by Lucy Hounsom
Nediah’s hand slipped from her shoulder. The Wielder stood quite still, as if listening to a distant voice. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘They’re ready.’
‘Who are?’
He turned sharply without answering and retreated into the sloping tunnel. Kyndra hurried after him, thinking of the shielded gate. ‘Nediah?’ she panted, as the Wielder increased his pace. ‘What is it?’
‘The Attunement. I have to be there so that they can break my link with Brégenne.’ His voice was inflectionless.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kyndra said quietly.
‘Don’t be. Maybe it’s for the best.’
‘But I thought you—’
‘What I thought doesn’t matter.’ Nediah stopped so suddenly that Kyndra bumped into him. The golden flames above began to wane.
‘Kyndra,’ Nediah turned to face her, ‘If Janus is to be your chaperone in the citadel, be careful around him. The Council can dress up his role in this Attunement as much as they want, but in reality he’s no more than a spy. It’s best if you stay away from Brégenne until you pass the test. And don’t talk to Janus about her.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ she said, seized by a memory of Janus’ knowing blue eyes. Thrusting him from her thoughts, Kyndra followed Nediah back to the antechamber, which was empty save for a few older novices. ‘I’m probably not allowed to leave you alone,’ Nediah said in an undertone, ‘but it’s quiet here and you can make a start on that book. As soon as … it’s done, I’ll come for you.’
Kyndra nodded and then said awkwardly, ‘Afterwards. If you want to talk about it, I can listen.’
The tall man gave her a look so bleak that Kyndra couldn’t hold his gaze. When she raised her eyes from her study of the floor, Nediah had gone.
16
Alone in the antechamber, Kyndra sat at one of the tables with the book Nediah had insisted she read. Her left hand cradled her chin, while the right idly turned pages. Her concentration had begun to wane some few hundred words back. Now she stared at the heavy black lines, watching them swim out of focus.
This was impossible. Kyndra toyed with the top corner of page thirty-three, knowing she’d never finish before the test. She tried to concentrate on the book, rereading the same sentence five times. Surely there were other ways to do it. Why did the test have to be one of pain? It was savage. But a dozen children had done what she had not and Irilin claimed that none of them had been left for dead in the tombs.
Kyndra laid her palm on the page to keep her place and flipped to the cover. She stared at the scuffed title: Laws of Energy. It told her everything and nothing.
Reading was not going to be of any practical help. Her stomach rumbled and she rubbed it with her free hand, thinking. Perhaps belief was the key. Perhaps the power wouldn’t come unless you really believed it would. Kyndra shivered. Deep down inside, where it mattered, she knew she could never be a Wielder. What if that conviction killed her?
Shrugging off the thought, Kyndra stared at someone’s abandoned pen that lay on the table. She had watched the Solar novices trying to move ink bottles earlier. Cail had loosened the lid on his and sent it flying at a girl. This might have gone unnoticed if the girl in question hadn’t already sent an ink bottle flying at him. The bottles had collided in mid-air, smashed and exploded their contents over Rush’s back.
Kyndra swallowed her smile and stared harder at the pen. You have no idea what you’re doing, a voice told her. This is ridiculous.
How difficult can it be, she silently replied, if children half my age can do it?
Move, Kyndra thought at the pen.
The pen didn’t move.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t found her affinity. She hadn’t passed the test. But what was it Nediah had said? Cosmosethic energy first manifests itself as a force of will. Well, she was willing the pen to move, and it wasn’t.
Voices reached her ears. Someone flung open the door to the antechamber and two young men came in. They stopped talking abruptly when they saw her. Kyndra spotted Irilin standing behind them and waved.
‘Oh, hi, Kyndra,’ Irilin said awkwardly. She stepped in front of one of the young men. ‘Perhaps we should talk someplace else, Gareth. We don’t want to disturb—’
‘So this is her?’ The novice called Gareth pushed past Irilin. He had arms almost as beefy as the blacksmith’s back home, Kyndra noticed, and his brown robes strained across his shoulders. ‘Pretty for a corpse, isn’t she?’
Behind Gareth’s back, Irilin flushed uncomfortably. ‘Gareth,’ she muttered.
