Eithné went on and on, but Jane didn’t hear the rest. They passed a window to a darkened room, and the surface threw their reflection back. Everyone looked the same, Jane thought, but her. Her hair was down, the planes of her face somehow highlighted or accented, so her eyes looked darker and her jaw stronger. The jewels Leima had applied curled around her eye and along her cheekbone, an exotically regal look that seemed so out of place on her. The lines of her dress were slightly off, a reminder that it hadn’t been made for her. Did she look more royal this way? More like her mother?
Or just different? Less like a crew member but still not quite the Baanrí.
The assembly hall was larger than she’d expected. Yet, somehow, the crew seemed to take up more space than she’d expected too. They were all in their seats, disconcertingly silent. As she walked through the door, they turned as one to stare at her, and she almost lost her nerve.
The stage was just a flat piece of floor, and she was immensely grateful for the lack of stairs. She didn’t think her unsteady legs could handle them.
She crossed to the center of the stage and took her place. Mikhél stood to her right and slightly behind her. Tauruk to her left and perfectly in line with Mikhél. They were meant to symbolize a merging of the leadership the crew had acknowledged in secret and that which they had feared in public. And Jane, of course, held authority over all.
What a ridiculous thing, she thought, for an orphan from Paulding County, Georgia.
She glanced out at the audience, but from this height she couldn’t see that well. She would have preferred to stay here and talk only to those in the front few rows, but that wasn’t how this was done. So she called up the platform on which she stood, and the wide, flat piece of metal broke away from the floor and rose, slow and steady, into the air.
She glanced back at Mikhél in the unnerving silence, and he sent to her, They’re your people, Seirsha. Talk to them.
Her people. She looked back out at the crowd and tried to see herself in them. But all she saw were the differences. Her throat tightened, and her head went light, and she thought she might have another panic attack.
And then Valaer walked through the door, his progress slow and halting. His face was set in grim lines, his eyes scanning the crowd before resting on her. And she finally understood what he’d been trying to tell her. He hadn’t fought Bavoel for her.
He’d done it for Spyridon.
Just like her parents. Like Betha and Aida, like Eithné’s mate. Like the millions of Nhélanei who had died in the first months of the war and the few who had risked standing up to Lhókesh since. Their sacrifices had all been for Spyridon.
Just as Mikhél’s would be.
She heard a click, sharp and distinct, that came from somewhere deep inside of her. It was like the final piece falling into place, and she knew why she was afraid.
As the strong one, she would risk only herself. As the Baanrí she would risk a billion lives.
If she took up the mantle of Spyridon’s leadership, Nhélanei would die under her command. Whether the lives were given freely or taken with force, it was a loss she could not replace. She’d held close the names of those already gone as if they could shield her from the pain of further death, because she’d been terrified to let anyone else die for her.
But she’d been wrong to think they would. When the Nhélanei went to war, it wouldn’t be for their Baanrí.
It would be for Spyridon.
Not just the place but the ideal. The culture that had been destroyed, the freedom that had been stolen. The Nhélanei weren’t fighting just to reclaim their home; they were fighting to reclaim themselves. And for every Nhélanei sitting before her, ready for battle, there were millions more who didn’t know they had the right to fight.
Valaer was right. They didn’t need her to lead them to war; they had Mikhél and Tauruk for that. But they needed someone to counteract the poisonous message of Lhókesh. They needed someone to tell them they had the right to fight for the ideal.
They needed Seirsha.
She looked out at the crowd, shifting restlessly as they waited for her to speak, and she knew she was ready. She could let go of Jane. She could forgive that woman the mistakes she’d made and sympathize with the terrible loneliness and fear. And then she could leave her behind.
For Spyridon.
In that moment Jane Doe was lost forever.
She was Seirsha now, and her name meant freedom.
She was the Baanrí.
