by C. A. Bryers
“Fine, I’ll go,” she said, fist clenching the bracer bar trained directly toward the center of Salla’s mass.
Muscles involuntarily going rigid, Salla braced for whatever she might hurl his way. Ciracelle was clearly distraught, and he wasn’t entirely certain she was in the right state of mind to be wielding something he knew could be used as a weapon. His eyes pinched shut.
He waited but felt no impact, not even a soft burst of air blowing through his hair and clothes. When his wincing eyes started to relax, Ciracelle’s arm was no longer poised to lash out a burst of tephic energy. Instead, her arm dangled limply at her side. Her chest heaved in uneven, shuddering breaths, her face a rictus of agony as she visibly fought back the urge to break down in tears. A second later, her hand went slack, and the bracer dropped to the floor with a metallic clang.
Impulsively, Salla stepped forward to comfort her. He was a foot away when he remembered that he still did not know this girl—all he really knew was that she was in a fragile state and that he should be wary. After all, more often than not when he saw her about the House, she was either in the company of Joht or members of his camp. But as he stood there mired in indecision, Ciracelle closed the distance in a rush. The next moment, Salla felt her head thump against his chest, almost exactly atop the triangular burn hidden beneath his clothes.
“I—I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she sobbed into his shirt. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t believe they assigned me to use a bracer. A bracer! Me! I—I used to be able to do just about anything with tephic. Now look. I can’t…I can’t…”
Salla tentatively wrapped her in his arms. He didn’t know what else to do. “I’m sure you still can. The thing is, you look like you could sleep for about a year if you’d let yourself. If you got the rest—”
“Is everything all right here?” a man’s voice asked.
Lochmore was there, placing his hand on Ciracelle’s back. In that moment, Salla stood forgotten as Ciracelle latched herself to Lochmore as if drawn by a magnet. The Adjutu of the House gave Salla a nod of thanks with the whisper of a smile.
“It’s been difficult for her lately.” He lowered his head, softly whispering assurances in her ear.
The sobs stopped and Ciracelle nodded into Lochmore’s chest. She pulled away, retrieved her bracer from the floor, and slid it back into place.
“I think she’s ready again. It’s been her pattern these last few weeks. She has a breakdown, gets over it, and does a little better the next time,” Lochmore explained, taking a few steps back to watch. “She might not always seem it, but she’s a strong girl.”
Salla nodded. “Oh, I was going to ask someone. Is this thing turned on?” He extended the bracer for Lochmore to examine it.
“Having trouble with it?” The Adjutu glanced at it with a laugh. “Yeah, that’ll cause problems. Always good to turn them on if you’re trying to use them, right?” He twisted Salla’s wrist, showing him the switch that activated the bracer, and gave it a flick. “Should work now. Don’t worry about the other buttons and what have you on it. These are typically locked to low settings for practice. Last thing I need is the paperwork that’ll come my way if someone knocks someone’s head off with one of these things.”
“These can do that, eh?” He looked at the device front and back, impressed.
The answer seemed to catch in Lochmore’s throat, and he peered back at Salla with a mote of confusion. “You were an agent in the field, wasn’t that right?”
Salla scrambled to remember his cover story. “Training to be,” he said. “I don’t know. There are basic things I should know that—that just aren’t there anymore since I got hit. It’s frustrating.”
“I understand,” replied Lochmore with a nod.
“Whenever you’re ready, Tallas.”
Both heads swiveled to Ciracelle. She stood there with hands on her hips just as before, but there was a distinct air of confidence in her stance this time.
Lochmore smiled. “Always good to see when she bounces back. It’s like she’s a different person. Really takes charge.” He clapped his hands together as he turned to walk away. “Take it easy on him, Ciracelle. I’m kidding, beautiful. Put him right through that wall over there. I’ll patch it up.”
Salla gaped at him. “Um, what?”
