by L. W. Jacobs
A second before they did, one drew back and hurled a spear—at the wall. Before Aelya could process it, she heard a coughing cry. Not from the Broken. Too familiar for that.
The wafters hit the harmony and screamed and slammed themselves into the ceiling, but Aelya had no eyes for them. Instead she looked in horror at Dayglen, hands clutching the spear that had struck him through the wall, lifeblood pumping out both sides.
They’d known. The meckshatterers had used the last Broken to figure out exactly where they’d be. To throw spears before they lost their coordination. Aelya looked in horror to a spear thrusting through her side of the door. Just where she should have been.
With another cough Dayglen slumped against the spear, his weight wrenching it down in a shower of white plaster. “No,” Aelya whispered, Broken forgotten for a moment. He’d been a Maimer, one of their enemies on the streets, but a solid friend in the rebellion, their shared background more something to joke about than hold on to. She’d been a Maimer once, years ago. Still was, if you counted her arm. And now he just slumped there, eyes staring.
Aelya was too taken with grief to even notice the harmony breaking as Dayglen’s resonance dropped, to see the wafters regain control. Too tired from the endless fighting to catch the taller Broken unstrapping a second spear from its back, or even hold up a hand in defense as it shot forward, driving the spearhead through her chest.
53
Ella couldn’t stay sitting down. They were losing—that much was clear without seeing the painful grin on Feynrick’s face as he barked orders to militiamen, or the gradually dwindling number of people standing by to go up and strike harmonies. The harmonies were working, but they weren’t enough. The enemy was throwing brawlers off the balcony now, sacrificing them on the off-chance they would land whole enough to still attack. Breaking new holes in walls where the field of harmonies was weakest. Getting smarter.
Tai had sworn there were no leaders among the Broken, that it didn’t matter which he killed first. But that they had a leader, someone with their wits very much about them, couldn’t be doubted. And though the harmonics were keeping them at bay for the moment, all it would take was one small shift, one strategy they hadn’t foreseen or couldn’t easily counter, and it would all be over.
They had to get smarter. She had to get smarter, because one way or another she had become the scholar for this strange rebellion. Even Feynrick was checking with her now, asking how the harmonics would act in this or that strategy. She needed to know more. Needed to do more.
But at the very least she would not sit while there was anything to be done. So, as Marrem tended wounded and Aelya fought incursions, Ella ran up and down the spiral checking on resonators and leading up fresh ones when other ones ran out of uai or died.
It was a grim mirror to her work in the caves: checking on her students, spinning theories about why they were or weren’t overcoming, feeling a realization just out of her grasp. Only here, her students died horribly.
Others of them overcame, though, aided by the massive harmony, as they likely had been in the chaos of the escape from the caves. She would pass a pair to find one of them grinning ear to ear, their resonance drowning out their partner’s, often talking excitedly. If they could time these overcomings, trigger them somehow, maybe they could start to really fight back against the Broken, instead of just cower here waiting to die. There had to be a limit to the Broken. It was just a question of who lost more first, like a grind-out match of ninekings. Who had the edge.
And whether she could sharpen their edge. Which meant being smarter than whatever unworldly thing was controlling the Broken.
So tired as she was, she kept her eyes and ears open. Asked what questions she could of the ones who overcame, though she heard nothing new. Fought the Broken herself, when she needed to, though every second in slip felt like five minutes of work when she came out of it. They had to save those who could harmonize. Lose them, and they lost it all.
One thing she did notice, running up and down the rapidly-bloodying spiral walkway, was the difference in the harmonies between individual pairs. Not just strength or pitch, as those varied based on people’s abilities, but moods. Happy, sad, determined, thoughtful, even mournful. It took her awhile to name it, but her music instructor would have called them modes. Major, minor, diminished, augmented, etc. She had never taken to an instrument—anything that pleased her parents or made her a more attractive bride had been anathema—but she remembered this much at least.
