by Loren Walker
A wry smile came over the woman’s face. “I’d be reacting the same way as you,” Vyoma said in her odd, creaky voice. “Just as suspicious.”
Then she put her hands behind her back, like a soldier standing at attention. “Your brothers are in my house. Just around the path, second cavern. The dark red one.”
Caught up in her shock, Phaira managed one word, the first ‘s’ drawn out: “Sydel?”
“Over there,” Vyoma nodded over her left shoulder. Phaira caught a glimmer of blue in the distance “In the Arazura.”
“Why is she in there?”
“I cannot say,” Vyoma said with clear disapproval. “She won’t come out. Your brothers have tried several times. So have I, and the town physician. She refuses to be seen by anyone. We don’t know if she is eating, or going mad.”
Her voice dropped in volume. “That green-haired one caused a lot of trouble, by the sounds of it.”
“So I hear,” Phaira said wearily. For a moment, she wondered if CaLarca would suddenly appear. But when she scanned the horizon, there was nothing but clouds.
“Will you tell Ren and Cohen that I’m here?” she asked Vyoma.
“Shouldn’t you tell them yourself? They’ve waited a long time. And I’d like to - ” Here, the woman faltered. “Well, have a chance to introduce myself. Explain myself.”
“I don’t need an explanation,” Phaira said curtly. Her mind reeled with a thousand different emotions, none of which were useful in that moment. She could process them later. “Right now, I need to see Sydel.”
“Are you close with that girl?”
“Not really,” Phaira said as she brushed past Vyoma. “Barely know her.”
Toomba held cavern after cavern, and within lay huts and houses, made of wood, something that Phaira hadn’t seen before. Some smaller openings held broken-down transports, heavy with rust. Her boots crunched against the gravel on the ground. How many people lived here? Why would they choose a life so far removed?
Inside the fourth hollow, the Arazura stood, cold and silent. Phaira crept closer, slipping through the entry door. Her steps made small tinny echoes up the stairs.
Then her feet hit piles of trash, thrown clothes, wires snaking along the hall. The rooms had been ransacked: Sydel’s alcove, Cohen’s and Renzo’s cabin, the common room upturned, the contents of the kitchen dumped on the floor. And inside her own cabin, Phaira could hear muttering, and movement, like a skittering rat.
Bracing herself, she hit the release. The door slid open.
The room was dark, and smelled of dust. Sydel was in the corner, riffling through Phaira’s clothes.
“Sydel!” Phaira burst out. “What are you - ?” Then her voice caught in her throat, taking in the girl’s hair, her red eyes, her flushed, waxy skin.
“Go away,” Sydel hissed, a haunted, drawn-out exhalation.
“No,” Phaira snapped. “Get up and tell me what’s going on.”
Sydel rose to her feet, wavering in place, like she might keel over. Her dress was heavily wrinkled, with visible stains. Her collarbones jutted out. Then, with slow, shuffling steps, Sydel drew closer. A wave of heat went through the room. Phaira’s skin broke out in goosebumps. She pressed her back to the doorframe and held her breath, resisting the urge to lash out, to stop the girl from getting any closer.
Suddenly, Sydel lurched forward, grabbing Phaira’s hands. “I just want to try it.” she whispered, her voice feverish and low. “I just want to forget for a while. I know you have it somewhere, I’m sorry I made such a mess, but - will you show me where the mekaline is?”
“What? No!” Phaira exclaimed. Is this what the girl thought of her? As a drug connection?
Sydel glared at her like a sullen teenager. “Why won’t you share?”
“Share?” Phaira repeated. “I’m not - I don’t have a stash here, Sydel.” She yanked away her hands. “And even if I did, there’s no way that I’m exposing you to it.”
“Why? Why is it okay for you, and not for me?” Sydel accused, lifting one bony shoulder. “You do it, and you must get some satisfaction out of it.”
Phaira winced, but Sydel continued to talk: “Why can’t you just let me have it? What does it matter? Why shouldn’t we just do whatever we want?”
Phaira took Sydel by the wrists. “What’s happened since I left?” she demanded. “What’s going on that I don’t - ?”
