by Narro, B. T.
With a surge of psyche like a gust of wind, his body screamed at him to be seated. His knees gave out and he fell back into the chair, utter satisfaction for following the order rippling through his body.
Then it passed, and the fear returned. His nerves were back on edge, ready to protect him from an unknown force that could attack at any moment.
Unable to relax, he sat forward, gripping the handle of his weapon firmly.
“Everyone wants the same thing,” Azaylee said. “Bastial steel. Nothing is more valuable in this world than a rare and deadly weapon.”
“So you think psychics would be treated differently,” Cleve couldn’t help but comment.
“There’s a major difference between a Bastial steel sword and a psychic,” Azaylee said. “My kind is not understood. People fear what they cannot see, what they cannot touch, what they cannot feel, and what they cannot hear. Psyche is all four of these things combined. Bastial steel is none of them.”
Cleve understood, for it was that exact reason he had feared psyche so much. He used to think of it like an invisible tidal wave, a force of power crashing down on him so strong and quick, there was no hope of defending against it. But instead of his body being crushed, it would reach into the depths of his mind, pushing out all his secrets and fears until he was empty.
“Bastial steel should’ve been used to fight the desmarls.” Azaylee looked as if she wanted to spit. “Instead, Danvell Takary used it to further his wealth and power. Greed…” She shook her head. “Greed doesn’t go well with Bastial steel, and ten years later, Greenedge is still driven to war by the combination of both.”
She pointed at Cleve’s lap. “You’ve felt the power in your own hands. Yet, you sit there and judge others for going to war over it—I can feel these thoughts steaming off you.”
“I agree with you,” Cleve said. “The weapons should be used against the desmarls, not against each other.”
“But would you give your weapon to someone else to use against the desmarls?”
Cleve wanted to tell her he would, but he knew he’d be lying. “I need the weapon to protect myself and my home. The use I make of it is just as important as fighting the desmarls.”
“Just as important to you,” Azaylee corrected. “Everyone shares this same thought. Don’t you see? You’re just like us and everyone else involved in this war. My villagers want the weapons for their own reasons, but I can assure you they believe their reasons to be just as important as your reasons.”
She stood, walking toward Cleve. “There’s a common belief shared among many in Greenedge. People say that good deeds will bring forth rewards and bad deeds will be punished. It’s such a popular belief, there’s even a phrase for it: ‘the cycle’. But what people who believe this don’t realize is that, if ‘the cycle’ really existed, it would have to follow some sort of universal law of morality controlled by some higher force than man. It would mean there were definitive rights and wrongs in the world, each deed categorized as one or the other and punished appropriately.”
Azaylee continued to approach Cleve as she spoke. “But everyone knows there’s no universal law of morality. Justice is decided by people—the punishments and rewards we invoke on one another. When I ask if someone believes in a universal law of morality, meaning every action is either right or wrong and will be punished or rewarded appropriately by a force outside the control of man, they always say they do not. But then, if I ask them if they believe in ‘the cycle,’ many will say they do!” She was nearly shouting. “That’s because people often haven’t taken the time to actually consider what they’re really saying they believe in. To say ‘the cycle’ exists is to say there is a universal law of morality.”
She scoffed. “People are fools, and you are as well if you think you can use that sword for good.” She practically spat the word. “There’s no good! There’s just is.”
She was nearly to Cleve by then, and he jumped from his seat when he saw she wasn’t stopping. He backed up to keep his distance. But Azaylee followed, even picking up her pace.
“You’re an honest man,” she said. “Strong in your beliefs. But you still have a lot to learn about right and wrong. I think you’ve either forgotten how young you are or you haven’t truly realized it. What’s your age?”
“Seventeen,” Cleve answered, nearly pushed to the door now.
“Take my advice, Cleve. Run home to Kyrro and don’t come back. The worst years of Greenedge are yet to come.”
Cleve had his back against the door. With his sword in hand, he contemplated raising it to fend her off but knew it would be little use against her psyche.
She reached out her hand, pressing her palm against his cheek. Pain swelled into his body, causing his grip to loosen and his sword to fall. He refrained from screaming, not wanting to startle Jek into making the situation worse.
Instead, he whimpered like a sniveling child, falling to his knees. “Stop,” he managed to get out.
He didn’t fight the psyche, not then. He wasn’t prepared for this and couldn’t ignore the pain enough to get his mental wall up.
“Tell one person a single detail about me, and this pain you feel will be bliss compared to what I have prepared for you. Understand?”
“Yes!” Cleve would’ve said anything to make it stop.
She let go of him, his whole body puddled to the floor.
“Get up,” she said, unlatching the door and nudging him with her foot. “And get out.”
By the time Cleve was up, the door was open and Jek was staring in with wide eyes. “Cleve—”
“I’m fine,” Cleve interrupted, sheathing his weapon and putting up his hands to show he still had all his fingers.
Jek let out a breath of relief.
But then Azaylee told Jek it was his turn, and Cleve saw him stiffening once again.
Chapter 27
Cleve paced in front of the door until he no longer felt the rapid heartbeats against his chest, then he sat.
