by Jacinta Jade
Archon Renhed, closely watching everything.
Archon Loce, looking concerned.
Her servant, Trelar, fidgeting nervously off to the side.
Drosni, standing stiffly on the other side of the bed at attention.
And standing closest to the bed itself, gazing downwards at the piled pillows, was Chezran. His voice boomed through the room. ‘When will we know?’
Shuffling steps sounded as a healer nervously edged towards the bed, eager to please his master. ‘In the next day or so, my lord. It appears she is fighting hard, but this effort cannot be sustained for much longer.’
Chezran’s face grew darker. ‘How will we know?’
Siraay didn’t understand that question, but the healer seemed to know what Chezran was asking.
‘When she opens her eyes, my lord. It will be evident the moment she awakes.’
‘And if she is … different?’
The healer’s head bowed. ‘Then she will not be controllable. No amount of tarzneum would be able to sway the mind that will emerge if the worst occurs.’
Chezran stepped backwards. ‘Guards.’ His voice was low but firm, and it carried easily.
The healer stiffened, eyeing Chezran with alarm as all heard two pairs of booted feet striding purposefully over the stone floor.
Chezran didn’t acknowledge the healer further as he pivoted and spoke to the pair of female guards who’d stopped at a respectful distance from him. ‘Stay here until she wakes. If the news is good, fetch me immediately. If it isn’t’—his face darkened—‘then finish it swiftly.’
He stepped away from the bed and strode off through the small crowd which parted for him, and Siraay’s eyes followed him briefly until he had left the room.
Then, keen to understand what was happening, she climbed the steps up to her bed and looked down upon the form that lay stretched out there.
Her jaw dropped. Lying there, blankets piled up to the waist, sweat evident on the forehead despite the light clothing the slim figure had been dressed in, was … herself.
Siraay’s hands rose up involuntarily to touch her cheeks. They felt solid to her. She lowered her hands, looking at them, then pivoted. Loce was closest. Nervously reaching out to him, her hand shaking, she tried to touch his shoulder.
Her hand passed straight through him, and Siraay gasped again, snatching her arm back as if her fingers had been burned. Cradling her hand, she glanced back down at the bed. It was true, then. She, or her real body, was lying there before her. And this form … she looked down at the body she had thought was real.
But the body she now occupied did not exist in the real realm.
Looking back at the unconscious form on the bed, Siraay thought she spied dark bruises and cuts on one cheek and lip, the face pale beneath the injuries and sweat.
She took a step closer to the bed, meaning to go right up to look at herself, but was forced to pause when someone else stepped in front of her, cutting her off.
Pyron.
Siraay felt anger rise within her as she watched the chief archon look down at her, sunlight from the windows reflecting off his silver mask, then he glanced away as the sound of a pair of heeled feet beat out a sharp rhythm upon the floor.
‘Oh, she still hasn’t come around, then?’
Siraay’s anger at Pyron faded a little as this new voice drew her attention and her disdain. She turned her head.
Archon Atalia stood a few paces away from the bed, looking innocently at Pyron.
‘No, obviously,’ responded Pyron in a low voice.
Siraay was intrigued to hear the irritation underlying the chief archon’s words as he spoke to the other archon.
‘Has Lord Chezran been to see her?’ the female archon asked, shifting her focus back to scrutinising the Siraay.
The stiff set of Pyron’s shoulders confirmed for Siraay that, for some reason, Pyron was annoyed by Atalia’s probing questions.
Archon Renhed stepped in, however, motioning for the healer and other no-longer-necessary attendants and servants to leave the room, which left just the two guards, Trelar, Atalia, Pyron, Loce, and Renhed herself. ‘He has,’ the female said smoothly. ‘The healer advised that, after fighting through the night, the lady may collect her strength enough to wake in a matter of spans.’
Atalia didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and she was quiet for a long moment, her face carefully controlled. Eventually, she asked, ‘And she will be well, once she awakes?’
Siraay shifted her gaze back to Pyron’s face. Below the edge of the mask, his lips seemed to be thinning the more Atalia talked.
‘The healer does not know. But Lord Chezran has set guards in case the outcome when she awakes is not … desirable.’ Renhed said this delicately, but Atalia seemed to straighten at the news, her eyes widening.
‘There is some doubt, then?’
Siraay angled her chin over her shoulder. Was that eagerness she could hear in the archon’s voice? She looked away, disgusted at the archon’s lack of subtlety. She should have crushed Atalia when she’d had the chance.
‘Yes,’ continued Renhed. ‘The healer says that—’
‘Begging your pardon, Archons, but would you mind discussing this in another room? My lady requires her rest, if she is to recover.’
Siraay turned in disbelief at the quiet but firm voice that carried through the room.
Trelar had edged closer to the bed, and although she appeared pale, her mouth was set as she met the stares of the four members of Chezran’s inner circle.
Stunned silence pervaded the space for a moment, and Atalia was glaring across at Trelar, seemingly debating what to do with the servant who had just dared order them from the room.
But Trelar was saved by one of their own.
‘The lady does need rest. Let’s go,’ Loce said, nodding his head towards the door as he put his words into action, pausing just once to look back at Siraay’s body and the motionless Pyron before he swept the two female archons out of the room with him.
