Sun

by J. C. Andrijeski

  For the same reason, we decided to go fairly low-key with our plan to extract the Listers. Rather than a direct military approach, we opted for distraction, misdirection, surprise. We assumed we couldn’t take on the Myther leadership directly; we knew they’d have safeguards in place for the telekinesis.

  At the same time, we had to be somewhat confrontational, simply because of where the Listers were being kept. The whole idea had been a quick hit, though––in and out.

  Whatever Balidor was doing right now, it definitely wasn’t a quick hit.

  This wasn’t surprise. This was the opposite of surprise. Confronting the Myther leadership, giving them a head’s up we were here in the Coliseum, making it clear Revik was leading us militarily––none of that had any part in our original plan.

  It was pretty much the anti-plan of the plan.

  Movement stirred inside the emperor’s box and I turned.

  My mind snapped back, my eyes clicked into focus, even as it hit me that some part of my light was looking for Revik in the higher regions of my aleimi.

  I jerked my gaze back towards the emperor’s box.

  From the center seat of the front row, a monk with dark, curly hair rose slowly to his feet. He took a few steps forward, so that his form fell into a swath of sunlight just beyond the edge of the box’s roof. He looked down at Balidor, hands clasped over the front of a deep black robe. Two seers with bloody collars flanked him silently, remaining in shadow.

  My first thought was––he was young.

  I mean, he wasn’t young, but he wasn’t as old as most of the humans in that box. Given the gray and bald heads of the monks seated behind him, all of whom looked to be in their sixties or seventies, if not older, his relative youth stood out. Assuming this man was human, he couldn’t have been more than late forties.

  If I had to guess, I would have pegged him at maybe forty-four, forty-five.

  His body type didn’t match that of the other monks, either.

  His fellow monks seemed to live at one end of the spectrum or the other, either skeletally thin or soft, round and double-chinned, their robed bodies overflowing the plush chairs.

  The man in front had the physique of a wrestler.

  A barrel-like chest defined the shape of his robes. He had broad shoulders, dark brown eyes, a full mouth, a trim waist under his cloth monk’s belt. Muscular, hairy hands and forearms poked out the ends of his sleeves. He wore no jewelry, not even a rosary.

  Stepping forward a few more paces, he stopped at the very edge of the platform, even as the monks seated around him tensed, faces nervous. Gazing down at Balidor, the young monk with the dark brown eyes refolded his hands, pausing only to adjust his belt, which was decorated with the symbol of the triskele.

  “I am Deifilius,” he said.

  His voice was melodic, one of those pulling, easy-to-listen-to voices that belong with actors and trained orators. He gazed at Balidor without fear, his eyes assessing.

  “…Is your Illustrious Sword here?” he said next.

  Glancing around somewhat theatrically, he held out his hands in a silent question, his full mouth curling into a puzzled frown. His words rose louder, growing more sonorous.

  It struck me that his voice was amplified, too.

  “May I speak with him directly?” the monk said, lowering his hands and clasping them once more in front of him. “For I would very much like to discuss with the Illustrious Sword what he did earlier today, in the bowels of our fair city. I would like to hear his explanation as to why he felt the need to exterminate literally thousands of our brothers and sisters––all of them loyal subjects to the One God and Holy Dragon. A being your Sword now… conveniently… calls brother.”

  He paused, lips curling in a deeper frown.

  “I would further like to ask him,” the monk continued. “…To his face… what it feels like to kill true martyrs of the Displacement, and in such a cowardly way. I would like to know how it feels to desecrate such a holy place… a place of worship, sacred to my people and your own… by turning it into a graveyard.”

  The crowd grew restless around us.

  I heard a scattering of boos and hisses, angry mutters.

  They grew louder as they spread in ripples through the coliseum. Next to us, the heavyset Italian man stood up, cupping his hands to yell “Boo! Murderers!” along with the rest.

  The monk did not react. He stared down at Balidor, his expression unmoving.