Jaffo was gone, the trail of blood he’d left already joining the other stains along the stone walkway to the exit. She puts no effort into cleaning up their blood, probably enjoys seeing it as she busies herself in this tower during the day…doing who knows what.
Though he’d just sat, Cleve couldn’t sit any longer.
Getting up to walk about the tower, his first decision was to investigate the bowl of fruit. Cleve wondered if Jek had decided to take something during Cleve’s trial.
He hadn’t.
The fruit was tempting, even now after witnessing Azaylee’s power firsthand. She ate right in front of us, he realized, as if daring us to take it.
He ran his finger down a banana, testing its firmness. His mouth started to water as he wondered how he could hide the peel.
There was a shout.
Jek! Cleve ran to the door, pressing his ear against it.
The shouting stopped, replaced by Azaylee’s infuriated voice. Her words were muffled by the wall between them, but her exasperated tone came through as clear as the pristine pools of water within the tower.
Jek screamed again, this time louder and lasting an entire breath.
“Jek, what’s happening?” Cleve yelled. “Are you alright?”
Just kick it in! a voice screamed.
No, I shouldn’t.
Cleve tried to resist the urge, but he was receiving no reply to his previous question about Jek’s well-being.
Jek’s scream worsened. It sounded now as if he was being tortured. That was enough for Cleve.
The span of a heartbeat was all he needed to gather the necessary Bastial Energy into his right leg. He leaned back and began to kick with the heel of his boot, putting all his weight into it.
He didn’t count how many times he kicked before the door burst open.
Storming into the room with his sword in hand, the first thing Cleve saw was Jek on the floor, his head against his knees and his hands over his temples. His screaming stopped momentari
ly when Azaylee no longer held her palm out at Jek, but at Cleve instead.
She yelled, “Stop right there!”
Cleve was content to listen so long as Jek was no longer being harmed. But just after he obeyed, Jek said something that jolted Cleve back into motion.
“She’s going to kill me…” His tone was strained. With heavy breaths, it seemed as if it took all his strength to utter the words.
Jek tried to pick himself up, only to fall back down with another scream, Azaylee’s outstretched arm pointed back at him.
Cleve ran at Azaylee. She lifted her other palm at Cleve and pain took his feet out from under him as if a sword had slashed across his knees and shins. His muscles twisted together, at least that’s what it felt like.
But the worst of it was in his head, a tearing sensation. He was ready for it this time, though.
Before his wall crumbled completely, he focused to rebuild it.
She was strong. It felt like her whole hand was in his mind, squeezing, clawing, tearing out pieces of him like a madwoman.
He imagined grabbing her wrist to try tugging her out. She needed to be gone before he could get his wall up again. The focus it took made him scream, his body on the verge of convulsing from pain.
Then it dulled as he fought, just barely, but enough for him to get back on his feet. He trudged forward, feeling as if he were walking against a windstorm. He felt a stinging sensation throughout his whole body, as if a thousand bees had covered his skin and pricked him at once.
This was her changing her spell, he could feel it. This was her ultimate power being unleashed.
Cleve collapsed once more, unable to bear his own weight. He knew he was losing, his strength quickly fading.
Searching through past lessons with Rek, his mind was desperate to find something to fight this. “Go someplace else,” he remembered Rek telling him after hours of failing. “If you can’t get me out, then bring yourself out. Imagine you’re somewhere else, move your mind and body with it, and replace your sense of pain with love. It’s far stronger.”
Cleve had never done it successfully before, but it was his only hope now. He tried to imagine Reela, being somewhere with her that was safe. He wanted to feel her in his arms, but he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t working.
With a chill of relief down his neck, his next thoughts were of him and Jessend in bed, cuddled close together, holding each other tight. Never had he felt safer than then, with her small body clutching him with such surprising strength.
He felt a wave of relaxation come over him, but it only lasted until he got back on his feet. The sting came again, shattering his thoughts like a hammer to glass.
He wanted to ask why Azaylee was doing this. Why kill them?
What did Jek say to make you this way? But he barely could see straight from the pain.
He needed something else to escape the agony, to comfort him. Luckily, a thought came to him—Kasko. Cleve saw himself throwing a dagger at the evil little man, then slicing his head off. He was dead. Cleve had killed him, and Cleve could see himself there in the cabin, doing it over and over as he pushed himself a step forward and then another.
Burning came next to replace the stinging, as if he were walking into an oven.
He felt as if he should see his arms and legs on fire…if he looked down. But he chose not to.
Instead, he squinted to see his target—a now grunting Azaylee. He’d gotten farther than he thought. She was just a few more steps in front of him. Her teeth were clenched, her brow creased in worry.
Lysha was next in Cleve’s mind, her silly annoyance at his attempts to get more comfortable sleeping beside her. It wasn’t enough to distract him, to comfort him by bringing him out of this painful moment, and so it too was broken apart easily.
The closer he got to Azaylee, the more powerful her spell.
Cleve could feel himself about to fall again, his body giving out. His heart would be next.
Psyche really can kill, he realized.
It was too much for his body to endure, too much at once, at least.
