by Tammy Salyer
Barely sparing the breath it took to say it, Aldinhuus replied, “Quiet.” A moment later, he whispered, “By the fates, so that’s what’s become of your maker.”
Feeling his advantage rapidly slipping away, Jaemus employed his usual, arguably unwise, tenacity. “Listen, we need to have a discussion about what’s going on here. That Scrylle is mine and—”
Before he could finish, the lights inside the ship suddenly went out, pitching them into darkness except for the glowing orb.
“What . . .” was all he had time to say before the angry buzz of overcharged power couplings filled the hold. Within seconds, the floor hatch slid open, and light from outside rose like a specter through the opening.
“Bardgrim, we have the ship surrounded,” warned an amplified voice. “Come out, and do it without anything in your hands.”
“Aaaand now this,” he muttered.
Aldinhuus asked sharply, “Do you know who’s out there? What they want?”
As he started to answer, he noticed another light, not the orb itself but a strange bluish glow—make that two strange glows. Aldinhuus’s eyes, lit like the orb before him as if they shared the same inner spark. Unnerved, Jaemus still managed a response. “Yes, it’s my former crew. The Glisternauts of the Bounding Skate, here to collect what they think is rightfully theirs.”
“What did you steal?”
“Steal?” The very word offended him. “‘Claimed’ you mean. The Octopod is mine.” As if to emphasize this, he patted the wall. “I designed it, I fly it, I created the power harness that gives it the juice to continue forever, thanks to the Verity stone. My crew didn’t believe me when I said it was our ticket to the stars, and I was stripped of rank and station for the heresy of implying its power might actually come from the Creatress. So I decided to prove it before they could lock me up. You see, we Himmingazians have little tolerance for superstition or claims of divine beings and creators. We require proof.”
Though the darkness shadowed the Knight’s face, Jaemus could hear the light contempt in his voice. “You’ve seen the stone and what it can do for yourself. What more proof could be required?” Without giving him time to respond, Aldinhuus went on, “What will happen now?”
From outside: “Bardgrim, you have till the count of three. One . . .”
“They’ll collect me, well, us I assume, and lock us in the brig.”
“Two . . .”
“I won’t be locked up, Bardgrim.”
“Three.”
“It’s not as if they’re giving you a—hey! Don’t do that!”
The Knight had, unsurprisingly, let free his flying trove of kinky stones, and they hovered in a swarm above the hatch, ready for anyone or anything that might appear. Before someone entered and found their head filled with a few extra eye sockets, Jaemus took two long paces toward the hatch, ducked under the stones, and positioned himself on the ladder. “Coming out! Peacefully!” He shouted the last word at Aldinhuus, then said quietly before descending, “Let me handle this. Don’t hurt anyone, Aldinhuus. These are my friends, even if we’re on a bit of hiatus.”
When his boots hit the slick stones below, he slowly turned with his hands out to the side and saw five Glisternauts lined up just outside the hull’s protective shelter. Their flight uniforms repelled the constant rain, but Jaemus knew from experience the incessant drips would be finding their way inside the crew’s collars and prickling their skin. The two ’Nauts on each flank held their right arms out, brandishing shelksies—wrist-borne shullet launchers. Captain Cote Illago stood in the center, the rain running down his face making his angry expression shift dynamically.
Jaemus spoke. “I suppose it wasn’t hard to guess I’d come here.”
Cote remained silent. Knowing the Glisternaut captain as Jaemus did proved to be unhelpful in this scenario. He couldn’t decide if Cote was angrier about Jaemus’s abduction—reclamation, he reminded himself—of the Octopod or about finding him at the forbidden temple. Their last argument had been loud enough to echo throughout the Bounding Skate’s corridors, and had probably been echoed a second time among the crew as they passed the story from one to another.
Two cycles prior, their argument had been raging long enough that it had become clear to them both a truce would not be reached—and Cote would have to arrest him. After a bellowed curse, Cote had slammed his hand on a tabletop in his cabin and growled, “You’ll put this matter aside, once and for all, Jae, or I won’t be able to stop the fallout you know is coming.”