A dozen paces away, Ciracelle grinned. Salla pawed at his bracer to make sure Lochmore had activated it when it felt as though a giant’s hand had him by the shoulder. Half a second later, he was sent tumbling to the side as if he were little more than a nuisance being swatted away. He scrambled backward like a crab, feeling a burst of pressure make impact between his legs. A backward somersault later and Salla was upright again. He thought about pushing her away—commanded the bracer to respond, but it was as though the Majdi device still lay dormant about his wrist. Batting his hand against it like a child whose toy wouldn’t work, Salla backpedaled until his back thumped against the wall—precisely the wall Lochmore had indicated.
Walking steadily closer, Ciracelle wore a smirk, her index finger curling, beckoning him closer. The force that had pushed and thrown him like a doll seconds ago propelled him from the wall, his heels impotently trying to dig into the flooring to slow his momentum. Ciracelle drew back the arm with the bracer as if preparing to throw a punch, eyes narrowing as she saw her victory approach.
Salla hung aloft, his feet no longer even touching the floor of Cereporis Hall. Locked in her tephic grasp, he could do nothing to stop her. “So I see how it is. Lochmore tells you to do something, and you just can’t help but obey. I mean, come on. Be your own woman. Instead of punching me through the wall, what do you say we find a snack in the commissary instead? That’ll show him.”
Ciracelle’s lips tightened around a chuckle that bounced her shoulders. “I like you, Tallas. But do I like you enough to play nice after I’ve felt like worn down garbage for weeks? I’m not quite there yet.”
His instincts told him he had one weapon in his possession. Regardless of whether it worked or not, he had to try. Salla threw up his arm with the bracer across his face. When Ciracelle’s punching motion extended halfway, it was as if she had slammed it into an invisible wall. Salla tumbled away, landing hard on the floor, but so too did Ciracelle in the opposite direction.
Salla stood upright, staring in bemusement at the tephic bracer about his wrist. Did I just use tephic?
Across from him, Ciracelle climbed to her feet.
His eyes still fixed upon the bracer in awe, Salla turned, his smile broadening. “I think I just used tephic.”
In his periphery, he barely saw the dismissive wave Ciracelle casually tossed into the air, but he certainly felt it. A concussion wave crashed into his shoulder, knocking him back to the ground. He lay in a daze, feeling as if his brain had momentarily taken on the consistency of soup. A few seconds later, Ciracelle was there, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to his feet.
“To answer your question, yes, you did. It’s a defensive technique that’s literally conjured by instinct, so don’t get too excited.” The smile she gave him was dazzling, her eyes alive and alert in a way he’d never seen before. It was a night-and-day transformation from the frail and haggard girl sobbing before him only minutes ago. “Come on. I’ll show you a few other things.”
“Does it involve throwing me around like a rubber ball?” he asked, gingerly touching a sore spot on the side of his head.
“We’ll see.”
***
Two hours later, Salla was exhausted. Though he hadn’t made much more in the way of progress with his tephic than that one defensive shield, he still felt a small measure of accomplishment. He and Ciracelle had just returned their bracers, and most of the House students had begun filtering from Cereporis Hall. Just then, something struck him from behind. He did not need to turn to see what it was; the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Joht moved past as if he had tried to simply walk right through Salla.
Nonchalantly, he turned.
“Oh, Tallas, I didn’t see you.” He looked at him thoughtfully. “Tallas is your name, isn’t it?”
“Joht—”
“Ciracelle, I know my name. I was just wondering what his was.”
Salla started to feel something cold grow in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t one of Joht’s usual taunts that he’d dismissively lobbed at him since their fight. There was purpose here, as if he suspected something wasn’t quite right about the whole Tallas Corso façade. The thought took a darker turn.
Maybe he didn’t just suspect. Maybe Joht somehow knew.
“That’s my name, Joht. So you’re here in the House because of forgetfulness, is that it?” He gave Joht no chance to fire back. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I think you’re just stupid as a stack of bricks.”
As if in slow motion, Salla watched as Joht’s cocky smirk disintegrated, his eyes bulged, and a look of uncertainty as to how to respond dawned on his face. His jaw muscles flexed, the force of his stare alone threatening to burn the newcomer to ash.
