Before she could speak, Jon strode forward. “Help her. Please.”
Lineao did not hesitate. He nodded, ushering them into the dark cool of the temple. Jon followed, bearing Erelah like an offering. But at the heavy iron-clad door, Sela paused. Somewhere in that dimness lay the altar room where her son had died, a place she had hoped to never see again.
For the first time in her life, Sela considered prayer. If her mind could frame the silent wishes sent to invisible beings stupid enough to take interest in the daily affairs of her existence, her wish would be to become a blissfully ignorant soldier once more. She wanted to be like these grimy-faced people in the streets shouting and singing, blind to their coming end, uncaring of the worlds beyond.
“Ty?” Jon turned, blinking out at her from the shade.
Sela took one last look around the blinding yellow sunlight of the courtyard, the crowd beyond. Then she followed Jon inside.
The door shut behind them with a solid thud. Sela suppressed a shiver despite the heat. None of the street noise carried on the warm, dry air. Instead the distant sound of chanting came from unseen rooms. Compared to the brilliance outside, the corridor was a dark cavern. Shafts of light from high windows plunged square pillars into shadow.
“Sarrid! Wake up!” Lineao plowed forward with hurried strides, as they followed his wake.
A small shadow unfolded from an alcove, took the shape of a young boy. Without breaking stride, the priest issued a rushed series of commands in Tasemarin to the boy, who then scampered off on his mission.
A cool tickle of sweat ran between her shoulder blades. They passed the ornate carved door that led to the main altar chamber where Atilio had died. It took everything in her power to keep her gaze forward.
Jon stumbled, resettling Erelah’s limp frame in his arms before Sela could help him.
“In here. Quickly.” Lineao stopped at a curtained doorway and held aside the heavy drapery.
Her captain did not hesitate and lunged inside. Nothing else existed to him. It was written in the desperate set of his jaw.
Sela paused and met Lineao’s eyes. “I was your enemy. Not him. Not her. If you need to tell your brothers about me being Regime, it’s just me. Got it?”
He shook his head slowly. There was a hint of disappointment in his voice. “I see only pilgrims in need of help, like so many others. You are safe here. You have my word.”
The tension in her spine loosened only slightly.
“Wait here. I will return with others that can help.”
---
The morning stretched into midday. Sela imagined that outside, the sunbaked streets would be empty as the Tasemarin avoided the powerful suns. But this was proven false by the sounds of the bustling outside world occasionally carried in with the comings and goings of the temple priests.
Sela sat alone on the stone floor of the hall outside Erelah’s sickroom and leaned against the wall. Flanked by squares of light reflected from the windows high above, she judged the passing of time by watching their slow progress across the floor.
The waiting had given her time to consider the costly leap of faith she had committed to help Jon and Erelah. She had acted in desperation. Even if Lineao could keep their presence secret, there was no guarantee they were completely safe. It was quite possible there was some level of Regime interest in this region, even if they had completely withdrawn from Tasemar. Alternatively there were those Tasemarin not so content with the Regime’s miraculous departure, who might seek revenge. In either scenario, this was not the time or place to adopt a relaxed posture.
“They made me leave. I think I was getting in their way.”
She looked up to see Jon. He slid down the wall to sit beside her, legs stretching into the middle of the corridor. Listing, he came to rest against her shoulder.
Sela turned to look at the curtained doorway. “Is she any better?”
“She looks better.” His voice was muffled against the fabric of her sleeve.
“You need to rest, Jon…”
He righted himself. His answer was sharp. “I’ll rest when I know Erelah will be all right.”
Jon shut his eyes and tilted his head back to the wall. He was still for so long that she thought perhaps he had fallen asleep. But then he spoke again, his voice hoarse.
“What did I do wrong, Ty? How did I not see this coming?”
She regarded his profile. “We allowed… personal indulgences to distract us.”
“What?” He looked at her, brow furrowed. “You mean she did this because we had sex?”
Sela grunted, irritated by the sarcasm she heard in his voice. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Apparently not. Tell me what I know, please.” He angled away from the wall to face her.
“Lord Veradin?”
They turned. In the doorway stood a young boy, no older than ten, head shaven and thin body covered in a simple brown tunic. Something about his appearance made Sela think of the meek, silent Fleet techs on the Storm King. This was the boy Lineao had summoned, Sarrid.
Jon stood, their newly-forming argument seeming forgotten. “What is it?”
Sarrid took a timid step back. “The brothers say you should come back in.”
30
Around her, Erelah was aware of shapes moving. They spoke in low serious voices. None of it she could discern. It was about her, of course, nothing she would want to hear. Her eyelids felt so heavy. Opening them took a great deal of concentration.
But what she did glimpse was a space filled with the mellow amber light of glow spheres. The lines here were soft and imperfect. Earthen walls surrounded them. There was not a glint of metal to be seen. If there were a world opposite to the endless series of medsuites and labs of her time with Tristic, this was it. Those rooms had been cold, sterile and she never felt warm in them. Here the warmth was comforting and seemed to soak into every aching inch of her body.
