Starborn

by Lucy Hounsom

  The sudden compression broke some internal restraint, igniting the last of her fear and burning it from her. She surveyed the Wielders as if through a dark veil, watching as they summoned power and fashioned it into spears.

  ‘Striking me down,’ she said, unable to recognize her own voice, ‘will be the last thing you ever do.’

  The first lance slammed into her shoulder. The force of it staggered Kyndra and threw her back against the barrier. All the novices’ advice disappeared. She couldn’t remember a word of the books she’d read, or the illustrations that showed a potential successfully repelling attacks. Reeling in pain, she wasn’t prepared when the second Solar lance pierced her other shoulder, sending an explosion of agony through her chest. She couldn’t breathe, though she gasped for air, and it seemed she could hear the sizzle of her own flesh. She blinked and saw the Wielders’ faces, stoic and grim and unforgiving.

  When the third lance struck her thigh – Lunar this time – Kyndra screamed. And the fourth shredded the fury she clung to. Time lost substance and the moment was endless, a torture that seared to her bones. Something terrible was happening to her body. The Lunar beams were fire and moonlit snow. Pinpricks of light stared down at her, mocking her weakness, promising death, yet withholding it.

  Please, she thought wildly, not knowing whether she spoke to them or not. With a raw wail, Kyndra threw herself against the barrier.

  And it shattered.

  Like a shockwave, the collision felled the Wielders and the lances in Kyndra’s flesh snapped and died. Her head rang, as if she’d banged it against stone – just like that time in the market and again in Rush’s classroom. But now it was stronger, so much stronger. And though the echoes in her head made her shriek anew with anguish, she could see another place overlaying the platform and its crumpled Wielders. It was the Nyka: the crystal tower of the Sentheon in Solinaris, but only a quarter of its seats were full …

  … When has he commanded so little respect? He looks into the eyes of the nearest man and knows the truth: fear, the usurper, walks amongst them.

  ‘Solinaris,’ he calls, and his voice rings brazenly through the crystal space. Some flinch. ‘Twice I have come before you and twice you have refused both my warning and alliance. The danger is now greater than ever. Sartya is at your door.’

  ‘We have granted you an audience, despite your refusal to take a Wielder’s Oath,’ Realdon Shune says. ‘Now what is it you want?’

  He detects a tremor in Shune’s voice. ‘I am not the one you need fear,’he assures them all, turning up his patterned palms. ‘We have a common enemy.’

  ‘We are aware of the empire’s position,’ ancient Targon says, ‘and we are prepared to stand against her.’

  He curls his fingers and his palms become fists. ‘You cannot win this fight – Sartya has gone uncontested too long. The army beyond your walls is here for one purpose: to raze this citadel to the rock.’

  ‘Solinaris is strong,’ Realdon Shune argues, the first hint of impatience in his face. ‘We will not fall so easily.’

  He takes a step forward and, as one, the Sentheon draw back. ‘The Sartyans number in the tens of thousands. Remember Kingswold. Remember the defences at Baristogan and Lycorash and the rebels that lie dead there. They even killed the children, Shune.’

  For a moment, Shune regards him in silence, as if working up the nerve to speak. Then he says, ‘When has your kind ever cared about the deaths of ordinary people? Surely, they are nothing to you.’

  He swallows. Anger swells, a hot kindling he has not felt in years. ‘So you hate me,’ he says, sweeping his gaze over the Sentheon, meeting those eyes that dare to meet his. ‘But will you not put it aside when lives are at stake? I alone can help you. I have a vision, a vision of peace. Together we can build a world where all may live freely, a world without Sartya.’

  ‘A world which you alone might rule.’

  He stares at Realdon Shune, surprised at the shrewd words. ‘You have less to fear from my rule than you do from Sartya’s,’ he answers.

  Shock sweeps through the large, circular room. There are whispers – no doubt slanderous, he thinks. Were they perhaps expecting him to deny a desire to rule?

  He holds up a finger and the murmurs cease. ‘You have no friends. Not only did you refuse an alliance with me, but you also refused the aid of those who – with your support – could have turned this bloody tide. But you did nothing and now even surrender is no longer an option.’ He pauses. ‘I do not want to see Rairam – the last free land – in the empire’s grip. And,’ he adds heavily, ‘if I cannot persuade you to join me, I will act alone.’