  From two seats away from me, I heard Feigran mutter under his breath.

  “Father.” He clicked, agitated. “Father. Father. Father is here. He is watching. He is listening. He is looking…”

  I turned, staring at him.

  A cold finger ran down my spine.

  Turning back towards the emperor’s box, I angled the upper structures of my light towards the monk standing on the edge of that platform. I couldn’t get through. I couldn’t feel anything at all, probably because of that anti-Barrier field Holo and Cass were talking about, not to mention whatever those seers standing behind Deifilius were doing.

  When I went higher, however, I picked up a thread––a thread that wound up to a cloud I recognized, although I didn’t let my light get too close. From high up, very high, I looked down on that dense tangled cloud, filled with fast-moving, sharp, silver lights.

  Within a few seconds of scanning, I realized Feigran was right.

  Menlim.

  Menlim was here… somehow.

  I clicked out, staring at the young monk with the curly dark hair.

  Menlim was here through this man. I had no way of knowing that, of course, nothing concrete to pin that gut feeling on, but I found myself more and more sure, the longer I looked at him. This young leader of the Myther cult had a direct connection to Menlim, and that connection was strong.

  Menlim operated his will through him.

  Perhaps Menlim even spoke through him.

  Somehow, I doubted he needed to, though.

  Menlim didn’t need to make this man a puppet, not in the literal sense. Brother Deifilius was a true believer. A willing martyr, he would gladly die for the cause.

  I wondered if he was the one who gave the order to burn me to death in New York.

  I wondered if he was the one to give the order to kill Dalejem on that plane.

  I couldn’t feel him, or any of the monks in that box. I couldn’t even really feel Menlim. I felt the flavor of his light, and I felt the connection to the Dreng. I didn’t dare get any closer than that, knowing Menlim and the seers guarding Deifilius would feel me if I did.

  Even so, I knew it to be true.

  I also had a good idea why Revik had changed plans.

  Another shiver of misgiving went through my light. Knowing Revik, his reaction to Menlim having an influence here might not be totally measured. If Revik felt Menlim here––even if he wasn’t here physically, even if it was just a direct line to Deifilius and his zealot pals––that would change everything.

  It would change everything for Revik, at least.

  “Fuck,” I muttered.

  Cass turned. Before I’d thought about it, she and I exchanged a grim look.

  Then we looked back at the arena floor, where Balidor stood under the leader of the Myther army, gripping a thousand-year-old sword in his right hand.

  If Balidor was intimidated by the other man’s words, no hint of that showed on his handsome face.

  “The Sword’s message is simple, my lord,” Balidor said politely. “It is also brief. He wishes you to hand over custody of every being––human and seer––inside those cages.”

  Balidor swung the sword, using it to point at the naked Listers huddled behind iron bars.

  “…If you do that,” Balidor added, swinging the sword back and letting it rest by his side. “He won’t burn your entire city to the ground, and kill everyone in it.”

  Blinking, I felt my jaw harden enough to hurt.

  “Fuck,” I muttered again.

>   Next to me, I felt Cass agree.

  FEIGRAN? THE VOICE whispered. Brother? Can you hear me?

  The voice slid through his mind.

  Soft, pulling, so very familiar.

  Feigran tilted his head, listening. He forgot about the stone stadium with the rippling flags soaked in blood and bones. He forgot about the blue sky and wisps of cloud he could see through the rippling organic awning. He forgot about the slushy lemon drink he’d been rolling around on his tongue, and the spicy meat he’d been chewing. He forgot about the sweaty, wine-smelling man who sat next to him.

  He forgot the gray-eyed seer on the sandy arena floor––the handsome, movie star seer who carried a sword, looking quite sexy in his organic steel breastplate and leather pteruges fitted with metal studs and organic plates.

  Feigran listened to his brother instead, hearing the words even as he saw them float in the gold and rose light swirling around him, confusing his physical vision.

