Knight Chosen

by Tammy Salyer

  This sight snapped Mylla from her silence. “He brought me here to aid the Stallari after havoc broke out at Aster Keep.”

  “Ulfric told us what occurred,” Roi stated, his eyes journeying around the chamber. “He didn’t say what had become of you, though.”

  Inexplicably, Mylla felt compelled to explain—or rather defend—herself. “Before Lock and I left Aster Keep, the Stallari charged me with warning Symvalline of the usurper’s intent, what he knew of it anyway, and . . . and protecting Isemay.” Eisa fastened her with a dead stare at this admission, and Mylla went on. “Symvalline had come to the keep in search of Isemay—pure luck that she was there—and she stayed behind to warn Stave and Safran—”

  “Symvalline is dead,” Eisa cut in. “You heard the Verity Balavad, yes?”

  The words that had thundered through the chamber echoed inside her mind: KILL THEM ALL!

  She swallowed, looked away. “Yes, I heard him. But that doesn’t mean . . .”

  Eisa looked around the chamber suspiciously. “After we heard Balavad’s curse, we could no longer link to Symvalline with the Mentalios. She lives no more, and if her daughter was with her, neither does she.”

  Mylla realized the two Knights thought the usurper had killed them. But she recalled the avalanche that had been heading straight at them, the wall of rock and broken trees pouring from the mountainside like water just before she’d been drawn into the safety of the cave by Lock. What had caused it? She guessed it could have been Balavad.

  Regardless, it was she who’d left them behind. Mylla bowed her head to gather her composure. When she looked up, Roi’s wandering gaze had finally settled—on her. Why is he staring? She feared he could see or glean from her Mentalios what she tried to conceal—the guilt that now rode her shoulders with all the weight of the stones that had buried Symvalline and her daughter. How could I protect them? The Stallari asked me the impossible: to choose between my duty and his family. How could I not have fulfilled my service to Vaka Aster? Her stomach knotted, making her breathing shallow.

  On a whim, she decided not to tell them about the avalanche or that Symvalline and Isemay had died on the mountainside while she’d run for cover. It was somehow easier if they believed the usurper’s forces were responsible. She couldn’t face her mentors knowing she’d failed one of their own and worse that she’d been a coward. Letting her eyes hold Havelock’s for a moment, she went on, hoping he understood her need to strangle this truth from existence. She dipped her chin toward him. “I think Wing Rekkr can tell us what may have happened to the Stallari.”

  All eyes on him, the pilot cleared his throat and explained again what he’d told Mylla. He finished the tale with: “Then he leaped onto the pedestal and raised the thing in his hands into the blue circle of light, which then seemed to burst. When it did, I stumbled, blinded. When I could see again, the light had disappeared.”

  “And Ulfric with it?” asked Eisa.

  He nodded.

  Eisa turned to Mylla. “And where were you?”

  “Still below. Lock was able to force the trap door more easily than I and entered first, just as this burst of light happened.”

  Eisa and Mallich exchanged glances. “The cage,” she said.

  Mylla asked, “What cage?”

  “Ulfric saw something in Balavad’s Scrylle,” said Roi. “A way to cage a Verity.”

  She almost snickered but caught herself. Was that what the Stallari had meant while they were still in the keep? He’d sent through the Mentalios: Warn Symvalline and the other Knights of his intent to ensnare Vaka Aster and rule Vinnr. “A cage . . . I don’t see how that can be possible.”

  Eisa’s eyes flashed, their lightness almost silver in the cave’s diluted sunlight. Her next words illustrated why she was considered to be a woman whose patience gave definition to the word “short.” “Doesn’t matter if you understand, novice. Our situation is dire. The usurper has a flying army. We saw them from the mountain, dozens. They bombarded the mountainside and started an avalanche.”

  Mylla had to force herself not to flinch at this.

  “You’re lucky you survived it. You must have been inside the tunnel already. We know this usurper Balavad controls Yor and now likely Ivoryss as well. The Stallari may or may not be alive, but he’s gone, probably dead too. His Mentalios is silent, in any case, and that leaves only us, the five remaining Knights, to hold to our duty. We may not have long before the rest of Balavad’s ships arrive. They may never have found us if you hadn’t led them here.” Eisa stared through Mylla as she spoke the final words, seeming to have already dismissed Mylla from their list of allies.

