Watcher's Web

by Patty Jansen

  Still more energy crackled into the vessel. Daya writhed on the ground, his back arched and muscles stiff. Light blazed from his eyes, pulsing with his heartbeat.

  The air flashed and crackled. A beam of white-hot energy streamed into the vessel of balls. It shattered into thousands of diamond-flecked pieces.

  Silence.

  Soft sleep.

  A faint heartbeat.

  Daya?

  Daya groaned and pushed himself. There was snow under his hands. He was in some sort of alley, with blind walls on either side. How had he ended up here?

  His head hurt. His hand hurt; his muscles hurt, his eyes hurt. Pain spiked up his leg. He now remembered: that was from when he had twisted his ankle jumping down from the room where the soldiers were all unconscious. Damn—he was a mining executive, not a bandit; clumsy and awkward even as a boy.

  Sparks swirled under the skin of his hand. Traces of ash still adhered to his clothing. His trousers had ripped when he had climbed out the shattered window. Blood trickled down his leg where glass had cut the skin. He dared rest only now, this far from the council building, but it was far too cold for the clothes he was wearing, and his eyes kept seeing what had happened to him.

  The explosion. The cold water, the flash, the jar of balls. Wide eyes, cramped muscles, a pulsing heartbeat.

  Daya knew: they were harvesting life energy from the bodies of those with the ability to collect it and storing it in those beads. It was crude, but they would find better solutions to collect the most dangerous and most powerful energy of all. Life energy was everywhere. It could be harvested from the air, even from depth of space by people with his ability. They knew where the girl was. He saw her strapped against the metal wall, screaming as the medico stuck a thick needle into the soft skin of her lower belly.

  Daya hurt, hurt so much inside that it made him breathe in shallow gasps. He had to save her, except he didn’t know where she was.

  Jessica reached out for him. I’m here. Listen to me!

  But either he couldn’t hear her or her voice was not strong enough in the way it needed to be focused to reach him.

  Fresh snow blew across the entrance of the alley, heaping on the lee side of a blind wall. He sensed danger moving everywhere around him. The whole damn army was after him.

  “Don’ move!”

  Daya froze. A soldier held a crossbow pointed barely a hand’s length from his face. A typical Mirani with cherubic blond curls. “Looks like I’m going t’ get th’ prize.” His breath stank, and his teeth were brown.

  Daya shrank away, running his hands over the wall at his back, searching for anything to use as a weapon.

  “Now—get going.” The soldier gestured with his weapon. As the point of the crossbow traced a line in the air, a chill followed it. Heat flared inside him and sent waves of sparks to his skin. What was causing that?

  A rough hand grabbed Daya’s arm. “Y’ move when I tell y—ouch!” A spark flew up the soldier’s arm. It singed a path over his tunic, across his chest, from where it jumped onto the crossbow. The soldier stared, letting the point dip away from Daya’s face.

  Daya jerked up his knee, hitting the soldier hard between the legs. The man screamed. The crossbow flew from his hands. Daya kicked against the wall and pushed the man’s shoulders. They fell. The soldier’s back hit the ground with a dull thud.

  Daya crashed on top, forcing air from the soldier’s lungs in a loud oomph. “Where is the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “You know what girl.”

  Fear stirred in the man’s eyes. He took a gasping breath, coughed. “There’s no girl.”

  Nonsense! Daya pushed, thudding the man’s head against the frosty ground. His whole body trembled with rage. “Liar, liar. You know about her. Where is she?”

  The man coughed. Splatters of slime flew onto Daya’s hands. The soldier’s breath wheezed. “You’re . . . killing . . . me.”

  “Damn, I will kill you if you don’t tell me the truth. Where is she?”

  More coughing. “I don’t know. I swear!”

  “You know, you know, you know.” With every “know”, Daya smacked the man harder into the ground. Blood marked the snow. Blue eyes met his, unfocused. Knowledge whirled in those eyes.

  Knowledge of standing guard and watching as men were tortured.

  Zhadya-born men, like him.

  Tell me tell me tell me tell me.