‘Well, she’s not my type.’ Another young man came to stand casually beside Gareth. He folded his arms. ‘I like mine breathing.’
‘Come on, Shika,’ Irilin said to the other novice. ‘Leave her be.’
Kyndra stared at the one called Shika. Although he wore the same robes and golden belt as Gareth, the similarity ended there. He was slender and a good deal shorter. His jaw-length black hair was streaked purple on one side and his eyes were an unusual mauve. A silken scarf wrapped his neck.
‘Can I help you?’ Kyndra asked with a roll of her eyes. Beneath the desk, however, her fists were clenched.
Gareth placed both hands on the tabletop and leaned in close to her. She could smell his breath, sour with food, and she pulled back as far as she could. ‘Why don’t you and I go somewhere a little quieter,’ the big novice suggested. His eyes licked down her front. ‘You can show me your scars.’
While Shika grinned appreciatively, Irilin made a sound of disgust. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Gareth.’
‘It’s all right, Iri,’ Kyndra said. ‘He can’t help the way he was born.’
Gareth gave a bark of laughter and then he lunged for her.
Muscles already tensed, Kyndra scooted back and leapt out of her chair in one smooth movement. Gareth’s grasping hands missed her by several inches. The novice grabbed the desk to steady himself and one flailing elbow knocked the book Kyndra had been reading to the floor. The tome crunched unpleasantly as it met the stone and pages spilled out of it.
There was a brief silence, as all four stared at it. Then, ‘How clumsy of you, Gareth,’ Shika said airily, waving a darkly bronzed hand. ‘Poor Master Hebrin will not be happy. He treats his books as if they were his children.’
Gareth smirked. ‘Then we had better put it out of its misery.’ He raised his boot and stamped on the tome. Its spine popped and snapped and Kyndra gritted her teeth. ‘Don’t like that?’ Gareth asked her. He crumpled some more pages underfoot. ‘Are you going to stop me?’
Irilin wore a pained look, but she didn’t move to restrain her friend. All she said was, ‘Why are you being like this, Gareth? She’s not done anything to you.’
Gareth rounded on her. ‘Don’t waste your breath, Iri. Can’t you see? She’s nothing. She’s a stupid, ordinary human.’
‘You’re the stupid one,’ Irilin retorted – rather weakly, Kyndra thought. How could a girl who seemed so nice be friends with these two?
There was an ugly flush to Gareth’s cheeks now. Kyndra didn’t like it and she didn’t like the way he was looking at her. The novice gestured. Gold bands snapped around Kyndra’s ankles, locking them together, and then the same force wrenched her arms behind her. Gareth gave her a push and she fell backwards onto a hard chair.
‘Get these off me,’ she gasped. The bands were hot. The pain in her wrists grew worse with every passing second. ‘I said, get them off me!’
‘It’s speaking,’ Shika remarked. He glanced at Gareth. ‘I don’t believe you gave it permission?’ The big novice shook his head and grinned nastily. Shika’s hands glowed.
Kyndra opened her mouth to yell, but her lips wouldn’t part. She pulled in frantic breaths through her nose and strained against the force sealing her mouth shut. Shika laughed.
‘Stop it, Shika,’ Irilin said sharply, her tiny fists clenched. ‘Leave her alone.’
‘Listen, dead girl.’ Ignoring Iri, Gareth straddled the chair and lower
ed himself until all his weight was on Kyndra’s lap. She winced. He was heavy. The novice gripped the chair’s high back, one hand either side of her head. Kyndra shrank away, but there was nowhere to go.
‘You don’t understand,’ Gareth told her, his bulky face frighteningly close. ‘I can do anything I want to you, anything. That’s the difference between us: power.’ His brown eyes were cold. ‘You got lucky once, but that’s all it was.’
Gareth leaned in and pressed his lips against her sealed mouth. She struggled, but he had her by the neck. Irilin gasped something. Kyndra saw her pale hands on Gareth’s shoulders, trying to pull him away.