“I am Braillen Enan Seirsha,” she said, and her voice rose over the crowd. “I’m the only child of Baanrí Braillen Mhíalei Dhémar and Baanret Brijad Dhíren Simhíon. I am the only living member of the royal family Braillen, and I am the rightful heir to the throne of Spyridon.
“My parents hid my birth. They knew war was coming, and they concealed me in order to save me. When Lhókesh came they gave their lives to help me escape to another world. They sent Niyhól Len Betha with me to protect and train me.”
There was a stir at that. For Seirsha’s entire life, the name Niyhól had meant traitor. She was going to change that. She glanced at Eithné and straightened her shoulders. She knew what she had to do, despite Eithné’s fears. Her mentor might disapprove, but Seirsha had to tell her people what they needed to know.
Her people. She realized that she finally believed that was what they were.
“Betha died on impact,” she said. “She was a hero. Niyhól Elestra Aida was killed in punishment for keeping my birth a secret from Lhókesh. She was also a hero, and for them I owe the family Niyhól my deepest honor and gratitude.”
Murmurs ran through the crowd. In the moment of distraction, a sense of warmth flowed over her. She glanced back to find Mikhél watching her, an expression on his face that stole her breath. When the hall quieted, she had to force herself to turn around.
“I was raised on a sanctuary world by people from that world, and I thought I was of that world. I had no knowledge of Spyridon. I had no knowledge of the royal family of Braillen, of the Nhélanei or the Meijhé or the connected worlds of La’Fek. I experienced the jagat alone, and it almost killed me. I was brought on this ship two hundred cycles ago, and I was not ready.
“I’ve spent my time here learning about our world. Our language, our customs, our history. I’ve trained to use my sedfai in peace and in battle.” She looked at Mikhél again. “I’ve learned how to be strong in the face of fear. But after two hundred cycles of training, I still wasn’t ready.
“I didn’t trust you to place the needs of your home above the needs of yourselves. I should have. You’ve demonstrated great courage aboard this ship. You looked at your lives, and you saw the unacceptable. And you fought to change it. When they told me who I was, I thought I was supposed to ask you to fight for me. I realize now that we fight together. And we fight for something far greater than ourselves.
“Spyridon cannot be reclaimed by small bands of rebels fighting alone. You formed the bonds of chosen family, and you kept those bonds strong under hardships I can only imagine. Now I must ask you for more.
“Build our numbers. Find supporters in the cities and in the Other. Tell them they are not alone. We were one people when this war began, and Lhókesh has spent years trying to shatter us into isolated fragments, lonely and scared. He gains power through our separation. Let us take it back.
“Help me rejoin our world so that together, we reclaim Spyridon!”
Her voice echoed through the great hall, so the word Spyridon lingered over the crowd. It felt like time suspended, and they stared at her in the quiet. She could feel Mikhél’s approval, his warmth like a caress. Her eyes fell on Valaer, and his were dark and wet as he inclined his head. Eithné sat next to him, her face bright with pride.
And then the roar erupted from the crowd, a great, echoing beast that filled the air and proclaimed that here, at last, was hope.
CHAPTER 39
Arrival
Lhókesh’s ships cov
ered Spyridon like a swarm. They hovered above the planet, a glinting shroud that buried the Nhélanei in tyranny. None of the planet’s surface was visible from space save for the Royal Tower of Lan’Vercai and one golden sphere that hovered above it, gleaming in the light of the sun.
The Tower of the People and the Tower of the Soldier had been destroyed on the first night of the war, their golden spheres shattered. The rubble still crushed the northern side of the Royal City, an inescapable reminder that only Lhókesh commanded the Nhélanei now.
Seirsha stared at the remaining sphere from her window and tried to imagine her escape. A mother’s kiss on her forehead, her father’s cradling arms. The sad eyes of Betha, who had—though she didn’t know it—already given her life for the cause.
Kai sighed behind her, a deep, mournful sound that made her feel as if he knew her pain.
Mikhél was leaving soon.