  A flash of images whirled before Daya’s eyes. A senior soldier. A bucket of water. A jar full of glass balls. Black-haired men sitting around the hearth. Men only.

  “Where is the girl? Where is the girl?” His scream echoed in the alley.

  Silence.

  The soldier’s eyes, wide open, stared at the sky. Above his face floated a bright spot of light.

  Daya let go of the soldier’s hair. Trembling, he stumbled to his feet, wiping golden locks from his hands. Splatters of blood marked the snow. A life for a life marks the start of a war. A Coldi proverb. Well, as far as he was concerned, this was war. War on everyone who wanted to mistreat him and his race. Just as they had killed Ivedra. It was time to fight back.

  But he felt sick. In that moment, faced with the pointy end of the crossbow, he had lost control and he knew it. He who prided himself on keeping a tight rein on his ability. Worse, it had achieved little. He still had no idea how to get out of here, and soon someone would discover the body.

  Voices shouted in a street nearby.

  Daya scooped the light out of the air. A blast of heat hit him. He bit his lip to stop himself screaming out and sagged against the wall, clutching his chest, gasping. His skin lit up with swirls of sparks.

  Damn, oh damn, oh damn; how could he ever have forgotten how much this hurt?

  I know, Jessica told him, I know, I know. And she saw her pale thirteen-year old hands reach for the light that was the remainder of Stephen Fitzgerald’s life force.

  It was an accident! She could still hear her voice screaming those words, pummelling her fists into her father’s chest.

  No one listened. No one had even considered that she might have been responsible.

  Now Daya was responsible, and she was a witness.

  Self defence, a voice murmured in her mind. The soldier would have killed Daya.

  That wasn’t what disturbed her. It was the ease with which he killed; the ease with which she could kill if she chose.

  Daya closed his eyes, letting images of the soldier’s memories wash over him. Lines of soldiers in the snow. The crunching footsteps of a senior officer. The hard slap of a hand against bare skin.

  Stand up. Slap. Wash yourself. Slap. Pull your uniform straight.

  A soldier clutching his face, blood running between his fingers.

  Daya edged down the alley. The storm of images inside him had calmed. Now he only saw a dirt-streaked building—the soldier’s house, he presumed. From it spread a network of imaginary lines along the streets. A bar, a market, another house, the soldiers’ barracks. The man probably knew the city backwards. Daya’s mind followed the map to the central square. A wall topped with metal spikes surrounded the airport. The only way in was through a low building. The only way to the building was through the city gate, which would be guarded by soldiers.

  Trapped. No way to get out. Unless . . . he eyed the hole in the snow where the soldier’s crossbow had fallen. Remembered the crackle up the soldier’s arm. Remembered the jar of glass-stone balls. He picked up the weapon. If they wanted fireworks, he’d give them fireworks.

  He slung the strap over his shoulder and left the alley. Soft morning light edged snow-covered roofs in shades of blue and green. Every time snow crunched under his feet, Daya cringed. Already, his fingers were numb from cold.

  In the main square, the first buyers streamed into the markets. A couple of soldiers stood sentry near the entrance to the government buildings, but they were quite far away and they looked bored. Daya waited until a group of merchants crossed the
square and walked behind them to the other side.

  In the street leading to the city gate, shop owners were sweeping snow into heaps. A few gave Daya strange glances as he walked between them, clutching the crossbow under his cloak. Too soon, he stood before the wide arch of the gate. On the other side, the airport building beckoned; and behind that the wide expanse of the airport, where his craft stood— the gateway to freedom.

  Everything looked so normal. Daya fingered his Union citizenship pass in his pocket, and wondered if the guards knew to look out for him.

  Then one of them shouted and pointed. In fluid movements, the others raised their crossbows.

  Daya fumbled to untangle the weapon from under his cloak and raised it to shoulder height.

  Rough voices shouted, “Drop the weapon. Surrender yourself.” More soldiers had come out of the building. Too many—there were too many of them. With trembling hands, Daya pulled the release catch halfway in. With a metallic click an arrow unfolded from the magazine underneath the slide. He focused . . .