Could it have something to do with who overcame? Was one particular key the best at aiding overcomings? But the harmonies she felt from pairs who had overcome were all over the place, from major to minor to almost dissonant, in the case of an older pair who both looked half-dead from exhaustion.
Still she kept it in her thoughts as she organized the resonators. She would get smarter. Find an edge.
Marrem handed her more packets from the heavy trunks she’d stowed away. They had plenty of yura and winterfoods, at least. The healworker had likely envisioned a much larger group of people gathered here. Ayugen’s tens of thousands were now what, a thousand maybe? Five hundred?
“Making peace, are you?” Marrem asked amiably, as they transferred bittermelon sticks.
“Excuse me?” Ella respected the healworker, but they hadn’t interacted much.
“With your prophets, or gods, or whatever it is you believe.”
There was no animosity in her words. More a gentle encouragement. We are going to die. Get right with your afterlife. “I don’t—I don’t have any particular beliefs, ma’am. I tend to stick to facts.”
“Well, let me know if you need some. Beliefs, that is. The facts don’t look good.”
“About that.” Ella had been searching for an edge for hours now, and the only idea she’d come up with was bad, but maybe it was better than nothing. “We have plenty of yura. We could offer the resonators more. Offer everyone more, if they’re willing.”
The woman was sharp—it only took her a moment to understand. “Yuraload them. See if we can squeeze more strength out of what we have.” Her mouth pursed. “Some of them will go mad. Kill themselves. You know that.”
“Yes.” She’d seen it face to face enough, in the early days. “But that might be a better way to go.” As if to punctuate her thought, another Broken fell screaming from the heights of the spiral walkway, to shouts and cries in the central courtyard.
The healworker pursed her lips again, then clucked. “I’ll talk to Feynrick.”
The next time she came down the long spiral, Marrem was handing her triple packets. “For those that want them,” she said. “Be sure they understand the risks.” Behind her, younger girls were loading their arms with them and going among the people huddled in the center, those who could neither fight nor harmonize.
Shouts sounded above—she needed to go. “I will, ma’am. And thanks for your words about the gods. I don’t have my own, but I guess I feel at peace all the same.”
Marrem eyed her sharply for a moment. “Good on you, then. Ancestors send we see the morning.” She crossed her palms in a fashion Ella had never seen before, and pressed them to Ella’s chest. An Achuri blessing. “Go.”
She went, smiling despite herself, snagged the next pair of harmonizers waiting for duty and ran for the sound. With any luck, Aelya would put the Broken down without losing the resonators, but it was better to be certain. They couldn’t afford to leave a space unplugged. The enemy seemed to know when they did, and pushed everything they had into it.
She rounded the curve about a third of the way up the tower to find Dayglen impaled on a spear thrust through the wall, Aelya staring in shock.
Then a second spear thrust through her, wafter’s momentum carrying them both into the guardrail beyond.
Ella struck resonance, vertebrae throbbing. She had lost so many today, and could finally count Aelya as a friend. She wouldn’t lose her, too.
Time slowed. Ella sped beyon
d the harmonizers trailing her, watching the teakwood railing begin to crack under the wafter’s momentum, spear shaft driving further out Aelya’s back. A second wafter was just emerging from the broken doorway. Prophets send the harmonizers behind her had the sense to strike resonance. This would take everything they had.
She drew the long-bladed dagger Feynrick had given her and slashed it through the first wafter’s throat—how many had she killed that way tonight?—then spun and narrowly dodged the spear of the second, who had turned toward her in air.
Prophets. The enemy was reacting to her even at these speeds.
She cut the thing’s throat regardless, ducking under its body to check the room beyond.
It was empty, but out the window she caught sight of something that stopped her cold: a woman, tall and elegant, floating in a fine Councilate gown, hair floating around her as though in water. Not insane, not Broken. Intelligent. Smiling.