Pain, he told himself. He knew pain well, had dealt with it nearly his whole life. That’s all this is, he told himself. Pain.
Then Cleve saw his parents. Dizziness nearly overcame him with the image of them. He hadn’t pictured them in years, but there they were, bright and full of life. He felt unrestricted tears flowing from his eyes.
His father, Dex…they were in the forest together. Cleve was just a little boy. His mother, Lena, was there as well. It wasn’t even a memory, or it didn’t feel like one. He was there.
“This is for you,” Dex said, kneeling down to present a short sword to Cleve. His father’s blond hair was rustled by the wind, but his wide smile remained steady.
Lena gasped dramatically. “Look at what Father has gotten you for your birthday!”
Cleve was old enough to know that his mother wasn’t really as enthusiastic as she pretended to be, but he was too excited to care. Reaching out toward the weapon, he waited for his father’s permission to touch it.
“Go ahead,” Dex said. “It’s yours.”
But his mother knelt down and put her arm around Cleve’s shoulders before he could. “Remember what we talked about, Cleve. What is the point of the weapon?”
It was hard to take his gaze off of it, but he looked to his mother for a sign of the answer. The wind made her hair dance, brown like the trees around them. She didn’t have the same smile as his father, at least not in that moment. She looked intensely into his eyes, waiting for him to answer.
But he didn’t know what she wanted to hear. What was the point of the weapon to a child like him?
“I know you know,” Lena said. “Just think about it.”
Only wrong answers came to mind: to hurt, to kill, to defend myself, to learn to fight.
He could recall the respect his father made him learn later, when he gave Cleve his first bow. But Cleve couldn’t remember the point of a weapon in the first place. Was there one? Of course. But it was different for every person, so what did his mother have in mind?
“Tell me,” she said, pointing to it. “What does this sword mean to you?”
He remembered the answer then. It came back to him as she squeezed his shoulder and parted the hair that had fallen in front of his eyes.
“A weapon is nothing but a way for us to express ourselves,” he said. To his ears, his childlike voice was like the squeak of a mouse. But it didn’t stop him from remembering what he was taught. “It’s never a reason to do anything we wouldn’t normally do with our bare hands. It is us who make the decision of how and when to use it, not the weapon.”
She nodded, encouraging him to continue. “And?” She wiggled her wand in front of him. “When would I use this on another person?”
Cleve swallowed hard as the words came to him. “Never.”
“That’s right.” She smiled and stood.
“Never?” Dex blurted, standing to match her. “Why are you teaching him that? What if his life is in danger—can he use the weapon then?”
“His life won’t be in danger until he’s old enough to know that answer for himself. Isn’t that right?” Lena retorted.
Dex let out a defeated laugh. Kneeling back down, he said, “Your mother’s very wise. It’s best you listen to her.”
“I know,” Cleve muttered, grasping the sword carefully by the handle.
The moment he touched it, he was back in the tower with his own sword in hand. He could see the fear in Azaylee’s eyes, for he just needed one more step to reach her.
Sweat made her hair stick to her cheeks and forehead. She was against the wall, nowhere to go. Her psyche couldn’t stop him. It was clear to the both of them now.
Knowing his mother would approve of his choice to use his weapon, all his strength returned, and he drove his blade into Azaylee’s stomach.
She collapsed, gasping in pain.
He raised his sword to end her suffering,
but Jek painfully grunted out, “Wait!” and knelt down in front of her. “Why kill me just because I found out who you are?” Jek asked her. “Why is it so important to you?”
“Because she’s a failure,” Azaylee muttered, sliding down against the wall and holding her stomach. “I’d rather die than be haunted by her mistakes as I have been for so many years.” A wave of coughing interrupted her. She wiped blood from her mouth. “I control this land, this village. This is who I really am. And I have plans for more. Golden Girl is dead. There will be a new song once Azaylee is known across the world.”
Jek looked up at Cleve from his knees, his expression perplexed. Cleve could tell they were thinking the same thing. She doesn’t realize she’s going to die?
Was it right to tell her? Cleve didn’t know. Though, he felt even worse about the idea of leaving her like that—to die alone.
Well, she’s not completely alone if we leave. Cleve looked at the legless man once more, still at the table with his knife. He was disinterested, somehow even then. Yeah…alone, Cleve concluded.
Then he thought of something she might want, perhaps a dying wish. “What would you like us to tell the villagers?” Cleve asked.
Azaylee lost her breath for a moment, swallowing a gulp of blood that had climbed to her mouth through her previous coughing. Her strength was gone, her eyes no longer seeing him or Jek.
Her breath did not come back. Her head sank to her chest.
“She’s dead,” Jek said, getting to his feet.
“Let’s get out of here,” Cleve said, feeling an urgency to flee.
“One moment.” Something about Azaylee seemed to draw Jek’s interest. He leaned down and removed her golden necklace. It matched her hair.
“Lisanda might like this,” Jek said.
Cleve reached out to stop him, grabbing his wrist. “Have you no respect for the dead?” Cleve glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one had come into the tower.
“Not when she tried to kill me just moments ago.”
Cleve sighed. He couldn’t argue with that. “Fine.”