  “I—” Mylla choked, unable to speak. Havelock stepped up beside her, his solidness meant to be reassuring. “I had no intention—”

  Eisa cut her off. “Your intentions are another thing that doesn’t matter. The vessel is still in danger. We must move it.”

  “The interrealm well—” she tried.

  “—is destroyed. By the Stallari. And the sanctuary itself is blown apart.” The tone with which Eisa said the next words could have made ice shiver. “Because of your and Ulfric’s actions, there’s nothing for us to do but wait for Stave and Safran—if they aren’t dead as well—and prepare to see everything we’ve spent centuries protecting be undone.”

  The statement hammered Mylla’s gut with a physical force. “Eisa, are you implying the Stallari and I are somehow to blame for this?” The words tumbled from her, heavy with disbelief. And worse, a sense of betrayal. “I am a Knight Corporealis, just as you are. I’ve given everything for this cause, just as you have. Be prepared to back up any further accusations you dare make,” she finished.

  Eisa took a step toward Mylla, her posture dauntingly rigid. Mylla took a step back and bumped into Havelock. From the corner of her eye, she saw him take a defensive stance. For his own sake, I wish he weren’t here. He doesn’t know what she is capable of, she thought. She raised a palm, anticipating the need to release her klinkí stones in defense. On the heels of that, she thought: Do I know what she’s capable of?

  Roi reached out and placed an implacable hand on the Stallari Regent’s shoulder and said, “What kind of fools are we? Are we not Knights? This isn’t the time for fear or stupidity. We must warn Safran and Stave, if it isn’t already too late.”

  Hot red blossoms had flared over Eisa’s sharp cheekbones, making her gray eyes shine feverishly, and she stood her ground for a moment. Half sneering, showing a hint of her white teeth, she said, “You have no idea what I’ve given up, novice.” Her eyes darted to Havelock, then back to Mylla. “Pray that you never do.” Then, as if nothing at all had passed between them, she looked to Roi. “If the Vigilance was able to escape Asteryss, it should be here soon.” She reached for her Mentalios and pulled it over her head, then held it out. “Join lenses. We’ll attempt to warn them. Quickly.”

  Mylla blinked, feeling like a rug had been ripped out from beneath her. Had she almost come to blows with a fellow Knight? She’s just frazzled. We all are, she told herself. She didn’t mean what she implied, Mylla. Forget it.

  Roibeard had already followed Eisa’s example and removed his Mentalios, and Mylla was next. Piling the three lenses into Roi’s wide palm, they wrapped their hands around his, gripping tightly.

  Eisa began, Stave, Safran, take heed. Mount Omina is under attack. Ready the emberflare cannon before reaching us. Mylla and Roi picked up the thread, combining their thoughts and sending: Be wary of the danger and get here with all speed . . .

  Chapter 16

  For a typical pilot, dodging the lightning that filled Himmingaze’s tempestuous skies day and night came down to both good instincts and excellent training. For Jaemus Bardgrim, recently-forcibly-retired Glint Engineer in the Glisternaut fleet, it came down to luck. Fortunately, this was coupled with such a healthy infusion of confidence in his own ability to fix anything on his ship that might be hit, the actual piloting part was an afterthought. The marvel
ous eight-thruster Octopod’s sleekness and one-of-a-kind engine, both his own designs, were developed with a plan of making flight less a chore than an event—an event of pure exhilaration. Being a genius and an engineer, after all, had its perks.

  Jaemus had nestled the Octopod on the flattest part of Isle Stonering he could find and slept for a couple of Glister Cloud cycles. On awakening, he noted with resignation that the current storm hadn’t diminished in the slightest, and disembarked with a resigned sigh. The wet, salty air around him whipped him angrily, the wind and water seeming to resent his presence. The Never Sea, its customary purple-black color during Glister Dim, the darker part of the Glister cycle, beat against the island’s gray rock as if to punish it. The weather and cheerlessness, however, suited Jaemus perfectly. The grimmer it was, the less likely he’d be found.

