Eithné’s eyes widened, and then they narrowed. Jane braced for another lecture on the hardships she’d escaped growing up on Earth or how no Nhélanei had a choice. But instead Eithné asked, “Have you eaten your prime ration?”
“No.” She let out a breath and then shook her head. It was getting difficult to push food past a throat that was somehow always too dry.
Eithné stood. “I think we need a break. Let’s take a meal together.”
They didn’t speak until they were well past the medical center. Once the halls were empty, Eithné said, “I hear your physical training is going well.”
Jane shrugged. “I suppose. It’s easier than this. It’s…”
“Instinctive.”
“Yes. This is different.”
“You’re trying to learn about a new world and your place in it. You’re trying to fit a lifetime of knowledge into a few cycles, and I imagine all of that knowledge changes everything else you thought you knew.”
“Yes.” Tears welled again, and Jane rolled her eyes and willed away the moisture. “And now I find out I’m this—this person who’s supposed to do these impossible things. Things no one even seems to want. I mean, who am I saving, Eithné? Not the Watchers. So who?”
She fell silent when they entered the dining hall. The vast room was nearly empty, as always, but there was no guarantee she wouldn’t be overheard. She walked up to a dispenser and held her link up to the reader. It flashed, and a bowl shot out of the bottom, half full of gray slop that looked as if it had already been digested once. It still amazed her that the stuff was made from produce grown right on the ship. The Meijhé use of fillers and synthetic proteins to stretch the vegetation across time and crew rendered any appetizing substance unrecognizable. A ration of water plopped out next, and she grabbed it and guzzled. And still, her throat remained dry.
Eithné led her to a table in the corner, far from any other diners. She took a bite and closed her eyes. “If I try, I can pretend it reminds me of Saroyan stew.”
“Does it help?”
“Not much.” She took a delicate sip of water, rationing her ration in a way Jane just couldn’t bring herself to do. “Not all Nhélanei are Watchers.”
“I know, Eithné.”
“I’m not sure you do. Life on this ship, it’s not like life on Spyridon. We have freedoms here that those on planet will never have.”
Jane raised a brow. “We have more freedom here?”
“A great deal more. And it’s because of where we are. There’s no flight travel available to the Nhélanei on planet. There’s no possibility for escape. But out here”—she waved her arm through the room, as if to signify all of space—“it’s technically possible to steal a shuttle or, at the very least, an emergency pod. And it’s possible the Meijhé might not catch you.”
“Then why doesn’t anyone do that?”
“Because this is a position of honor.” She shook her head. “Not that anyone cares about the honor of it except for the Watchers. But it comes with certain allowances that those on planet don’t have. It’s interesting, if you can get past the indignity of it. I think most dictators would have guarded us more heavily, but Lhókesh is too smart for that. He doesn’t want to waste soldiers on babysitting a fuel processing ship. So instead he promises safety for our loved ones left on planet. He promises privileges upon our return. He allows us to roam the ship freely; we work fewer passes in a cycle. There is a myriad of freedoms here that other Nhélanei don’t have, and because of that no one tries to escape. This is actually a coveted position.”
Jane’s stomach turned at the manipulation of it all. “How does he get away with it? How does no one stop him?”
“What do you think we’re trying to do?”
“I mean out there.” Jane pushed away her food. She thought if she took another bite, it would all come back up. “La’Fek. Another planet. Someone.”
“Ah. Well.” Eithné sighed. “Cyd says no fire burns brighter than the one on our doorstep.”
“Cyd?”
“My mate.”
“He’s alive? I thought—”
Eithné went still, and then she shook her head. “No. He died in the war. My apologies. I—” Her voice caught, and she cleared it and started again. “I talk about him as if he was still here. He won’t let go.” She pressed a fist over her heart.
“Eithné.” Jane took her free hand, and Eithné squeezed it and tried for a smile.
“They say that when you lose your mate, you know instantly. That there’s a hole where your heart had been, and it will never be filled. No matter what happens next. But for me…I’m just left with this expectation that he’ll walk through the door any day, with his gangly steps and that crooked smile on his face, bursting to tell me about his newest brilliant student.” She laughed and dabbed at the moisture on her cheeks. “I think perhaps all his students were brilliant.”
Jane smiled. “He was wonderful.”
“Yes. Cheerful and energetic and kind. And impatient and messy and impossible to travel with. And I miss him every day.” A buzz of voices burst into the room, and Eithné glanced toward the doors. The prime shift was ending, and the crew were filing in for their rations. “Perhaps we should make our way to your next session.”
Once they were on the lift, she turned to Jane. “Do you know what Cyd meant? About the fire, I mean.”
“That it’s easy to overlook other people’s problems.”
“Or ignore them. But his point went deeper than that. We can’t wait for others to solve our problems for us. When something is wrong, it’s up to us to make it right. What’s happening to the Nhélanei is wrong, and we’re trying to change that. We brought you here because we thought you could help, but we don’t expect you to do it alone.”
“I know. But it’s different for me. You all chose to fight. I never wanted this.”
