Ashes of Andromeda (The Last Archide Book 3)

by Chad R. Odom

  Sicari’s last sentence penetrated Oryan to the soul. A new desire rose in his heart. It wasn’t to save her but to be, as Sicari had said it, worthy of her. He remembered what it was like to be with her. She’d saved his life in every way that mattered. If he could return even a fraction of that, he would.

  A war raged in him. Going with Sicari to something completely unknown meant abandoning, at least for now, the search for Celeste. What if it took years? She might not have days, much less years. His brain worked through all the possible outcomes as best as it could. His eyes darted back and forth as if calculating numbers on a page. His mind was cluttered and torn. This was an impossible choice to make. There was no solution he could think of that didn’t end up with the woman he loved dead.

  A still, small voice broke through the torrent. “It’s only mortality that was lost,” it was Armay. “I’m home!” His father’s voice echoed through his mind. He didn’t know if that encounter had been a warning vision or simply the last act of a desperate soul clinging to the hope of mercy, but he did know the feeling of heartache, despair, and utter helplessness was exquisite. It was worse than any physical pain he’d ever felt, and he would do anything to not feel it again. He feared returning to that anguish, but didn’t know how to move on. So far, all he could do was run from it. Perhaps worthy was better than alive.

  “Lead the way,” Oryan choked on the words.

  Sicari smiled and strolled to the trees at the northern edge of the Quarter ruin. Oryan’s first step was arduous, but he managed to follow. The wolf, who seemed to relate to Oryan’s pain, trotted with him, but looked at him with what could only be described as sympathy.

  As he reached the trees, Oryan turned to look upon the grave one last time.

  Sicari stood behind him waiting patiently. “I know what this place is to you, but it’s time to go.”

  The trio took a northeasterly route into the forest. They had not traveled far when Sicari stopped. He raised his arm and began to tap a few invisible buttons on the vambrace he wore on his forearm. It looked somewhat comical to Oryan, as if he was putting on some kind of act to draw out the suspense.

  “Well, step closer,” Sicari said, extending a hand.

  Oryan replied, “What about her?”

  Sicari’s hand fell slightly. “Oh, yes. The wolf.” He patted his thigh and the wolf came to his feet, tail wagging excitedly.

  “She must know we’re traveling,” noted Sicari with a whimsical tone.

  “Traveling?” repeated Oryan.

  “Yes. Now, take my hand and take hold of the animal. There should be enough power to get all three of us there.”

  Oryan cocked his head and pursed his lips. Surely, Sicari was joking. This was all meant to be some elaborate way to teach a lesson. With the skepticism apparent on his face, Oryan took Sicari’s hand. “This better not be one of those…”

  The air around them sounded like being pulled into a vacuum followed by a faint pop. Time stood still. Oryan knew he was alive, he knew he existed, but nothing of his form could be felt or recognized. Life as he knew it stopped. He could think, he could use all his faculties, but he had no way to act on a single impulse. He could see nothing, he could feel and smell and taste and touch nothing but not because there was nothing there to stimulate his senses, his senses simply no longer existed.

  He attempted a scream but there was neither sound nor oxygen. It was as if his mind were trapped in a prison, separated from everything that made him human.

  With a noise like rushing wind, he found himself standing just as he was before. He fell instantly to his knees, vomited, and gasped for breath. Bitter cold shot through his body. Lifting his hand from the ground, he saw that his fingers were already turning a light shade of blue. Tall drifts of snow surrounded him.

  The wolf greeted him happily, licking his face but nestling close. Sicari stood above him. With a few more taps on his vambrace, a pale-yellow light rose from the ground. Before them now stood a doorway and a blast of warm, inviting air greeted them from inside. Once they were in, Sicari wasted no time in leading them down some stairs and into a long, open tunnel.

  The tunnel itself looked more like where they had just left. It was full of trees and shrubs, green grass and animal life.

  “Where…how…?”

