by Laury Falter
He groaned in response, holding his hands firmly in his pockets as if he didn’t trust they wouldn’t reach for me again.
Once outside, Charlotte demanded, “Is Jocelyn in there?”
“Come on, Charlotte,” Jameson objected.
She hissed, “Figures….”
I listened to the creak of the dock as they stepped into Charlotte’s boat, before being coddled to sleep by the sounds of the village.
* * *
“Jocelyn.” The voice sounded hollow, as if it were coming to me down a long tunnel.
“Jocelyn, sweetheart.”
Jameson? I thought, but was still napping too deeply to say it.
“Time to get up.” The sound of his voice reached me through the darkness, coaxing me to open my eyes. Blinking away my sleep, I attempted to focus on his alluring voice as he knelt down at the edge of his bed. There wasn't enough light in the room to see him clearly.
“Is it…,” I said, looking toward the window. “It’s dark out.”
He followed my line of sight, before returning his focus to me. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Midnight?” I asked, shocked.
“You really needed that rest,” he remarked.
Stunned, I sat up and wiped at my eyes. “I didn’t know how tired I was.”
He flashed a knowing smile, melting my heart. Regret quickly dominated his gaze, and I knew why. “Thank you,” I said, catching him off guard.
“For what exactly?” he asked, the handsome curve of his eyebrows rising into a curious expression.
“Not leaving me here.”
His expression faded. “I thought about it. Every time you leave, you’re vulnerable, and that concerns me.”
“Then why did you wake me?”
“Because,” he said, rising to his feet, “you’re far more vulnerable without me.”
Simply by the disturbance in his mood, I knew his statement carried dual meaning. I was weaker without him because any time apart sapped us of our abilities. But the other reason was that he didn’t trust anyone else to look after me. It was slightly insulting and heartwarming at the same time.
“The Sevens keep several prisons in each province,” he began again, changing the subject. “Tonight we’ll visit the Pacific Islands, Micronesia, to be more specific. We might have luck finding Maleko.”
He could see my questioning expression and explained. “There’s a penal colony on one of the thousands of islands there. Makes it less conspicuous.”
He then held out my cloak, prompting me to stand. “It’ll be a little warm for these but they’ll keep us from being noticed as easily. Theleo’s ready to escort us.”
I found him waiting outside the door, ready to levitate us and carry us overseas. It was dark when we arrived, allowing us to hover overhead until Theleo could spot the island of our destination. With the moon full and no clouds obscuring it, the light seemed to radiate from the waves crashing around the outskirts of the islands, as if each boasted a white halo around it. Although, with a halo being a symbol of peace, I could guarantee the prisoners didn’t see it that way when they first arrived.
Theleo guided us to an island on our left, slowly settling us onto a narrow strip of sandy beach. The crashing waves were muted here, the coral being far enough offshore to prevent anything more than the quiet lapping of water along the shoreline. Palm trees stood like a wall of spiky pillars in front of us, but we navigated through them well enough, turning onto a path a few yards in.
We followed it as it wound around the island’s mountains until we emerged on what appeared to be a battleground. While I saw no bodies, there was still evidence of a struggle. Entire trees had been toppled, lying like giant matchsticks over and under each other. Remedial weapons, made of palm branches and rocks, were scattered around, not a single one with blood on the tip. It was obvious why. Their efforts to defend themselves had been futile.
I suddenly got the distinct, eerie feeling of walking through a graveyard. The prickling of my skin and deafening silence did nothing to help it, either.
“They fought back,” I whispered.
After a few more paces, I added, “But where are all the dead?”
“Buried or burnt, depending on their custom. This attack was days ago.”
“We weren’t warned of it,” I pointed out.
“Which means their Officer died before he could ask for help.” Jameson kept his voice low and eyes on our surroundings, evidently concerned that Vires remained behind.
Still, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed.
We came to the end of the prison, met by a jagged rock wall. But we were no longer alone. A hundred men and women stood huddled together, bent protectively over their children. Judging by the expressions on their faces, they were expecting the slaughter to continue.
“Theleo,” said Jameson, calmly, “it might be a good idea if you stood back.”
Agreeing, he retreated to the outskirts of the small clearing, the eyes of every inmate following him.
“We are looking for Maleko,” Jameson called out. “Maleko.”
Frozen in terror, no one moved or spoke, their eyes nervously darting between us and Theleo.
“We won’t harm you.” Theleo’s proclamation resounded behind us, loud and definitive. Although it sounded convincing, it came from a Vire, one these people evidently knew.
I kept my voice low, “I think Theleo’s reputation precedes him.”
Before Jameson could respond, someone in front – a short, darkly-tanned man with thinning hair - leaned forward, squinting in the darkness. “Jocelyn…Weatherford?”
He had an accent, which I immediately recognized. “No! I mean, yes!” Laughing through my surprise, I reiterated, “Yes, I’m Jocelyn!”
The man stepped forward, uncertainly at first but, with greater comfort as I met him in the middle. He wrapped his wiry arms around me in a hug and began talking with such speed I had a hard time following, especially considering he was speaking in French. I picked up on a few critical words, leading me to the firm conclusion: Vires came and threatened them.