The double doors swung closed behind them, leaving Trelar and Pyron alone in the room with the two guards.
Trelar eyed them nervously as she hovered on the other side of the bed.
Pyron seemed to notice this and directed his blue-eyed gaze at the pair of female guards. ‘You two—position yourselves over by the door.’
One of the guards glanced at Pyron uncertainly. ‘We were ordered by Lord Chezran to—’
‘I know what you were ordered to do,’ snapped Pyron. ‘And you can carry out your orders from that side of the room. I’m certain the lady is not about to wake in the next few moments.’
The guards hesitated for an instant but then obediently moved away from the bed, striding down the steps to cross the room and take up their posts to either side of the doorway.
Siraay watched them go, thinking it was a healthy choice with Pyron in such a seemingly rotten mood. Maybe Lord Chezran had been furious with him for being captured and injured by the Resistance soldiers. She almost smiled at the image. Until she remembered that she was in a very sticky situation herself.
‘Do not leave her side.’ Pyron’s quiet voice as he spoke to Trelar drew Siraay’s attention back to him and the limp form bundled up in her bed. ‘If her condition alters in any way, send for me.’
Trelar nodded, but Pyron was already walking around the bed, and the chief archon stopped just two paces from the servant.
His next words were spoken even more softly, but the threat underlining them was clear. ‘Send for me before you send for anyone else.’
Trelar nodded rapidly. ‘Of course, Chief Archon. I will send for you first.’
Apparently satisfied with her response, Pyron gave a curt nod, then whirled towards the door.
Siraay observed Pyron with a frown as he breezed past the guards and exited the room, the doors slamming shut behind him. The guards glanced at each other in relief.
Did Pyron intend to do Siraay harm in her weake
ned state? It would be an easy way to get rid of her, then lay the blame elsewhere. Was that why he wanted to be informed first if she woke?
Her mind whirling so quickly that, when the first tug came, she jolted in surprise, Siraay glanced towards Trelar, thinking that somehow the female had seen and touched her.
But the servant was busy leaning over the bed, using a moistened cloth to wipe down her lady’s feverish forehead.
Another tug came, and this one was painful, causing Siraay to double over and suck in air through her teeth.
She had barely managed to straighten, her shoulders heaving, when she felt the next tug. Only this time, it pulled her all the way back down into the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
SIRAAY CAME TO and found herself lying on her back, a hard surface beneath her. She pushed herself upright with her hands, her legs stretched out in front of her, and had only an instant to realise that she was back in the small, lit space with the darkness that swirled around the edges like a fog, when a fist slammed into the side of her face, sending her crashing back down onto her back again, her legs rising up at the force of the blow.
Her vision swam before her as points of light danced at the edges—she was sure those glowing specks weren’t naturally occurring.
‘Nice of you to rejoin us,’ someone shouted at her from a short distance away.
Siraay promptly swivelled her head and flinched.
The broken version of herself stood right there, her hair even more mussed up, head tilted as she seemingly admired the effect of the punch she had just thrown.
Motion behind that female drew Siraay’s eyes, and she shifted her gaze just in time to see the old Siray launch herself onto the back of the broken one.
Upon landing on her foe’s back, old Siray clasped her hands around the other’s throat, but then had to switch her grip as the broken version of them began to whirl madly about, trying to fling the other from her back.
Siraay was still sitting there, her face thumping in agony, watching in stunned amazement, when her former self screamed at her, ‘Get off your ass and help me!’
Siraay shook her head in an attempt to dispel the last of the dizziness and, leaping to her feet, watched for the right moment.
It came swiftly.
As the broken female spun with old Siray on her back, the unhinged one’s feet moving continuously beneath her while her wild hair made a blurring red arc, Siraay ran forwards and squatted, sweeping one leg out and around, catching both of her target’s knees.
The broken one fell backwards, old Siray releasing her grip and leaping clear an instant before the screaming Lost One hit the ground.
Siraay hurried around to her former self and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her to her feet.
‘Did you have a nice break?’ snarled old Siray, yanking her arm away once she was standing again. ‘Nice of you to leave me here.’
‘I didn’t have control,’ Siraay explained. ‘I was in the real world, but I wasn’t.’
Her other self wasn’t really listening but was brushing back strands of red hair that had escaped from her braid. ‘We need to end this, now, before she ends us.’
Siraay nodded in eager agreement, all too aware what effects this battle between the three of them was having on the body lying limp on her bed in the real world. If they didn’t end this soon, there may not be a body to go back to. For any of them.
Then Siraay realised something. There was an easy way to end this. She snorted, annoyed she hadn’t thought of it before. ‘Let me handle this.’
‘Let you …?’ Old Siray’s voice was disbelieving. ‘What are you—’
‘Trust me,’ Siraay interrupted, moving forwards.
‘Hah! When Kaslon freezes over,’ came the bitter reply.
Siraay ignored the comment and took another step towards the broken version of herself, who was standing up and turning towards them again. The broken one’s eyes gleamed madly as her lips parted in a wide smile.
