by Jo Zebedee
Cautiously, she propped herself up on one elbow and the memory of the fire forest came crashing back. She was in trouble; Phelps taking her could mean only one thing. She shivered at the thought of the Empress, and looked around the room, slower, checking for anything that might be of use. She had to do something, not just wait to land in Abendau, but there was nothing useful, not even a pole she could bash someone on the head with.
She couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid. She’d known something was up with Baelan – she should have been on her guard. Everyone would be worried. Her mum and Uncle Lichio would be looking for her.
Uncle Lichio… something came to her, like a dream. Something someone had said as she’d been taken to this cabin. She sat straight, ignoring the dizziness the movement brought. The soldiers had said he was in the forest and not to worry about going back for him. Baelan’s descriptions of the bodies found in the forests rushed at her. They were cold, sucked of their heat. Fed on all night long. She doubled over as a cramp raced across her stomach, sickening her. Lichio, her fun uncle, who’d always treated her as an equal, not a kid. Who understood what it was like to be expected to fill a role because the rest of the family had. She might have got him killed. The thought circled, the idea almost too big to grasp, and there was nothing she could do to make things right. She’d promised her dad that she’d help Mum and not make things worse, and she’d ended up causing this chaos.
Something pulled at her thoughts, something insistent and impossible to ignore. The mesh: tiny, compared to what she was used to, but still there. She bit her lip, knowing she should pull away from it. Dad, and the Roamers, had been adamant that no one should access it until her father took it back. But when she tried to flex her own powers, there was nothing there. They’d drugged her again, like last time. All she had was the mesh, and it had to be better than nothing, even broken and small as it was.
She started to prod at it, trying to work out what was so different about the feel of it. It wasn’t just that her father was missing, although without him the mesh wasn’t circular and whole but a confusing mess of individual minds. It was that the mesh was demanding her attention in a way it never had before, insistent, drumming with intent. She scrunched her eyes, concentrating, and the mesh expanded and took on something of its old shape. Her headache faded. It felt like the mesh wanted her to do this, to take hold of it and make it whole again. It needed someone to.
She reached within herself. If she fixed it into the right shape, she could sort through the jumble of Roamer minds and tell about Lichio in the forest, and get them to raise the alarm. She could tell them where she was, too – if their ships could reach her before she reached Belaudii, she’d be safe. Guilt warred with need. The Roamers had been adamant she must not. She tried to put it out of her head and think of something that didn’t involve messing with things she should leave well enough alone.
A click at the door made her jump. The handle turned. She held her breath, sure it would be Phelps with his thin face and cruel eyes, and didn’t know whether she wanted it to be him or not. Yes, he frightened her, but he might tell her something. Since he was, presumably, taking her back to the palace, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.
The door opened, and when a soldier came in with a tray she drew in a proper breath. No, she didn’t want it to be Phelps, it seemed. Not ever.
A doctor followed, the long needle in his hands catching the light and glinting. She backed herself close to the wall, but when he lifted her arm she didn’t pull away. He jabbed her, and she didn’t let out a whimper, but glared at him instead. Her dad had been brave in the palace, and her mum. That was how a Varnon behaved, and she wasn’t going to do anything less.
She pulled her sleeve down and waited as they left the room. The door closed, leaving her in silence. Phelps wouldn’t allow her powers to come back. He’d hold her in this cell and when she got to Abendau her grandmother would be waiting, and all the time Lichio would be lost. Cold washed through her, remembering the touch of the Empress’ mind, how she’d known Kerra with just one glance and dismissed her as a nothing. How chilling she’d been.
She rubbed the needle mark on her arm. Phelps didn’t know about the mesh; he expected her to be powerless. Why should she stay that way? If her dad was here, he’d tell her to do what she needed to get away. And she knew he’d tell her to do what she could to help Lichio – he would never have left him if there was any way to change things.
Yes, yes, the mesh pounded. She broke out in a sweat, her hands sticky and warm. She tried to tell herself not to, that things weren’t the way they should be, but even as she thought it a part of her was diving into the broken mesh of minds, seeking the right shape, for the way to make the mesh work. She told herself it was because she had to and not because everything in her cried out to take the mesh and shape it the way it should be, the way her father never could. The way she’d been wanting to for weeks.
***
Sonly read, once again, the report about Lichio’s squad, her focus coming back to the final lines, the only ones that mattered: missing, presumed dead. In Ferran-V’s fire forests, the presumed was a formality. Both he and Kerra had been swallowed by the forest.
She set the report down, hands shaking. Lichio had heard Rjala’s tales, hanging on to every word just as she had. He’d know what lay ahead for him in vivid detail.
She wished Kare had stayed. He’d take the forests apart, blasting the sprites if he needed to. He’d have troops to do it with, unlike her who only had useless political allies. How had she moved so far away from who she’d been in the Banned? Then, she’d led a task force to Abendau in support of Kare’s slave rebellion. Now, she couldn’t even leave for Ferran-V; the airspace was closed to anything other than the search ships, and without her political privilege she was just another person seeking permission to land. She couldn’t even commandeer a ship for herself, not when she might not have a political position any more.