“I’m waking up,” Sydel interrupted, lifting her chin. “I’m pulling my head out of the sand, as you once told me.”
“No, you’re digging into a whole different pit,” Phaira corrected, giving the girl’s wrists a yank. “The Sydel I know wouldn’t even think to ask me about meka.”
“You don’t know me,” Sydel shot back. Then her lips quivered. “Do you know we’re nearly the same age? Yann erased my memories,” she added, with a small bark of laughter. “Seven years, gone.”
Phaira did know. Yann had confessed it to her, weeks ago. But it wouldn't help to confirm it outloud.
“Now everything makes sense,” Sydel continued. “Why everyone in Jala Communia, all the people I loved and grew up with, why they drifted away. I wondered for years what I’d done wrong, what I’d said to make everyone hate me so much. Now I know. They were afraid. They knew I was unnatural. Just some foolish pawn, easy to manipulate, soft, stupid Sydel.” She jerked her wrists away from Phaira’s grip. “Well, I don’t care anymore.”
Phaira took hold of Sydel by the shoulder and steered her to the mattress on the floor. When the girl sat down, Phaira slid next to her. “Look at me,” she demanded.
Scorn on her face, Sydel glanced over.
“Yann was terrible to you,” Phaira told her. “You’re right to be so upset. But you don’t ever, ever use meka. I mean it.”
“But you do.”
“I’m an addict.” Cold rushed through Phaira. She’d never said those words before; even as she spoke them, she was desperate to take them back.
“You hate me.” Sydel’s voice brought her back. “Even more than before.”
“I don’t – I don’t hate you,” Phaira said, with a sigh at the end.
She slung her arms over her knees, and looked down at her feet. “I’m really scared of you, Sydel,” she confessed.
“You don’t have to be”
“But I am,” Phaira interrupted. “I’m terrified you’ll explode again, or take over our minds, or some other awful thing.”
She glanced at the girl. Sydel’s mouth was in a thin line, her eyebrows knitted together.
“But you’re a good person,” Phaira continued. “It’s obvious you’re a good person. You’re kind, and generous, and you’re probably better than the rest of us put together.” She exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know how to relax around you. Or if I ever should.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Sydel’s words came out in a rush. “I’ll never hurt you, or your family, or anyone. Never again. I’m not going to be that person.” She looked fierce and pink, with some of that familiar stubbornness. Buoyed at the sight, Phaira wished she could tell Sydel that she believed her.
“You need to know something, Sydel,” she said instead. “I met up with CaLarca.”
“What?” Sydel recoiled. “Where?”
“It doesn’t matter. But we spoke, and - “
“You can’t believe a word she says,” Sydel interrupted. “She was manipulating us the whole time.”
“I know,” Phaira told her. “She told me everything. She wants to make amends with you.”
Sydel snorted. “I don’t care what she wants. I only care about what I want.” Her jaw tightened, and she nodded three times before continuing. “I want to take responsibility for the things I’ve done. There’s one Sava cousin left; I want to apologize to him for killing his kin.”
“You can’t do that,” Phaira said immediately. “It’ll bring the world down on our head, and us, and lead everyone straight to - ” Then she stared at the
girl’s profile. “Wait, did you do it already? Did you reach someone?”
“No. I don’t know how to reach the Sava family, the grandfather, or the remaining cousin.” Her head lifted, and her determined eyes met Phaira’s. “I want to apologize to them.”
Phaira felt weak. “Sydel, you mean well, but you don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I can’t move forward until I confess the truth,” Sydel said. Her face darkened. “And you can tell CaLarca that if she wants to make amends, she’ll do the same.”
A quiet knock echoed through the room. Phaira and Sydel looked up. Renzo and Cohen stood in the doorframe.
“There’s -” Renzo began. “I don’t know how he found us, but… Yann is out there.”
Sydel shot to her feet. “He’s here?”
Cohen nodded. “He says he has to talk to -”
“Is he alone?” Phaira broke in.
“No,” Renzo said. “He brought reinforcements.”
IV.