  “Call me ‘broad of ego and lean of wit’ all you want, Cote,” Jaemus said aloud, still arguing with his recently deserted beloved despite having stomped off without a goodbye nearly three cycles ago. “I got here in one piece. Soon enough I’ll prove to you how right I am, and I know I’ll enjoy hearing you stammer out the apology you’ll owe me more than you’ll enjoy making it.”

  As he spun around to scan the uninviting area, he reflected that at this point he’d be content to trade up an apology for a simple neck rub. After countless hours of fighting against the storm, Jaemus was still completely exhausted. It felt as if iron rods had replaced his spine.

  First things last, he thought and hefted his flight-kit bag over a shoulder, wincing at the tweak in his stiff neck. Picking his way quickly but carefully over the rocky ground, he soon reached the front entryway of the nearby temple, the only structure on this forsaken spit of land. In fact, it was the only structure and only spit of land in Himmingaze, as almost the entirety of the world was underwater, its people living in floating habitats. Jaemus couldn’t take credit for the habitats, but he did take credit for many of their current amenities and improvements enjoyed by Himmingazians. He was, after all, a fine Glint Engineer, and not many would argue that he wasn’t the finest.

  The feel of real rock, uneven and random, hostile in a way, jangled his senses. Another positive of living aboard the habitats. Not only were they comfortable, but level footing was always guaranteed.

  The goggles he wore kept the rain and wind out of his eyes, but more importantly they enhanced his view of the surroundings. Though it might be ironic if, after getting her in one piece, he were to get swallowed alive by the flying predators that sometimes hunted this shoreline, it would most definitely not be amusing. Wriggly bloodsucking fleeches, three times the length of a person, were transparent except for the greenish globs that made up their internal organs, and his goggles helped illuminate and increase the horizon’s contrast enough to spot them should they show up. Another of his designs, the goggles, and very handy, he had to admit.

  Hurrying up the crumbling stone steps of the temple, he stepped inside. It had once belonged to the long-dead cult of the Creatress, but was now as abandoned and empty as the island itself. He took a quick look around to make certain he was alone before starting his search for the rest of the Verity stones in earnest.

  At least, that was the plan—until a strange popping sound coming from the high eaves caught his ear. Jaemus’s head jerked up, tweaking his neck again, and a flash of light illuminated a falling man, not coming through the roof—for no broken plaster or stone showered down—but from just beneath its dark heights inside. The figure splatted in front of him on the crumbling marble floor like an oversized raindrop made of skin, hair, and . . . was he wearing a metal shirt?

  Jaemus quickly flashed his illuminator on the man and stood in stunned silence as he groaned and grew still.

  Did I really just see a man fall from the sky, Jaemus thought, crash through a roof without breaking it, and drop to his death in front of me? Chewing his lower lip, he tried to make sense of this. Then instinct added, Based on the not-breaking-the-roof part, I believe I’ll treat the possibility he’s dead as a maybe, not a certainty.

  Warily, he looked around, wondering if he were the butt of some hidden prankster’s joke. He shined the illuminator into the darkness of the arched ceiling. Immediately, another sharp blue light flashed, then another pop sounded and several objects dropped alongside him, thudding heavily on the marble floor. This time he made a little sound that he was not proud of, a cross between a squeee and kaaaa, as if he were choking on a bone, and fumbled his light. He managed not to drop it and whirled it around the infuriating shadows writhing over the ground, trying to locate what had fallen.

  Six faintly glowing stone spheres, amazingly like the Verity stone he already possessed, and a metallic cylinder, also just like the one he carried, lay scattered nearby.

  Not a man to trust coincidence without first evaluating the situation, Jaemus took a moment to consider the many possible things that might be about to go wrong—if this wasn’t a joke after all. He started with the facts: first he’d defied his commander; then abandoned the Glisternaut fleet after stealing the Octopod; then flown it to a forbidden-by-law Verity temple, just in time to witness an impossible manifestation of a person out of thin air.

  But this reflection only took a moment.

  “Water and lightning,” he whispered, sucking air between his teeth. “What incredible luck. And it isn’t even my birthday!” Not trusting coincidence was one thing, but he would never be accused of being one to miss out on an opportunity.