Shatters—she knew this woman. Had seen her somewhere—Ella racked her brain in the slowed time of slip. Yes. Her father’s courtyard, a year or two before she ecaped. Semeca Fenril. A minor daughter of a rising Councilate house, attending her father. She’d had that wicked scar twisting down her neck—from a hunting accident, they said.
This woman was more than a Councilate daughter. She was the enemy. The one responsible for all the Broken attacks, for spearing Aelya and the attacks on Tai. Ella saw this as clearly as she saw what she needed to do. Even though it was insane.
Ella sprinted for the window. She was alone, armed only with a dagger, and deadly afraid of the heights separating them, but kill this woman and the whole thing would end. She couldn’t not try.
Forget being smarter. She would be stupider, for once.
She jumped the shattered glass, sprinted across the balcony beyond, and leapt from the Tower’s edge, primal cry rising from her throat.
Semeca’s head suddenly turned down to see her, the moment stretching impossibly. Ellumia Merewil, she said. Of House Merewil, isn’t it? Of all the people I expected to see here tonight, you are not one of them. Wasn’t my cousin to marry your older brother?
Ella found her voice, body still floating impossibly slowly across the gap between them. All her rage evaporated in confusion. “I—yes. Who are you? What are you doing here? Why are you doing this?”
All good questions, the woman said, apparently in her head. A second-level mindseye, then. But I’m afraid even my slip cannot slow you down enough to give good answers. Suffice it to say I am not who I seem, and you are in the way of what I need. Next time stick to your tea parties.
Semeca flicked her hand and it was like a giant slapped Ella from the sky. Time lurched forward and she slammed into the Tower, through the glass, slid across the chamber floor and smashed against the far wall hard enough to see stars.
She shook her head, trying to clear her sight, trying to get smarter. She still had a chance. But when her vision cleared, all she could see was wafters. A solid wall of them, shooting straight for her.
54
The world contracted to a hole in her chest. Curly screamed. Aelya screamed. Only instead of a scream she got pain. Her chest wasn’t working right. Her lungs.
Aels no, get up! Get up and fight!
She smashed into the wooden guardrail, wafter above her suddenly jerking away, blood gushing from its throat. What? She pain-screamed again, lost more blood.
Get up, Aelya. Curly’s voice was different now. More desperate, but also older. Much older. Get up. Fight. Lighthairs!
The Tower was going dark. A detached part of her noted she hadn’t even paid attention to the hair color of the wafter that killed her. Or the one that killed Dayglen. While the main part of her mind screamed Meck meck meckshatting meckstaining mecksucking meck some smaller part marveled at this, at the change. She used to get so steamed when she saw a lighthair. It was the fuel she’d use to fight the lawkeepers, on the streets. Now it didn’t matter?
Tai would be proud. But he was dead, too. Ancestors send ancestors were real, and they could see each other again.
The air blackened with each pulse of her heart, cool blood seeming to pump in as hot blood pumped out. So, this was what it was like to die. Curly was still in full denial, though it didn’t sound like Curly at all anymore, screaming about lighthairs and whatever. Like that mattered. People were people.
In the swimming darkness she saw Ella fly into the room, light hair streaming. Like Ella. She was just a person. She was stuck-up and nosy and Tai could do better, but that had nothing to do with her hair. Stains. That was stupid. Was that really what she’d been thinking this whole time?
Strength came into her from somewhere. Curly was shouting more about fishhairs, but it wasn’t Curly now. Obviously. Why had she ever listened to it? Ancestors, had she really killed all those lighthairs in the attack on the granaries? No wonder Tai had been mad. Mecksicking ancestors, she had a lot to make up for.
And strength to do it, apparently. A lot of strength.
Light returned to the world. Color. Sound. Strength in her limbs. Curly wailed and peeled off, like an old scar.
Uai flooded in, like she’d been asleep for days and just eaten a great meal and swallowed a plug of dreamleaf. The strength.
Aelya stood up, pulled the spear out her chest, and grinned. She’d been an idiot, to buy into Curly’s talk. It was what a person did that mattered, not what they looked like. And she’d done a lot of stupid things in the last month.