He’d responded, “You’ve seen what the stone can do. You think someone like me, someone with this much brilliance, could ignore the possibilities? Look outside, for the Glister Cloud’s sake! How many more anni-cycles does Himmingaze have before everything is as sodden as your brain? And you won’t even give me a chance? Couldn’t there be some truth to the myths of the Creatress, even if those truths are buried under endless cycles of superstition and distortion?”
“I’ll not have the word ‘Creatress’ spoken aboard the Skate. This is a serious matter, and you know it. You can’t be heard giving credence to any of those lies. Not you, Jaemus, Glint Engineer. You are the standard of reason and rationalism in our fleet. What you’re saying is . . . treason.” With reluctance, even regret, he’d finished, “And it’s my duty to stamp treason out before it flares.”
Jaemus had stared into his stern face, looking for a crack in his visage, a softening that showed he hadn’t meant it, but found nothing. “Slavery to tradition and ignorance may kill us faster than the Glister Cloud, Captain. Are you really a Glisternaut, or just a drudge?”
He knew he shouldn’t have said it, but by that point it had been too late. He couldn’t take it back.
“Get out.” Cote’s lips had gone colorless as he tightened them against whatever harsh words he might have said. His hands had hung clenched into fists at his side.
The fight had been the final push. Jaemus couldn’t continue to waste his time trying to rally the Glisternauts to a cause they purposely chose to ignore, even at their peril. And fighting with Cote hurt more than the knock to his reputation. Win or lose, he didn’t have the stomach, much less the patience, for it anymore. So Jaemus had left Cote’s cabin and stolen the Octopod (claimed!—he again reminded himself) before the ’Nauts who’d been called to apprehend him could do it, then fought the storm for three full cycles to get here to Isle Stonering. For all his wits, however, he clearly hadn’t thought his plan through well enough to evade his own crew. Maybe he’d wanted to get caught. Maybe he was tired of the dread, of feeling helpless against a Great Cosmos that cared nothing for the people who lived in it. Though, if what his new acquaintance said was true, his dread and helplessness were both prescient and well-founded. So what options did that leave him?
He looked over his shoulder to see if Aldinhuus had followed him, but he hadn’t appeared. “Captain Illago, I am not here alone. I have someone with me I think you should meet. And, if you can find it in that stubborn—” He caught himself, stopped, restarted. “In your wisdom as a Glisternaut commander to listen to what he has to say and see what he might show you—”
Cote cut him off. “Search the ship and tie the traitor’s hands. Former Glint Engineer Jaemus Bardgrim, you’re being constrained and charged with treason and the theft of a Glisternaut craft. If you care to ever speak as a free man again, you’ll shut your mouth until . . . until I can stand to listen to you.”
Jaemus hesitated, if for no other reason than because he disliked either of his two options: resist or give up. The decision lost its meaning a moment later when, before anyone moved, a column of lightning so wide it seemed to immerse the entire island flared around them. Jaemus felt as if a base drum had been planted in his midsection and struck by a giant. Instead of a flash of white, the world flared brilliant blue for a moment before his eyes snapped closed and he clapped his hands over his ears . . . despite the pointlessness of it.
I’m not dead? he thought after a few
ticks. The lightning, it might have been lightning, had dispersed without turning him to ash, or even singing him. He heard a man yell incoherently and another cry, “What it the Cloud are they?” and finally braved a peek.
The air surrounding him and the crew teemed with small flying things. Dozens, hundreds, of them darted around the discombobulated crew, speeding toward their eyes, then veering off before striking, apparently in some kind of coordinated attack. One of the crew members fired off his shelksie wildly, a shullet hitting the hull of the Octopod and ricocheting off into the heedless downpour. None of the swooping insectile things came at Jaemus, but he fell to his stomach anyway, more concerned with being accidentally shot than accidentally . . . flown into?
Behind him, he heard the crunch of boots landing on the rock. The Knight. He looked over his shoulder and saw the man appraising the melee, his klinkí stones floating above his palms. His face showed no hint of surprise—he seemed almost to be in a trance—and the strange deep-blue hue of his eyes swirled in a glowing miasma. Were these insects something else he’d brought from his own world? (Was he really starting to think the man had come from another world?) At the moment, Jaemus wouldn’t have discounted anything, even if a Verity itself had ripped open the sky and peered through a gap in reality with the grin of madness on its face.
