Allies and Enemies: Fallen

by Amy J. Murphy

  She looked away with a disgusted sound. “Unlikely.”

  “That is why the Fates placed you there for him,” Lineao said solemnly.

  “He is too close to see it, but this is a vulnerability. We do irrational things… because of each other. Because our feelings blind us.” Sela stood, a little unevenly. The room felt too warm suddenly. “He is safer without me.”

  Lineao crowded her between the bench and wall, a mistake for anyone. “This is your duty, if you see it or not, Commander.”

  “Stop it.” Sela leveled her hand on his chest, as much to push him back as to steady herself. The buoyant drunken haze was evaporating, exposing the too-familiar jagged surface beneath.

  “You come here, to this room, just like any other that seeks answers. Soldier or not, you are all the same in the eyes of the Fates. Your heart is bare to them and they see all. You wonder if the choice you have made was the right Path. You question your actions. You wonder if your love for this man is misguided.”

  Gone was the gentle teacher, the patient listener. He was more like a driller pressing close, his face inches away.

  “I don’t… I’m not…” she stammered. The denial was there, an easy response. Then the anger welled up, always within reach. This time she shoved him more firmly. “I’m not one of them. I’m not like them.”

  “True or not, you share his Path now.” Lineao allowed himself to be moved back. It did not stem the flow of his speech. “Stand with him. Give him your strength.”

  “Enough.” Her echo rang in the round chamber like an angry chant. “It is a vulnerability we cannot afford.”

  “Do not tell me you fear this? After all that you have faced! You fear this simple and pure thing. You fear this gift.”

  She gave a long shuddering breath. “Yes.”

  “Finally.” He said with a wry smile. “Welcome to the Worlds, Citizen.”

  ---

  This is what it is like to stride between worlds, feet firmly planted on opposite sides of the diaphanous scrim of real/unreal.

  Erelah pictured a giant, hands on hips, facing the void and stepping on two globes.

  The thought was queer, uncomfortable. She laughed, a nervous buzzing between her ears.

  /Serious. This is serious, child./

  And she was aware of a grave presence, alien, but not unwelcome like Tristic. Just other.

  /Calm. Focus on me, my words./

  Erelah was being gathered up, patiently. It was easy to picture her fractured pieces lying scattered across a bleak expanse. In careful order, these pieces were being rejoined. The hands that did this were gnarled and ancient, covered with scaled white skin. In strange duplicity, these hands also pressed against either side of her head. Eyes closed, she felt this being pressing down against her forehead.

  Normally she would have found this suffocating. She hated the sensation of being held down. Her focus drifted. The urge to fidget and squirm pulled at her.

  /Still, child./

  The Sceeloid. Liri. That was the owner of the hands, the voice.

  He had entered with the priest, Lineao. They made the offer with a strange firmness, the way a physician proposes the only treatment available as if it were a choice when, in the end, there is no other.

  /Focus. Here, with me. Do not fear./

  The awareness of the room, the dry perfumed air dissolved. There was fuller blackness. She knew immediately where he was pulling her. And her fear surged.

  /No fear./

  The clawed panic receded into her chest, nestling down, unwilling to slink away entirely. But it did obey, one rheumy eye peering out with distrust.

  The room seemed so much taller, the ceiling disappeared into dark far overhead. Her footfalls were silent on the high polish of the floor like black ice. There far at the edge of the weakling light sat the evil queen in her throne.

  Tristic. She seemed larger with her stooped shoulders towering over Erelah. The mouth stretched wide and cruel into a smile of cragged teeth.

  /Intriguing. You come to me, then, lovely girl./

  Panic sprang up within her, back arched. Ready to thrash wickedly.

  /Stay. Be still. She is but a shade. Powerless./

  She calmed.

  A black chuckle, damning.

  /You employ a simple mystic to combat me?/

  Tristic stalked about her, circling her prey.

