Roger didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t even a question of whether or not Lerana was telling the truth about her end of the bargain. He could not possibly comply with the shaman’s request, because he had no idea how the ring’s magic functioned.
He glanced back at Lerana, who was eying him intently, that same voracious hunger in her eyes. When she saw that he wasn’t going to reply, she raised a finger as if in musing. “I will make you an offer, Roger,” she said. “If you show me how the secrets to your power, then I will show you ours.”
Roger was not particularly surprised by this turn of events. Once you got past the fact that he was being held captive by a tribe of magic-wielding natives on a backwater planet in the middle of nowhere, the situation was not significantly different from two con artists haggling for stolen goods in the side alleys of Vellanite. Given the circumstances, Lerana’s move was fairly predictable. However, the Traika shaman didn’t realize that they weren’t bargaining. He wasn’t holding out for a better price; his tongue would not suddenly become loosed if she promised him the sun, the moon, and the starlit sky. He simply did not have the information that she wanted, no matter how much she sweetened the deal.
On the other hand, Lerana was offering him a way out, a chance to save himself. He doubted that he would get another. Besides, he had the feeling that she was just going to keep pushing until he agreed to her proposition. If nothing else, this would buy him time to come up with some kind of explanation for his own power. “All right.”
“Excellent!” Lerana clapped her hands together, and her demeanor turned as giddy as a child on her birthday. She scooted herself along the ground until she was only a handbreadth away from him. “The world around us is full of energy. In the air, in the water, in the earth. In the trees and animals.” She spread her arms in a slow circle around her. “We call this energy ko’sha. It is invisible, intangible. It is pure power, untainted and untapped, waiting to be put to use.” She paused. “You have felt the ko’sha, have you not?”
She said the question very casually, but her eyes narrowed slightly as she spoke. She was testing him. Roger kept his thoughts deliberately blank. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. When he was in the strange fire-world of his ring’s power, he could sense other sources of magic, but only very large sources like Nembane Mountain or the shadow creature on Pattagax. Nothing close to what Lerana was describing. But by this point he was committed to his bluff; he had no choice but to play along. “Yeah, I’ve felt it.”
“The ko’sha is very strong here, in the shadow of Kil’la’ril,” said Lerana. “What follows is quite simple. First, we draw the ko’sha into ourselves.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. A sudden chill wind whipped around Roger, and a back part of his mind realized that ko’sha was simply the heat energy contained within the air surrounding them. “Then we focus it through our own bodies, shaping it, honing it into a manifestation of our will, and…release!”
Fire ignited at Lerana’s fingertips. They were definitely real flames, not merely some clever illusion or arcane ephemera—Roger could feel their heat licking at his flesh. The bitter taste in the back of his throat—which he now realized was a sign of magic being employed, and which was a constant during his conversations with Lerana due to the power that allowed for their telepathic communication—intensified. Lerana held up her burning hand for a few moments, wiggling her fingers so the flames twirled and spun like tiny dancers. Then the fire abruptly extinguished. The Traika shaman gave a soft sigh. “I apologize, Roger. Enclosed spaces have little energy from which to draw. And I am still young, inexperienced in harnessing ko’sha and quick to tire. The elders of my clan are capable of much more. And when we join our numbers…” A euphoric, slightly crazed smile spread across her face. “When we combine our strength, there is nothing we cannot do. Such a sight it is, Roger. Such a feeling!”
As Lerana spoke, her violet eyes were full of rapture and wonder, almost certainly recalling the very thing she had just described to him. Her entire body trembled in a shudder of raw, unbridled ecstasy.