“Did I hear that right?” There was no more levity to his words. “Tell me I did.”
“Hearing isn’t so good either? Well, maybe that’s becau—”
“Joht, no!” Ciracelle threw her small frame into their midst, using it to block Joht’s bullish advance.
Joht’s eyes leveled upon her then. “You’d better get this little nothing out of my way, and fast, Ciracelle, before I tear every bit of meat from his bones.”
Salla laughed. “Why do you keep calling me ‘nothing’? Can’t think of a good word, so you say ‘noth—’”
“Tallas, stop provoking him!” Ciracelle said, leaving Joht behind and grabbing him by the arm. “What are the two of you, five-year-olds? Come on.”
“He started it.”
“That’s just too bad. We’re leaving.” She pulled him into the foyer and down the corridor leading to the commissary, where Ciracelle brought Salla to a halt. She shook her head, eyes rolling. “You two might as well be a pair of dogs. Not big dogs either. No, I mean those little yippy things that you put in the same room, and they won’t get along just out of sheer stubbornness or stupidity. I can’t figure out which.”
Salla looked around as if to draw attention to the fact they were alone together. “Well, you seem to like our company well enough.”
“His, sometimes. But you? I hardly know you.”
He shrugged, donning a crooked smile. “Doesn’t change the fact you singled out my pillow out of all the others to cry into the other night. Maybe that was your spooky tephic trying to tell you something about me.”
“I was a wreck, so don’t go looking into that as if it meant anything.” She sighed, almost laughing. “I’m still a wreck. This—me being able to use tephic, being functional—it won’t last. Never does anymore.”
“Have you thought that maybe this place—the Order, I mean—isn’t the place for you?”
She offered a limp chuckle. “That’s always how it starts in the House. They ask someone whether they think the Order is where they belong. Next thing you know…whoosh, they’re gone. Off somewhere else, leading a different life, I guess.” Her eyes seemed to glaze over then, not focusing on anything in particular, growing distant. “No, I am a Majdi. I was a good, strong one, too. I just need to find out how to be that way again, but…I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I have lost it.”
“How long have you been here? In the House, I mean?”
“This time? Two months, so far. Not sure how much longer they’ll give me, though. Either Lochmore’ll tire of me, or my rho will.” Her feet kicked at the grit covering the floor. She fastened her gaze to his. “Look, you’re already improving. I’m going the other way. Doesn’t seem to be any stopping it. I don’t know if you’re just being friendly or if you’re thinking of something more, but I’ll say it anyway. I’m not the one. Either way you look at it, Tallas, I’m not her.” She blinked rapidly as tears started forming in her eyes. “You seem to be a good person. You’re not hideous either, so there has to be some girl out there for you, someone who isn’t going to drag you down with her. There is, isn’t there?”
The question at first summoned forth images of Natke Orino. It felt like years had passed since he’d last seen her, rather than…how long had he been away from her? A month? Two? The way days blended into one another here at the House of Falling Rain, he couldn’t say for sure. But life with Natke was an impossibility, not only because of the dream that had driven him to run, but because he was now a prisoner of the Order, perhaps never to escape.
As Natke faded from his thoughts, curiously, a new face emerged. His mind at once recoiled at the notion. Her? He had hated her for weeks now, perhaps more. Sure, they had gotten close for a short time—
As close as I’d let her, he amended.
Salla paused, thinking. That was the first time he’d admitted to himself that he’d kept her at arm’s length or further on purpose. Why? The answer was right there, waiting. He’d even told her the reason. It was to preserve his feelings for Natke, not to betray what he wished he’d never left behind. He had felt something for Rainne Zehava, small as it might have been, but some part of him realized there was a chance it could grow.
Ciracelle inched closer with a playful smile. “Anybody in there?”
Salla flinched. “Just thinking. No. No, there isn’t anyone. Not really.”
