by Mark Johnson
Dark shrines, like the one they’d burned down, allowed poltergeists to move objects and hurt anyone trying to destroy it. Paan supposed the voices in their heads were the same things as poltergeists, and hurt them another way. Even if there were no dark shrine nearby.
Nic cleared his throat. “The story,” he said. “I was reading the Atabham in the dining room last night. I was trying to read and couldn’t focus on anything, with all the… you know.” He licked his lips, staring at his notes. “I asked Polis for help. Then Toreng came in, looking for leftovers. He asked what I was reading, and if I’d like to see him perform the Atabham for the kids. I don’t know why I said yes.”
“Neither do I,” said Cess. Zale kicked him.
“I asked if he knew any stories about fire, and he scratched his head and said he’d look for one.” Nic spread his palms suggestively. Evidently, he thought he’d made a point.
“Gods,” Cess spat and looked Nic in the eye. “I can’t handle this.”
“Dammit Cess!” Nic shouted, clenching his fists. “You have something better to say?” Cess glowered.
We know all you want to know and more. We know more than you could ever know about fire and power and your precious Polis and…
They shuddered, and the voice — voices? — stretched into hollow laughter.
“A story about fire…” prompted Paan.
“I have an idea.” Nic skimmed the open book on the floor before him. “Toreng wasn’t talking about cleaning houses or trimming plants tonight. I’ve read that story — all those stories — hundreds of times. But the way Toreng told the tale was different, because he didn’t read from the text. Less emphasis on Jorb’s idiot neighbors and more on how Jorb cleaned house.”
Nic arched an eyebrow, like a schoolteacher expecting disappointment.
Paan thought back. “Sunlight… beeswax? Three things… and wood.”
“Does fire have anything to do with those?” Nic’s excited giddiness pressed into Paan’s skull.
“Sunlight,” said Cess. “The demons are quieter in daytime.”
“That’s not it though,” said Paan. “We kept the flames going as long as we could with bits of wood. Then straw, string, and paper, when wood didn’t work. But it didn’t do anything to protect us.”
“Of course not,” said Nic. “What’s one puny fire compared to, what, twelve hours of daylight that covers everything?”
“But we’re stuck with the same problem,” said Cess. “What is supposed to make the fire hostile to the demons, like when the fires battled, back at Farneck?”
Nic tapped the book. “Toreng said human exertion, sacrificing useless materials, and the mortification of the flesh don’t do a thing. What does Jorb do to achieve peace?” He waited for their answer.
You know nothing. Not anything that will help you overcome us. Your Polis is weak, and we win every time, and you lose everything you hold dear because you are weak and useless…
Paan thumped his head to rid it of the voice. Always, the demons struck when they came close to something. What had the doctor done that had worked?
“The Divine Link, comes from nature, to purify and power, in His name,” Nic quoted.
“Always ask Polis first,” Paan answered Nic, quoting Toreng.
Nic pointed. “Zale, what did you do at Farneck Street when you lit the curtain?”
“I… dedicated the fire to Polis Sumad,” Zale said, his eyes widening.
“Literally, ‘in His name!’” Nic shouted triumphantly. “Why would a fire lit for protection be any different?” Nic thumped his fist on the ground. “We had the answer the whole time! That was how a house of fire-resistant wood went up like a firework. Because Zale invoked Polis’s help to destroy an Enemy shrine!”
No one spoke into that stunned silence. “It just seemed right to get Polis’s attention,” Zale said. “I didn’t think…” He trailed off. Then he banged his head back against the wall again. “Stupid!”
For once, Paan didn’t feel like correcting him.
18
What do we burn?” said Cess.
“Beeswax,” said Nic. “A candle only works as long as it’s lit, obviously. Just like sunlight. Remember, the flame needs a natural source to work best.”
“And a burning stone,” Zale said, “isn’t natural.”
“The third one was supposed to be better than a candle,” said Nic. “The three things, cotton, oil and water, make an oil lamp and wick. Oil floats, and water is the natural part. But the thing that worked best for Jorb was wood. You can’t get a more natural flame than that.”
“So…” Paan began, piecing the words together in his head as he spoke, “the translation goes, ‘Fire works best from natural sources, and protects against evil when you invoke Polis’?”
That was what the Invocation meant! It wasn’t some piece of abstract theology, but instead a guide to erecting an energetic barricade against evil forces.
They stared at one another. Was the answer so simple?
Nic knew someone from the kitchens who would barter him a candle and cooking oil. Paan could take some cotton and cork from the farm. Zale could gather dried wood shavings from the practice yard.
Three of them hurried out of the room to gather the ingredients.
“I’ll just get some daylight, then,” Cess called after them.
Zale hadn’t known hope in weeks. His life had become a daily grind of bone-tired paranoia and, Gods above, this might work. It was so simple, so obvious, now he thought back. Hope pushed him, taking two stairs at a time, up and into the eastern colonnade and onto the Commons, now deserted and quiet. Guards and Weavers on the walls fixed their eyes into the night, never looking back into the Commons.