The balding man stood red-faced and puffing, his hands on his knees. Behind him, on the final stone step of the Toomba entrance, his four companions were unfazed, their hands behind their backs, dressed in the unmistakable colors of law enforcement. Phaira froze at the sight.
It was only by her brothers’ prodding that she started to walk. The foursome stayed close, Sydel in front, drawing closer and closer to the Communia elder. During the silent walk, Phaira stared at Sydel’s back, wondering what the girl was thinking.
When she stopped, six feet away from her former master, Yann straightened. “I’m so sorry, Sydel,” he croaked, his voice gritty from dehydration. “I owe you so many apologies.”
“What are you doing here?” Her question was barely a whisper.
Yann moved to embrace her. “When I heard about Kings, I had to see you -”
“Hands off.” Phaira’s voice was half-lost in the wind, but the man caught the intent.
Yann lowered his hands. “You’ve changed. You’ve become so strong.”
“Not for the better,” Sydel said flatly. “Though inevitable, given my heritage. Predestined to hurt.” Her gaze drifted to the four men and women behind Yann. “Are they here to arrest me?”
“Of course not,” Yann soothed. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Sydel’s face twisted. “You excommunicated me because I was wrong, in every way.”
Yann sighed. “My word,” he muttered, “still as argumentative as ever.” He gestured at the men and women in uniform. “They are here as escorts. If you will only listen -”
Cohen made a low growl in the back of his throat.
“Why now?” Renzo barked, his arms crossed over his chest. “A sudden change of heart?”
“No,” Yann said. “New information.” He glanced at Sydel again. “Kuri came to see me.”
Everyone stiffened, but Yann kept talking. “And I think he’s right. I think after all this time, we have to come together again, and sever the last connection to what happened so many years ago.” His hand lifted to the back of his neck. “We have to remove whatever was implanted into our brains, and we need you to do it.”
“Me?” Sydel gasped. “How can I do such a thing? I’m no surgeon.”
“This kind of surgery is incredibly costly.” He sighed again. “As crude as it sounds, we need rana. And you, as the rightful heir to Joran’s estate, can provide it. You can save us all.”
“You’re here for money?” Phaira burst out. “After everything you did!”
“Stop,” came Sydel’s hushed voice. She gazed at Yann. “What do you need?”
“Syd,” Cohen gasped.
“A signature, and a vial of blood,” Yann said, ignoring the outbursts. “The blood to acknowledge your existence as Sydel Shovann Asanto, the rightful heir to Joran Asanto’s estate. The signature to transfer ownership of the existing accounts.” He smiled faintly. “You’ll be quite the heiress, my dear.”
“Why now?” Renzo questioned. “Why do this now, and not years ago?
“Because I didn’t know about the others,” Yann said. “My concern was keeping Sydel safe, not my own wellbeing. But we all want the chance to start anew, if she is willing. If she is the girl that I raised.”
“She’s far more than that,” came a new voice.
Everyone turned. There was CaLarca, hunched over her cane, breathing heavily and glaring at Yann. A frightened hiker, her escort, was already running at full speed down the stairs, his footsteps richochetting through the mountains.
“What are you - ?” Renzo and Cohen exploded.
“She came with me,” Phaira interrupted. “Stand down.” It was enough to shock both brothers into silence.
Then Yann spoke, wonder in his voice. “Cyrah. You’re here.”
CaLarca grimaced. “Don’t.” She shuffled towards Phaira and the others. A crack broke through the atmosphere, somewhere in the distance. Everyone jumped, looking in all directions, but there were only birds in the air, and the sound of wind.
“I’m also here to apologize,” CaLarca began, eyeing Sydel.
“I don’t care about apologizes,” Sydel interrupted. “Our issue goes beyond each other. We need to make amends to the survivors of the first attack.” Her glare cut a line between Phaira and her brothers, pinning Yann and CaLarca. “If you do that, I’ll sign the papers, and provide the blood.”
Emotions passed over Yann’s face: fear, disgust, wariness.
“I will do it,” CaLarca said after a long pause.