  The air tingled with a feeling he knew all too well. A feeling Jessica knew.

  Avya—the power of life, burning through his veins, swirling over his skin.

  Blue light flashed at a small bead at the top of the crossbow’s slide.

  His hand contracted. The release snapped, setting free the arrow with a metallic zhing. A sizzle of blue drew from his hands, following the flying arrow like a shaft of lightning, over the heads of the soldiers—he’d always been a bad shot—into the doorpost of the building.

  Blue lightning exploded from the door, engulfing the building in a net of crackling energy. People screamed. Glass shattered, walls blew outwards. The guards dropped into the snow. People were screaming and running from the shattered door to the cover of the city wall.

  Daya tucked the crossbow under his arm and ran. Past both checkpoints, into the gaping hole in the building, past passengers crawling out from under benches, out the other side onto the open space of the airport. The soles of his shoes slipped in the powdery snow. Still, he ran, expecting to hear the shouts of soldiers and the zhing of fired arrows, but the eerie silence accompanied him all the way to his aircraft.

  Panting, Daya swiped as much snow from the window as he could reach. No time to clean it. No time to defrost the engine.

  He jumped up the stairs, switched on the controls. Red text flashed across the communication screen: Warning: Miran Exchange closed.

  He hit the instrument panel with his hand.

  Damn—damn, damn, damn. He should have known. What now? He couldn’t stay here. He pressed the ignition. The engines fired, but ran irregular. A light flashed insufficient power. Yes—he knew, he was meant to defrost the engine.

  No time. No time.

  Dark figures ran onto the snow from the building.

  Daya laid his hands flat on the instrument panel, sending as much heat as he could muster into the metal, but the flash had drained him.

  Please, don’t desert me now. Please help me out of here. Please, anyone who’s listening, help me get out of here.

  Jessica jerked up. Morning light silvered the empty cups on the table before her. A soft breeze brought the sounds of servants talking in the courtyard. She’d fallen asleep on the couch.

  Iztho looked up from the reader on his lap. The glow of the screen lit his face from below. “What did you say?”

  Jessica frowned, wiped her cheeks, the folds of her tunic impressed in them. “Did I say anything?” Had he sat there working all night while she slept?

  “I heard you speak.”

  “I didn’t.” She closed her eyes and let her head sink back on her arms. Someone—something—had called her. Someone was in trouble.

  “Come on, come on!”

  Daya pushed down the propulsor test lever. The propulsor engine uttered a sickly hiss; the floor shook. A row of three lights flashed orange. Insufficient power.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  The running figures had crossed half the distance from the building to his craft. Daya closed his eyes and fed more heat into the metal. One of the lights turned blue.

  Voices shouted outside.

  Please, someone help me.

  There it was again. Jessica sat up, looking around the room.

  Iztho had left his reader on the table and was at the door, talking to a servant. “. . . yes, bring it in here. The Lady doesn’t feel well.”

  Large Pengali eyes met hers past Iztho’s fur-clad back, pleading.

  “I . . . I feel fine, just tired,” Jessica stammered. To demonstrate how well she felt, she pushed herself up from the couch.

  Daya pressed the lever again. Another hiss. The whole craft shook. Steam drifted past the window. Lights flashed on the instrument panel. Two orange, one blue.

  A warning beep filled the cabin, followed by a female voice. The Miran Exchange is closed—you cannot leave. I repeat: the Miran Exchange is closed.

  Two blue, one orange. The floor stopped vibrating.

  Daya leaned on the metal of the instrument panel. Heat, more heat.

  Please help me.

  Jessica stumbled, clutching her head. “Stop, stop it!” She tore at her hair, loosing it from the bun.

  Please help me.

  Footsteps crossed the room; hands grabbed her arms. “Lady, what’s wrong?” The scent of wood fires filled her nose; the fur on Iztho’s cloak tickled her arms.

  I need to get out of here.

  “Let me go!” Someone was in danger, someone wanted her help. Jessica struggled, but Iztho’s grip tightened. “Lady, you will hurt yourself.”