  /End this nonsense. Return to me./

  Erelah was aware of something tugging at her just beyond the threshold of sensation. The roots and vines of that alien place in her head withered, shriveling. Somewhere Liri was working her free of that poison soil. Now she understood. As Erelah occupied the beast in defense of its lair, the priest had stolen past to destroy her nest.

  /You were meant for this, Veradin. We are bound, you and I./

  Desperation crept into Tristic’s tone.

  She lunged at Erelah. But the shade passed through her. Cheated, it hissed in a winded rush.

  /You think this saves you? I see all, regardless of this country mystic and his simple tricks./

  Tristic was collapsing, folding within as if the very bones of her skull were breaking down. Her hand hooked against Erelah’s shoulder, seeking to rend and tear. But it held no more weight than a phantom breeze. The evil queen crumbled to her knees, staggered by an invisible weight.

  /You are mine. This does not end things./

  Dark blood wet the corners of her mouth. For each ragged breath she uttered, Erelah felt something within her surge, an energy, a buoyancy long forgotten. This was mine, she thought. This belonged to me.

  She sat up.

  Her lungs unfolded against the liquid heaviness that sought to drown her. Blindly she rolled onto her side as a fit of coughing racked her body. Dimly she was aware of the taste of blood.

  Was this another dream?

  She peered about the vaguely familiar room, thoughts slowly clearing.

  Liri withdrew, pulling his hands into the cuffs of his long robe. The hood covered his rough wide features. The shadow it cast made it impossible to see his eyes.

  “Gone.” She breathed. “Tristic is gone.”

  The hooded head bobbed. But the priest did not speak.

  A row of candles lined the wall. Twisted ropes of sabet vines hung along the walls. The warm, humid air was rich with their scent. Nearby, Erelah could hear the low, grinding chant of priests in a prayer to Miri. She had not heard it since her childhood on Argos.

  Memory returned in a rushing wave: The tiny vial dashed to the floor. Jon’s angry voice, tempered with fear. Hands moving over her, prying open her jaw. Some cloying sweet fluid.

  Then the pieces fell back into place. This was the Temple of Miseries. A sacerdos named Lineao had told her most of it. They had helped pull her from the brink of something terrible.

  ---

  “The being, Tristic, has been thwarted. I have severed her connection with you. I fear she will persist. Her desire to reclaim you is strong, child,” Liri said. His voice seemed weaker to Erelah, his breathing labored. She watched him lean back into the wooden bench beside her. His gnarled hands rested over the top of a cane that looked just as old and twisted as he. “The half-breed is clever and relentless. She is obsessed with the thought that you are her salvation even as she succumbs to decay. Nothing shall deter her from claiming you, save her death.”

  “Do you think she can find me here?” she asked.

  “It is quite possible. Quite possible,” Liri replied. “I do not doubt her resourcefulness.”

  Erelah bit her lip, afraid to ask the question that worried her. Does this mean the Sight was gone? Did she still have to fear the touch of others?

  As if guessing her thoughts, Liri turned his milky white gaze on her. “The spark of Sight has always dwelled within you, as it does in any of the Miri’s children. Yet, in you, child, it is stronger. Certainly, you have felt its influence. A lucky guess here or there… meeting someone for the first time, yet feeling as if you have know
n them forever. It was meant to help guide your Path, unseen. It was certainly never meant to be changed as it has in you.”

  He paused. “But this abomination… Tristic... has interfered. Whatever changes she made to you, has forced to the surface your glimmer of Sight, making it burn brighter than Miri had ever intended.”

  Erelah frowned, shaking her head. “But I don’t want it.”

  “What you desire, child, matters not. It shall remain a part of you. And grow stronger still.” The gentleness in his tone faded. “And now, a warning. You must learn to control it. Be careful with whom you come into contact. If you must use your Sight on another, be wise. For that other becomes of you. In that moment you become them, take from them memories and their… essence. I sense that you have already experienced this, no?”

  Erelah nodded, swallowing. “By accident. I didn’t know.”

  “Too much can overwhelm. Be careful, young one. The Sight you possess can possess you.”

  “Will I always be like this?”

