by Lucy Hounsom
She considered the young man called Char. He stood tensely, as if on the brink of exploding into action. ‘Bind his wrists,’ she said to Kait. ‘He’s coming with us.’
21
Causca, Acre
Medavle
‘Meda,’ she says and his name is a caress when she speaks it. ‘Your face is always so serious.’
He looks at her white form, clad in the same robes he wears. He looks at her golden hair spilling like silk over her shoulders and finds that he cannot answer.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asks and the catch in his throat finally loosens.
‘Nothing,’ he says, aware that his fingers are twitching at his sides – they long to run through her hair, to tilt her chin up, to trace the bud of her lips. He keeps them still with an effort. There were always eyes watching. ‘I was thinking about us.’ He blushes. ‘I mean, all the Yadin too.’
A tiny frown creases her brow and he almost raises a hand to smooth it away. ‘What about us?’
‘I was thinking about our purpose,’ he explains, unable to take his eyes from hers. How was it possible for anyone to own such eyes? They were the colour of ocean and sky and the mirrored sunny surface of a forest pool. ‘I was thinking that we could be so much more than we are.’
‘More?’ She half smiles. ‘We live in this beautiful place, surrounded by the light of brilliant minds. I am content to be with our people and to love our masters.’
Perhaps she sees how her words pain him, for she raises a daring hand to his face. He shudders under her touch and closes his eyes; the heat of her hand awakens the desire he works so hard to tamp down.
‘What would you say if they were not listening, Isla?’ he asks her. ‘If we were alone?’
Her face hardens. ‘This is forbidden,’ she whispers, ‘traitorous. We must be careful.’
‘Is it traitorous to want a world where we can love one another freely? Where I can take you in my arms and nobody will stop me?’
She holds his gaze, almost sombre now. ‘Where we may live as the Wielders do, serving only ourselves.’
‘Yes. To be free to love whom we want. Live how we want …’ They have drawn closer to one another, the better to whisper their dangerous ideals. He can smell her skin, fragrant with herbs. The temptation to give in is overwhelming, but he cannot. If the Wielders were to see them —
He pulls her out of the atrium into a corridor, a quiet passage whose marbled floor might give fair warning of approaching feet. He presses her against the pale wall, cups her face. His hand looks rough and dark against her cheek. His heart is pounding and he can hear her quick breaths, as they gaze at each other, closer than they’ve ever been.
And despite the danger, despite the Wielders, he finds himself kissing her, passionately, fiercely. Her lips are firm and soft. When they open beneath his, a rush of heat fills him, making his knees tremble, and he draws back. ‘I have no control around you,’ he breathes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ she says, pushing dark hair away from his face. ‘Kiss me again.’
But he can’t – they can hear someone approaching. They spring apart just as the Wielder rounds the corner. The man regards them disapprovingly. ‘What are you doing here, servants? Don’t you have tasks to perform?’
A last glance as they move off in opposite directions. He goes with the hot memory of her body against his and with a simmering rage at the world – at the Wielders he is supposed to love and respect for giving him life.
A moment of vertigo, and Medavle lunged at the reins of his horse before he slid out of the saddle. He steadied himself with a curse. What was he doing, dozing on horseback like a child? He didn’t remember closing his eyes.
She’s dead, not even a ghost.
But now that Kierik was gone and everything he’d worked for achieved, Isla was always with him, as if she’d returned to share his flesh. Had she really been so perfect? he forced himself to ask. Had her eyes truly been the colour of water and sky and her hair like silk? He didn’t know and that pained him more than the memories which kept him constant company.
Medavle shook his head and urged his horse into a trot until he drew alongside Kyndra’s stallion. The young man who called himself Char was perched on the big horse, wrists tied, as far from Kyndra as he could get without falling off. It reminded Medavle of how he’d felt at seeing the terrible, flaming figure Kyndra had been at the Defiant base and, partly to his shame, the memory awoke the same feelings of disgust he’d had for Kierik. It wasn’t fair, of course, especially since he’d been directly responsible for Kyndra’s birth, but prejudices ran deep and Medavle knew better than anyone not to trust a Starborn.
‘You come from the Beaches,’ he said, hoping to stir Char into conversation.
The young man grunted. He wore a pair of black lenses he’d had hidden somewhere on his person and Medavle found it slightly disconcerting not to see his eyes. ‘How long have you been a slaver?’
‘Forever,’ Char said shortly.
‘I thought slavery was outlawed in the empire.’
‘It is.’
‘Then why—’
‘Because we’re small fry and no threat compared to Khronosta.’