  And this was it. Everything he might need to prove he’d been right all along about the latent power in the dead cult’s sacred artifacts, and finally get a chance to rub the Glisternauts’ and the Himingaze Council of Nine’s faces in their idiotic obstinacy, had literally just landed at his feet. He could get back his position as Glint Engineer, get back his respect, and get back in the race to break past the Glister Cloud surrounding Himmingaze before it and the Never Sea swallowed the rest of its inhabitants like fleeches. The people of Himmingaze could, if his luck held, finally find a new home to colonize somewhere beyond this one. And he, Glint Engineer Jaemus Bardgrim, would be the one to thank for it.

  With no more hesitation, he quickly gathered the unexpected boon of Verity stones, opened the cylinder to discover, as he suspected he would, a parchment inside covered in strange writing, then tucked all the items into his flight-kit bag.

  But what about the unconscious, possibly dead, man? The items must belong to him.

  Jaemus stepped nearer the strangely dressed figure, unsure if the tickle at the back of his conscience was guilt, concern, or just hope the man had expired and rendered Jaemus’s thievery consequence-free. No luck, the stranger suddenly gulped a breath and rolled over, making Jaemus jump once again. He mumbled something, but Jaemus didn’t understand the words.

  “Listen, friend,” Jaemus started, not quite certain what to say to someone who’d appeared out of the air like an apparition. “Um, you doing all right there?”

  The stranger sat up and blinked rapidly, as if dust had blown into his eyes. At the same time, he reached across his body, groping at his side for something he seemed unable to find. Blood leaked from his nose in a slow crimson waterfall, and the bridge of it sported a gash that would leave a heroic scar once it healed.

  He was torn. He could sprint out of the temple now, and be back in the Octopod and airborne before the man was able to even stand, his boon of Verity stones firmly in hand. Or, he could help the obviously shaken up stranger, and, of course, lose his newfound treasure forever.

  Sighing inwardly, Such a softy, Jaemus, he reached out and asked, “Can I give you a hand?”

  In response, the man homed in on him with a sharp gaze and extended one arm like a whip. From within his metal sleeve flew a glut of small projectiles. Straight toward Jaemus.

  He vaulted back and came up hard against a marble column. With an “oof” he dropped the illuminator and threw his arms up protectively, adding a, “Gah!”

  O
ver a dozen crystalline stones, about the size of his thumbnail, stopped short of him and hovered threateningly, giving him an up-close-and-personal. In the middle of each stone, glowing hearts throbbed with a light so blue, so stormy they mirrored the depths of Himmingaze’s chaos-tossed sea, seeming to move and flow like miniature oceans themselves. At his wide-eyed stare, strange black marks on the shards’ faceted exteriors—exactly the same as the runes on the unreadable parchment he carried—flared with brilliant red, as if alight with flame.

  A bubble of glee at recognizing the runes momentarily surfaced, but fear rudely shouldered it back. He didn’t have time to be excited, given that he was about to be turned into a walking slurry of holes. “Wait! Can we talk about this? I can explain!”

  The man spoke, but the words were incomprehensible at first. Then Jaemus realized he knew the language, or at least he knew a touch of it. Vertasian, a dead tongue taught to him by his gramsirene Vreyja for the fun of it. Gears in his head began clicking into place. Like rust being whacked from an old iron tool, he tried to recall what he’d learned from Gramsirene and said in the old language, “Your speech . . . Vertasian?”

  The figure asked, “You’re a Knight? To which Verity are you sworn?”

  “Night?” Jaemus said. “Nooo . . . just a regular guy. Sworn to, er, break beyond the limits of the Glister Cloud using my great intellect and tenacity and bring the people of Himmingaze to a new world.” He tended to ramble when he was nervous, and the odd visitor’s even odder questions were making him exactly that. His gram had always had a strong spirit, but he wasn’t sure her mind had kept up, and this man was starting to remind Jaemus of her.

  Still holding his hand out, apparently controlling the hovering stones, the man stood up. “You have a strange way of speaking. What realm is this?”

  “This is the southern Never Sea, on Isle Stonering. You’re in the old temple of the Creatress.” The man stared, his face crinkling into a rictus as if he’d just said they were swimming with sharks while wearing tunafish water shorts. Jaemus tried something else. “Jaemus Bardgrim,” he said and gestured, carefully, to himself.