Did she—it—even feel pain? Siraay wondered as she saw blood drip from a long scratch on the broken one’s throat onto her grimy white shirt.
But the Lost One gave no sign of noticing her injury as she began advancing on the other two once more.
‘Stop!’ Siraay yelled at the third version of herself, holding out her arms and raising her open palms towards the other. ‘Stop, or I will tear you apart,’ she warned.
The broken one paused for a moment, the smile dying. She tilted her head, considering. Then she took another step, and the smile sprang back into place.
‘To the Mother with you, then,’ murmured Siraay. She closed her eyes and cast her mind out for that centre of power. She felt her mind searching, searching …
Someone whipped her body around, and her eyes sprang open—old Siray had her about the waist and had just flung her aside, saving Siraay from the attack of the broken one who had just sailed past, feet first.
‘By the Mother—what were you doing?’ Old Siray demanded, letting go.
‘I was trying to Change,’ returned Siraay, annoyed that her plan had been ruined.
‘Mother save me …’ Old Siray was shaking her head, even as she began backing away once more from the intense-eyed female who was stalking towards them both. ‘We can’t Change—we’re sharing a mind three ways, remember? Not one of us has enough strength over the others to do that—not without one of us dying first!’
Siraay’s body seemed to go cold. ‘Then there’s no way to beat her,’ she breathed.
‘Just figuring that out, are you?’ snapped old Siray.
This is it, Siraay thought. We’re both going to die in here, at the hands of this broken thing that looks just like us. And when the Lost One wakes in my body … She grimaced, her chin sinking into her chest.
And then it sprang back up again as a final, desperate option occurred to her. ‘She wants control, right?’ she said abruptly to her former self.
‘Umm, yes …?’ Old Siray sounded like she wondered if Siraay had been paying attention at all.
‘Then she wants to live—or the parts of her that are us want to live, yes?’ Siraay’s voice was stronger now, but her other self was frowning.
‘Again, yes?’
‘Then let me show her what will happen if she wins.’ And Siraay left her former self standing there as she strode purposefully forwards.
As the Lost One spied her advancing, the female paused and tilted her head, her smile growing again as she watched Siraay’s approach.
Just like an animal, Siraay thought. And like an animal, she was sure that this broken creature would carefully weigh any options to be sure she won at minimal cost to herself.
Siraay stopped just a few paces away, easily within reach of the lightning-fast female, and close enough to make the Lost One frown at the apparently poorly considered tactic. ‘Even if you win here,’ Siraay said, gesturing to the small space and the darkness swirling at its edges, ‘you won’t win up there.’ She pointed upwards, to emphasise her meaning.
Broken Siray’s head tilted the other way, considering the words. ‘If I win, then I win,’ she said, smiling again. Then she casually reached out and slapped Siraay.
Siraay’s head snapped around from the blow, and she fell to the ground, her whole head going numb due to the strength that had been channelled into that effortless strike. Her ears were ringing, and although she was on all fours, she still wasn’t quite sure which way was up.
Then a pair of hands thrust at her side, sending Siraay reeling onto her back, and those same hands were swift to wrap around her throat.
‘Pretty, pretty, die, die,’ came the chant from above her.
Siraay’s vision finally focused, allowing her to see the body she could feel sitting perched on her chest, pinning her to the ground, and the face above it that grinned down feverishly.
‘Bye, bye,’ sang the broken version of herself.
‘N-n-no,’ Siraay managed to get out, but the unbalanced face
above her merely squeezed tighter and kept smiling. ‘L-lo-ook … at … m-my … eyes …’ Siraay gasped out, and in a last desperate attempt to save herself, she released her ineffectual grip on the hands at her throat and instead reached upwards to grab on to the broken one’s chin, forcing her to look down and lock eyes.
As blue eyes stared down into blue, whatever passed for time in that place of darkness and light seemed to slow as the memory of what Siraay had seen in her room flickered before her eyes before it was projected out to encompass her and the other two females, the images of figures and the sounds they had made much fainter, as if those from the real world were now the ghosts.
Siraay didn’t know how it had happened and didn’t much care. But when the Lost One released her grip on Siraay’s neck to stand and eye the slightly transparent people milling about them, Siraay heaved in a great deal of air, coughing as she rolled onto her side.
Soft running steps. ‘What did you do?’
Siraay’s former self had squatted down next to her, whispering as she placed a hesitant hand on Siraay’s shoulder, even as they both kept their eyes on the broken one.
‘I don’t know,’ Siraay replied hoarsely. ‘I just … focused on the memory. Focused on sharing it with her.’
Siraay struggled to her feet—for what felt to her like the tenth time in this place—with assistance from her other self, and together they watched the broken one stand in the middle of the figures as the memory played out around them, her head tilting this way and that as she considered each person.
Then the faint figure that was Chezran said the words they all needed to hear.
‘Guards.’
Once more, two pairs of feet were heard, striding over a stone floor that didn’t actually exist in this place.
Siraay watched as Chezran turned, the Lost One also pivoting to observe him.
‘Stay here until she wakes. If the news is good, fetch me immediately. If it isn’t … then end her quickly.’ The lord stepped away, disappearing into the darkness that swirled around the edges of the memory.