Eithné frowned. “In the past the position of Baanrí or Baanret has always been voluntary. A lineage is observed, and everyone in the position has been a descendent of Armín. But not every heir to the throne has wanted it. There have been elections held for the position, and royals have abdicated without objection. The throne was considered too important to leave to someone who would resent it, and so every heir has had the right to say no. The system worked because there was always another member of royalty who was willing to take their place.”
“Until now.”
The elevator stopped, and Eithné held open the doors as Jane stepped out. “As far as we know, you’re all that’s left. And I think, if you were willing to try, you could make a difference for us. You could remind our people they’re worth fighting for. And you could show them that our old way of life is not completely lost. But that will work only if you believe in what you’re doing.”
Their links began to beep and flash, and the glow at the base of the lifts shifted from white to red. The ship shuddered, sending a ripple through the treated metal around them.
“We’ve come out of the jump,” Eithné murmured. “One more and we’ll reach Spyridon.”
And there was the slop again, rising back up Jane’s throat. She tried to swallow it, but it seemed her heart was in the way. “It’s going faster than I thought it would.”
Eithné gave a sympathetic smile. “The phrase is jumping the light. It feels as though we’ve jumped the light.”
Jane’s lips quirked. “Isn’t that what I said?”
Eithné laughed and then sobered. “You asked me before if you have a choice. If you wish, you can join the slaves on planet, don an electrified collar, and hope for the best. If you manage to escape the Meijhé, you can go into the Other and live out your days in hiding. You could probably even find your way to an emergency pod on this ship and escape before we arrive. I’m sure Mikhél would do his best to keep the guard from killing you. So to answer your question, you have many choices. You can say no to being the Baanrí.” She moved her hand and called out a destination level. As the doors closed, she looked at
Jane again. “But I hope you won’t.”
CHAPTER 24
Sixty-two days till arrival
Dhóchas pulsed, a constant flux of energy and motion that only Jane could see. The throb of the processors, the hum of the generators, and the scant flash of footfalls merged into a translucent shimmer that rippled from hull to hull.
And Mikhél’s heart strobed, a beacon amid the spectacle.
He stood behind her, dagger in hand, a counter to the khóchuk she held. She shivered under his gaze and swore to herself that this time she would win.
He charged, the sound of his movements buffeting the air around him. His feet pointed to the left, so she danced right. Then he changed direction and lunged, his fingers near enough to spark the air over her arm.
She rolled forward and bounded to the balls of her feet, eyes still closed, and watched him stalk her through the glow. The slow, controlled movements had her breath coming faster, and her hand tightened on the staff as she crouched and braced for contact. When he rushed, she leapt up to push off a pillar and landed on the mat behind him.
She bared her teeth as the thrill of the move coursed through her, and that was when she lost.
The air fluttered silver just before the kick hit her ankle. Bone shattered with a crunch that was image as much as sound as Mikhél’s leg swept hers into the air. She landed hard on the shoulder she’d dislocated weeks before, and it slipped out of place as if oiled.
And the fire ripped through her.
She told herself to stand, to work through the pain, but her limbs refused to move. Her senses honed in on her ankle, and she groaned when she saw her bones begin to knit themselves back together. Searching for any distraction, she focused on the rhythm of Mikhél’s breath.
It was too rapid, too harsh, and she frowned and tried again to stand. She twisted onto her side, pushed up to her knees, and then pressed her forehead to the floor as her stomach turned.
He was supposed to force her to fight through the pain, but instead he waited, silent and still. She couldn’t deny she was grateful for the reprieve. When she could, she pushed to her feet, but he didn’t move. She glanced over her shoulder and shuddered.
His eyes were blank, their focus shifted inward. Whatever he saw, it wasn’t her.
And it wasn’t good.
Then he twitched and snapped back. His gaze honed in on her, and he charged again.
She closed her eyes, and his image blurred with the silence of his movements. She braced for the ruthlessness he wielded so effortlessly, but something had changed. Each thrust and parry seemed choreographed, each step a flawless complement to one another until the fight felt more like a dance.
Every cell in her body tuned to him, and the ship around them faded away. She could see what he would do before he moved. Feel where he would touch before the contact. The rush of his breath feathered her hair. The heat of his skin warmed hers as if there was no air between them. The flurry of limbs grew faster until she could barely tell where hers ended and his began.
And then he stopped.
Their arms were locked, and her lungs thrust her chest against his with each shuddering breath. His pulse roared in her ears, his heart pounding within her own.
The fathomless depths of his eyes bored into hers.
And for a moment, she saw beyond the shield he kept so carefully in place. For that moment she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think beyond the longing that ran through her or the baffling rage that followed it.
Then he cursed, and the moment was gone. Without a word he pulled away and walked out of the room.
Mikhél strode through the ship’s halls, his breathing easing slightly when Seirsha slipped out of his sense range. But he couldn’t quite regain the calm that was so vital to his survival, and when he was closed inside the elevator, he had to stop himself from slamming his fist into the wall.