One of the shapes loomed closer. She wanted to curl back into the soft cushions that cradled her, but found her strength was gone. The shape coalesced into a broad set of shoulders, dark hair. A strong hand gripped hers. Jon.
Even in this state, half-awake, half-aware, she steeled herself against the flood of images. But this time there was no onslaught. Instead it was a thin eddy of emotion rolling from him: a mix of relief, untwisting anxiety. A brief echo of an argument with Ty that was now a firm knot of regret.
And with that the crushing thought: I wanted to be dead. I was supposed to be dead.
“Erelah?” His voice sounded just as battered as she felt.
Her tongue felt too thick. “What…is this place?”
He ran a smoothing hand over her hair. “Shhh… Rest.”
She forced herself to focus on him. Unshaven. Slept-in clothing. Darkened eyes.
All because of me.
“I’m sorry.” She managed a dry whisper. “I couldn’t fight it.”
“They tell me you’re through the worst. You’re going to be alright.”
That thought should bring relief.
Then she felt the thing stir. It stretched from its dark nest. With that came a wave of coldness that the warmth of this place could not overcome. The now familiar pressure/pain wedged into her skull.
“What did you do?” Erelah heard a voice rasp.
She realized it was her own.
Her hand locked down on Jon’s. The strength that came to her was not her own. It came from afar. From her: Tristic.
Pain flashed across his face. Jon pulled his hand free. “Calm down.”
Tristic must have been waiting, standing ready to crawl through that soft place in her mind and take over.
Erelah watched what she did next as a bystander in her own body. She was as flimsy as a shadow.
“Where have you taken her? I demand you return her to me.” She climbed from the bed on legs that felt hollow, unreal. Her muscles burned with cramping pain. All happening to something else.
Tristic filled her now, moving from within to glare out on the room.
“Return you? Where?” This was a new voice challenging.
Erelah’s head pivoted around to follow it.
Tyron.
Arms folded and with an imposing weapon holstered at her hip, Veradin’s breeder glowered from the doorway. An incredible example of selective breeding. Such a shame it would be to destroy her.
/If only to inhabit a body like that…such strength./
“I understand your sergeant expired, Commander. ‘Glory all,’ I believe is the correct sentiment.” Erelah felt her mouth twitch into a mocking grin.
“Erelah? What are you doing?” Veradin demanded.
Moves rigid, Erelah turned back. The brother. Always the brother. The insufferable guilt-ridden expression on his hatefully perfect features. As if all manner of ills the Known Worlds could visit upon their cursed party were specifically designed by his actions. As if a simple mortal could command such influence.
Yet the brother’s words seemed to trigger something. Tristic felt the squirming twitch of her will, fading but still willing to struggle. The girl was fighting her now.
The image of a beach beneath a pale blue sky came to him. Then a crumbling temple, vine-covered and abandoned. Hands, impossibly large and strong. Helio’s, as they walked along the shoreline.
With a shake of the head, the images dissolved. However weak, they were a costly distraction.
Tyron said. “This is for Valen.”
Erelah’s head turned in time to see a blur of motion. Then the powerful collision of Tyron’s fist with her jaw.
There was a white snap of pain and the world flattened once more.
---
“I didn’t see any other choice,” Sela said. It was as close to an apology as she was willing to step. She placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder as he leaned over his sister. The girl’s skin held the plastic sheen of sweat. Her hair was a wild mass of dark vines.
“Do we really have to tie her down?” he asked across his sister’s still body. Although her breathing was deep and regular, she had not stirred since Sela’s punch had ended the unnerving transformation.
Sela sank back on her haunches. “Jon, it’s for her safety.”
“Lord Veradin.”
Lineao arrived in a breathless swirl of robes. The boy must have gone to find him. He edged Jon out of the way and leaned down over Erelah. He brushed arrant strands of hair from her face. Gently, he pried open one of her eyelids. Sela watched his expression sober.
“Quickly,” he said, turning to Sarrid. “Summon brother Liri.”
The boy darted from the room, his expression of relief obvious. Anything to be free of the raging lunatic girl tied down to a cot. For a fleeting moment, Sela envied him.
“What? What is it?” Jon said, standing to face the priest.
“You must be honest in your answer to my next question, Veradin,” Lineao said. “Although I fear I already know the answer.”
Sela tensed. Lineao turned his back on her, his full attention on Jon.
“Are you Human? Is this female—”
“She’s my sister.” An edge of defensiveness to Jon’s reply.
“Your sister. Is she Human as well?”
Jon looked at Sela over Lineao’s shoulder.
She gave him the slightest of nods. What was the alternative?
Jon released a pent-up breath. “Yes.”
The two other priests in earshot turned to each other in silent astonishment. They made some ritualized gesture with their hands. The one closest to the depiction of Miri genuflected in the painting’s direction.
Sela heard him whisper: “Poor child. The poison would have been a mercy.”
Lineao regarded Erelah. In profile, the man looked older, haggard. His mouth compressed into a thoughtful frown.
“I must make preparations.” With that, Lineao turned for the doorway. Sela grabbed a handful of his robe, stopping him.
“You gave me your word. You said they’re safe here,” she hissed.