  The Sentheon erupts. Some are on their feet. Others are too shocked, or too cautious to share their thoughts. He stands unthreatening but immovable. He watches Shune and he knows what the Wielder is thinking: what can one man do to stop a power that even Solinaris might not withstand?

  ‘I can do more than you can dream,’ he answers aloud and Realdon Shune’s face hardens.

  However, it is Targon who speaks and at his words, everyone in the Nyka falls silent. ‘You talk of peace,’ the old man says, ‘yet plan to rule. You profess friendship, yet openly declare to act against our decisions. That is not friendship. Friendship is mutual regard and cooperation. It is the ability to show compassion and selflessness.’ The old man meets his eyes. ‘You cannot offer us something you do not understand.’

  Fire dictates the next moment, as a flaming ball smashes into the glass. The Nyka’s western wall turns yellow, orange and then black, and men and women scream. When it clears, he sees the stain of the empire’s smoky claws and knows it is a promise of more to come.

  ‘It has begun,’ he says, amidst shouts of panic and the disbelieving gasps as tiny, terrible cracks are spotted in the glass. Out beyond Solinaris’s walls, the siege engines belch their acrid fumes. The Sentheon is in turmoil and the time for talking is done. He turns to go.

  ‘Stop him!’ Shune yells, but his words are lost in a clarion call to arms. Wielders leap from their seats and boots strike the marble floor as another fireball strikes the wall. The Nyka turns red.

  ‘Master.’ Anohin is there, dressed in his race’s customary white. ‘Are we alone, then?’ the Yadin asks, his ageless features arranged in concern.

  He nods. ‘The Wielders cannot see beyond their fear of me.’ They start off together – the inhuman and the nonhuman, he thinks wryly – walking side by side through the chaos. Up high on the western wall, glass splinters and he shakes his head. ‘So much death, Anohin. But, the stars willing, peace will come.’

  The Yadin pulls on a leather glove. ‘You have the book?’

  ‘Yes.’ He draws it from his cloak and Anohin flinches. But of course he would – it is like showing a condemned man the rope that will hang him. How inconsiderate. He puts the book away. Anohin’s face is pale and his eyes betray his agitation, but there has never been a Yadin more loyal. He has played his part and as a reward, Anohin will live to join him in the new world …

  ‘Enough.’

  There was a heavy blow and the crystal chamber shattered. She was Kyndra again, lying on a dark mountain in terrible pain. She cried out. Unconsciousness threatened and she wrestled with it, fearing worse would follow on its heels.

  Someone stood over her – she could see the white leather of their boots. And there was moaning. The Wielders, she thought dazedly, the test. But there was also the empire and the war and the face of a trusted servant. It was all one and she didn’t have the strength to separate it.

  The deep voice spoke again and Kyndra had heard it somewhere before, but couldn’t remember through the pain of breathing. Unable to raise her head, she stared at the pitted rock on which she lay. Her awareness began to fade and she struggled, knowing she couldn’t hold on to it for long.

  Tremors began to wrack her body and arms came around her and under her, lifting her into the air. The white-clad stranger had picked her up, as if she were a child, holding her
easily in his strong arms. Kyndra let her head roll back against his shoulder and the stranger began to walk.

  She glimpsed the scene through clouded eyes. The two guards were sprawled across the mouth of the tunnel, seemingly unconscious, and the four Wielders on the platform lay where they had fallen, whimpering and bleeding from their ears. The female Wielder’s once-sympathetic face now hung slack and spittle flecked her lips. When the stranger turned to descend into Naris, Kyndra was glad to leave the sight behind.

  Shadows fastened themselves to the corners of her eyes, but, anxious to see her rescuer’s face, she used the last of her strength to keep them open. She tilted her head to look up into the white hood and at the same instant, the man glanced down at her.

  ‘Rest now,’ Medavle said and, after a faint lurch of surprise, Kyndra slid into darkness.