Medavle studied him closely. ‘Exactly what kind of threat does Khronosta pose?’
‘You’re not going to stop, are you?’
‘We’ve little else to do while we ride.’ Medavle nodded at the Solar cuffs that bound Char’s wrists together. ‘And it’s not as if you’re going anywhere.’
‘Fine,’ Char said irritably. ‘Khronosta is the one faction Sartya has not been able to crush or control.’
‘What about the Defiant?’
The slaver snorted. ‘The rebels? They’ve no real power in Acre. Oh, they have sympathizers, certainly. But I doubt they could challenge the Fist.’
‘What does the emperor fear Khronosta can do?’ Medavle asked, unable to hide his interest in the question.
Char regarded him narrowly. ‘No one’s seen the extent of their power. I didn’t even know what they could do until recently. But time itself …’ His gaze turned inward. ‘They can time travel, but Ma said they need an anchor – one of their number has had to have lived during the era they intend to visit. She said she didn’t think they could directly affect the past.’ He paused. ‘But what if they could? What if that’s why they want the Kala? They told me before that he’s supposed to possess huge power – that he was going to lead them to victory against Sartya. Maybe they could rewrite history.’
An ember, long cold, flared to life inside Medavle. ‘What would the Khronostians rewrite?’
‘They’d probably do something to undermine Sartya, wouldn’t they?’ Char said. ‘If they could weaken the empire in the past, the present would be different. They wouldn’t have to keep running and hiding from the Fist.’
Medavle kept his face blank, as his mind roiled with possibilities. The Khronostians could slow time – as mad as that sounded, he’d witnessed it – but to reverse it? That went against every law in the cosmos.
‘What can you tell us about Cymenza?’ Kyndra asked abruptly. ‘We need to pick up supplies there.’
‘If you’re angling for ken, I don’t have any,’ Char said. ‘I left Na Sung Aro in a hurry.’
‘Ken?’
‘Stones, money, whatever you like.’
‘We have our own gold, thank you.’
Char barked a laugh. ‘Gold? Are you serious?’
‘Surely someone would be willing to change our coins for yours—’ Kyndra began.
‘No they wouldn’t,’ Char said. ‘Gold is as common as mule shit. We use ken for currency – small precious stones of different colours.’
Kyndra stiffened in her saddle and twisted round to look at him. ‘You’re saying our gold is worthless?’
‘Worthless?’ Char smiled. ‘Not entirely – it makes nice jewellery.’
‘It won’t buy us food?’
‘You could try trading y
our coins as curiosities. Some might take them as payment.’
‘I can’t believe we didn’t think of this,’ Kyndra muttered. She shot a sidelong look at Medavle. ‘You never mentioned it.’
‘I didn’t know.’ And he hadn’t. Gold had been the common currency in his time. Something huge must have happened to force Acre’s economy to abandon it.
‘I’m not a historian,’ Char said when Medavle asked him whether he knew. ‘It’s always been ken.’
‘Don’t you have any questions about us?’ Kyndra said, her gaze fixed on the scuffed, dusty trail ahead of them.
‘I’m your prisoner.’ Char hefted his Solar-bound wrists, which left him just enough room to hold on to the back of Kyn-dra’s saddle. His weapons were stashed in Nediah’s pack. ‘That’s all I need to know.’
‘Does it make a difference, you being the one in chains, slaver?’ Irilin asked bitterly.
Char pressed his lips together, said nothing.
‘Slavery is evil,’ Irilin continued. ‘Chaining people up, trading their freedom for profit—’
‘Freedom is an –’ Char stopped, swallowing the rest of whatever he was going to say. There was a distance in his dark face.
‘Freedom is not yours to take,’ Irilin said.
Char twisted around to look at her. ‘You know nothing of my life, nothing of me, or what I’ve seen. And so I don’t give a damn what you think.’
‘You are not our prisoner,’ Medavle said in an attempt to smooth things over, ‘but you attacked Kyndra. Until you prove yourself a friend, the manacles stay on.’
‘You wouldn’t have done?’ Char demanded. ‘I had no idea what you were going to do to me.’ He wavered. ‘I still don’t.’
‘You could start by showing some gratitude,’ Kait said acerbically. ‘We saved your life and kept the Khronostians from taking you.’
Char was silent. ‘Why don’t you just let me go, then?’ he said finally.
‘What would you do?’ Medavle asked him. ‘You have no food and no supplies. You stand little chance of evading the Khronostians on your own.’
Char’s lips thinned and Medavle knew the young man agreed, even if he didn’t like it. ