by C. A. Bryers
What remained of the tephic Ciracelle had sent out tapered off into nothingness. If anyone else was stirring, she would not know until she tried again.
I just want this over with, her mind begged. I just want to sleep.
The frustration ebbed away as a peaceful slumber, an escape from all her worries, rose up to reclaim her.
Let me sleep…let me sleep…let me sleep.
But she did not sleep. Another feeling lifted from the ether and into the mix, its presence curious considering how dominant her want, her need for rest had been only moments ago. But she did not question it. Instead, she welcomed it, inviting it into her body as a reprieve from the agonizing doldrums of waiting for the final few stragglers about her to fall utterly asleep.
It had risen up at first as a distant longing that swelled into a powerful ache. She wanted his touch as much as she had needed rest. It was too potent, too much to bear to be away from him for so long now. Perhaps that was the only thing that could renew her, she thought, to stop denying herself what she knew was as necessary to her survival as her next breath. He could give her the strength, return her focus, everything.
The bunk squealed beneath her as she sprang upright, eyes wide and alert.
Joht, she thought, picturing the handsome lines of his face, his crooked smile, and those blue eyes that once upon a time had searched the depths of her soul. He needed her. For the first time since they’d parted ways, he needed her. And, she remembered, savoring the sound of his voice in her mind, he had said he still loved her. There was warmth and hope in such a sentiment, but also conflict—conflict rooted as much in the past as it was in her present.
She let her eyes fall closed again. With a slow breath hissing through pursed lips, she called out to the tephic through a muddy mental state that now was edged with desperation.
Search the room, she begged the power she knew had to be out there somewhere. Tell me if someone is awake. Please.
Trying to quiet her mind and bring her focus to bear, her efforts fell apart as if tiny voices in the recesses of her thoughts would not allow absolute silence and calm. It was a repeating cycle, one she had no idea how to break. She tried one last time, searching for even the vaguest glimpses of the tephic responding to her need so she might cling to it like a lifeline.
Nothing.
With a tremulous breath, Ciracelle pulled the itchy, tattered green blanket from her body. Her arms were shaking as she slid down from the upper bunk, like she was trying to slip into a pool of water without making a sound. The metal framing groaned, her face involuntarily grimacing in the darkness. As soon as her feet met the cold stone floor, she started tiptoeing to the other side of the room. The silence in the barracks persisted, the lumps atop each bunk remaining still. Her pace slowed as she approached Tallas’s bunk, her heart thundering.
There he is, she thought, eyes fixing upon the lower bunk where Joht’s rival slept. Part of her could not believe she was doing this, taking part in an action that could dismantle this man’s future in the Majdi Order—perhaps even ruin his life. Another part, however, understood. She still cared deeply for Joht. There was a part of her that still loved him, that would never let him go. But was she willing to go this far?
She shoved the thoughts aside, recognizing them for what they were: distractions that further clouded her already compromised focus. With slow, soundless movements, Ciracelle crept closer to Tallas’s bed, kneeling beside it. Shutting it all out—these barracks, the men and women sleeping all about her, everything—Ciracelle waited for her mind to go dark, still, and silent.
An eye popped open, and then the other. Tallas was a mere foot away, lying on his side, unmoving as if posed for a still life portrait. Who was he? What if he wasn’t as bad as Joht thought?
She almost laughed. Joht doesn’t know or care if you’re a good or bad person. You wronged him. That’s all that matters.
Sickly feelings of guilt slithered inside, a foul snake curling up inside her mind to make itself at home. A cavity began forming in her chest, an emptiness that brought a lump to her throat and unbidden tears to her eyes. Fighting back the urge to cry, Ciracelle wiped at her eyes and took several long, deep breaths. As she checked to make certain Tallas’s subconscious hadn’t begun to stir from the nearness of her presence, she felt something strange.
Tephic.
Despite the turmoil in her mind and the chaos ripping through her emotions, somehow a channel was now open between herself and the tephic flow that had eluded her as of late. She seized the opportunity, throwing her misgivings about right and wrong to the wind, and placed her fingertips gingerly on Tallas’s temples. Her eyes closed, her focus narrowing on the tiny spurts of tephic at her command, pushing it into the sleeping man’s mind.
“Come on. Come on,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
As quickly as it came, so too had it gone, vanishing as if it was but another mirage conjured forth from her sleep-deprived mind. Her heart sank, her head falling slack. It all used to be so easy, she thought. Was she sick? Something worse? Or maybe the Majdi path had simply reached its end for her. Maybe she should just leave, find a life somewhere with the normal people of the world.
She balked at the thought. Her affinity with the tephic, her place in the Majdi Order, it was what made her different. It made her special. To abandon it, to simply blend in and fade away…
She couldn’t finish the thought. Her fingers slipped from Tallas’s face, bunching before her eyes as her head made a slow, mournful descent to the mattress. She couldn’t help it anymore, her shoulders beginning to shudder as each sob grew stronger than the last. Her safeguards collapsed, and Ciracelle quietly cried into the hard, musty bedding beneath her face.
A touch on the shoulder froze the convulsions pulsing from her chest, and the pain-wracked contortions of her face. Her eyes rose, the sorrow replaced by fear.
Tallas Corso was looking right at her, wide awake.
She sniffled, wiping the wetness from her eyes. “I’m—I’m sorry. I’ll go back—”
In the darkness, Tallas’s voice was a faint whisper. “No, no, no. Don’t worry about it. Are you all right?”
“No. I’m not, but that’s hardly your problem.” She swallowed hard, looking around as if lost. “I don’t even know why I picked this bed from any other to have this…this stupid little breakdown.”
The man propped himself up on an elbow. “I haven’t been here long and I can’t say I know you. But if you need it, I can listen.”
His offer sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing into her. “No. No, I’m sorry. I’ll be fine.” She climbed to her feet. “Sorry to wake you.”
She was back at her bunk in an instant, climbing up to what suddenly felt like a vast wasteland of emptiness in her bed. It offered no comfort, the blanket no warmth as she pulled it over her body. Her sniffles came and went in bursts, the renewed silence of the barracks leaving her ears ringing.
After several long minutes, she heard Tallas settle back to bed—the man who had responded to her intrusion with kindness, the man whose mind she’d been instructed to violate.
***
The following day, Ciracelle made every attempt to avoid Joht Tavross. She woke early, skipped breakfast and snuck into Cereporis Hall before it was officially opened. Once inside, she knelt down upon a new pad far from her old one—far from Joht’s. After the day’s implant and practice session was complete, she made a straight line for Lochmore, engaging him in meaningless conversation until Cereporis Hall stood otherwise deserted.
Confident Joht was well entrenched in his physical training regimen in the yard, Ciracelle gave a parting wave to the Adjutu and slipped from Cereporis Hall. Her footsteps rang hollowly throughout the empty foyer as she made her way to the commissary in hopes of scrounging up something to eat before the others swarmed there for the appointed mealtime.
Halfway down the corridor leading to her destination, Ciracelle spun about, eyes wide and staring into the em
pty passageway behind her. She could almost feel a presence there with her. As she wondered if Joht had lurked in waiting in order to follow her, she realized her heart was pounding.
Why? She wasn’t afraid of Joht. All she wanted right now was to be left alone, not to be confronted about how badly she’d failed him last night.
Two steps into resuming her walk to the commissary, a hand shot from the darkened stairwell leading below, snatching her by the arm. She yelped in surprise, but another hand clapped over her mouth. The rest of the figure separated from the darkness, pushing her across the hallway and gently against the far wall.
“It’s just me. It’s just me,” said Joht, lips parted breathlessly as he stared down at her. He released her, eyes searching. “I don’t understand, Ciracelle. What are you doing? Why are you avoiding me?”