  Such a beautiful voice. Deep, masculine, sonorous, reverberating.

  So familiar. So comforting.

  Feigran knew that voice better than he knew his own.

  Feigran, the voice repeated, softer. Brother… I need a favor from you. Can you do me a favor, my brother? I will be ever so grateful.

  Feigran smiled.

  He loved doing favors. He adored doing favors for his friends. He loved it even more for his family. He’d been feeling a bit melancholy, truthfully. He’d been sitting here, chewing on his stick of spiced chicken, remembering the tall, silver- and black-haired one with the violet eyes.

  The older seer got sucked into that living metal cave and never came out.

  He’d been his friend. Feigran’s friend.

  Feigran didn’t have a lot of friends.

  I know, brother. The voice sighed. I’m sorry about Varlan. I know you were friends. We didn’t want to leave him. You understand that, right?

  Feigran smiled. Of course he understood.

  Varlan was gone.

  Varlan fell through the door, into one of the other places.

  The door closed. Varlan was gone. Simple as that.

  One couldn’t just wish themselves into the other place. One needed a door. Even then, the door could still send you where it wanted to send you, regardless of whether you’d asked. It didn’t always send you where you thought you wanted to go. Sometimes it sent you where it thought you wanted to go.

  Not always the same thing. Not always the same at all.

  Not. Always. The. Same.

  Feigran felt a ripple of interest go through his brother’s light. He felt his brother hesitate, wanting to ask him more about that, about the doors, how they worked, where they led.

  Then Feigran felt his brother remember some other, more pressing thing.

  Something with boundaries, time constraints, irresistible deadlines.

  Something that really couldn’t wait.

  His brother pushed that interest in the doors aside––for now, at least, until this other, more constraining thing was finished.

  What do you need from me brother? Feigran sent, smiling wider.

  His brother was kind. He’d always been kind. He’d always been so sweet and kind to him, even when Feigran was mean. Even when Feigran did Bad Things.

  I will do anything, of course, Feigran added. Absolutely anything I can. You know this, yes?

  Relief left his brother’s light in a thick pulse, warming Feigran’s chest.

  Thank you, brother. I do know this. It’s why I came to you, and no one else. His brother’s gratitude emanated out a second time, a warm puff of affectionate light. I’m going to do something soon, the voice said. I need you to do me a favor when I do. And please… do not tell my wife. I’ll contact her very soon, but I don’t want her to do anything to put herself in danger. I don’t want her to worry about me. You understand, yes?

  Feigran grinned. I do, indeed. I am happy to help, brother! Always! He paused then, thinking about the other’s words. Of course, you know this will annoy her? She dislikes such things. She dislikes being told lies. Especially by you.

  I don’t intend to lie to her, his brother sent, a touch sharper. And I suspect she’ll be mad at me for a few things before this is over. He sighed, and Feigran got an image of him combing long fingers through his even longer black hair. I would have told her, brother. I would have. But she tends to react badly when she thinks I am putting myself in danger. I just don’t want her to worry. Not until I can reassure her it’s fine. You understand?

  Feigran chuckled.

  When he did, he earned a faint frown from his sister with the dark hair, War, who sat to his left. She looked him over, still frowning, then grunted, focusing back on the arena.

  Feigran lowered his mental voice, whispering in those higher spaces.

  So true, my brother. So true, he sent. She does like that much less than being lied to.

  So maybe you could do the first thing for me? the other sent, equally soft. You could do this first thing, brother, then I can contact her, have her come help you? After I have a better idea of how they’re going to react to this thing that I do?

  Feigran followed his brother’s logic in colorful pictures floating in the gold and rose spaces above him. He watched those images stream past, and gradually, his smile widened.

  Of course, my favorite brother, he said a second later, still smiling up at the heavens. Yes… I completely understand. Leave it to me.

  Once more, relief plumed off the other’s blue-white light.

  Thank you, my brother. Thank you.