He had to land on Spyridon while the Royal City still faced the sun. And then, in order to set their plan in motion, he had to go to Lhókesh.
She could feel him packing in the next room. He’d tried to give her the royal quarters for the remainder of the trip, but she’d refused. It had seemed like a foolish formality. Now she wished she’d accepted. She could have spent her last few days on the ship in a room that was filled with him. Or perhaps she could have spent them with him.
She felt Eithné approach, and she called open the door and then began folding her clothes. She wouldn’t take much, just a few changes of clothing, the stone and its container, and the paintings. And, of course, her mother’s letter.
Eithné sighed. “You look so like your mother sometimes.”
Seirsha looked up. The old woman’s eyes were pale, and she knew the source of their disquiet. “I’ll pull my hair back before we land. We can darken it with vinyatha dust, cover it with rags.”
“A permanent color change would be easier and safer.”
“We’ve been over this. We started this trip a group of five. We reached the planet a group of over three hundred because I look like her. We can’t afford to lose that advantage.” Her voice softened. “You don’t need to worry about me, Eithné. I’ll blend in.”
Eithné’s lips twitched, but her eyes remained pale. “You’ll have to stoop. You’ve attained quite the regal bearing these last few days.”
Seirsha gave a half-hearted smile and tucked the last of her belongings in her bag. She set the gríth on top and closed the flap.
“We don’t leave for a round of passes,” Eithné said.
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
Eithné sighed. She glanced behind her and then called closed the door. “Mikhél leaves soon.”
Seirsha hesitated, and then she forced herself to answer evenly. “I know.”
“Seirsha, there’s something…” Eithné’s voice trailed away. “Never mind. It’s nothing. I’ll leave you to your preparations.”
She turned away, and Seirsha heard herself say, “He’s my mate.”
Eithné turned back, her eyes like minted ice. “How did you know?”
“Something my mother wrote. She said, ‘I know what he is to you.’ It made me wonder, so I did some research. The nexus can be formed only between blood relatives or mates. He’s my mate.”
“He asked us not to tell you.”
“I know. He didn’t want to hurt me.”
“What are you going to do?”
Seirsha pulled out the gríth and let her breath call out the symbols on its back. She ran her finger over the one Mikhél wore around his neck and said, “It’s different on Earth. For humans there’s no biological imperative to join oneself with someone else. There’s love—which at first glance seems sweeter, because it seems like more of a choice. But it’s not a choice at all. Did you know that only about half of all Nhélanei mates actually fall in love? I looked it up. Some mates probably hate each other.”
She’d wondered about that for days, while she’d lain awake in bed and felt Mikhél breathing through the wall. What would it be like to be drawn to someone so powerfully, only to find out you didn’t like who they were? Was it any worse than falling in love with someone you knew you would lose?
Thank God she wasn’t in love.
“What are you going to do?” Eithné asked again.
“I’m going to find the chest my mother left for me while Mikhél distracts Lhókesh. I’m going to use it to find Lan’Gemhína, and then I’m going to go to war. And if Lhókesh kills Mikhél, then by God, I’ll have my revenge.”
“Seirsha.”
Mikhél stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space. She hadn’t felt him move, hadn’t even heard the door open. She’d thought he wouldn’t come to her while Eithné was still here, and then she realized how foolish it was to hope anything could delay his journey to the surface.
It seemed her heart wasn’t as strong as her words.
She barely noticed Eithné leave. Over the swish of the sealing door, she asked, “You’re leaving now?”
“Yes.”
Her whole body froze, and she had to force herself to nod. She wanted to beg him to stay with her. They could leave, go anywhere, and forget this war.
So much weaker than her words.
“You’ll be careful.” Her voice caught, and her fists clenched at her sides. It was a useless request, and they both knew it. He nodded, and she thought he would walk away then. But he didn’t.
And she realized this might be the last time she saw him alive. She drank in the sight of him, tried to commit it to memory. His eyes, his hands, his jaw. And the tension coming to her through the nexus he couldn’t quite block.