“What are you—” he started to ask, but there really wasn’t a need, was there? It was obvious what the man was about to do. Attack his crew, maybe lethally. He’d already promised he wouldn’t stand for being locked up.
“No, not today, Master Knight. Not any day.”
Jaemus rolled to his back and kicked out. His boot heel struck Aldinhuus’s shin, causing the Knight to yelp. Aldinhuus’s eyes shimmered, enraged, and Jaemus knew what would come next—kinky stone oblivion. Well, it appeared he hadn’t fully thought this through. Again. With wide eyes, he braced for the inevitable.
Instead, he got lucky. Suddenly, the Knight slapped a hand to the side of his neck, his own eyes widening in shock, then toppled backward as his kinky stones fell harmlessly to the ground and dimmed. His booted feet twitched once, twice, then he was still.
Almost as if called away, the flying things ceased their assault and disappeared in the Glister Dim sky, their glittering wings quickly lost in the ever-falling rain. Jaemus sat up and once more raised his arms. He leaned over Aldinhuus, who’s eyes showed deep confusion at his sudden inability to move, and noted the finger-long shullet the Knight had yanked from his neck—too late to stop its paralyzing venom from taking effect. Feeling inexplicably bad for the stunned and disabled foreigner, even as he tamped down against dark hilarity wanting to bubble up from his core, he said, “Don’t worry, Master Knight. It’s only temporary. But let that be a lesson to you.”
He stood and turned to face the Glisternauts. Cote remained with his feet planted and his shelksie arm still in position to take another shot should it require more than one to keep the frozen Knight down. The rest of the Glisternauts regathered their formation, and their dignity.
Hands held up, palms out, Jaemus said, “Cote, I have a lot to tell you. But first, don’t the Glisternauts have a rule about giving a prisoner a stiff drink before throwing him into the brig? If not, I insist we start.”
Chapter 26
Mylla locked eyes with Brun, neither blinking, and cast about for what to say to break the impasse: We’re not your enemies. We fight for the same cause. . . . By Vaka Aster’s light, when was the last time you had that blade shined? It looks like you’ve been using it as a garden trowel! She disregarded the last option out of hand.
Lock spoke. “Commander, Dragør Wing Pilot Havelock Rekkr, reporting in.”
Brun’s gaze shifted to him. “Wing? How did you get here?” She turned. “Owers! You told me your entire squad went down defending the city.”
A bedraggled Marine pushed past the troop of twelve. His uniform differed from the others, first because it didn’t include a helmet, and second because it was made of royal-blue leather instead of plate armor. A lavishly detailed red and green flying creature, the famed dragør of the Dragør Marines, was embossed on the leather suit’s torso, the emblem of the Wings and a match to Lock’s own uniform.
“Jimp!” Lock said, overjoyed.
“By my wings,” the advancing Marine said, “you made it!”
The two embraced and gave each other’s backs good-natured pats. Mylla heard Owers whisper to Lock, “Don’t worry, brother, I covered for you.”
Lock drew up straight and said quickly, loudly enough for Brun to hear, “You should get your eyes checked, Jimp. You must have mistaken my ship for another’s.” He turned back to the commander: “There’s a bit . . . more to the story.”
Brun’s hard glare stayed on him another moment, then she finally eased back and lowered her sword. “Is it a story, or is it intelligence, Wing? Because right now what we need is as much intelligence and information as we can get. What do you know about this attack force? Not a single other Wing lived to share a word about what we’re up against—not that we haven’t all seen it for ourselves.”
Beside Mylla, Lock struggled to speak and looked at Jimp, who nodded gravely. So Safran and Thorvíl’s description of the usurper’s massive airborne force hadn’t been exaggerated. Mylla could only imagine the shock and despair Lock was experiencing right now. But deep within, she realized her own most prevalent feeling was something entirely different. Gratitude. He was only alive right now because he had chosen to aid her when she’d asked. Owers was alive because Symvalline had taken his ship. Once this sank in, the scope of the destruction of Asteryss staggered her.
Brun went on before Lock found words. “Let’s not talk here. The Marines—those of us who are left—secured a safe room in the catacombs. It’s only a matter of time until more Raveners find us, but we’re regrouping down here and readying our next wave of attacks. Which”—her usually stern features sagged for a moment—“if things continue the way they have been, might be our last. Come with us.”