There, in the training yard. Some days ago, the Modesty Designates had screeched that a screen of fabric must hide the practice yard from the sight of the surrounding Wall. Something to do with men being shirtless in the yard.
He ducked around the tall poles, which were now joined at the tops by brightly dyed sheets of all colors. Using his sight, it was easy to find discarded wooden strips and splinters, fallen from practice weapons and targets. He ignored the shadows that even now jumped at him, hacking and stabbing.
One shadow seemed more solid. It broke loose of the screens, and came towards him.
He spun, crouching low and rolling to the side, preparing to pounce.
“Gods Zale, relax!” The voice was female. A girl in a dusty skirt and dark cloak. “There’ll be no attack inside HopeWall.” It was Sarra, the initiate. He hadn’t really seen her since Nocev died. Since then, it looked like Sarra had also been having problems sleeping. She was thinner, her face paler, and her eyes sunken. But there was a need in those eyes, a fever he hadn’t noticed before.
He gathered himself, his heart slowing. There were more important things right now. He crouched to search for large splinters.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Looking for some splinters to start a fire,” he said. Insects chirped or rattled outside the Wall, and the tied sheets billowed softly.
“Zale, I’d like to talk to you. Please.” Her voice was calm, though something about her seemed to tremble.
“Sarra, I’m busy. And you’ll be in trouble if you get caught over this side.”
“Zale, it’s worth it. I’ve had problems since Nocev… died. I’m not sleeping well, and I can’t think straight. And… I’ve been wanting to get you alone for a long time, Zale.”
He straightened. This girl was not the type to… This was the worst seduction he’d ever heard of!
“I want to know what happened during the cadver attack.”
He sighed in relief. “You were there. You saw more than we did.”
“I spoke to Henk, Zale. He said you and Paan moved like the fastest dancers he’d ever seen, and
you ripped off the arms of the cadver that killed his father. He said you’d asked him to tell everyone else you’d chopped them off. He said he’d never seen the stave you used during the raid, before or after.
“He felt bad, because he’d promised you he’d never tell a soul. I had to tell him I saw strange things that night to get him to confide in me. He thinks the Gods were in WestBarracksWall that night. Zale, I think you have a story to tell.”
Ah, confound it! This infernal girl wouldn’t let up until their secret was out. He couldn’t ignore her and walk off, or she’d bring it up in public. His mind raced. How to keep the secret?
“That weave you explained to me just before the cadver attack,” she continued. “You made that up right there on the spot. You know energy patterns well enough to explain them like a weaver.
“And you saw something as Nocev died. Before anyone else, you noticed something was wrong in the pavilion. You saw what killed her; I saw you pointing.” She lowered her voice even further, stepping right up to him. “And I know how you did it. You four use a secret energy.”
He froze, his brain paralyzed. None had ever gotten as close to the truth as Sarra. The other three were too far away to give him quick answers about how to escape the situation.
She hadn’t questioned him about the silver energy, so much as accused him of it. He couldn’t deny it, because there was no other theory he could fend her off with. Not like claiming to be a tracker for Kemmer, or claiming he had good eyes for Tokkus.
Gods, he’d tried to keep their secrets, but still been found out. Hiding things just wasn’t in his nature. While alive, Ina had even said his honesty was what she’d loved most about him.
He was no hero or spy from the storybooks, just a guard with bad luck. All he’d ever wanted was a quiet, decent life.
“We aren’t weaving chaos, Sarra,” he said half-heartedly. That wouldn’t be enough to throw this girl off.
“No,” she said. There was more than a hint of desperation in her voice. “You weave something silver. It’s stronger and more complex than vibrations.” Her fingers kept flexing and her body heat was rising.
How could she be so close and so wrong at the same time?
“How could you know that, Sarra?”
“What are you doing in HopeWall?” she demanded. “Are you some special force sent from Armer to fight the Enemy?”
“No,” he groaned. “We’re exactly what we look like. Mercenaries.”
“Who weave silver energy?”
“No, we can’t.” He raised a finger to stop her interrupting. “But…” Oh Gods, he was going to get yelled at for this. “I… can see all types of energies, by using the silver energy. Paan is a container for the energy — like a battery. Cess binds the silver energy to make objects, and Nic uses it to communicate.”
He put his hand on his hips. “All I saw when Nocev died was a giant empty space, where something had pushed all energies — even chaos — aside, to get at her. We’re in HopeWall because we’re hiding from Seekers who think we’re infected. It’s a long story.”
There. The secret was out. Well, so what? There’d never been any chance they’d be able to keep it forever, anyhow. But the others wouldn’t be pleased. Just a simple trip to get wood shavings, and he ended up spilling their secrets. Cess would say something about getting him a babysitter.
Sarra’s face had gone through contortions of confusion, disappointment, and wonder, as he’d spoken. She took a few moments to stare distantly over his shoulder before refocusing on his face.
“How did you start using it?” she said.
“No, Sarra.” He shook his head. “How did you figure us out?”
She screwed up her mouth and exhaled, then dug into her pocket and dropped a small pouch in his hand. It clinked when he squeezed it. About three or four stones inside the pouch.