‘Good luck with the test,’ Gareth breathed in Kyndra’s ear. He climbed off her, leaving her lips unpleasantly damp. Shika wore a strange expression, but he turned before she could work out what it meant. The force stopping her mouth vanished and Kyndra took a deep breath. The golden bands still held her pinned, however. Furious, unable to stand up, she watched all three novices leave. At the door, Irilin looked back. Then she glanced upwards, smiled slightly and gestured at Kyndra’s manacles. Silver filaments crawled over the gold and dissolved them. As Kyndra dragged a rough sleeve across her mouth, Irilin shaped a silent apology and shut the door.
When she was satisfied that she had removed all trace of Gareth from her lips, Kyndra looked down at the book Nediah had given her. It was a mess. She crouched, gathered up all the pages and tried to fit them back into place. Many were creased and marked by Gareth’s boot. She felt too angry and humiliated to care about it.
A gasp sounded behind her and she straightened, arms full of ruined book. Hebrin stood there, a look of horror blanching his cheeks. Kyndra’s heart sank. ‘What … what have you done?’ the old man asked, staring at the remnants of Laws of Energy.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said automatically. For a moment the book became one of the Relic’s lifeless shards. Kyndra was looking at the Keeper, watching the horror melt into tears. She shook her head, pulled herself together. ‘It wasn’t me. I would never—’
‘I should have known better than to let an outsider into the archives.’ Hebrin’s tone was harsher than Iljin’s had been. His pale green eyes flickered. ‘I wouldn’t have permitted you to come here except that Master Nediah vouched for you. I trusted the judgement of that young man, just as he appeared to trust you. I see he was mistaken.’
‘You don’t understand—’
‘I understand perfectly.’ He took the book from Kyndra’s hands and placed it on the desk. ‘You will sit right here until Master Nediah returns from the ceremony. Then you will explain to him exactly why you have treated his help with such contempt.’
Kyndra opened her mouth to protest again, but Hebrin barked, ‘Sit!’ and she found herself back in the chair, unable to move. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a flicker of silver about her body, but it vanished when she looked at it directly. The book lay on the table in front of her, pages crumpled like perished blossoms.
‘The bonds will remain until I return from supper.’
Mad at the injustice, Kyndra tried one last time to explain. ‘Master Hebrin, I didn’t do it. A novice did.’
The archivist paused in the entrance. ‘You mistake me for a fool.’ He snapped the door shut behind him.
Kyndra shouted at the walls in frustration. Why couldn’t Hebrin have arrived a few moments earlier and put an end to Gareth’s bullying? A thought occurred, which made her empty stomach churn. What if he had watched it all from his office and done nothing? Perhaps he’d only been nice to her in front of Nediah.
The minutes dragged by and her bonds did not loosen. Instead of dwelling on her humiliation, Kyndra wondered at the time. The light down here was always the same: no night, no day, only conjured flames and black walls. It wasn’t always like this, she thought. Once the archives were filled with light and only the most precious and dangerous texts were kept below ground. The sun used to pour into the atrium too. Standing at the centre of that transparent dome, a person could survey each point of the compass. When night fell, the glass revealed the constellations, as clear as if they were riveted to the sky.
Kyndra’s heart beat faster. Not another vision, not now. She tried to move her hands, but they wouldn’t budge. She focused on one of the pages in front of her, mouthing the words, repeating them loudly in her head, but it was like trying to dam a river in flood. Her arms began to tremble. The tables dissolved, swept away before the wave. Kyndra filled her lungs as she went under, but the vision drowned her anyway.
… He has made it this far unnoticed. The archives are empty – Solinaris is more concerned with the army outside its gates. Light slants across the marble floor from high windows and he feels the heat on his face. His eyes are fixed on a distant arch and a path that spirals down into depths untouched by the sun. He passes through the pitiful barrier erected to keep out errant novices and begins his descent.
Shields guard each level and grow stronger the deeper he goes. He stops at the entrance to the eighth spiral, gazing at an intricate web that blocks his path. It is a clever, tightly woven trap of Solar and Lunar power, and hums ominously in the silence.
He destroys it with a thought. The broken threads of energy settle on his shoulders like cobwebs and he walks on.