A surge of emotions began rising up, bottlenecking somewhere between her heart and her throat, filling her with the need to scream. Instead of a scream, a defeated whimper was all that emerged. Ciracelle slumped against the wall, a sense of hopelessness gnawing away at the last of her strength and self-worth.
Joht took a step back in surprise, looking anywhere but at her. “I don’t know what this is, but come on. Pull yourself together.”
The words were a knife plunged into her, the pain twisting her features to make sure he knew it.
He came forward in a rush, wrapping her up in his arms. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry.”
She leaned against him, too weak and broken to do anything but let it happen. More tears came, more sobs. He lifted her face so their eyes could meet, and he kissed at the damp skin beneath each eye. The last of her resolve crumbled.
“I love you, Joht. I’m so, so sorry.” She sniffled. “I—I couldn’t—”
Joht shook his head. “You had to have seen something.”
“I’m a mess. I don’t know—”
Her body jolted suddenly, pain radiating from her upper arms as Joht squeezed tighter. “Joht, you’re—”
The hands about her relaxed, and so too did the frightening intensity she had just seen on Joht’s face. He backed away and began pacing in tight circles, both hands buried in his hair.
“This…” Wagging his finger, he let the word hang in the air. “Maybe we need some distance, Ciracelle. Since you and I ended, maybe I’ve kept too close. I think you should stay away from me. From all of us.”
She knew exactly what he meant, and it made her heart leap in terror. No, she thought desperately. Even surrounded by Joht’s group, she had felt afraid and alone these last few weeks. To be cut off from them was to be left to an unimaginable fate. There was still so much uncertainty about what was happening to her. If she was sick—dying, even—she didn’t want to think about what might happen.
Her feet were moving without her mind giving the command. A second later, she was wrapped about him, tears now streaming down her face.
“Please, Joht. Please, I’ll tell you what I saw. It’s not much, but—”
Both hands grasped either side of her face. “Tell me. Tell me, and I’ll reconsider.”
She nodded shakily. “His real name isn’t Tallas, Corso—anything like that. That much I could feel. I—I don’t think he’s here because of an injury or anything, but that was just a…a sensation. I don’t know for sure. There were tephic blocks. They were everywhere.” She wiped at her eyes, steadying herself. “I was only in there for seconds, Joht. Seconds! I couldn’t hold on any longer, and there was so much keeping me out.”
He drew her to him, holding her tight. “Good girl, Ciracelle. I won’t leave you.” He kissed the top of her head. “I promise I won’t leave you.”
20
The daily tephic implant process was becoming second nature for Salla Saar. Thanks to the atmosphere in Cereporis Hall—dim lights, soft, tranquil music blended with white noise—meditation phases were as easy to slip into as it was to fall asleep after a long, physically demanding day. Once he was inside the meditative states, the implants themselves still felt somewhat foreign, but he was beginning to understand the language they spoke. He felt more relaxed about the process, realizing now that his mind still had the capacity to absorb or reject whatever instruction it wished.
The low, metallic tone called out across the hall as it did every day, signaling the end of the passive portion of the day’s exercises and the beginning of the active half. Like most others about him, Salla did not immediately leave his kneeling pad. The last time he’d done so, he’d toppled sideways within seconds before realizing the process had left his mind and body temporarily disconnected. Kneeling there in silence, he waited for the low buzzing noise in his head to slip away into soundlessness.
A light touch on the shoulder brought him about. Iriscent was there, bending over his shoulder with a broad smile.
“I think we’ve got your implants pretty well sorted, Salla,” she whispered. “After your practice session, find me in the assistants’ office down Adjutu’s Path. You’ve got a dinner date with me downstairs. Green soup’s on the menu, so don’t get too giddy about it. You’re due for a quick evaluation. Don’t want that head of yours to pop while you’re doing so well.”
He nodded, watching her join the shadowy procession of the other assistants making their way to the front of the dimly lit hall. A woman opened the door as the first of the assistants neared, waiting for them all to disappear inside before stepping into Cereporis Hall herself.