He gasped as the pouch glowed silver, then sprouted threads of silver twine, each a different brightness and texture from the others.
“You… you weave that energy?” he said. “How?” The energy could be woven? He’d never guessed it was possible.
All the color had drained from her face. “I can’t remember anything before ten years ago. One of my first memories is…” she winced, “doing what you just saw me do. I just knew how to. Here. Just wait. Stand still.”
She bared her teeth. “Command. Transmit strongest wave frequency.”
A soft male Sumadan accent spoke in his head. “… but the Emmene District Council lambasted the rate increase as irresponsible and an unnecessary burden for their district. The measure will be put to a vote at the next meeting of the —”
The voice cut out as he dropped the stones in surprise. Sarra picked up the pouch.
“It’s an artefact,” he heard himself say. “Mechanisms need direct triggers; artefacts trigger themselves. This wave receiver triggered to a voice command. The silver energy…” He gasped and looked around before leaning in and whispering. “You’ve learned to make artefacts!”
This girl was a legend come to life. An artefact created five thousand years since the last one had been made. If Sarra’s ability became known, she would spend her life avoiding kidnap attempts and bringing pain to loved ones just by existing.
Her jaw trembled. “The projection programs in the pavilions taught me, Zale. They’re for teaching. They’re artefacts. They recognized the potential in me, and for almost ten years they’ve been teaching me to weave the silver energy in plain sight. Everyone’s told that artefacts have to be made of that special metal that conducts and stores better than stones. But it’s possible to link stones to increase their capacity, so as to make them like an artefact. No one’s been able to see me doing it.”
Zale closed his gaping mouth. The pavilion pillars were artefacts? Actually, that explained those silver human shapes wandering the HopeWall Commons.
Sarra stood with tears in her eyes. Despite all her bravado, she was a little girl with a secret.
“Nocev died because of me,” she said. “Because I can… this.” Her chin jutted out.
“Wait. How did she die?”
“It was looking for me, Zale. Nocev was me, because I taught her to use the pavilion artefacts.”
He almost fell over. This thing, whatever it was, had been hunting Sarra instead of them? That whole mess at Farneck Street could have been avoided? He wanted to scream.
Sarra carried on. “Zale, I don’t know what to say. I need help. Something evil wants me dead, and I don’t know what’s going on or what to do. Help me. Please?”
“We’ll help you,” he said, the realization seizing him. “We’ve found a way of protecting ourselves from the Enemy, but it’s not what you’d expect. We’ll find a place to talk freely. I’ll meet you at the manline tomorrow to figure something out.” He pointed upwards. “But you’ve got to get back before you’re spotted.”
She looked up and around for the first time, seemingly only just aware of where she was.
Without thinking he reached to clasp her wrist tight. After a moment, she clasped his wrist back. She seemed surprised. He realized she might have never touched a man before. She stared at her hand for a few moments before looking up at him. And slowly, she smiled.
“Tomorrow. Thank you, Zale.”
She turned and made toward the manline, somewhat unsteadily.
He had to wait before leaving, in case anyone had noticed her. To pass the time, he busied himself looking for wooden scraps, as the shadows resumed their menacing gestures. Watching, waiting.
From HopeWall’s top floor, Toreng’s room had a view encompassing most of HopeWall. The room was not overlarge, with the space for perhaps two other roommates. He had ensured a room to himself through methods that could have been considered unfair, he supposed, but he had decided that at his age he deserved a little dignity.
Bright
overhead glowbulbs lit the wood-bound book he had borrowed from the library. Once, he would never have re-read a book, as there had always been others available. But here his choices were limited. Plays were wonderful, but until recently it hadn’t occurred to him to read a play as one would a novel. This Sumadan work was boring. It was over one hundred years old and part of an aesthetic movement devoted to realism in dialogue and setting, with every character so selfish they all seemed like sociopaths.
The Atabham lay on a shelf beside him. The work that had gone into that text was a marvel. A wonder in plain sight, though some of its subtly disguised content upset him. The trials Polis Sumad had undergone must have damaged Him greatly. Those difficulties had been recorded in metaphor and allegory, which only someone as learned as Toreng could interpret.
It took some moments to recognize a familiar, warm silver sensation slowly building, below in the HopeWall basements. In the men’s section. The energy confined itself to a boundary, with a strength and power greater than vibrations. He closed the book with a smile.
“Finally.”
Coming soon
FIREWALL — BOOK II
Terese Saarg, shamed by her failure to capture the four renegades, learns she isn’t the only one with secrets. Her host Seeker chapterhouse doubts her version of events, but yet know too much of the dark goings-on in the neglected Refugee Territories. Her every move being watched, Terese must discover what the Sumadan Seekers know, and, with no one to trust, she must ally herself with the four least likely people imaginable…
Glossary
Artefacts – The rare devices capable of acting according to programmed triggers. Deliver sophisticated weaves beyond the standard produced by most vibration weavers. Their workings and construction are unknown. None have been manufactured since the Founders’ War.