She stood and paced up and down her small office. She tried to forget Rjala’s cold voice telling of the screams, and the silence, of the bodies left to be found in the morning, but wasn’t able to think of anything else.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lichio gripped his blaster, scanning above him, but it was useless: he couldn’t see the sprites, let alone shoot the little bastards. The sound of claws drew closer, moving from the top canopy, and he tightened his grip, ready. Anything had to be better than waiting, knowing those claws were meant for him.
Anything? He brought his blaster up, holding it below his chin. It’d be quick. He’d thought that many times over the last decade, usually around the anniversary of his escape; thought of Silom dying and how quick it had been. He raised the barrel to his temple, his hand surprisingly steady, his thoughts both sharp and removed from him, as if in the most vivid dream, one he’d wake from, yelling. Maybe he’d wake in the morning and tell Kerra he’d dreamt about her running off in the forests. Hell, he might even wake in time to veto the trip.
Leaves rustled above his head. This was no dream. He tightened his finger on the trigger. One quick depress and it would be over. If he was going to do it, now was the moment. He squeezed his eyes closed and pressed the barrel tight against his skin.
Damn, it shouldn’t be like this; he was Lichio, his mother’s clever son. He used his brains to solve things. Those brains wouldn’t do much good splattered on the tree trunk behind.
The claws drew closer. He might be smart but he was outnumbered, and knew nothing about the forests. He tightened his finger on the trigger. A moment of bravery, that’s all it would take. Then he’d know nothing more.
His breath caught. He knew some things about the forest. Rjala had told him about the Empress’ attack many times: when he’d been about seven, it had been his favourite tale, the one to relive in games and scare himself shitless with. He lowered his hand. Rjala hadn’t known the forest; she’d lived in the city. The knowledge that had saved her had been the
folklore of the forests – the same folklore the Ferrans bigged up when selling their merchandise these days.
He spun, seeking through the dark. Thornberries, that’s what he needed. He wracked his brains, trying to remember what she’d said, but he’d been a kid, more interested in the gore than the salvation. They’d cut her hands to shreds, he remembered that.
All the plants in the forest grew near the trees. The lava ponds were too hostile – the plants needed the protection of the trees to survive. He sought, all around. The thornberries were parasitic, he dredged from somewhere, and grew on the older trees.
Older trees. Older pools, surely. He ran, using the sound of gentle plopping to guide him. If he could hear a pool and not see it, it was dark – and they were the older pools, slowly losing their heat to the chill air.
He forced himself to zone out the clicking of the sprites. One made a smacking noise. At any moment they’d be in his hair, on his clothes, seeking his flesh.
There. Just the smallest bubble of red gave the old pool away, muted, not angry like the livelier pools. He ran towards it, staying away from the tree trunks, going as fast as he could. The sprites were tree-dwellers; across open ground he might outpace them. He reached the pool. A thicket of thornberry bushes twisted around a fallen tree, low to the ground.
He fell to his knees beside them. Thank you, oh lord of the forest, or whoever was looking out for him. Rjala, perhaps? She’d been here, terrified as he was now, and had found a way to survive. He reached into the thorns, ignoring them raking his skin, and pulled the sharp berries, wincing. A handful, two. He brought his hands back to his chest, and they were shaking. Now what?
Rjala had squeezed them all over her skin. He pressed the first one. Its thorns dug into his skin. He bit down a yell; the sprites almost certainly knew where he was, but he was damned if he was going to make things easier for them.
The berry burst and juice drenched his cut skin. He bit his lip against the sharp pain, and the taste of blood filled his mouth. The smell of the berries reached him, heavy and sour, making him gag. He brought his hand up and juice trickled down his arm, a thin thread of red, more than he’d imagined the hardened, dry exterior could hold. He ran his hand over his face, covering it with the juice.
He needed more. Rjala had stripped, sure the sprites would find a way up her clothes until they burrowed against her skin. He pulled off his jacket, letting it fall to the ground. His trousers followed, his shirt and underwear. He squeezed the next berry, eyes half-closed against the sharp pain.
Shapes, in the darkness, scuttled over the forest floor. The next berry popped. He spread the juice, picked up another and another, each squeeze an agony more than the last, until his body was red and glistening.
The sprites stopped, just beyond the pool. One drew its mouth back, revealing a line of sharp teeth, white against the darkness. It hissed, but didn’t come closer, and the relief flooded him – that Rjala had been right, and the juice repelled them.
She’d also told him the juice had to stay moist to work. Already he could feel his skin stiffening as it dried, his face stretched and pulled. He crouched and reached into the very centre of the thicket, past long, raking thorns, to fill his hands with berries. Once again, he squeezed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Baelan lay, his eyes heavy and closed. For now, it was peaceful, a peace he rarely knew, and he didn’t want to move. The doctor had given him something, he remembered, when he’d fought against the second injection and kicked out at the doctor. It had made no difference. Phelps and Jakina – his uncle, who’d never liked him – had held him down.
A hand touched his brow, warm and dry, smelling of musk perfume. His mother: she’d been allowed back to him, then.
“How long will he sleep?” she asked.
