Confused, Sariel felt the image slip away, his mind go grainy, his head empty; but then another vision filled his and the others’ minds.
Kallisto leaned over him, her black eyes full of lust, but not for him. Sariel could see that now. But not then. Not one bit. That night, every move of her body, every glimmering glance, every soft, lush kiss made the Sariel in the memory want to go with her more. Made him want to do whatever she asked of him. He let them all see what he thought then, all his yes’s. All his desire. In the memory, Kallisto opened up like a red-winged blackbird, sleek and beautiful and ready for flight.
Then, like an incantation, Kallisto’s thoughts pulsed into the memory, the same ones Nala heard from Quain: property, money, power, control.
With effort, Sariel forced one last image out, an image he did not see himself but was told about often: his father, Hadrian, who trusted Quain. Quain, who did nothing but laugh as he let energy stream from his body and push Hadrian up and fling him over and over…
As Hadrian fell, Sariel flashed another image of his father, one he did remember. It was late afternoon, over twenty years ago. The sun was out, Sariel and his brothers were playing in the backyard, and Hadrian appeared suddenly in the yard, back from a job. He turned, saw his boys, held out his arms, and laughed, his face wide with happiness.
Sariel couldn’t hold it, the scene fading, everything falling into blackness. In the circle, the group rested for a moment, the current flat. But then Mazi, whose gift was prophecy, opened up his thoughts, a world where Moyenne lived in fear. Because Mazi’s thoughts were only possibilities, unformed images flicked past quickly: whole cities darkened and shut down out of fear, Moyenne forced out of entire areas and placed in work camps, and executions, both Croyant and Moyenne.
Headlines from Moyenne newspapers flashed in front of their eyes: Lower Part of State Evacuated to Designated Camps; New Croyant Authority to Take Over; Final Edition Today.
All wealth was funneled to Quain, who ruled as world king, his eyes burning bright with avarice, the three plaques his. Mazi showed them a terrible tableaux, Quain on a throne, Kallisto standing next to him, a new Council in a wide circle in front of him, members from all Croyant groups.
Next, Mazi moved away from Quain and to the plaques, which were fitted together into the pyramid they could become if a sorcier or sorciere were magic enough to make them do so. Wafts of golden power streamed from the pointed top, filling the room with brilliant light, twirling around Quain, making him stronger and stronger and stronger, while outside, away from him, everything fell apart.
Mazi let the image dim and disappear. And then, quickly and horribly, there was Sayblee’s brother Rasheed, turning away from Sayblee and her family, disappearing in a flurry of robes and wind.
“Please,” a woman said as she grabbed onto Sayblee. “Follow him. Bring him back to us.”
“He’s lost to Quain, Mom,” Sayblee said. “There’s nothing I can do. We’ll never see him again.”
“Oh, you can find him. You can!” Sayblee’s mother cried out. “Why won’t you?”
Sayblee shook her head and simply stared at her mother in complete sadness.
Bringing her hands to her face, Sayblee’s mother pushed herself away from her daughter and walked out of the room. Sayblee paced back and forth, throwing out hot, angry thoughts. In the corner of the room, a table and chairs burst into flame.
Lutalo’s memory slipped in just as Sayblee’s faded. It was a late night in July, a bar on the Rive Gauche, close enough to the Seine to see the many lighted Bateaux-Moucbes power down the river. From his table on the sidewalk outside, Lutalo could hear the voices of the tourists echo up the street. He sipped his beer, and then turned to look for the waiter. Instead, his gaze landed on a man who sat at the bar, Quain, who was staring at him over the rim of a glass. Quain must have recognized Lutalo, known something about him because at that instant, Lutalo was unable to move his mind. If he’d been able, he would have turned Quain’s bar stool to air, the bar to cellophane, giving himself enough time to disappear. But Quain held him tightly, staring at him, picking through his mind as if Lutalo were a filing cabinet. Lutalo was filled with a bone-shaking fear, knowing that he knew enough to give Quain an answer to some question. He tried to hold on, but his mind poured itself out. Quain’s search seemed to go on for hours, but the next thing Lutalo knew, he was on the sidewalk, two men speaking hushed French above him.