With an inward sigh of relief, Mylla palmed her stones. An uneasy impasse was better than no impasse, she reasoned. “Brun, how did you know about the catacombs?”
“It’s my job to know how to keep Asteryss safe. It may surprise you to learn that the Knights aren’t nearly as much of a mystery to us commoners as you think.”
The Marine commander spun around to dissuade further discussion, but Mylla reached out to stop her with a hand on her shoulder. “Commander, wait. Do you have the Fenestros that was in this chamber?”
Brun faced her, but something at Mylla’s feet caught her eyes and she said, “It looks like we have another live one. Furthsom, Gann, tie him up and gag him. He’s coming with us.”
Furthsom—Mylla recognized him from yesterday’s fray beneath the keep—passed the still-burning torch that had been thrown amid the attackers to another Marine and stepped forward to bind Irrick. Before that could happen, Mylla put up a hand. “What are you doing? This is my friend. Acolyte Irrick, one of the members of the Conservatum. He’s not an enemy.”
“He’s been converted, Mylla. Like everyone else in the Conservatum,” Brun said coldly. “We need information, he may have it.”
She could guess what Brun meant by “converted,” but the implications of the commander’s orders disturbed her more.
Before she could continue to argue, Lock said calmly, “Mylla, we’re in the open here and the commander has a place to go that’s more defensible. If more of these”—he looked to Brun—“what did you call them? Raveners? If more are roving around, we’d be better off with the Marines. Can we just go with them for now, find out what’s happened in Asteryss?”
She hesitated, not trusting Brun’s intentions for her friend.
Lock continued, now speaking to Brun. “Do you have a healer?”
Brun looked momentarily confused by the question, then nodded, blank-faced.
“We can get Irrick the help he needs,” Lock finished.
Sighing, Mylla let herself be persuaded. But first she had to know: “The Fenestros, Brun, where is it?”
Brun regarded her darkly for a moment, then said: “Safe. Now come on.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Soldiers, many wrapped in blood-stained bandages, filled the chamber Brun led them to, which made Lock’s statement hard to follow at first.
“Your arm,” he said with more urgency as he gently touched her elbow, “let me see it. How bad is it?”
She looked at her shoulder and realized what was causing him concern. “Ah, it’s fine. See? Already clotting. The attacker just grazed me,” she said and rolled her shoulder back and forth to show him the superficiality of the wound. In fact, the Ravener had struck deep enough she’d felt the vibration from the force shimmy down her spine. A commoner would spend weeks in recovery and possibly lose the arm. As a perk of being instilled by a Verity’s spark, she’d be as good as new within moments and wouldn’t even have a scar. Knights only retained the scars they’d acquired before ordination, and some, like Stave, wore theirs with pride, a memory of life before.
“You sure?” His eyes bounced between her arm and her face, the concern in them heartbreaking in its depth.
She put her free hand over his and promised, “Yes, love.”
Brun broke free of a group of Marines and approached. “Evernal,” she said, “we’ve got a few injured, as you can see. Our healer is overworked. Can you . . . do anything for them?”
The request took Mylla by surprise. “I’m not sure. Do you mean can I heal them with my ‘wystic magic’?” The words Brun had used to level accusations at the Knights beneath the keep yesterday still rankled her.
The commander scowled, then said, “That’s exactly what I mean.” She sighed heavily and reached up to remove her helmet. Her disheveled black hair, matted with sweat and dirt, spilled free of the knot she’d tied it in. These soldiers had been fighting nonstop for two days, Mylla realized. It was remarkable Brun was even still standing, much less able to continue mounting a resistance. “Look, yesterday I saw the sky open up and an army of winged phantom killers enter Vinnr. I’ve seen my soldiers, my own Arch Keeper, and countless people of Asteryss, maybe even all of Ivoryss, changed by some monstrous means into pale husks with no memory of themselves or with whom their loyalties lie. While these may not be the works of a celestial sprite, I’m willing to treat them as such until things are fixed and this Holiness desecrator is dead or banished back to wherever he came from. Word is already spreading through the mouths of the usurper’s soldiers we’ve interrogated that you Knights Corporealis have bounties on your heads, so you’re obviously not the enemies my blade wants to stick. Which makes us allies—until further notice.”