“Another hour, perhaps.” The voice wasn’t sand-harsh like his uncles’, but flat, unemotional and clipped. Phelps.
“Why does he need his powers subdued? I’m here now – I can control him.”
“I can’t take that chance.” Phelps’ voice was low and close. “Our Lady is determined he be returned to her, and that’s what I’ll ensure happens.” His steps clicked back and forth. “He rejected her. She won’t forget it.”
Baelan tried to open his mouth to explain it hadn’t been like that, that the Empress had been hurting him and he hadn’t known what else to do, but his lips were too heavy and the words got lost in the blackness within him.
“Why did he do such a thing?” his mother asked. “He was raised to be true to our Lady.”
Baelan would have cringed if he could. Without knowing the circumstances, it was unthinkable that he’d sided with Varnon. Already, back amongst his own people, he couldn’t quite believe he had.
The bunk shifted a little as someone, presumably Phelps, sat on the end of it.
“Shanisa,” he said. “The Empress had much to teach Baelan and little time to do it. I believe he found her a hard teacher.”
A bitch, more like.
“Did she hurt him?” His mother’s voice carried an edge Baelan knew well, one that most of the tribe knew not to cross. Hope rose in him; perhaps his mother could be a source of help after all. She just needed to know the truth, that he’d done nothing wrong and yet the Empress had hurt him.
“Her time in captivity reminded our Lady her time is short. It hardened her.”
Another gentle stroke of his forehead; his hair smoothed back. “I will not let her hurt my son.”
“You will be crushed if you stand against her.” Phelps’ voice was firm, like iron. “You think Baelan is her only option? She’s created three heirs; she can create another. With Baelan, she has the DNA template she needs.”
“Then we must not return him,” said his mother. “If it isn’t for him to take her place, why do we?”
“The Empress is aware of her age,” said Phelps. “While a baby grows to maturity, there will be others waiting in line to take its place.”
“So, she may still have use for Baelan?”
“I believe so.” There was a long pause, during which Baelan almost forgot to breathe, and then the General continued. “I’ve known her long enough to tell you she will not stand for the sort of betrayal Baelan showed. Especially not when that betrayal concerns Varnon. She won’t forgive easily. If Baelan wishes to regain his privilege, there will be a price to pay.”
His mother’s hand faltered on his forehead, before resuming. “He cannot go back to the tribes. They will not let him live.”
Fear caught, making Baelan’s chest tighten. He’d known that risk, when he’d turned against the Empress. How could he have been such a fool?
“The Empress promised me his place in the palace,” she went on. “She swore, on oath to an Elder, that she would not harm Baelan. I would never have allowed him to return if his place was not assured.”
“She lied,” said Phelps. “She does that.”
A chill crept up his spine. If he could, he’d shiver. He thought of his father’s scarred chest, of the ring of ruined skin encircling his throat, his crabbed fingers, and panic welled. Instinctively, he reached within, seeking his powers. He’d deal with Phelps and get the ship turned back to Ferran.
There was nothing there, except the stupid mesh he didn’t understand and that hated him. He touched it, even so – some power would be better than none – but it was broken, the power normally held within it fragmentary and useless.
“What about the girl?” asked his mother. “Could she be chosen instead?”
“The girl is not Baelan,” Phelps said. “She has nothing like his power. She carries Sonly le Payne’s genes, and the Empress hates the le Paynes second only to her son. Baelan can still be the future, but only if he can restore her trust. Make no mistake: if he does not, the Empress will keep your son only as long as she needs him.” Another pause. “I fear, while she keeps him, she will not be merciful.”
“I cannot let this happen.” His mother got up from the
bed; he could hear her skirts moving as she walked, a rhythmic swish-swish. “I will speak with the tribes. I will seek forgiveness for his action. He will do whatever penance requested of him.”
He wanted to sit up and say no. A tribal penance could be worse than the Empress’. He could be cast out, into the desert, and left to survive alone. For what he had done, turning on his Lady, that penance could be weeks, or even months. Every day, seeking water and food. Seeking not to become food. On his own, allowed no shelter from the sun or the night’s cold. If he met a tribesman, he would not be allowed to speak, or ask for help. He would not be permitted to return before they came to retrieve him; few were ever retrieved in time.
He remembered, when he was a boy, a man who had been sentenced to a four-week penance. When he returned, they’d stripped and burned his penance garb. He’d been thin, his ribs like sticks. He’d muttered to himself, making no sense to anyone, his skin aged and parched like an elder’s, and not the strong man who’d left.
Yet, once over, the penance would wipe his slate clean. He would be returned to who he had been on his naming day. Baelan was young, and strong. He knew the desert. He could survive it.
“Baelan must be returned to the tribes,” his mother said, her voice stronger than previously. She had made her decision. “I will demand it.”
“The council will overrule you.” Phelps stood, the bed shifting as his weight lifted. “She will see to that.”
“I am his parent; I have the right to keep him with me.”
“You are one parent. You need both to make it binding.”
“The tribes are hardly going to ask Varnon’s permission.” The sound of her skirt stopped. “You’re his tribal father,” she said, after a moment. “You stood for him.”