost Hands sat opposite her, still and silent atop a smaller crate. The perched Freithin around her would make Ghost Hands look like a child pretending to play with the adults, but for her poise and her contemplative silence.

  Sapphire raised a hand, and the nervous chatter dropped off.

  “Thank you for coming. For those of you who don’t know, I am Sapphire, Shield of Audec-Hal.” She gestured across the table. “This is my comrade, Ghost Hands.”

  The Freithin made their greetings. When they’d settled, Sapphire continued. “The Shields of Audec-Hal have fought for fifty years to free this city. Years ago, First Sentinel and the Shields shattered the Blue heart and freed our people.”

  She took a moment; let a breath pass without words. The Freithin were nodding along, agreeing but not truly excited.

  Sapphire punched a fist into her waiting hand. “Tonight, we do for the whole city what the Shields did for the Freithin.”

  A wave of emotions crashed across their faces. Surprise, disbelief, faintest hope.

  A younger male in dockworkers’ clothes raised his hand. “How can we do that?” his voice was earnest, eager. Confidence, good.

  “What is your name, cousin?” Sapphire asked. Using their names frequently would tie them to one another, help them to trust one another.

  He pulled himself up as tall as he could. He was young yet, barely over six feet tall. “I am Jeku Sees, cousin Shield.”

  “I am honored, Jeku Sees. Our task is a distraction to make room for another mission, but we have an objective of our own.” Sapphire pulled out a map and opened it on the table. The map displayed the three square blocks around the mint, with their target circled in the center.

  “Tonight, we will shatter the tyrant’s sham of an economy.” She took out a knife and slammed it into the name of the mint on the map. The knife dug down into the crate, not deep enough to disturb its contents. Those are for later.

  Several of the more nervous Freithin jumped back at her violent motion. Not a good sign. Are they really right for this? Even if they’re prepared to give their lives, there’s more to this than a suicide mission.

  “The mint?” asked one. He looked the youngest of the group, no work lines around his eyes or wrinkles on his brow. No tattoo on his wrist—he was born after the Unchaining.

  Another Freithin answered before she could, a woman older than Rova. “If the tyrants can’t print any more money, everything freezes, especially trade between Audec-Hal and other cities.”

  Rova nodded. “Please give your names the first time you speak, cousins. I cannot ask you to risk your lives if I don’t even know your names.”

  The unmarked youth said, “Igaz Plays.” Family names like Plays didn’t appear until after the liberation. He might be the first child born into it. Sapphire hoped Igaz lived long enough to pass the name on to his own children.

  The woman nodded to Sapphire. “Duma Speaks.” The softness around her jowls and arms dusted with flour to the elbows marked her as a baker. Rova recognized the woman from the storytime meetings; her daughter Yara always had an answer to Wonlar’s questions.

  Sapphire looked to both of them in turn, attached the names to the faces, hoping she wouldn’t have to find their families and sing kesh with them at the funerals while Yara cried.

  A woman with a yellow-and-silver headscarf leaned forward to ask a question. “My name is Weja Drives.” Rova recognized that name as well. Her son Arno started coming for the stories last month. A kind boy, already tall. “If we succeed, what will happen to everyone here trying to make a liv
ing?” The jeweled rings on her fingers and gems in her scarf showed that she had done well for herself. She has more to lose than the rest. But she came of her own will, ready to fight.

  [ This is a revolution. No one said it was going to be easy, or that there wouldn’t be losses.] Ghost Hands’ voice echoed in their minds. Weja frowned.

  Sapphire continued, making eye contact with each of the six in turn. “There are two other missions tonight, and each team relies on the other two. The three groups will spread the tyrants’ forces thin, making all of us more likely to succeed.”

  Igaz shifted on the crate. “How are we going to take out the mint, though? Are we supposed to break the plates by hand?”

  She chuckled. “Ghost Hands, please show them.” Sapphire plucked the lanterns off the table and stood back.

  The tablecloth shifted at the edges, then folded up onto itself and floated off to the side. The lids of the three crates slid off, clattering to the floor. The Freithin volunteers stood to look as Sapphire held the lantern high to shed light on the contents: dozens of boxes in grey and black and silver, metallic and stone alike. The boxes held fuses and power cells, switches and panels, a collection of explosives sufficient to demolish a city block.

  They’d spent Nevri’s blood money on weapons, supplementing years of hoarding. This mission would tap them out completely.

  “Oh,” said Igaz.

  There was a knock on the door. Three fast, two slow, then five short knocks that trailed down the door. It was First Sentinel’s signal.

  Sapphire looked to Ghost Hands, who nodded. The door unlocked without being touched. First Sentinel walked in, guiding Fahra inside. She pulled down her leg wrap and waved at Sapphire, then rummaged through her bag.

  Sapphire smiled. “Cousins, I’d like you to meet my friend Fahra. She’s going to do something that will help keep us safe on our mission.”

  Fahra returned Sapphire’s smile, then started walking through the room, her charcoal moving across the page with the grace of a far older woman.