While Shea scoured the titles, Chari could do little more than pluck volumes at random and hope the covers might indicate their use. She was a scholar, once, but it was untenable to learn each new language they came upon. There is nothing I can contribute, she thought wearily, before she reached back and touched the rifle concealed on her back. No. Not nothing. But she didn’t feel better for remembering.
Chari had left a life of comfort and respect because she believed the goddess whose gospel she preached was a lie. Now she knew the so-called goddess was once as human as she was, and Chari hated her all the more for serving as the face of something so self-righteous. The deification of Hapané Maraius had created the Saryu, and Chariska had shorn away her entire identity to escape them. It should have been her searching the texts for their solution, not some soldier desperately ignoring everything inconvenient about the world around her. Taryl Renivar’s soldiers would come for them again, in time, and again Chari would have to fight to the death. She had not left home to become a killer, but it was something she was beginning to see as a necessary evil.
Over an hour passed, the dragging of time made worse by how the Keltians measured it. Each hour was a hundred minutes long, and the minutes themselves stretched longer than Chari liked. She found herself staring at the clock often, feeling like it was barely moving, all the while waiting and hoping someone would find something.
“Might’ve found it,” Shea announced as she brought over a tome and laid it on the desk. “Land of Thoris is a place of profound mystery, even in this modern era,” Shea read, her index finger following the text. “Owing to the looming height of its outer walls, it is visible from numerous points ‘long the northern coast. Farthest point from which it can still be seen is the Iklea Valley, whose tribes once believed it to be the place where the sun, moons, and stars all went to rest. Closest point is the Atvuon Peninsula, whose modern inhabitants still hand down tales of the gods coming to and fro as wafts of light. It is likely that—goes on a bit here…” She skimmed through the remaining text. “Short of it, Thoris is hard to reach—and the mystery of this land coupled with the superstitious nature of the primitive mind is likely the root of these tales, lending to its nickname as the Garden of the Gods.”
Shea looked to the others, awaiting their approval.
“Then it’s something of a ‘Mount Olympus’?” Flynn asked.
“An analogy which I’m certain is quite valid to any who knows its meaning,” Chari replied.
Shea cracked a smile at Flynn and added, “Aye. Lost me there, mate.”
“And there is nothing in the book concerning successful modern expeditions?” Zella asked.
“Ah…” Shea stalled as she flipped through the pages. “Was a Lieutenant Mace. Tried to blast in the southeast side. No luck there.”
“I’m not sure if it’s enough to go on,” Flynn said as he shook his head. “Even as far away as we are, if there were something strong enough there to support this story, I’d have felt it.”
“Perhaps you overestimate your senses,” Zella said coldly.
“Perhaps I do.”
“It may be insulated in some way we do not understand,” Zella went on. “Just as Airia Rousow had hidden the great power she once wielded, so too might this land have protections beyond our knowing.”
As Chari thought back to their journey, something about Thoris felt familiar to her. The phrase “Garden of the Gods” stayed with her, until at last she remembered the sanctuary where they’d first met Airia. There were signs that it had once hosted a garden. Perhaps Thoris was the same.
“I think we may need to see it to find out,” she said.
“Daft plan. Know that, right?” Shea asked. “No one’s ever got in.”
“They’re not us,” Flynn replied without the slightest hesitation. “What’re you thinking, Chari?”
“Our pursuit has been for a path correct and true, while knowing nothing of its nature or location. Perhaps what we need is not one path, but many, brought together in one place.”
“A juncture,” he caught on. “Like Airia’s sanctuary.”
“Thoris may be perfect for this,” she replied. “If the tales hold any truth at all, it may be such a place, or at least one that saw Mystiks come and go from time to time.”
Finding even this small solution provided Chari more satisfaction than she had anticipated. They had only hours before Shea would take her leave of them; she intended to learn everything she could.