He’d seen her several times over the past weeks, but had yet to exchange more than a hurried greeting with her. Her name was Santerre, prime assistant to Lochmore. The Adjutu had been busy of late, and Santerre took the task upon herself to lead the day’s proceedings in his stead.
Despite being older than the others by a handful of years, Santerre still fit the mold of the sort of assistant it seemed Lochmore preferred—young, female and pretty. She was tall, with striking, angular features to her face that all seemed to draw attention to her icy blue eyes and full, almost pouting lips. She wore her dark hair cropped close to her head and carried herself with a strictness of poise and authority, far more so than the man who actually administrated the House of Falling Rain.
“Please rise, and prepare for exercises.” She glanced down at a lightweight monitor in her hand. “We’re going to pair you up based on your focus subjects for today to practice. So, let’s see how you did.” She perused the data flowing onto the monitor detailing the findings of today’s implant session. “Ystolt and Anakh, anger and disposition discussions and solutions. Ystolt, I want this taken seriously this time. Wescusi and Ranna, advanced tephic manipulation. Joht and Trigg, another round of basic tephic manipulation, no bracers.”
Santerre continued to rattle off pairs of students and their assignments while those whose names had been called rose from their respective pads to pair up and begin the day’s work.
“Tallas and Ciracelle, bracer training. Ota and Kanoh…”
Salla climbed to his feet, glancing over at Ciracelle. She knelt there still, unmoving as if an unseen frost had blown through the hall to freeze her solid. As he moved slowly closer, he could see her mouth hanging open in stunned disbelief. She looked back and forth as if to ensure no one was watching before her chin fell and her hands covered her face.
Salla stopped. He didn’t know what to do, unsure whether she was mortified at being paired with him or if it was the activity itself. A moment later, however, she was on her feet and moving toward him. Her eyes never looked directly at him as she swept past, heading purposefully for the wall-mounted duraglass cabinet that housed the bracers.
He followed a safe distance behind, watching her line up beside Ota before pulling down a pair of bracers. Turning, she lobbed one at Salla without speaking a word. He caught it and again was left chasing her to another section of the hall. She stopped in the corner and, like a child resentfully putting on clothes she didn’t want to wear, shoved the bracer onto her wrist in sharp, angry fits.
Salla slid the d
evice over his own wrist, feeling more anxious than he’d expected. It was the first time he’d seen one up close, let alone tried figuring out how to use one. The tephic bracer was a narrow metal cylinder with padding on the inside and a hand grip that jutted from the far end. There were various nodes, gauges, dials and small slide levers set into a somewhat cumbersome design. Nothing was marked as to what the buttons or levers did, and with a mystified glance at Ciracelle, Salla could tell she probably wasn’t in the mood to explain it.
“Are you ready?” It was less a question than a terse statement.
He shrugged, reminding himself that he was supposed to know how to use a bracer according to Tallas Corso’s fabricated history. He understood the concept of what the devices were designed for, but how they actually worked, moreover how to activate one? He didn’t have a clue.
“They tell me I took a good hit to the head, so…” He glanced down at the bracer as if it were an alien thing attached to him. “I’ll just try to follow along.”
She did not look amused. In fact, she looked as though the tiniest nudge could make her break down in tears. “Unbelievable,” she whispered, staring down in unfiltered dismay at the bracer on her wrist. Visibly steeling herself with a stiff intake of air, she finally looked at the man across from her. “You want to push me with that thing, you concentrate on it, and it happens. Got it?”
Salla nodded, hoping his bracer was set correctly. “Got it.”
With dark circles hanging underneath impatient eyes, Ciracelle bent forward with hands on hips, waiting for him to do something. Salla extended his arm, thinking hard about forcing her back a step or two. He didn’t know what to expect, but knew he didn’t want to try too hard and potentially hurt the girl.
Nothing happened. If he had managed to channel even the tiniest wisp of tephic energy, he couldn’t feel it. He felt impotent and foolish standing there, wondering how many others in Cereporis Hall had watched him fail.