The residential level was nearly empty, a gift of fate that allowed him to hide his racing heart from the crew. He stepped into his rooms and called closed the door, and then he yanked the amulet over his head.
Though he knew the metal was no hotter than his skin, it seemed to sear his palms until he almost threw it across the room. But, of course, he didn’t. He couldn’t be so careless with the only thing he had left of his mother, so he sat down instead and cradled the talisman in his hands.
He was never without reminders of the evil he fought against, but they rarely came from within. Every time they did, they left him hollow and shaking until he wondered why he had ever thought he could make a difference in this war.
When Seirsha stepped back into his sense range and closed herself in her quarters, he gritted his teeth against the sensation of her. But he didn’t shut her out. Her warmth was a balm, even through the wall that separated them. Her pulse a reminder that she lived, her breath a refusal to give in to his nightmare.
She would not share his mother’s fate.
It was a vow, but it felt more like a wish. He closed his eyes and told himself he’d shut her out soon. But not yet.
Not until he stopped hearing that gut-chilling crack of bone against bone. Not until he stopped reliving the moment after, when her face had seemed to shift and blur with the image of his mother. When her eyes had stared sightlessly beneath blackened, bleeding lids as something within him withered and shrank. Not until his memories stopped flaunting the brutality that seethed under the thin skin of his control.
That which he loathed he also possessed.
Jane paced her quarters, acutely aware of Mikhél’s stillness through the wall. He sat on his bed, his hands engulfing an amulet she’d sensed before but had never seen.
She could only assume it had something to do with the bleak, hollow look that had driven him from the training room.
His heart still pounded inside her, a heady, steady rhythm that mocked the distance between them. She tried to shut it out, but she couldn’t.
He was hurting.
She didn’t know the cause and had no illusions that he’d share it with her, but she realized it didn’t matter. She couldn’t ignore his pain any more than she could have ignored her own.
But when she stopped outside his door, she froze.
He didn’t want this. Since they’d told her about the prophecy, he’d been steadily pushing her away. They were almost never alone together. This was the first session they’d had in weeks that hadn’t included Eithné leaning against the wall like some sort of chaperone. And beyond her training, she never saw him.
He didn’t want this.
And yet she couldn’t leave. He needed someone. And she knew better than anyone what it was to need and be left alone, so she called the request for entry.
She thought he’d ignore her, but then she sensed him slip the amulet over his head and under his shirt. The door opened, and he stood before her, his eyes dark and shuttered. She thought perhaps she’d imagined the turmoil she’d seen there, and she almost lost her nerve. Then she detected the river of hurt still running under the surface, and it gave her the courage to move past him into the room.
It was like stepping into the ocean. The entire space was blanketed in shades of blue, from the midnight threads of the billowy rugs to the gleam of sapphire sheets dripping over the side of the bed. Even the window followed suit, laid open to the glacial shimmer of a planet swathed in ice.
“You should be training now.”
She shrugged and turned back to him. It didn’t seem like the time to mention that she was supposed to be training with him, so she held out a protein stick instead. “Thought you might be hungry.”
He stared at her for a moment, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and then he took it and called closed the door.
“Your quarters are beautiful,” she said. “I didn’t realize there was anything like them on the ship.”
“It’s the royal suite.”
She stilled and braced for a comment about her past, but it didn’t come. Forcing her shoulders to relax, she glance
d around at the artwork on the walls. But that reminded her of the paintings that were hidden somewhere in this space, so she turned her attention to the furniture.
And that, of course, made her think about the bed nestled against the wall they shared.
They slept side by side. Her cheeks warmed at the realization that if she opened her sedfai in the night, she’d feel him breathing just feet from where she lay.
That drove her gaze to the window, but the view was a glaring reminder that she was racing toward someone else’s war.
Her breath came out in a rush, and she turned to Mikhél again. He was still watching her, the supplement untouched in his hand.
“You wish to be alone. I should go.”
She was almost to the door when he spoke.
“Is it better to know?”
She stopped and turned. “To know what?”
“Who you are. Where you come from. Were you happier before you knew?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but the truth seemed like the worst kind of ingratitude. So she said instead, “It was a relief to know why I never seemed to fit.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Earth?”
She almost laughed, but then she thought of all she’d left behind. The warmth of the sun on her skin. The swell of violins drifting from her speakers as rain pattered outside. Her books, piled against the walls of her apartment because she would almost certainly read them again.
Except now she never would.
“Yes,” she said around an ache she hadn’t expected. “Yes, I do. Do you miss Spyridon?”
He was quiet for long enough that she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, “I barely know it. I’ve spent most of my life out here.”
She studied the window again and nodded. No home and, as far as she knew, no family. They had that in common.
“I was almost adopted once,” she said. “When I was young, a family took me in. They took care of me, made me laugh. I don’t remember much, but I do remember the laughter. Then one day it stopped. They were never really afraid of me, not like when you found me, but something had changed. They sent me back, and no one else ever tried.”
Spyridon (The Spyridon Trilogy Book 1) Page 20