  “You did pretty well for your first time. Your friend, too. I’ve never teleported an animal before. She seems to be okay.”

  “Teleported?”

  Sicari nodded. “That tree in the forest is a teleportation node. However, even by our standards, teleportation is a new technology. When we lost the war, the technology had only existed for a short period of time.

  “As for where, we’re now at the southernmost continent on the planet. If it wasn’t for the artificial climate in here, we all would’ve died in the cold within a few minutes.”

  Oryan looked at the beautiful summer-like surroundings. This had to be a hoax. Somehow, the snow and the cold had been the illusion, and they had actually never left the forest.

  “This is impossible.”

  Sicari stepped beside him, placed his hand on his shoulder and smiled. “Oryan, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  ***

  The formation of the trees allowed Oryan a broken view of the domed roof overhead. Somehow, despite the snow and freezing temperatures outside, sunlight warmed this place as if it were the heart of spring.

  The building Sicari led them to was a very natural shade of pearl white, as if it were made from the polished bones of the earth. Flowers and marvelously kept shrubs grew right up to the walls. Elegant vines climbed the columns making even the building material seem organic. The grass was neatly cut with gardens growing in various spots. Some of the gardens were filled with flowers; others with vegetables and herbs. There was an orchard filled with slender white trees that bore the most exquisite looking white fruit.

  The wolf ran freely across the grounds. She was perfectly comfortable and more than happy to have arrived. Sicari, however, was marveling at the place as much as Oryan was. He soaked in each detail of his surroundings as if for the first time. He breathed in the smells and felt the silken flowers. “I’ve lived here for a long time but I didn’t build this place,” he admitted. “Sometimes I take for granted what was accomplished.”

  Oryan slowly came out of the trance he was in. “I don’t understand.”

  Sicari smiled. “Come inside.”

  ***

  Oryan did not get any information from Sicari at dinner. He only told Oryan he would be gone for a while. When pressed, Sicari kept repeating he would return when his business was complete and nothing more.

  Despite his frustration with Sicari’s vague answers and seeming disregard for the precarious situation Celeste was in, Oryan let his body heal. He was amazed at how much strength he had lost. His time in the forest living on minimal rations and little water had taken its toll, in addition to the injuries sustained during the beach landing.

  There was no end to the hospitality. Men and women came and went, attending to his every whim. They were genuine people with a deep interest in him.

  He spent long hours in the training rooms, reconditioning his body to the machine it had once been. He found rooms dedicated to nearly everything he could ask for as he traversed the long halls of Sicari’s home.

  As the days turned into weeks, his impatience with Sicari grew. He had been tricked. Sicari led him here to contain him and keep him from her. Celeste was depending on him, and he was failing her, thanks in a very large part to his false savior.

  His resentment of Sicari bled into everything. This place was too perfect. It was an elegant façade designed to make him comfortable with his bondage. Surrounded by who knows how many miles of deathly cold, he could never escape. It may be luxurious, but it was a prison and Sicari was the warden.

  Rage began to fill his soul. A black hatred for Sicari grew like an evil weed in his heart. He began to despise those who lived here and who gav
e him whatever he wanted. They had to know where Sicari was, but they lied to Oryan, telling him they didn’t.

  His exercise routines became more vigorous. He trained now with a purpose: to be sure his next encounter with Sicari fell in his favor. Then he could get the answers he wanted. Dark dreams filled his sleep.

  A month passed as the torment of the place ate at him. All thought was directed at leaving, but he had no idea how. He needed whatever it was Sicari wore that allowed him to teleport them from the woods to this place but for that, he needed the man himself.

  Oryan was in a room resembling the training rooms he had been accustomed to as a Centauri. Various weapons lined the walls and the floor was a strong yet soft surface. In recent days, aside from brief meals and sleep, he had spent most of his time in this room.