Roger suddenly felt very uneasy. Lerana was no doubt telling the truth about why her fire had lasted for only a few seconds. The temperature had dropped so much that their breath puffed out in icy clouds; if Lerana drew out any more heat from the air she would freeze them both where they sat. In addition, he could see the signs of physical exhaustion on the Traika shaman—flushed skin, elevated breathing, shaking limbs. But he suspected that there was more to it than that. He suspected that there was another reason why she had stopped…and a far more sinister reason at that. His gaze fell on her hands, at the tiny lattice of burn marks and scar tissue discoloring her fingers and wrists. Yeah, those might be magic flames. Pretty damn impressive, too. But they’re still heat. They’re still fire. She might be conjuring them, she might be controlling them…but she’s not immune to them.
Roger hesitated, wondering how to approach what was surely a very delicate subject. “Does it…hurt?” he asked carefully.
Lerana brushed the question aside. “It is nothing, Roger.” The shaman smiled as she spoke, but not before Roger saw the truth in her eyes. Nor did he miss the slight flexing of her fingers, the faint grimace that touched her face. He certainly did not miss the acrid smell of burnt flesh that suddenly soured the air. Lerana was definitely in pain. He felt a burst of sorrow for the shaman. It seemed like a cruel cosmic joke—to grant someone such a gift, only to force pain upon her each time she used it.
Some of Roger’s sympathy must have shown in his expression, for anger suddenly tightened Lerana’s face. “There is a cost, yes,” she snapped. “But such is the way of the world. Do you think such power would come without sacrifice? It is a small price that we pay. A price that we gladly pay.”
Roger said nothing. Lerana’s violet eyes were sharp, and she seemed almost to be daring him to defy her. The Traika shaman sounded exactly like a drug addict, like the dustfiends and ore-sniffers he had seen on Vellanite, Pattagax, and dozens of other planets throughout the galaxy.
Roger felt a touch of fear shiver down his spine. Up until now, he hadn’t considered that the use of magic might come at a cost. The few times he had harnessed his own powers, there hadn’t been any side effects other than a minor and temporary exhaustion. But he had only barely begun to scratch the surface of the ring’s capabilities. For all he knew, the more powerful magics came with a cost as great as the one Lerana incurred. Or greater. And if that were the case, what then? Would he be able to turn away, to stop using it? Or would he, too, become like Lerana—addicted to the power, unable to stop drawing on it no matter what it cost him?
Lerana’s voice broke through Roger’s thoughts. “I have upheld my end of our bargain, Roger. I have told you of the ko’sha. Perhaps you do not realize how rare a gift this is. By custom, the secrets of our power are forbidden to all who are not to’laka. Yet for you I have broken this tradition. I have done so in good faith. Now it is your turn.”
She still spoke evenly and matter-of-factly, but something dangerous lurked behind that calm. Roger recalled the flames she had summoned, and knew with utter certainty that she could very easily kill him where he sat. His throat was suddenly very dry, and his mind raced to come up with something to say.
Lerana waited. Slowly her smiled faded, her mouth tightening to a thin line on her face. “Reticence is ill-advisable, Roger.” The shaman’s voice dropped to barely more than a whisper, a low and threatening growl in Roger’s mind. “The to’laka are the only ones who stand between you and death. It would be unwise to test us.”
Lightning flashed in the shaman’s violet eyes. Just say something! Roger berated himself. Something, anything. Otherwise she’s gonna give you a smackdown worse than that Valancian back on Mentex. “Uh…alright.” He cleared his throat, still thinking furiously. “My power works a lot like yours, I think. But first I have to relax—to go into a kind of trance.”
Lerana twitched, and a know
ing expression came to her face. “The e’tana,” she said softly.
That word meant nothing to Roger, but he nodded as if it did. “Yeah, e’tana. Once I’m in this trance, I can feel the…uh…the ko’sha. I can’t absorb it or release it like you can. But I can see it, everywhere, just like you described. And I can sense other magic-users, and tell when they’re using their powers.”
Lerana studied Roger intently as he spoke, her expression unreadable. “You can…see…ko’sha?” she asked slowly.
The way she asked the question made it clear that she could not. Perhaps she could only feel it. She did describe it as ‘invisible’, after all. “That’s right.”
Awe touched Lerana’s face. “What does it look like?” she whispered, her eyes wide, her voice heavy with longing.