“They are. You are.” He carefully pried her hand away. “Brother Liri may be able to help the girl. Pray it is not too late.”
“Too late for what?” Jon demanded. “What’s going on?’
The priest regarded him. The pity was plain in his voice. “I have only seen this once before. A Trelgin whose mind had been invaded by a Sceeloid. Long ago during the conquering of Hedas.”
Sela felt her mouth go dry. “You mean sight-jacked.”
Lineao nodded. “When the host resists, it makes the damage worse. It twists their perception. Existence becomes torture. If anyone can sever the link and end this, it will be Liri.”
---
“This is her salvation?” Sela sneered. She stood between the priest and her captain. Unaware of the motion, her hand traveled to rest on the grip of the A6 in its holster.
She studied the creature that introduced to them as Brother Liri. The hunched shoulders beneath the ragged brown cloth of the hood. The pale scaly skin, veined in deep blue, the milky white eyes that by all rights should be blind, yet somehow appeared to take in everything. Long bony hands ending in curved thick nails that looked like alabaster hooks. Needle sharp teeth hosted by pale gums.
Sela had fought Sceeloid soldiers before in her career: they were slinking, sinewy adversaries of immense strength. This one was ancient, seeming carved out of dust and decay.
“Ty. Stand down.”
“He’s a Sceeloid. You can’t trust them.”
“He would say the same of you, Commander.” Lineao inserted himself. “Brother Liri has known no other life than this temple. He was rescued as a youngling, left to die. He has spent his life in service to our Order.”
“Fear not, soldier. I am not your enemy,” Liri said.
The deep rumbling voice stirred a wave of revulsion in her stomach.
“I have come to ease the suffering. It is my service to the Fates. It is my duty to use my gifts in their service and aid where I must. Time is short.”
“Ty, stand down.” Jon repeated. His hands gripped her shoulders.
“Captain?” She turned her head slightly, reluctant to take her gaze from Liri.
“You heard me.” He spoke against her neck. His hand trailed down her arm, guiding the weapon back to its holster.
Lineao took advantage of this momentary truce and helped the hobbled figure to Erelah’s bedside.
Sela turned to face Jon.
“I’m making this choice for her,” he said, his brown eyes serious. “My call.”
31
The first of the dwarf suns was melting into the distant dry mountains when Lineao found Sela in the altar room. She sat on the same low bench with her back pressed against the wall. A nearly empty bottle of scorch-rum was propped between her knees. The boy, Sarrid, had been useful in that sense.
Uninvited, the priest sank to the seat beside her. Time turned back on itself, a serpent eating its own tail. The altar cloth was an ugly mustard color that Sela found out of place. Either it was new or someone had carefully washed Atilio’s blood from it. But the suffocating forgiveness of the three Fates still radiated from the wall. The holoplaz roof once more revealed the purpled night sky. This time no Storm King sailed there. And Atilio was long gone.
She forced down another swig from the bottle before holding it out to Lineao. Surprisingly, he took a long pull from it, grimaced.
“One forgets the taste of such things after so long.” Then handed the bottle back like a firm regret.
She wanted to be drunk.
It was a foreign concept, one she had found appealing at first, but now, on this side of it, not worth the effort. As a breeder, her body metabolized the intoxicant differently by design. Regardless, she took another swallow, mechanical and determined. Her eyes burned and watered at the taste.
She waited for Lineao to mutter platitudes and offer prayers. Instead he merely sat beside her, gazing out over the room. Yellow light
from dozens of tiny clay lamps flickered against the walls like damaged ghosts. The quiet felt like a pretense, as if at any moment there would be a sudden violent explosion of noise and activity. The longer she waited, the longer nothing happened. She recognized the unease for what it was: battle burn. Going for so long without real rest and under near constant threat, it was only apparent to her now in the peaceful aftermath.
Outside, the village was settling in for the night. The Tasemarin were saving their strength for more vacuous freedom worship, she guessed. This settlement’s name was Macula, in the sing-song Tasemarin tongue. She had only ever known it by coordinates and proximity to the government complex her team had originally been sent to secure. When Sela heard it for the first time, she nearly laughed. It sounded very much like the word for stain in Commonspeak. Stain, how appropriate.
She stared unfocused into the dim room of mottled light and shadows. “You keep a lot of secrets here.”
“Secrets can protect or hurt, Tyron. Do not pretend that this is new knowledge to you.”
She snorted derisively. “Those things you told me, Lineao, about me being different. Did you mean them? Were they the truth?”
“You would not be here, now, if it were not so.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
He shifted beside her on the bench.
“Belief is not weakness, Tyron.”
“No matter how much you believe in something doesn’t make it true or right. Belief doesn’t change the facts.”
“You believe that you are fighting for the right things. You believe in your strength and in the character of this man, Veradin. Is that not so?”
She took another pull at the bottle. Swallow. Burn. Then: “And what if you believe in the wrong things?”
“Everyone must find their own truth.”
She took another swallow. “I don’t like the way it tastes.”
He pried the bottle from her hands and set it down at his feet, then rose. “Regardless of the truths you have discovered about the man you worship, he still needs you.”
Allies and Enemies: Fallen Page 24