  He hung from a bar mounted on the wall. He had been pulling his body up and then letting it fall for nearly an hour. Sweat poured down his face. His white hair was matted to his scalp. The only clothing he wore was a pair of loose-fitting pants that closely resembled the ones he had seen Sicari in when they had first met in the clearing.

  “Oryan?” a voice from the entrance cheerfully chimed.

  Oryan dropped from the bar and turned. The voice was familiar, but it was not the one he wanted to hear. He hung his head, breathed deeply and relaxed his shoulders. “What?” he asked.

  “I received a message that, despite your repeated request for an audience with Sicari, he regrets to inform you...”

  Oryan crossed the floor with astonishing speed. He gripped the intruder by the throat, making it virtually impossible to breathe. “I don’t give a damn what he regrets! Celeste is in trouble! Where is he?” he asked menacingly.

  “He…he’s…I don’t know!” the man forced out through the pain. His fingers were turning as blue as his neck under Oryan’s fingers.

  “That’s not good enough!” Oryan screamed. “I want him!”

  The man’s struggles against Oryan’s grip began to weaken. In a few seconds, he would pass out.

  “P-Please,” the man pleaded. “I’m sorry.”

  Involuntarily, his fingers loosened. Something about how the man apologized reminded him of begging for forgiveness at Armay’s feet. The man went limp and Oryan let him slide to the ground. Instantly, the man began to sputter and gasp for oxygen. He was on his knees, rubbing his throat. “I’m sorry,” he wheezed. “I really don’t know where he is.”

  The volcano was all but ice cold. Oryan stood, mouth agape, unable to believe what he had done. His memory reached back and, for an instant, Oryan saw Ethanis on the floor after Oryan tried to strangle him. Neither had deserved it.

  The guilt returned, this time with a force that nearly took him off his feet. That familiar, awful pain crushed him like it had in Armay’s presence, but magnified. This was no vision and there was no one there to assuage the pain. His past returned with more force and more power than it had ever done before. He lifelessly walked past the man still recovering on the floor. He looked back and met the man’s scared gaze. Choking back his sob, he thinly whispered an apology.

  He staggered through the halls and to his bed. He was not asleep nor was he awake, yet the nightmares haunted him still. He shook uncontrollably. Sweat drowned his sheets and soaked through until it nearly dripped onto the floor.

  His fingers burned at the memory of those who he’d killed. His heart pounded sorrow through his veins so hard and so fast that he was audibly begging for it to stop. He could see faces of brave soldiers he had killed and those who had died under his command. His memory swam with the violence and hate of his life, and each memory brought with it a new volume of pain that he had never known.

  He screamed and cried for someone, anyone to help him, but no one answered. Tears streamed down his face and were lost. Hours dragged past and turned into days. Feverish night after feverish night mingled with hellish days.

  Slowly, something else washed over him. The feeling was cool and refreshing, bringing down the temperature of his anguished brain. Celeste. Dancing in the grass again, an image of grace and beauty. His despair ended. In its place was a stillness that took him far from his agony. She danced and played, taking joy in another person. Oryan wanted so desperately for it to be him. He continued to watch her move and smile, taking a knee and reaching her arms out. A child rushed into her arms. This precious little boy filled her with such great joy. Not another man, but a child. Not just any child, his child. This was his future, and it was worth living for.

  Oryan clung to the vision with all the energy of a damned soul. His resolution hardened, and he let the pain go. The rage and the vengeance melted away. She was waiting for him. He had lost a family once, but mercy had given him a second chance.

  A new sensation pumped through his body. He had never known real freedom so completely before, and his body relaxed. His contorted face smoothed out to reveal a long hidden handsome and carefree man. Tired muscles breathed a sigh of relief as he fell into a deep sleep filled with wonderful dreams. He did not awaken for several days.

  Sicari

  Oryan’s eyes flickered open. Aside from the sheets he slept on, his room had been cleaned. Fresh fruit waited for him on a slender tray next to his bed. When Oryan arose, the wolf licked her lips excitedly. Scratching her head with both hands, he returned her excitement.