* * *
Brinnegan’s pub was crowded and raucous, as the soldiers who cluttered the tables made one last night of it before they sailed off come dawn. If Jean had been here, she hadn’t bothered coming back, but that wasn’t enough to deter Zaja DeSarah. She pushed through to the bar and wedged in between two patrons to find the bartender, trying to keep her face out of sight while getting his attention.
“Uh, hi there,” she asked. “Are you Brinnegan?”
“The current one, aye.”
“Ah, here it comes,” a patron groaned.
“You see,” the bartender started, “Granddad was a Brinnegan. Built this pub with his own two hands some sixty-five years back. Had a son. Named him Brinnegan, passed the pub to him when the time was right. While later, Brinnegan the Second had a son.”
“So you come from a long line of bartenders?” she asked.
“That I do.”
“And your son? You’ll be passing it to him eventually?”
“Don’t have a son,” Brinnegan replied. He then clarified, adding, “Do have a daughter.”
As Zaja was deciphering this, Poe suddenly intruded, irate at being kept waiting.
“Watch it, tosser!” another patron complained.
“We did not come to query your family history,” Poe said. “We are in search of one named Jean. Last night she was here, stirring up a fight among your patrons.”
Brinnegan looked queerly at Poe. “You alright, lad? Looking dreadfully pale.”
“I have a skin condition,” he said sharply.
Brinnegan gave Poe’s attitude no mind, and snapped his fingers in recollection. “I know which lass you’re talking about. Haven’t seen her tonight, but she was perched at the bar for a while last eve before joining Vackie.”
“Vackie,” Poe acknowledged, and stepped promptly away.
“Uh, thank you!” Zaja added, before following him.
Even if the other patrons hadn’t been helpful, Vackie was the kind of person who made himself known. “—and you believe those fucks ’ave the balls to send us to fucking Bheln after what the Cavos did ’ere? Got ’alf a mind to sail right past to Briss just to help them cut the sods down!”
His comrades eagerly agreed and were clinking glasses by the time Poe placed his hand on the table. As the glasses settled and the table took notice of their visitor, Vackie began laughing out loud. “Mates, mates, look at this bloke ’ere. This sort, you can tell ’e was hiding ’neath the bed when his draft note came.”
“Seems he only just crawled out from under!” another added.
“Stark white as a sheet!” a third jeered, before she took another drink.
Zaja expected Poe to lash out, but he remained perturbingly calm as they ridiculed him. Poe allowed the laughter to subside, as Vackie leaned over to break the ice, still chuckling. “Sorry, guv, sorry. Never seen one pale as you.”
“It’s fine,” Poe strained. “You’re Vackie, yes?”
“What’s it to you?” Vackie asked as he leaned back in his seat.
“I’m looking for Jean.”
Vackie gave pause, then shrugged dumbly. “Don’t know a Jean, never met one.” He looked to his right, “Kistoff, you know a Jean?” He looked to his left. “’Ow ’bout you, Cienna? Got a Jean you ’aven’t told me ’bout?” Then he returned to Poe. “Sorry, mate. No Jeans here.”
; “She was with you last night,” Zaja piped in. “The bartender saw you.”
“Oh! Oh, well! Bartender saw us—!” he looked to his comrades, “Get that, mates? Ol’ Brinnegan saw me with a bird last night—”
“Eh, eh, Vackie: Weren’t you?”
Vackie cracked up and began snapping his fingers in recollection. “Oi, right. You know, was with a bird last night. Red hair, bit of a tall one?”
“That’s her,” Poe replied with stretched patience.
Vackie emptied his glass and grinned smugly as he stared Poe right in the eyes. “Took her back home and I fucked her. Now what’s it your business, coming to bother me ’bout it?”
Zaja instinctively stepped back as Poe drew the Dark Sword in one deft motion and cut both front legs of the table away, causing it and the drinks upon it to crash to the ground. Though his comrades scattered back, Vackie himself was seated at the other end and hadn’t time to move before Poe planted his boot on the slanted table, jamming it and Vackie both against the wall. Zaja looked around in a panic, certain their cover was blown, but half the patrons only seemed eager to watch, and the other half were scurrying to the bar as Brinnegan yelled, “Place your bets!”