Soon the diminishing air sucks the moisture from his mouth and he runs a dry tongue over his lips. An uncomfortable deterrent, but a clever one; most people panic at a shortness of breath. He draws air from the cracks between the stone, from places even deeper than these galleries, from pockets trapped in the volcanic rock. And then he moves on, following the spiral as it coils upon itself.
It isn’t until he feels a peculiar ache in his chest that he knows he has reached the final gauntlet. A howl of emotion waits to assail him. It wants to drown his heart in despair and flood his mind with senseless fear. He admires such ingenuity and smiles at how useless it is against him.
There is another shield. This is unexpected. Beyond its glow, he sees his destination: a tiny circular room with a solitary pedestal at its centre.
His eyes return to the shield. It is a marvel of engineering, but so flimsy that a mere breath disturbs it. There is something about it, though. The strands are charged with duty. There is a purpose to this web that goes beyond keeping him out.
No time. He flicks a finger and the web breaks. As he steps through, the frayed ends writhe in the air, as if alive. They drift towards him, seeking their destroyer. He ignores them and passes on into the chamber.
The book lies on the pedestal: the secret of the Wielders’ greatest achievement. He tucks it into his robes. There is no time to lose. The citadel will soon be overrun.
When he turns, the broken web is waiting for him. Its glowing strands have grown thin – thin enough so that when he inhales, he pulls them into his nostrils. A sweaty note of panic cascades through him. He crushes it, reminding himself that he is far from defenceless. But he can feel the alien web in his mind. It has coiled itself there, serpent-like, and now lies quiescent.
There will be time enough to deal with it when he is out of here. There will be time enough to end this war. The killing will stop. He is the instrument of peace …
Kyndra couldn’t breathe. She crouched in the darkness, smothered by the lack of air, by the desperate pounding of her heart. She gulped, but her lungs refused to fill. Her head felt odd, tingling in the manner of cramped limbs suddenly released from confinement. Confused images jostled her. I am Kyndra Vale. I am the instrument of peace.
She couldn’t breathe.
Blind panic washed everything else away. Kyndra stumbled forward and there was light after all, a dim glow in the walls. She made out something pointed and terrible, a jut of needlelike stone that she skirted, scrabbling for the far side of the cavity. There had to be a way out, a door, something. Her lungs burned and her head spun with the lack of air.
Then her clawing fingers touched metal – a gate, and it was open. Sparks flashed in front of her eye
s and Kyndra fell through it, landing on her back. She gasped and drew the barest breath of air into her lungs. Without knowing why, she pushed the gate closed with her feet and pulled in another tantalizing breath. It wasn’t enough. She could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness, a black sleep that would last forever.
Something glowed high on the wall beyond the gate. Markings carved into the stone. She kept her waning gaze on them, drawn to their light. They grew to consume her, following her as she fell. And they were still there when her eyes closed, a blazing, chilling rebuke:
IX
Brégenne let herself be guided by Veeta’s hand. The older woman was one of her closest friends and Brégenne nodded her thanks. The moon would be up soon and then she’d be able to see Veeta’s face.
Veeta gave her shoulder a comforting pat and retreated. Brégenne heard her footsteps moving away. Everything was ready. She could sense Nediah through the bond, standing across from her. Anger rolled off him in waves and she hoped he wouldn’t do anything rash.
They had only been attuned for a year, since his award of Master status, but to Brégenne that year seemed like forever. She had mentored Nediah for over a decade, watching the changes in this wayward novice from the Isles. Most Wielders achieved their title much faster, but Nediah’s strength lay in healing, one of the hardest disciplines to master. It took Naris’s few healers five to ten years longer to be raised to full status than those who leaned towards combat or craft.
Brégenne flexed her fingers as twilight approached. Day encased her Lunar energy in a blazing, golden cage that mentally dazzled her if she strove to break it. All novices tried a few times to touch their respective power when it slept. None succeeded. She’d once heard Solars compare the attempt to scaling a pitch-dark well, whose bricks were slick and impossible to grasp.
She made the familiar reach for the rising moon and the room flickered into being around her. It was another of the Council’s chambers, a little less severe than the one in which they’d issued her punishment. Although the walls were as black as the rest of Naris, the floor was polished marble, streaked with a colour she couldn’t distinguish.