  “So many questions.” Liri reached down tapped her beneath the chin, dismissive. “There’s a good child. Rest now. Your Path stretches long and far from here. And you have much yet to do.”

  The heavy fabric curtains of the doorway parted. Erelah saw Jon pause there, uncertain if he should come any closer.

  She nodded slightly as if to answer his silent question.

  “This old body tires.” Liri released a weary groan as he rose, leaning heavily on the cane. “Lineao, come boy. Help this one back to his chamber.”

  “I’m Sarrid, Master Liri,” The young boy left his seat on the floor and stood at the Sceeloid’s elbow.

  “Ah. Right. Over time the mind forgets such tedium as names. Help me, boy.” Liri placed a hand on Sarrid’s shoulder, the other gripping the cane. The two began a slow, careful shuffle to the doorway.

  She watched as her brother stepped aside, allowing them to disappear through the curtains.

  Jon gave her a questioning look. Erelah looked away sharply, uncertain of how to describe what had just transpired.

  He plopped next to her in the thick layers of pillows of her pallet. She did not need Tristic’s gift to sense his near exhaustion.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Real. This feels… real. Solid.”

  It was the best word.

  Until now, it was as if Erelah had been a ghost, drifting through the worlds untethered. This was the most solid she felt in a very long time. She felt real and actually in control. Things seemed focused.

  Muscles ached as if she had been running for days. But it was a good soreness, reinforcing that sense of being whole. Her fear, once a constant companion, had become a blur on a dim horizon. She felt safe. That odd pressure in her head, the dank place where Tristic had once thrived, seemed fuzzy and drained.

  When Jon smiled, his expression seemed lost. “You had me so scared.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked down, tracing an intricate woven pattern in the bedclothes. “I wasn’t in control. The things she made me say… do. I’m so sorry. Jon, I don’t expect you to understand. You thought I was mad and I guess I was. That is what Tristic did to me.”

  “Tell me she’s gone for good.”

  She nodded. “Gone for good.”

  Jon crushed her in a sudden fierce embrace.

  Erelah gently pushed him back. “As long as Tristic is alive, Jon, I’m not safe. And if you are with me, you’re not either.”

  His hands settled on her forearms. “Then we run. We keep running until she’s dead. Ty was right. We can wait Tristic out in the Reaches where she can’t touch you. I’ve found a system called Hadelia. There’s a large Eugenes population. It’ll be easy to blend in—”

  “You still don’t get it, do you? What makes you think she won’t follow us there?” she said. “She has the plans to the j-drive. Think of it, vessels that can travel anywhere with no reliance for flex points. And not just strykers. Carriers. Freighters. If she’s not done it already, she soon will.”

  “Then what? What are you saying?” He sat back on his haunches.

  “We end this all. Now. On our terms.”

  “How, Erelah?” His expression was a mix of frustration and astonishment. “We have one ship, a busted antique at that.”

  “Two ships,” she corrected. “We have the Jocosta.”

  “Are you listening to yourself? One stryker against Ravstar. That’s just—”

  She sighed, irritated. “Hear me out.”

  “No,” Jon rose, turning for the doorway. “We’re going into the Reaches. Just as soon as you’re good to travel. In this you don’t get a say. You’re in no condition to make a decision like that.”

  “Jon, please listen.” She sat up from the bedding. Perhaps she stood too quickly. The room began to tilt as she took an unsteady step forward. Jon caught her just as her knees folded.

  “See?” he admonished. “You want to go on the offensive and you can barely make it across the room.” He settled her back on the bed. “Get some rest, baby sister. We have some traveling to do.”

  Erelah watched him stride from the room.

  “Forgive me, Jon. But I tried,” she said under her breath.

  32

  Sela paced the small room Lineao had provided for sleeping quarters. Not long ago, he had appeared with his message: Erelah had recovered. The Sceeloid had succeeded in ending Tristic’s possession.

  She received this news with bitter relief. It had been easy to heal the girl, but Atilio had never benefited from the same attention.