  PART THREE

  21

  The first thing she saw was a face: Anohin with his white collar framing his neck. But no – the eyes were wrong. They were black, not grey and the chin was now unshaven. She heard a name – hers? – spoken gently, but it was muffled by sleep.

  ‘Kyndra?’

  It was her name. Memory flowed back, abrupt and all too vivid. Kyndra sat up and the room spun. But Medavle caught her shoulders and steadied her before she fell. Medavle, not Anohin. She had never known Anohin, she reminded herself forcefully.

  Her mind was a jumble. What had happened? Where was she? Bits of the test returned to her – the lances, the shattered barrier. She remembered Kait and the missing akan. But Anohin was somehow there too. Kyndra could see his face as clearly as Medavle’s, as if only a blink stood between them. She closed her eyes … and remembered the feeling of using a mind not her own, speaking with a man’s accented tongue, seeing out of eyes that had not grown up watching the comings and goings of Brenwym. And still she couldn’t picture him, this usurper of her self – not like she could picture Anohin or Realdon Shune or old Targon. She couldn’t picture him because she was him. Kyndra shook her head and tried to slow her breathing.

  ‘You’re all right,’ Medavle said, his deep voice breaking Kyndra’s trance.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Safe.’

  She frowned. ‘But the test—’

  ‘It’s over.’ Medavle let go of her, moved away. ‘You don’t remember, do you?’

  ‘Remember what?’

  ‘What you did.’

  Kyndra put a hand to her head, trying to halt the stream of images that only filled her with confusion. ‘I remember Kait,’ she said and found her fists clenched. ‘She stole the akan.’

  For the first time, Medavle’s expression faltered. ‘What akan?’

  ‘My white akan.’ Kyndra met his eyes. Medavle looked exactly as he had in Sky Port East. His garments were white from robes to belt to gloves and the same, tarnished flute hung at his hip. Kyndra recalled the last time they’d met – when Medavle had given her that ragged page of writing. A snatched echo of the poem returned to her and she remembered telling Nediah that the story was incomplete. How had Medavle come to be here? Was he enemy or friend?

  ‘Kait told me I could trust her,’ Kyndra said bitterly, ‘but she lied. The akan was my only chance of passing the test. If she hadn’t stolen it, all this would be over.’

  Medavle turned as pale as his robes. In the light of the nearly featureless room, he knelt once again beside Kyndra and placed a hand on her shoulder. Kyndra glanced down at it, conscious that neither Brégenne nor Nediah trusted Medavle. She knew next to nothing about the man, but the hand on her shoulder was firm and warm. Trapped in a world where every movement hurt and her mind was no longer her own, it was the only comfort she had.

  ‘How did you come by this akan?’ Medavle asked.

  And, numbly, Kyndra told him. She focused on speaking and tried not to look at her wounds. Waves of pain hit her, infrequent at first, but growing closer together the longer she spent sitting up. When the small room began to swim in her gaze, she paused to take several deep breaths, willing herself not to faint.

  ‘Kait did not betray you,’ Medavle said in a strained voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was it Kait who led you to find this book? Was it Kait who gave you a chance to enter the archives? Was it Kait who made you believe that you would fail without help?’

  ‘No,’ Kyndra said slowly, shying away from the implied conclusion.

  Medavle’s face was grave. ‘This goes further than you know. Many akans survived the collapse of Solinaris, but only one was white.’

  Kyndra stared at him. ‘Explain, please.’

  Medavle stood up. ‘The main purpose of akans’, he said, ‘is to shield a user from harm. During the Acrean wars, every Wielder carried one in case they needed to defend themselves when their respective power wasn’t active.’ He paused. ‘But white akans are different. In the closing days of the war, the Sentheon’ – Kyndra felt a small shock at the name – ‘did some terrible things. Commissioning white akans was one of them. They were given to the citadel’s non-Wielder servants, who were instructed to use them only in their hour of greatest need – and only in defence of the citadel. When the enemies of Solinaris breached her walls, that need finally arose. Unlike regular akans, white akans have the ability to unleash a powerful counterattack. But –’ Medavle held up a finger – ‘the servants were deceived. Concerned about bestowing any sort of cosmosethic power on those they considered unworthy of it, the Sentheon had built in a safeguard.’