“Let me … go … tosspot,” Vackie grunted, struggling.
“Where. Is. Jean. Now?” Poe’s cold tone chilled Zaja.
“Right, right! Odd girl, that one! Hardly gave eye contact even after I covered her fucking drinks! Gave a bit ’bout not knowing where to go next, maybe catching a boat! Woke up this morn, was already gone! ’Aven’t seen her since, I swear!”
It was enough to satisfy Poe, who pushed off the table, causing one last grunt to escape Vackie. While the soldier’s friends hurried to help their comrade up, Zaja hurried after hers, before they could come looking for revenge.
“So, wait, that’s it?” she asked.
“Jean is too preoccupied with her vices and agendas to spare ours any concern,” he replied. “If she has forsaken us, so we forsake her.”
Zaja wanted to argue on Jean’s behalf, but even if Poe were willing to disregard recent activities as a sign Jean had no intention of returning to them, they had no trail to follow after the pub. Jean was lost to the wind, and though it hurt to admit it, it may have been time to say goodbye.
* * *
Alicea Bagwell had done her part, and so left Belsus alone, weary and unrested. She rushed out of town in the chill of night, still hours to dawn and afraid that her ship would leave without her. She feared standing on that port, branded a deserter, knowing word would spread among her comrades until it reached her brothers on the other side of the world. She feared what waited for her even if she was on time; success or failure only meant different kinds of death, and in both, she knew she was a coward.
“Shea!”
She slowed at the sound of her name. Flynn was hurrying to catch up, and hunched to steady his breath as he reached her. Even so, he found enough to say, “I’m coming with you,” and to her surprise, Shea’s heart skipped a beat.
“Don’t owe me anything,” she told him. She was afraid that if she spent any more time with him she wouldn’t want to leave.
“Never said I did,” he replied. “But I want to see you back to Selif. You said this morning that you just wanted my company. Happy conversation, was it? I’m giving it to you now.” She wanted to tell him to go back, to tend to his friends, to give him any reason to leave.
“Long walk ahead.”
The road was dark, and her lonely thoughts were the worst sort of company. So she let him walk with her for some time as they shared past experiences and anecdotes. She asked nothing of his friends, for too many worries cluttered her mind to allow for who they were and where they came from. She was bound for war, she reminded herself, and when the rising sun was prepared to kiss the eastern sky, they returned to the site of the massacre at the bluffs.
“Shea, I’ve been wondering,” Flynn asked. “Why did you help us?”
“Just … wanted a few memories for back at the front,” she confessed. “Not what I expected. Ask my mates what they did, get the effect of ‘got pissed, passed out.’ Ask me? ‘Helped this bloke and his odd-duck friends plot a trip to Thoris.’ Tell now, who’s got the better story?”
Flynn smiled and nodded, and Shea was pleased in turn.
“’Fore we go our ways, Flynn, tell one thing.”
“What do you want to know?”
Shea glanced at his backside and asked, “Where’s your bloody tail?”
He looked back at her, studied her for a moment. Shea felt her own tail curl up behind her leg. “I was born without one.”
“That’s it?” she laughed. “Figured a scuffle or some—I mean, were I missing mine and some tosser made a thing of it, I’d keep a better story lined up. Not like the twat gets to see the damn stump.”
“Didn’t want to take the chance you might see later on,” Flynn replied. “How, then, would I explain my lie from earlier?”
“Cheeky. Even were I up for a tumble, time’s about up.” She checked his backside one more time, then admitted, “Wouldn’t have hurt to lie. What memories you give, I take with. Rather fancy kind ones.”
Selif called from the distance. There wasn’t time to dawdle, but Shea knew she would make her boat.
“I’m just saying what you want to hear,” he confessed.
“Why be honest now?” She almost didn’t want the answer.
“Whatever you carry with you, whether it’s what you fight for or what you’re fighting to come back to, it shouldn’t be based on a lie,” he replied. “If it was, I’d say I’d be waiting.”