He held the thought of Rainne in his mind, waiting for the inevitable, bestial roar of latent animosity. It did not come. Had time eroded the anger into dust to be carried away? Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps it was finally time to give Rainne Zehava a chance to talk.
21
Adjutu’s Path stood empty. After the day’s session, most of the House students had converged upon the showers, the commissary, or the Iron Grounds. For Salla, he was glad to be free of Cereporis Hall, free of the implants, and free of being used as a target during tephic bracer training. But most of all, he was thankful to be free of the sight of another Majdi, even if it was only for the length of time it took to find Iriscent. His body ached, and his mind was tired.
Beyond the echoes of his own footfalls, Salla heard a smattering of discussion somewhere ahead. Drawing closer to the sounds, he found an open doorway on the right. Inside was a small office with a table at its center. Blue, crescent-shaped lighting tubes hung from the ceiling at an angle, casting their incandescent glow down upon a handful of Lochmore’s assistants.
“No, Lopana, I don’t think we’re seeing enough improvement in her results from today to move her on to a new program,” one of the women said, her finger stabbing downward onto one of the sheets of paper on the table. “Ranna stays put until she puts in the work. What about—”
On the far side of the desk, Santerre’s head perked up. “Corso. Are you lost?”
For a moment, Salla forgot why he was there. “No. I was looking for Iriscent. We had an appointment.”
Santerre’s head dipped back to the work spread out before them. “She’s talking to Lochmore. You can wait outside his office.”
Clearly dismissed, Salla kept moving further down Adjutu’s Path. He passed the closed doors lining each side of the hall, and soon the door to Lochmore’s quarters slipped into view. He came to a halt outside and leaned against the wall. As he waited for Iriscent, he couldn’t help but notice a low buzzing of nerves. Eager to be rid of the feeling, Salla shot out a heated sigh in an effort to chase it away. Despite his discovery that his animosity toward Rainne had been steadily evaporating since learning of her betrayal, he still felt anxious about asking Iriscent to send word for her to visit.
What if it was simply her absence that cloaked those black feelings of animosity? What if the mere sight of her triggered a return? He shrugged as if there was someone there to see it before sheepishly reminding himself he was alone. Send her away again, he supposed.
Minutes passed. Restless toe-tapping turned into pacing in front of the door. No sounds emerged from within
the Adjutu’s quarters. With an impatient groan, he gave several stiff raps against the door’s solid wooden face.
Still nothing.
It was almost ten minutes later, languishing in boredom, when Salla finally heard a noise. It hadn’t come from Lochmore’s quarters, but rather back the way he had come. It was an abrupt screech that was there and gone in half a second, like wood scraping against stone. Slow steps moved Salla closer, ears straining, but only a renewed wall of silence greeted him. Just as he was about to turn back and wait again at the end of the corridor, he spotted something. One of the doors lining the hall a dozen feet away stood ajar, a thin band of light streaming inside.
As he walked closer, filing cabinets bracketing the interior wall appeared. Another step brought more of the room into view, and that was when he caught a subtle hint of movement inside. A moment later, he saw what it was. A man’s back was facing him, arms enfolded about a woman sitting on a table, her ankles crossed behind his thighs. Both were still clothed, but the muffled, urgent sounds each made as they pawed fervently, as lips smothered lips, left no mistaking what Salla had stumbled upon.
Salla backed away, leaving them to their business. But just as the two were about to disappear from sight, the girl’s face flashed up from behind the man’s shoulder. Her eyes were shut tight, lower lip pinched between her teeth. If the split-second glimpse of her face didn’t convince him of her identity, then the intense red color of her hair did.
Iriscent.
Blinking in disbelief, Salla continued his slow retreat. Before he knew it, he was back outside Lochmore’s quarters, wanting to be anywhere but there when they came out of that room.
Find her later, he thought and started walking back down the hall, forcing imaginary blinders over his eyes so he could walk past the filing room in willful ignorance. But before he even rounded the gentle curve in the hall that would reveal the room, Salla heard the click of a door closing, followed by footsteps coming his way. His feet ground to a halt.