  “Glad to see you, too,” he hugged her neck.

  Oryan wandered the halls, looking for the usual hustle and bustle of people about their various concerns but he found nothing. Each room was neatly kept but, other than that, there was no sign of life. The soft slap of his bare feet, and the click of his pet’s nails, echoed through the empty hallways.

  There was no sense of danger. Even the thought of Celeste was a pleasant one. He knew she was alright. He didn’t know how he knew, but he would be reunited with her soon.

  His animosity toward Sicari had disappeared as well, and he could barely remember why he was so angry in the first place. Those things seemed trivial now. He would see Sicari soon and, when he did, he would be allowed to leave and find Celeste. After an hour or so in the seemingly endless garden, Oryan found a tree, sat down and shared some of his fruit with the wolf.

  “Hello, Sicari,” he said under closed eyes.

  “You’ve gotten better since our last meeting,” Sicari’s said.

  “Or you’re more careless. I figured you’d show up. Apparently, you got my messages.”

  “I got them,” he chuckled slightly. “Especially the last one. Poor Emais. He thought for sure you were going to kill him.”

  Oryan opened his eyes and breathed out slowly. He had put his past behind him but that didn’t erase it. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. You fight something for so long, it’s hard to put it down,” he said softly.

  “I know and so does he.”

  “I didn’t even know his name,” Oryan said even quieter.

  “You do now. I wouldn’t worry too much. As you know, we have the treatment of physical injuries down pretty well.”

  Concern seeped from behind Oryan’s blue eyes. “Then he’s all right?”

  Sicari smiled at him. There was warmth to it, much like Oryan had seen from Armay. “He’s fine.”

  “So, was this my test?” Oryan asked.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Sicari shrugged. “Anger is an addiction. Like any addiction, people don’t change it unless they want to. It had to be your choice.”

  “What if I didn’t want to change? I could’ve killed that man.”

  The wise teacher looked thoughtfully at his student. “No, you wouldn’t have. You’re not a killer.”

  Oryan raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t know me, do you?”

  “Maybe not, but she does and I trust her.”

  “Who is she?” Oryan asked the obvious question. He hoped against hope that it was Celeste. Sicari seemed to know so much, maybe he knew about her.

  “There’s a lot to tell, and it’s something worth telling,
but there are things you need to learn from her and things you need to learn from me. Since she’s not here, you have to make do with me.”

  Oryan shook his head. “You may be the most cryptic man I’ve ever met.”

  Sicari smirked again. Lines and years faded from his face. “You’re not the first to say so.”

  There was a hint in his tone that urged Oryan to dig deeper. “You mean my dad?”

  “Armay used to tell me the same thing all the time. In fact, he that told me once I would one day have given so few actual answers that when the time came, I wouldn’t have any real ones to give.” Sicari chuckled at the memory. “You look like him you know?”

  Oryan cocked an eyebrow. “I look nothing like him.”

  “Your look is definitely your mother’s.” He shrugged. “But the determination in your eyes. The way your jaw stiffens when you are resolved to do a thing: That’s unmistakably him.”

  “How did you know him?” Oryan asked the question that had burned at him since their first meeting.

  Sicari became lost in thought, trying to decide the best way to answer. When Oryan was not sure he remembered the question, he spoke. “There are men in this world more powerful and more influential than countries, wars, kings or emperors. You’ll never find them in headlines, but they’re crucial to the survival of this world and every living person in it.

  “You’ve never heard of them. You may have passed them on the street and never given them notice,” he looked hard at Oryan. “You may have been raised by one and never been the wiser.

  “I’m an Archide; one of only two remaining in the world.”

  “What does an Archide do?” Oryan asked.

  Sicari considered this question carefully before he responded. “Do you believe that people are born good or evil?”

  “No. I think people are born people. Their choices determine what kind of person they are.”