For the first time, as Shea looked at Flynn, she knew there was something wrong with him. What it was she couldn’t place, whether it be little imperfections of his features or something more savage she hadn’t realized before. For a time, she’d assumed he had roots from a distant country, but that reasoning no longer satisfied her. Afraid of what she might learn, Shea turned away from him as she had his friends, to avoid spying some detail she’d be unable to escape.
“Didn’t come with just for me, did you?”
“There’s something I need to do while I’m here,” he replied. “Something worth leaving the others to check. Even so, I wanted to give you a proper farewell. I know what it’s like to suddenly have someone you care about vanish from your life.”
Shea nodded. There wasn’t any more time; she had to go.
“Right, then. Farewell.” She spared him one final, fleeting glance. It was all she’d ever have.
“Safe sailing, Alicea Bagwell.”
With that, Shea left, racing down the road to meet certain death.
* * *
As Flynn walked down the forest path to den Vier Manor one last time, he realized that he had never been so alone in his life. Before he had been irreparably changed, he was entirely self-interested, and felt nothing for the plights of others. Now, he worried. For Mack and Leria, and what fate had befallen them on Breth. For his remaining allies, scattered across Tryna.
He hoped they were safe. He hoped they would wait.
As Flynn passed the fountain littered with sodden cigarette butts, he worried that nothing awaited him across the threshold. True to his fears, the manor was just as they’d left it. There were no signs of life but the ticking clock that Zaja had repaired in the dining hall. It chimed with the hour, and Flynn turned away. It was time to leave.
“Flynn?”
He stopped, planting his palm on the doorframe. She came down the stairs behind him, her steps timid at first.
“Scared the shit outta me.”
Jean was wearing a bonnet that covered much of her face. She clutched her jacket in one hand, her mace in the other, and Flynn worried she’d only come by to collect her things.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“Yeah … same here, man.” She swayed unsteadily, in search of something to say. “Look, I had some shit to work through. Thought I might come back, y’know? Wasn’t meanin’ to ditch, just … couldn’t make up my mind for a time.”
“What changed?”
“Well, ya know…” She shrugged. “Where the hell else was I gonna go?” She tried to laugh, but Flynn couldn’t share in her joke. “Mostly drifted, kinda like I used to. Got smashed, fucked around a bit … but, really. Where the hell am I gonna go? Hang around here and sooner or later, I’m gonna get noticed. There’s no place for someone like me.”
“There’s still one.”
Jean swallowed her pride. “Shouldn’t have run off.”
“I shouldn’t have made you feel like you had no other choice,” he replied. “I’ve walked dangerous paths all my life, and I’ve only ever played to win. Sooner or later, we’ll find ourselves in danger again, and I’ll have to do something unconscionable to keep us alive.”
“So how’m I supposed to know what to do when it happens?” she demanded. “How do I tell if it’s a goddamn ruse or not?”
“There’s never a ruse,” he scoffed. “I don’t make threats that I’m not prepared to follow through on, and I don’t look to hurt someone unless I’m certain of the outcome.”
“Ya mean back at the tunnel?”
Flynn nodded apologetically. “I didn’t want to, but you were losing your mind. It was the lesser evil.”
Jean sneered at that. “Still evil.”
“Maybe so,” he agreed. “You’re still one of us. And I didn’t tell you before, so I’m telling you now: I trust you, Jean.”
She began to smile, but stopped herself. “I know how ya get inside people’s heads. Fuck do I know you ain’t just sayin’ that to get in mine?”
“That’s for you to decide. You’ll have to trust me back.”
Jean shot a contemplative look, and it took Flynn a moment before realizing it wasn’t meant for him. Down the path he’d come from, still distant, two figures approached side by side. He shooed Jean away and stepped out to meet them. They were Trynan soldiers, with insignias suggesting they outranked Shea. They stopped side by side as Flynn greeted them at the battered entrance.
Killers, Traitors, & Runaways Page 20