The memory broke apart, spun into gray. Baris opened up his incredible mind and let loose a raft of Croyant news, all the latest Quain sightings, the fissures and cracks in Moyenne governments, the specifics of the plaque thefts. Hundreds of images came at them. Maps. Details. Known accomplices. Adalbert’s and the Council’s declarations, ideas, plans.
Suddenly, it was over, all of them hanging together in the gray, drained and resting. Sariel felt as though he’d already battled Quain and lost. He felt a collective exhaustion and worry, the circle drained dry of energy. What is the use? someone thought. Why bother?
They all must have thought too long about the futility of the mission because Mazi let loose a wild burst of hope, images of what could be: the Council orderly, Moyenne cities and governments concerned only with their business, the plaques separated to keep power equal and measured. There were problems and issues and work to be done connecting Croyant and Moyenne life, to be sure, but no one was trying to rule universally. Life was just as it had been before Quain.
Now, thought Nala. London.
Lightened, they thought together of London, brought their energy together, united, and slipped into time and space and the gray. In seconds, they opened their eyes into the courtyard of a Georgian house in Kensington, loaned to them by a sorcier who’d been following Quain and who’d disappeared without a trace. Breathing hard, they stared at each other, knowing more than ever what they had to do. They’d seen it all, and they could never let the horrible visions Mazi had shown them of Quain’s takeover come to pass.
“That was a breeze,” Rufus said, his hair standing on end, as it did whenever he traveled. He smiled, but his eyes were stunned, full of the images they’d all shared.
“You look as though you’ve been through one,” Nala said archly, glancing at his hair. “Let’s get to it. Rufus and Sariel, you and I will go to meet the contacts at The Fox and Pelican. The rest of you, work on collecting more information about Quain’s location. We’ll meet back here in the evening. And as a precaution, guard your minds. Keep your thoughts to yourself. We all know what we need to for now. Remember what Adalbert told us.”
“Great,” Rufus whispered to Sariel. “We’re stuck with Nala as tour guide.”
“You’d better watch it, bro,” Sariel said, feeling rather than seeing the thoughts that Nala had often harbored about Rufus. “Fabia would not be pleased about what I’m sensing. That Nala has been after you for years.”
Rufus rolled his eyes. “You are just jealous because your… because you don’t have…because you…” He stopped talking and looked at Sariel, blinking and smoothing his hair with a hand. And then he shrugged. “Lost the rest of my riff.”
“Just as well. Wouldn’t want you to think something that might offend someone.” Nala walked toward them. “Let’s go.”
She put a hand on Sariel’s and Rufus’s shoulders, and the three of them whirled back into the gray.
Like all vortexes, this one was hard to see, the only sign a shimmery quaver in the air, like a film gone slightly bad at the edges. They were standing in front of a pub on a quiet street, the vortex pushing away foot and automobile traffic. Sariel turned and saw a main road a few blocks down, just where the vortex ended. There was only limited movement: a car, a black cab, a bicycle passing. No one turned down the street or even seemed to glance at it, so the vortex was strong. For some reason, the idea of the vortex collapsing, breaking down, dissolving was pinging in his brain. What would happen if someone got in, heard the talk, and… and…
“Lovely wea
ther,” Nala said.
Sariel glanced upward. The sky was dark with clouds, flecks of rain hitting them.
“English weather,” Rufus said. “You get used to it.”
“I doubt it,” Sariel said. “I’d be in the Bahamas every other day. A tropical island no one else knows about.”
“Please don’t talk to me about tropical islands. And you aren’t seriously trying to tell me there isn’t fog in the Bay Area? Constant summer dreariness in the Sunset District?”
“Enough.” Nala shook her head. “Can’t say a thing without you two embarking on a brotherly chat. Come on.”
She pointed to the pub door, and the three of them walked through the intense vortex energy guarding the door and then pushed through, closing the door behind them. At their entrance, the group at the bar stood up, silent, one man finally walking up to them, pushing his hood back.