  Jessica yanked her hands free, stumbled back.

  “Lady, Lady, what is wrong?”

  Daya’s black eyes met hers. I need heat.

  Heat. She could do that. She turned her face to the ceiling and closed her eyes. Iztho’s agitated voice faded in the background. Her chest moved with calm breaths while she focused heat in a point inside her head. A questing probe tugged at her, tickling her senses. She latched onto it. It found the spot of heat and flowed away into nothingness.

  Daya gave a cry and punched the air.

  Three lights blue.

  Daya slammed his hands down on the steering panels. The engines roared, causing a sheet of ice to slide from the roof over the front window. It fell at the feet of approaching soldiers, who threw themselves down in the snow. The propulsors screamed; a cloud of steam exploded around the craft. A jolt forward and the airport vanished from sight. Snow streaked past the window. Up, up, up, out of here.

  Pressed back in his chair, Daya turned off the still-flashing communication channel. Even if the Exchange was open, he couldn’t use it. The craft’s power level was still only a bit more than half what he needed. But Barresh, on the other side of the continent, had an Exchange, too. Moreover, he had recognised the source of the power that had helped him.

  He had also seen the slim form of a Pengali female. Barresh. The girl was in Barresh.

  But he had to hurry. He had also seen the white hair and fur cloak of a Mirani Trader.

  Miran already had its hands on the girl.

  22

  JESSICA LET IZTHO lead her down into the courtyard of the guesthouse, where the patrons sat at tables for breakfast. Still in the tunic and trousers she had worn to the Pengali hideout last night, she felt hot and sweaty. While he pushed her into a chair, she tried to mumble something about a bath, but her tongue wouldn’t work.

  Her brain felt like someone had been at it with an axe, trying to split it in two.

  Iztho poured light green juice in a cup and passed it to her.

  “I think you and I should leave as soon as possible. You are in shock. You are in need of a Healer and I wouldn’t trust the ones in this pitiful town. As soon as we have finished our meal, I’ll go to the Exchange. I think you are ready to pass as a local.”

  He didn’t say my wife.

  Jessica attempted to wipe haziness from her eyes. In the mirrored stone nex
t to the door in her room, she had seen that she looked even paler than normal. If the glances were anything to go by, fellow guests who shared this corner of the courtyard with them had noticed as well. Two petite red-haired women turned frequent glances on her, hazel eyes ringed by bright orange eyelashes. A man on a table next to them cast severe yellow-eyed looks over the top of his reader. Goodness knew what they all thought.

  She took a bite from the bread. Its nutty, minty taste exploded in her mouth—and images of trees lining a riverbank bursting with green. Drooping branches tickled the water. Children playing. The soft murmur of a woman’s voice. Her mother; she recognised the tone. Memories, as if these past few days had unlocked them from somewhere deep in her mind.

  Jessica took her cup, brought it to her mouth with a trembling hand. Was there anything she could do without getting visions and hearing voices?

  “Lady, do you want me to bring you to bed?” Iztho’s face looked pale.

  His blue eyes turned into black ones. Loose curls tumbled about his face. The soft glow of early morning light glistened in amber stones that dangled from his earrings. Below him flickered lights on an instrument panel similar to what she had seen in Iztho’s craft; sleek and smooth. Much more modern.

  I’m coming. Hold on tight. I’m coming for you. The power of the engine sang through her veins.

  Blood rushed to her cheeks.

  Iztho just caught the cup before she dropped it, but a gush of juice went over the front of her tunic. “Come, I’ll get a Healer to come out right now.” Iztho’s eyes were wide with concern.

  “No, really, I’m fine.” She rose from the table. I’m here. I’m waiting. Tell me where you want to see me.

  “You’re not. You’re disturbed. Please, let me help you.”

  “I’m not disturbed!”

  At the tables around them, conversations halted. People turned around.

  She said in a lower voice, “He’s coming for me.”

  Daya’s dark lips twitched into a tiny smile that accompanied his twinkling eyes. A wave of happiness washed over her. His emotions. The link between them was complete. He was coming.