Sydel turned to the man. “Yann?” Her chin lifted. Phaira felt it, that old tension crackling between them, just like in the Communia.
“If it means you’ll forgive me,” the old man said, “then yes.”
* * *
There was no question of letting Yann into the Arazura to make the call. Regardless of his intentions, there was too much uncertainty, too much tension simmering between CaLarca, Yann and Sydel. Neither Phaira nor her brothers could predict what might happen, but Phaira was the one who suggested that if an apology was to be made, it should be made to the surviving Sava cousin, Theron. And it should be made in private, inside the grandmother Vyoma’s house.
“You come too,” Sydel told the siblings. “I want you all to bear witness.”
Then she strode past them, heading for Vyoma’s red wooden hut in the cavern.
“Remain here,” Yann instructed the silent officers, before following her.
“This is crazy,” Renzo muttered to his siblings. “She’s crazy.”
“She’s not crazy,” Cohen said sullenly. “Stop saying that.”
“Well, this is going to be a disaster,” Renzo snapped at his brother. “Why are we going along with this, we should stop them.”
“I don’t think we can,” Phaira said. “It’s over our heads.”
All three slowed to watch CaLarca shuffle past them. Phaira studied the green-streaked braids sway in the center of the woman’s back, the heavy gait, the click of metal on rock.
“How could you, Phair,” Cohen said under his breath.
“Not now, Co. More has happened than you know.”
“Well, I’m not going up there,” Cohen announced gruffly. “You two do what you want.”
Then he stalked away, his broad back disappearing around the corner.
Phaira blinked. “He’s pleasant.”
“You have no idea,” Renzo sighed.
When they reached the front of Vyoma’s house, the two huddled before the open door. The sound of footsteps on the creaking staircase wafted over the threshold.
“Why suggest Theron?” Renzo whispered.
“Better than the grandfather,” Phaira said. “Trust me.”
“But you barely know him,” Renzo exclaimed. “How do you know that he won’t command all the syndicate to wipe us out?”
Phaira lifted one shoulder. “You worked alongside him, Ren. You really think he’s that kind of guy?”
“Sure, we got along fine,” Renzo said impatien
tly, “but that was a few major catastrophes ago.”
Phaira shrugged again. She craned her neck to peer up the rickety stairwell, into the darkness.
Renzo sighed, long and low. “Well,” he began. “Someone has to make the introduction. Might as well be me.”
* * *
There was barely any space in the attic to stand, let alone keep the safe distance that everyone wanted. Every eye checked for proximity: who looked at what, who sweated, who might be contemplating a weapon, physical or metal, and the space quickly grew awkward and overheated.
The sooner this is done, the better, Renzo thought, placing his Lissome on the foot of the bed. He quickly activated a video-screen, expanding it to three feet wide with his hands. Then he drew up a virtual keypad. He looked at Sydel for confirmation. She stood straight-backed, her mouth set in a determined line.
Renzo held his breath and typed. Numbers and symbols flashed across the screen, bypassing borders, sending out inquiries.
Waiting for responses, Renzo stole looks at CaLarca and Yann. They stood next to each other; surprising, given their animosity. Yann looked like he might pass out, the blood vessels around his nostrils spidery. CaLarca refused to make eye contact with anyone, glaring at the floor.
The screen went black. Renzo could hear swallows, feel how everyone was collectively bracing for sound or sudden light. A click sounded through the Lissome soundsystem. Then a voice.
“Renzo?” The audio was clear, though the picture remained dark. Theron Sava sounded surprised, though not angry.
“Yes,” Renzo said uneasily. “How’s it going?” For a moment, he wondered if he should add sir to the end of that sentence.
“Funny you called, actually. I was going to look you up. Had a couple of questions for you.” There was a pause. “But I sense this isn’t the right time.” Another pause. “What’s with the crowd?”
Renzo wet his lips. “Some people want to talk to you. I hope that’s okay.”
“Some people,” the man repeated. “Your brother is well, I hope?”
“He’s fine, yes,” Renzo said, peering into the blackness. “Can’t you activate the visual, Theron? This is weird.”