“I understand,” I said in English and then corrected myself by repeating it in French.
Jameson was beside me when I finished, casually stating, “Jameson Caldwell. Je suis ravi de vous rencontrer.”
Immediately, I interpreted it as ‘It’s nice to meet you’ and whipped my head around toward him.
“You speak French?” I asked, astonished.
A fiery smirk emblazoned the edges of his mouth. “You’re not the only one groomed for your duties.”
I knew precisely what he meant. As The Nobilis, the one ordained to unite the provinces, he would need to be trained to speak a multitude of languages. And, for some reason, this was incredibly charming.
“A Weatherford…,” said the man hesitantly. “…and a Caldwell?” As if his astonished expression hadn’t revealed his thoughts already, he added, “Together?”
In French, so there was no misinterpretation, I explained, “Jameson is the one I’m going to marry.”
The man raised his eyebrows, inquiring, “Do your parents know?”
Jameson and I exploded with laughter, which provided adequate confirmation that they had been fairly warned.
Given the man's personal question and his recognition of me, Jameson was curious. “I’m guessing you two have met?” He used English to keep his question directed at me.
“Through my mother,” I replied, grinning. “On our vacations as I was growing up.”
“Right…so you’ve been here before,” he said, and then, spoke to the man, asking for his name.
“Tahitoa,” he said with dignity.
“Ah, meaning the first warrior,” replied Jameson, eliciting a confident nod from the man. “We are looking for-”
“No, no, Maleko not here,” he answered in English, having heard us call out the name earlier.
“All right,” said Jameson, evenly, although there was no denying
his disappointment. “It was a long shot anyway.”
Tahitoa took that moment to address the people standing behind him. They were a bit more curious than fearful now. A good sign. After reinforcing that they wouldn’t be harmed, they began to move forward.
It was the same movement those in Great Britain had made. They did it together, in unity, and the reason for it dawned on me then. These people had been uprooted from their lives, sent to live amongst strangers, forced into a situation where they had to provide for themselves in the most primitive environment. But it was because they had banded together that they had survived. And it was this survival instinct to remain as a whole in the face of danger that led them to behave this way now.
Though they were varying races, ages, and genders, in my opinion, the only factor differing among them was their family stone.
Over the next hour, as Jameson and I spoke with Tahitoa, the rest huddled in groups, holding hushed conversations. My initial perception of them was only further confirmed as I noticed they moved in a unified flow, never alone, always with one another.
Knowing we had to leave soon, it was this mindset that Jameson capitalized on as time dwindled down.
“Tahitoa,” he said, “I need to ask them something.” He inclined his head toward the group behind us.
After being gestured permission, he pushed himself to a standing position.
In French, he addressed the prisoners, again with authority and confidence. “This was an act of war,” he stated, motioning behind him to their demolished dwellings. “The people who offered our ancestors protection, the very ones the provinces turn to now for guidance and justice, have turned against us. They did this…Not a non-commissioned band of thieves or underground gang. This was sanctioned by The Sevens, the ones who put you here. And it won’t end. This is just the beginning. They won’t stop. Ever. Until they get what they want.” Jameson paused, allowing the enormity of the situation to sink in before speaking again. As we watched the faces around us become troubled, it was clear they hadn't considered the future. Now, the reality of their situation was being laid out and they had no option but to listen and consider the result.
“If we continue to do nothing, to let them endanger our lives, we give them the will…the strength…the approval to take what they want from us…and none of us will ever be safe again.
“But you have a choice. Live here in fear, waiting for the next wave of Vire militia, or come with us. We can provide food, shelter, community, and, most of all, strength in numbers.”
“Leave?” asked one of them in the back, appalled at the idea. “The Vires will hunt us down and exterminate us. That’s what they threatened would happen and they proved it with the escapees from Great Britain.”
Jameson and I exchanged a quizzical glance, reading each other’s expressions simultaneously.
They don’t know the truth.
Squaring his shoulders and announcing it with pride and indignation, Jameson delivered the news better than anyone else could have. “Great Britain’s Dissenters are with us. They are alive, helping prepare for the war that is coming.”
There was the briefest of pauses and then several spoke at once, all asking a variation of the same concept: “What war? With who?”
Jameson didn’t hesitate or back down from his answer in the least, proclaiming fearlessly, “The Sevens. We are going to war with The Sevens.”
I prepared myself for a sudden backlash, a reprisal, a calling of names along the lines of “crazy” or “mad”, but it didn’t come. Instead, they stared back, shocked speechless; and, of course, that would be the case. No one had ever dared defy The Sevens. They were the untouchables. Those who criticized them, demeaned them, or had the courage to stand up to them were never heard from again, many ending up in penal colonies like the one where we now found ourselves. But a war? That sort of effort was orchestrated; it involved more than a single outspoken voice; and, most importantly, it required an abundance of courage by everyone involved. It required resources, organization, willing participants, a home base, preparation…. Here, Jameson stood before them making the claim that this very endeavor was already taking place. Of course, they were stunned.