To Sariel, the man looked as though he’d been beaten. Maybe not by another person but by life. His eyes were full of fatigue and grief, his face pale, almost gray. His shoulders were held proudly, but it was as if he carried a heavy load regardless, gravity pulling him to ground, beckoning him to rest.
Nala held up a hand, ready to speak, but the man interrupted, his tired eyes suddenly sharp, focused, wary.
“I can’t read you. Identify yourselves.” The man crossed his arms, and Sariel could feel him try to slide into his thoughts, his energy skimming Sariel’s mind. But the man couldn’t find passage and pulled his mind away in irritation. Behind him, Sariel could sense the group’s growing unease with the visit, and he readied himself for a short skirmish. Beside him, Rufus put his hands on his head, centered himself on his feet. Sariel wished he could think a few things to Rufus, but it wasn’t safe. Quain had turned the best of Croyant to himself over the years. With two plaques in his control, he could turn even a group of the most talented Croyant, those completely loyal to Adalbert. It was entirely possible that this group could be a Quain trap.
“We were sent by Adalbert Baird,” Nala said, seeming to grow a foot as she spoke, her yellow robes almost billowing. “On Council business that you are more than familiar with. Unless, of course, you aren’t here on Council business at all.”
Grimly, her gaze dark and firm, Nala handed the man an envelope that she pulled from a pocket in her robe, and they waited as he opened it and read Adalbert’s words. As he read, the man looked up at them periodically, his face slowly changing, relief spreading through his expression, and then his body. His shoulders fell, and he sighed, shaking his head.
At the man’s seeming acceptance of them, Sariel breathed in deeply, looking around at the twelve other bar patrons, sorcieres and sorciers. The group was slumped over steins and glasses, some leaning on their elbows, one man almost asleep. Their robes were dirty, scorched, their eyes like the eyes of the man who still read Adalbert’s letter, full of exhaustion and, Sariel had to admit, fear.
Strangely, he didn’t know who any of them were. They must exclusively work in Europe, he thought. Or maybe this was a secret team, kept secret from most of Croyant, used only for emergencies. And this was how they looked? What had happened to them? What had Quain done?
Again, Sariel wished he could reach Nala. She should know these contacts; after all, she was a Council member, had been for years. But without the ability to go into her mind, Sariel couldn’t determine her feelings beyond nerves. Nala looked blank, the muscles in her face trying to cover her anxiety.
The man folded the letter, and Sariel tensed again. The room felt dark, heavy, sodden with Quain thoughts he couldn’t trace. The hair at the back of his neck prickled, and looking quickly at Rufus, he could see his brother felt just as uneasy.
The man put the paper back into the envelope, laying it on a table, where it burst into red flames that touched only the paper and disappeared when the letter was nothing more than smoke. For an instant, Sariel wished that Sayblee were here to see it.
After the letter and the fire were gone, the man looked up at them and nodded. “You were right to be tentative. Nothing and no one can be trusted right now. Adalbert was wise to have you shut your minds and your magic. This—this…” The man trailed off, using a hand to indicate his group. “This is what can happen if you face Quain without total preparation.”
Nala nodded, dropping her heightened aspect, her fierce gaze. Her robes settled around her body. “I can only imagine. Nala Nagode. This is Sariel Valasay and Rufus Valasay.”
The man’s eyes grew sharp. “Hadrian’s sons?”
“Two of them,” Rufus said, extending his hand.
The man took it, shook hands firmly with Rufus and then with Sariel and Nala. “I knew Hadrian well. And I’ve heard about you both. I’m Phaedrus Mather. These good people”— he motioned to the group at the bar—”are what remain of my team. We were once fifty.”
“What in the bloody hell happened, man?” Rufus asked. “What have you been up to?”
Phaedrus shook his head, breathing out deeply, his sigh full of too much past and even more sorrow. “Setting spells and casting protection around the plaques. Searching out Quain’s location, rounding up his followers. We’ve managed to capture twoscore. We’ve been doing what all Croyant should have been doing. And sooner. But we need to talk about what is at hand. Sit.”