He held himself so carefully still, and she knew he wouldn’t touch her. If she did nothing else, said nothing else, he would walk away. And her heart would remain whole.
But this might be the last time she saw him alive.
She took a step toward him, and then another, and his jaw began to tick. And she realized she’d known it would. She’d known that if she walked toward him, he wouldn’t turn away. When she reached him, he said, “Seirsha.”
The word sounded equal parts warning and plea. Her fingertips grazed his uniform, where the amulet often rested, but it was gone now, packed away in preparation for his meeting with Lhókesh. She had no excuse to touch him, but still, she let her palm lie flat against his chest and reveled in the way his breath shuddered under her hand.
His eyes were molten chocolate run through with rivers of scotch and brandy. She touched his jaw where the muscle jumped, and she wanted to soothe and excite at the same time. His breath shuddered out again, and something in him loosened. He lifted a hand, brushed her hair from her cheek. And then he took her face in his hands, and her lids drifted closed.
Time slowed until her blood ran like syrup, and the air settled heavily in her lungs. Her heart stuttered, and she felt an answering jump in his. Then his lips touched hers, a slight press that had heat coursing through her.
Warm. Soft. Perfect.
Too quickly, cool air rushed in to take their place, and his voice slid through her.
Good-bye, Seirsha.
When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
And she realized that she was in love after all.
Mikhél stood on the steps of the Royal Tower and looked up at the sky. Dhóchas was barely visible, its glinting lights blending perfectly into the rest of the armada. The outer atmosphere dimmed the nexus, but he felt Seirsha like an ache that would never heal.
He shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d gone to her only to say good-bye—to see her face one last time, so he could hold that image with him while he did what came next. But then she’d walked toward him with that look in her eyes again, as if she knew exactly what power she held over him, and he hadn’t been able to move. And then she’d touched him, and he could have done nothing else in that moment but touch her back. And once her skin was under his, he could do nothing else but claim her lips too.
&n
bsp; It had taken more willpower than he’d known he possessed to end it there. Especially knowing that if he’d given her the chance, she would have asked him not to stop.
But there was more to consider than his own painful need. There was Lhókesh, who would stop at nothing to see to the end of the royal line. There was Lan’Gemhína, which he was beginning to believe must be found in order to end the war. And there was a cache of tools hidden somewhere in the Royal Tower, waiting to be claimed by the last person who should set foot inside its gates.
He turned his attention to the task at hand and began to climb. Avron was here. He could feel the weight of the man’s block, that relentless pressure that informed each Nhélanei in his range that all projective gifts had been silenced. He resisted the urge to shrug away the sensation and entered the tower.
He found Lhókesh in the throne room, frequented for the same reason the sanctuary was left intact. Lhókesh found it amusing, to the extent he could find anything amusing, to misuse artifacts that had once held great importance to the Nhélanei. He watched as Mikhél entered, his strange eyes tracking the return of his son with no more emotion than they’d show if he watched a speck of dust float through the air.
Mikhél stopped before him and knelt, and then he waited for permission to rise. As Lhókesh let him stay on his knees in a bow that seemed to have no end, the old bitter chill rose within him. He’d thought he’d never be back here, feigning respect to a violent warlord, fighting a battle alone and in secret. And for once he was grateful he could hide his emotions from Seirsha. He didn’t want her to know he was capable of such loathing, even when its recipient was undeniably deserving.
Finally Lhókesh said, “Your trip was unsuccessful.”
Mikhél stood. He didn’t spare a glance for Avron, the man so much a part of Lhókesh’s space that he almost seemed invisible. “In part. The planet did not contain a sufficient amount of ore. Mining it would have cost too much.”
“And the success?”
Mikhél hesitated, and his jaw clenched. He could change their plan now, before it was too late.
Spyridon (The Spyridon Trilogy Book 1) Page 35