Agreeing would require bravery, the kind that had landed them here in the first place, the kind they hadn’t demanded of themselves for so long it seemed like a faded memory. But the first step, the one that would get them moving in that direction, was to leave.
“You can stay here,” acknowledged Jameson. “You can live your life in relative peace between the assaults, until The Sevens realize their grip on our world is weakening. And then every one of you will be a liability, one that they will need to…” he focused on the man who had opposed the idea of leaving before, “…eradicate.”
Surveying the horizon, Jameson realized the sun would be rising in this part of the world soon, meaning our departure time was fast approaching.
“We leave, with or without you, in fifteen minutes,” he announced, turning away. But he stopped and pivoted back toward them. “Consider your families well-being in making your choice."
The next several minutes passed agonizingly slow. As the prisoners huddled to discuss their decision, Jameson, Theleo, and I stood to the side, trying not to listen.
At some point, just before the time was up, I reached out my hand to Jameson. “You did the best you could. It’s entirely up to them now.”
He nodded, more in thanks for my support then in agreement.
Just before the morning sun became bright enough to jeopardize our efforts in leaving, Tahitoa approached us with their final decision. “We will go with you.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Theleo faced the desecrated prison. He heard them before any of us, but then he was trained to be highly alert.
I noticed their moldavite stones first. Then the Vires emerged from the shadows. There were only a small number of them, but they were moving fast. Five of them surrounded Theleo, the greatest threat, while the rest advanced toward Jameson and me.
Jameson saw them, and in one fluid motion, he grabbed my hip and protectively pulled me behind him, while unsheathing the dagger he hid beneath his cloak.
He launched it at the first approaching enemy, landing it between the man’s eyes. The Vire blinked and then fell back, dazed, a drip of blood already coursing down the bridge of his nose.
Jameson wasted no time, brandishing another dagger; this one having been turned by accident so that he held the blade between his fingers. He flipped it casually, catching it again by the grip, and sent it flying across the small clearing. Once again, it landed between the man’s eyes, rendering him harmless as he fell.
He did this twice more, with amazing speed and accuracy, before two Vires reached us.
“Get out of here, Jocelyn!” Jameson shouted his instruction so loud, it rang in my ears. “Go!”
My heart was beating so hard, it felt like it was slamming into my ribcage, and I damned The Sevens for weakening my abilities in the prisons. If it wasn't for them, I would have sent every one of their Vires flying.
Instead, it was Jameson and Theleo who fought them off, sending their bodies spilling across the ground. But the Vires didn’t stay there, standing and returning to the fight with vengeance equal to Jameson and Theleo’s.
My chest tightened with fear as I saw the next unit coming through the trees. We were badly outnumbered. Where were the people we had inspired just moments ago?
Then, as if a trigger had been pulled, the prisoners behind us, the ones who struggled to grasp the courage to leave their home, found it within themselves to help us, and themselves. They swept toward the oncoming Vires with the same unity that had kept them bound to each other when their prison had been destroyed and when we urged them to join us. This time, however, they used it in defiance.
The Vires met the charge, but were forced to relinquish several paces, their unmistakable black uniforms and moldavite stones jostling and shifting with the intensity o
f their struggle. Their abilities, unrestricted here, gave them access to an arsenal of defenses, which they didn't hesitate to use. Fireballs flew passed, several prisoners were lifted off the ground and flung against the trees. Casts spewed from the Vires lips with vehemence.
“Incantatio incendo!”
I watched as a man was suddenly set on fire. Jameson impeded my rush toward him, but I shrugged him off, leaving the protective field he was trying to form around me. Reaching through the flames now engulfing the man, I gripped his arm despite the smell of burnt flesh filling my nose and the heat from the flames scorching my skin. I was nauseated and the pain was excruciating, but I held on.
Through the man’s shrieks, I countered, raising my voice above his, “Incantatio sana!" I repeated it three more times before I lost my grip on his arm and he collapsed to the ground. A moment later, he sat staring in wonder at his undamaged skin, the injury completely gone now.
I heard another Vire shout, “Incantatio clausis guttur!" His words confirmed the fight was still raging behind me. After hearing this incantation, I saw a man's hands rise to clutch his tightening throat. By the time I reached him, he was turning blue, slumped against a tree trunk, with his mouth hanging slightly open.
I placed my hand on the victim, repeating my incantation until the man’s color returned and he started breathing again.
I turned to find Jameson plowing through the remaining Vires, a blend of speed and accuracy, bringing down those in his path with ease. I could tell he was coming for me by the direction of his course and his unrestrained determination. I rushed to evaluate his condition; he was breathless, but thankfully, unscathed.
At a foot from me, he spun around to face the oncoming attack. The last Vire came at Jameson with the force of a man having accepted his own death. They collided, but no fists were thrown, and no incantations were made. Jameson’s dagger found its mark on the first try, sending its victim sliding down Jameson’s torso. The Vire landed in blood that was now rapidly pooling at Jameson's feet before slumping to the side like a sack of grain.