He led them to a large round table, they and Phaedrus’s group fitting easily around it. Sariel noticed that the group seemed to perk up, gather strength from the knowledge that Sariel, Rufus, and Nala were there to help, to take over. Even the man who’d been half asleep and slumped over the bar managed to say hello.
The barkeep brought over a tray of wine and goblets, and Sariel was glad to have something to do other than think about almost forty people dead. With only seven, Nala’s group had much worse odds, and now Quain was more powerful than before. Sariel knew that even his ability to shimmy through thoughts, find his enemies, and bind them tightly would probably be useless against Quain with two plaques.
Someone—all of them—might die. And for a second Sariel felt a regret that went beyond leaving behind his mother and brothers. He would leave behind something, someone else. A warm and light thought flickered in his mind for a moment and then took flight, leaving him empty.
“Tell us what happened,” Rufus said.
Phaedrus took a long sip of wine and set his goblet on the table. “The first plaque had just been captured. Everyone and everything was in chaos. We knew that Quain would immediately set out for the second plaque, but he had managed to block our ability to communicate with each other or anyone.”
“He blocked your minds? All of you?” Nala set down her glass. “At once?”
Phaedrus sighed. “Yes. And he did it completely. We had to travel through matter to actually speak with Adalbert and the Council, who immediately put us at the site of the second plaque. The first thought, of course, was to guard it and guard it well. But too much time had passed. Quain had grown in power, gathered strength from the two plaques.”
“Why didn’t you transport the plaque? Hide it elsewhere?” Sariel asked.
“We did,” Phaedrus said. “We moved it three times. All our magic plus the Council’s protecting it. But each time, a group of Quain’s followers found us. We fought, and fought hard. Quain gave them powers, though. I hadn’t fought like that before. And in each battle, we lost people. Good people. Strong, talented people.”
Phaedrus fell silent, the only sounds in the room the swish swish of the barkeep sweeping in the kitchen, the whirl of water in the dishwasher. Sariel glanced at the people sitting around the table. One sorciere glanced at him, shook her head slightly, and looked down into her glass.
“Did you ever see Quain?” Nala asked.
“Never. Just his followers. We managed to overcome many, but we couldn’t get to him. He’s managed to be at least three steps ahead of us. The night before he took the second plaque, we were only able to discover where he’d been staying the week before.”
; “And then he got that one, too,” Rufus said in disbelief. “How did he do it?”
Phaedrus raised his hands and let them fall back to the table. “We all had protection spells, our charms, our strength. Fifty of us. Fifty Croyant against Quain. And we were ready. We thought that together, all of us, we could weave enough spells to keep it safe.”
Sariel shook his head. “He worked his way through all of you? All that magic?”
“As if it and we didn’t exist at all,” Phaedrus said slowly. “I have to warn you, he has magic I’ve never seen before in my life. Magic none of us understood and still don’t. I haven’t been able to explain it to Adalbert and the Council yet.”
“Tell us,” Nala said, her face intense. “We need to know.”
“It was like this,” Phaedrus began. “No warning. One minute Quain was there before us, breaking through all of our protections. We fought back as hard as we could, throwing everything we had at him. For a moment, it looked like he was overcome, even with Kallisto beside him.”
Sariel sucked in air, the sound of her name slick in his mind. His heart beat against his ribs, and he swallowed down hard. Phaedrus glanced at him, nodding, and Sariel realized that the man knew the story.
“Go on,” Rufus said.
“And then,” Phaedrus said, “and then it was as if the entire room broke up into a thousand pieces, all the pieces— including us—shaking and heaving. Our bodies, our hearts, all our organs, our minds all scattered and thrown. The room turned upon itself, flipped upside down.”
“What form of blasted magic is that?” Rufus said, slapping his hand on the table.
Phaedrus almost laughed, rubbed his forehead, and then closed his eyes for a moment. He composed himself, exhaling. “Nothing we knew. Nothing we could stop. And by the time the few of us who made it through the blast had awakened, Quain and the plaque were gone. He—”
When You Believe Page 16