  I HELD MY breath, sitting perfectly still in the silence after Balidor spoke.

  Next to me, Cass did the same.

  Holo leaned forward as well, his eyes riveted to the Adhipan leader below.

  Balidor himself didn’t move. He stood utterly still yet totally at ease, wearing moulded organic shin guards, one of those Roman combat uniforms, a burgundy cape that fell over one shoulder. He gripped the long sword in one hand, missing only the ceremonial helmet.

  His gray eyes never left the monks inside the emperor’s box.

  As the silence stretched, he continued to stand there, his expression calm.

  Then Deifilius, the curly-haired monk with the wrestler’s body and those penetrating brown eyes, did the last thing I expected him to do.

  He laughed.

  It wasn’t an evil villain laugh, like something someone in a horror movie might do, right before things went to shit. It was a full-throated, startlingly infectious laugh, one that seemed to come from deep within his chest and belly.

  I saw monks behind him in the box smiling as if unable to help themselves. Some of those sitting around us in the stands chuckled, too.

  “This is funny to you?” Balidor said, his voice edging into cold. “Whether you believe yourself able to best us or not, surely you must realize a very large number of your people would die, were my intermediary to carry out his threat?”

  The man waved him off, smiling.

  “Oh, yes, of course, Adhipan Balidor. I do not mean to make light of the Illustrious Sword’s proven talent for killing innocent civilians in cold blood. It is just that his mentor told me he would do this. He said he would do precisely this… nearly word for word.”

  Shaking his curly head, Deifilius smiled wider.

  “He accused our once-beloved intermediary of being a bit of a drama queen, I’m afraid.” He held out his hands apologetically. “I suppose the Illustrious Sword simply could not help himself? Marching in here to threaten everyone on his wife’s behalf? Perhaps he is still trying to win her over, after all this time?”

  He paused, his voice growing cold.

  “It is such a pathetic quality in a male, is it not, Adhipan Balidor? To be so beholden to a female? One who is written by God and the holy books to serve him? I wonder how a being such as the Sword could allow himself to be lowered in such a way? To be such an embarrassment to those of his race and sex?”

 
; Balidor didn’t roll his eyes, but something in his half smile and head-shake definitely connoted a similar meaning.

  “I suspect the Sword is quite comfortable in his relation to his mate,” Balidor said, clicking softly as he looked up at Deifilius. “You, on the other hand, have perhaps just now told me more about yourself and your ‘maleness’ than you likely intended.”

  Balidor shrugged with his free hand, the one without the sword.

  “I suppose it is the refuge of insecurity to puff up one’s chest, to force ‘respect’… even worship… where none is warranted. To even codify the forced submission of one’s life-mate into your holy books, and pretend those are your god’s words.”

  He reinforced his grip on the sword, adding, “I prefer the Sword’s way, my lord. And the Bridge’s. And that of my own gods, who do not speak such rubbish. I suspect most of my brothers and sisters do as well––”

  “And where is she?” the monk cut in, all humor leached from his words. “The Esteemed Bridge? For he would not leave her alone, would he? Not in her delicate state.”

  Letting his words dangle for a half-breath, he added,

  “We already have it on good authority she was with him when he murdered our people earlier… likely whispering in his ear the entire time.” He let out a contemptuous sniff. “Our old allies from the mainland warned us that she still holds Brother Sword’s leash. We should have taken the warning more seriously.”

  I grunted. I couldn’t help it.

  From next to me, I heard Cass smile, right before she muttered under her breath.

  “…Not as much as she’d probably like to right about now.”

  Looking at her, I grunted a real laugh, in spite of myself.

  “What the hell do we do?” Holo whispered from my other side. Unlike Cass and I, he didn’t sound or feel remotely amused. “They’ve fucked everything. How are we supposed to get them out of here now?”

  I shook my head, once, giving him a warning look. “We do nothing. Not yet. We don’t even know what their plan is yet.”