  Gooseflesh prickled along Kyndra’s arms when she thought of the winged child’s pallid face. Medavle’s eyes were fixed and dark with memories. ‘The cruelty of those days cannot be matched,’ he whispered, one fist clenched. He uncurled it and turned his gaze on her. ‘The power a white akan unleashes is drawn from its user’s own life-force – enough to kill them outright.’

  The silence in the small cave-like room was absolute. Then Kyndra whispered, ‘That can’t be right.’ She stared at the black wall. ‘Janus wouldn’t do that to me, he couldn’t.’

  Medavle gave her a look and Kyndra felt a flush of humiliation. ‘Pretty faces are best suited to deception,’ he said. ‘You let him get the better of you. And as much as I despise the Nerian, you owe Kait your life.’

  Kyndra gazed at him. ‘He said he wanted to help me. He wouldn’t …’

  Medavle shook his head. Away from the room’s one weak lamp, his expression was unreadable. ‘Janus planted that book,’ he said quietly. ‘He provided access to the archives. I suspect he also removed the regular akans, so that only the white remained. It was well done.’

  Janus’ face hovered before her, earnest, confident, his hands warm in hers. Everything will be all right. You know what to do now. She’d wondered at those words, but hadn’t had the wit to suspect them.

  Kyndra looked down at her legs and then wished she hadn’t. Raw tissue showed through the tatters of her ruined trousers. For the first time she noticed the smell and almost gagged when she realized it was her own burned flesh.

  ‘But I came up with the plan myself,’ she said, holding desperately to denial.

  ‘Yes. That way, the test could provide a cover for murder.’

  Kyndra buried her face in her hands. Now in horror she remembered the missing page that Janus must have ripped out. While any akan will shield its bearer from harm, one type – the white akan – was designed to do more. Its power— How could she have been so stupid?

  Medavle stroked his chin with white-gloved fingers. ‘How much does he know,’ he mused, ‘to go to such lengths?’

  ‘He could have let the test finish me,’ Kyndra said numbly. Part of her couldn’t believe Janus capable of murder. It didn’t feel real. She’d never done him any harm.

  ‘Perhaps he feared it wouldn’t,’ Medavle said. ‘And he was right.’ A smile of what might have been triumph flitted across his mouth, but was gone before Kyndra could be sure.

  ‘I would be dead if you hadn’t stopped them,’ she said
.

  ‘I didn’t stop them. You did.’

  ‘You’re not making sense.’

  Medavle’s face was grim. ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘Remember what?’ The only thing about the test that Kyndra truly recalled was the pain. She raised a hand to sooth her aching head and gasped as the movement tugged at her wounds. Taking a breath, she chanced another look at them. The burns on her thighs were blistered and red with a bloody mess of yellow tissue at the centre. They didn’t hurt as much as they should – the burns on her shoulders were far more painful, though they looked better. Her clothes hung on her by threads.

  ‘Careful,’ Medavle said, as Kyndra parted the cloth. ‘I haven’t been able to do much. You need a proper healer.’

  She gave the bare room a more detailed study. For the first time, she realized there was no door. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Safe, as I said.’

  ‘What’s that noise?’ It was a low commotion, as if voices were calling to one another.

  ‘They are searching for you. And me,’ he added.

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  Medavle shook his head. ‘Not directly. I knocked out the Wielders guarding the platform and you did for the rest.’

  Not understanding, Kyndra looked down. Heat radiated from her body, but she shivered in the airless space, trying to order her thoughts. ‘What do you want with me?’ she asked, letting her body lie back against the hard wall. ‘Why did you help me?’

  Medavle stared at her. At first his face seemed impassive, but gradually Kyndra made out a creasing around the dark eyes, a gnawing worry that reminded her of Jarand on the night Brégenne saved her life, the night it all started.

  ‘Because you are my hope,’ Medavle said. ‘And someone tried to kill you.’

  Kyndra opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Then a shudder ran convulsively through her body, jerking her arms. Her throat was closing; she gasped for air. Dimly she saw Medavle wrench the flute from his belt and thought she heard a peal of notes like the rest-day bells in Brenwym. But they weren’t calling her. They were sending her away.