She probably should have died. But she was alive instead, and she had a lot of making up to do. She’d start with these mecksicking wafters.
55
When Ella’s vision cleared Aelya was standing, panting and whole, in a room spattered in gore and littered with dying Broken. She held the shattered haft of a spear in one hand, her iron fist dripping blood in the other. The uai coming off her rattled the walls around them, and for a moment Ella felt pure fear. There would be no stopping her, if she decided Ella was next. If she wanted to get rid of the last lighthair traitor in their ranks.
Instead Aelya’s face broke when she saw Ella and she ran over. “Mecking shatpiles Ella, are you okay? Did I hit you with any of these things?”
A Broken torso lay nudged up against her, and Ella was horrified to find one of its arms flopped over her stomach, but she was whole.
And shocked. Aelya, asking if she was okay? “I’m—fine, thank you. Just winded.”
Aelya held out her hand. It was like clutching a struck bell. “You saved my life, didn’t you?” the ringing girl asked. “Killed that wafter?”
She stood, body hurting all over. She would be a mass of bruises tomorrow. If they saw tomorrow. “I thought you were dead actually. That spear—”
“Yeah. Thought I was too. Then Curly—.” She stopped, drew a breath. “Shatstains. I’m sorry, Ella.”
“For what?”
“For everything. But for a start, for ever calling you a traitor. Okay?”
She had no idea what was going on, but Aelya was obviously feeling very sincere. “Okay.” It still came out more like a question. “Maybe we should get inside.”
“You do that. I’ve got a few more Broken to kill before this wears off. For Dayglen.”
56
This was not a rebel attack. This was a force of nature, sirs, and I beg you consider our actions in that light.
—Fetel Jelteyan, Address to the 111th Councilate on the Defeat at Ayugen
Tai couldn’t sleep. The star had set in the west, the fire burned down to coals, and still he lay awake, feeling unsettled. Through a gap in the trees he could see the moon, ring of fire burning in the shadowed half.
Do you think anyone lives up there? Fisher asked. He almost scolded her that she should be asleep, but revenants didn’t sleep. At least, Hake hadn’t.
Hake. The voice he’d had all those years hadn’t been Hake at all.
Tai, the moon. Are you falling asleep?
Fisher had always had trouble sleepi
ng, he remembered that now. Part of her shock sickness. “I—don’t know, Fishy. The moon fires only burn when it’s in shadow, so it seems like someone’s lighting them. But who could live up there?” He’d flown high enough to nearly freeze before, and the moon still looked as distant up there as it did down here
Maybe that’s where we go when we die. If you don’t get caught in a catdog. Maybe that’s where Curly is.
“Maybe that’s where Hake is, too.” He had been Fisher’s older brother. Was her older brother, though both of them were dead now. He could have saved both of them, and didn’t.
I hope so. He always liked lighting fires.
Did he? It was so hard to separate his memories, the Hake-revenant that been living in his head blending together with the friend he’d run with in the Achuri resistance. He’d felt real that whole time.
Tai. Don’t beat yourself up.
He rolled over, broken leg throbbing. Hake hadn’t been real. No one’s voices were real—not Hollister for Ella, not Weiland’s challenges, none of the ones that had yuraloaded in the rebellion. They had all come out—all the ones that lived—saying they’d realized their voices were fake.
So what about his?
Tai. I’m not like that. I came from a catdog, remember? Nauro caught me for you. To convince you.
That seemed right. Except—what had Nauro said? I will find you, he’d said. I am your only solution to this problem.
The problem of Fisher. Or—what name had he used?
Tai, Fisher snapped. Remember? About happiness? You’re not happy when you worry, and then I’m not happy. And you promised to make me happy, now, because you didn’t when I was alive. Remember? Guilt rolled off her.
He—sort of remembered that. But he also sort of remembered Nauro talking about revenants, about something named Naveinya.