Roger cast his thoughts back. The memories washed over him, as vivid and powerful as if he were experiencing them for the first time. “I see fire. Flames dancing everywhere, around everyone and everything. Soaring rainbows of it, twisting and whirling as far as the eye can see.” As he spoke, he found his voice turning wistful, almost reverent. Both times he had found himself in that strange place, he had been too preoccupied by other thoughts to appreciate what he was seeing. But there was beauty there, an awesome, haunting beauty like nothing else he had ever seen. “It’s quite something, I’ll tell you that.”
Lerana barely seemed to hear him. She was staring past him, her thoughts clearly far away. Her eyes were still wide with wonder, but there was sadness there too. It was the sorrow of someone who had spent her whole life in darkness hearing a description of sunlight…and knowing that she would never be able to see it.
Then the Traika shaman suddenly straightened. Her eyes refocused, and a stiff mask seemed to drop across her face. “That is interesting, Roger,” she said formally, like a lawyer in court. “And you say that you can sense when another individual is harnessing ko’sha?”
Roger pulled himself away from the beauty of the fire-world and back to Lerana. “Yeah.”
The shaman’s voice softened. “What does it feel like, Roger?”
Roger was not sure whether this was a genuine question or whether she was testing him again. Either way, the truth was his best option. “Bitter,” he replied. “Like fire in my throat.”
Lerana inhaled sharply. “That is what I feel when I harness ko’sha.”
Roger did not let his surprise show on his face or in his thoughts. He had just been saying whatever came to mind in a desperate attempt to come up with something to placate Lerana. But now he was beginning to wonder if his explanation might actually be brushing up against the truth. If ko’sha was simply thermal energy, then maybe the flames that he saw when in the strange other-world of the ring’s power were literal flames—the heat that was given off by every living creature. Even inanimate objects had thermal energy stored within them. Not as much as living beings, generally…but that would explain why, back on Pattagax, the flames surrounding the people had been much fiercer and brighter than those emanating from the buildings and vehicles. Maybe the ring was simply giving him a sort of infrared vision, enhancing his senses like an advanced thermal imaging system.
As he considered that possibility, another thought occurred to him. Maybe ko’sha included other forms of energy beyond merely thermal. Energy came in several varieties: electric, magnetic, gravitational, chemical. Even something as simple as a strong right hook was an example of kinetic energy at work. Just because he had only seen Lerana manipulate thermal energy didn’t mean that was all that she was capable of. It was possible that she was not even aware of the distinction between different energy types. Perhaps for her it was all one big wellspring of power swirling all around her.
Roger supposed that he could ask her for another demonstration, to see if she could summon up lightning or wind or maybe some kind of psychokinetic burst. But then he remembered the smell of charred flesh, the wince of pain as she cradled her singed fingers. If fire burned her, what would a bolt of lightning do? He couldn’t ask that she go through that merely for the sake of his own curiosity.
Besides, Roger wasn’t really interested in the particulars of his or Lerana’s magic. He had more pressing matters on his mind, like getting free before this Dar’katal—whoever or whatever that might be—turned him into mincemeat. When it came down to it, it didn’t really matter if his explanation was accurate, or complete. Nor did it matter if it made sense to him. All that mattered was that it made sense to Lerana.
He waited anxiously as the Traika shaman thought, her gaze flicking between Roger’s face and his ring. She seemed to be considering what he had said—or at least putting on a show of considering it. “I see,” she said finally. “That is certainly valuable information, Roger. I cannot yet say if it will be enough to tip the balance in favor of sparing your life. But I will take it to my fellow to’laka, and they to the kat’ara.”