  Where was Lineao’s convenient healing Sceeloid then?

  A tepid guilt came just as quickly on the tail of that thought.

  It is done. Now Jon will have his sister.

  It made Sela’s decision that much easier.

  “She’s going to be all right,” Jon announced from the doorway.

  She looked up and he was suddenly next to her, pulling her into a warm embrace.

  “Yes. Lineao told me.”

  His hands slipped down to rest on her hips. He spoke in an elated rush. “She’s good. I mean. She’s a little beat up, but back to normal. Thank you, Ty.”

  Before she could react, he gathered another lingering kiss. Under it she felt her resolve begin to melt.

  She maneuvered out of his embrace. “For what? Returning us to hostile territory? Or having you divulge an identity that is best hidden?”

  “Well. Since you put it that way. All of it I guess,” he said with a low chuckle. It sounded so normal. It was the sound of old things that could never return to them.

  “You thought to come here. It was genius.” He stepped closer. His hands slipped under the hem of her jacket and settled with distracting warmth against her waist.

  She was very much aware of the soft slope of the bed at the back of her knees.

  No. That wasn’t going to happen again.

  “It was a tactical risk that paid off,” she said, pulling away. “We were fortunate.”

  “Fates, I love it when you act terse and practical.” He cocked his head, hands on his hips. “It turns me on.”

  Sela frowned, realizing his sarcasm.

  “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

  “How long do Humans live, Jon? Do you know?”

  “What?” he exhaled, irritation growing. “I don’t know. Ninety years maybe.”

  “Eugenes live to be twice that, unaltered. My metabolism was engineered to replace my cells more efficiently to facilitate healing. If I were not a soldier, I could live to be two hundred, perhaps.”

  “So?” He moved closer. “You honestly think that either of us will even make it to ninety? We’ll be lucky to make it next year.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

  “Then let’s hear it, Ty.”

  “I’m afraid,” she said. “No… I’m terrified.”

  “And you think I’m not?” he countered. “That doesn’t change how I feel about you.
I love you.”

  “Don’t say that. You don’t get to say that. Not to me,” she said, suddenly furious. “Can’t you see? What purpose would it serve but disaster? I loved my son. I watched him die. I could do nothing to save him. I loved my friend. And he is gone too. And you? How can I keep you safe when I failed so many already? I could not bear to lose you.”

  He pulled her to him. The move was forceful, urgent. He leaned his forehead against hers. “Sela, I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or five minutes from now. But you’re not responsible for me. How can I make you understand?”

  “You are my vulnerability. My weakness. And I am yours. How can you actually believe we could survive that?”

  He had to see that. They both acted irrationally where the other was concerned.

  “We can try,” he offered. “Please.”

  She stepped back and shook her head. “This… us… whatever it is. It can’t happen anymore. There is too much at stake. It can’t continue… not like this.”

  ---

  It had been impossible for Sela to sleep. Her last encounter with Jon replayed in the annoying clarity of her memory. In the middle of the night she found herself in the empty courtyard. A dry wind from the desert kicked up, blowing sparks from the torches into the air. She watched the dance of these embers as they were lofted on the winds and snuffed out.

  She heard the crunch of pebbles underfoot near the weathered pagoda that marked the yard’s entrance. The sounds were careless and loud. This was no one with training for stealth. A slender dark shape disengaged from the shadows. A civilian. Perhaps one of the monks. But definitely no one that had business in this space at night.

  Sela tensed, her hand settling on the A6. She snapped the fastener open on its holster.

  The figure reached the center of the courtyard. The light of the sputtering torches carved the graceful arc of pale shoulder under long dark hair.

  She released an irritated sigh. Erelah.

  A secret part of Sela wished it had been Jon. She forced the thought away.

  “Commander Tyron?” Erelah called out. The girl turned, scanning the courtyard.

  Sela retreated into the shadows, certain the girl had not discovered her. She toyed with the idea of waiting her out. She was in no danger of being observed. The night was moonless. The light of the torches did not reach this far.