Roger felt a swell of relief cascade through him. Maybe there was still some hope for him after all. Maybe there was a way out of this that didn’t end with him buried or burned or whatever the Traika did with their dead. Or maybe she’s just toying with you, a cynical part of his mind said. Maybe she’s playing you for a fool, getting what she came for and then turning you over to the executioner. He swatted down that thought; if that were the case, then he was dead already, and there was nothing he could do about it. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“But certainly. As I said, we are not animals. We do not wish to see you dead if there is an alternative. All life is to be revered, rather than tossed aside at the slightest provocation.” Lerana rose to her feet. “I will return, Roger, with the verdict of the kat’ara. In the meantime I will see to it that you are taken care of.” The shaman gave a short bow and then was gone.
-11-
To call it a fight would be an insult to every sense of the word, implying an equality of forces that was wholly absent. Spears and swords, no matter how skillfully wielded, were a poor matchup against particle beam pistols, especially when such weapons were employed in a surprise attack by two of the deadliest warriors in the entire Tellarian military. In the face of this new assault, the Traika warriors held fast only long enough to realize that they could not win before turning and fleeing, vanishing across the bo’al field like spirits. The Kastria dispatched in short order those wounded who could not escape.
As Drogni watched the fleeing Traika, he felt a bitter taste rise in his throat. To gain the help of a few strangers, he had killed a few more. It was something he had done more than once in the past; as a soldier, he had learned to separate emotion from action. A soldier who hesitated on the battlefield died; a soldier who disobeyed orders suffered worse. Yet as he fought his mind summoned up images of the terrible slaughter he had wreaked on Hilthak under Rokan Sellas’s dark influence. He remembered the visceral, bestial pleasure he had felt, killing merely for the sake of killing, and suppressed a shudder. Never again! he swore. I am a soldier, not a monster. Rokan Sellas is the monster…and I am nothing like him!
The nine remaining Kastria warriors watched the Tellarians in silence, standing in a defensive semi-circle. Their eyes were wary, their weapons held ready, but they seemed unsure of how to react, as if each was fighting an internal war with his own emotions—which, if the Vizier was to be believed, was exactly what was happening. Now we find out if he can actually do what he claims, thought Drogni grimly.
The Kastria exchanged glances, then one of them—distinguished from the others by a sleeve of some dark material around his right forearm—lowered his weapon and stepped forward. Drogni noticed that the others kept their spears up and got a measure of wry satisfaction from the fact that the Vizier’s telepathic powers weren’t having the effect that the man had expected. Even the Kastria who had stepped forward had a look of caution in his eyes. “Greetings, strangers,” he said, placing his fist across his chest. He had a long face, with narrow eyes and a high, sloping forehead. His sun-blasted red skin was marred by
several patches of pale white scar tissue. Like his companions, he stood about a hand’s-breadth taller than the Tellarians, his height a result of Espir’s slightly lighter gravity. “You have our gratitude for helping us defeat the dai’rang-spawn Traika.”
The Tellarians had both donned their translator earpieces a short time before, and so the Kastria warrior’s words came to them as if he had spoken in Federation Standard. The chips in their throats would automatically translate their replies into the native tongue. To prevent the Kastria from noticing that the Tellarians’ lip movements did not match their words, both Drogni and Makree wore their breathing masks across their faces, hiding their mouths from view. “We are glad to help,” replied Drogni, taking care to speak as slowly and as clearly as possible so that the translator could pick up his words through the muffling of the breathing masks. “Any enemy of the Traika is a friend of ours.”
The Kastria warrior did not seem to share that sentiment. Caution still dominated his expression, and his voice was wary. “Why do you hide your faces?” he asked. “What secrets do you seek to conceal from me and my warriors?”
Drogni kept his calm. He had expected this, and so was prepared with an answer. “It is customary among my people to cover our faces when we fight,” he said. “Thus we keep the stench of death from poisoning our souls.”
“An interesting custom, stranger,” replied the Kastria warrior. “Among my people, we consider the aroma of battle to be invigorating. And as our enemies gasp out their final breaths, the strength flows from their bodies into ours. A mask such as yours would prevent that; the di’ua of a fallen foe would be lost, scattered to the winds.”
Chains of Mist Page 17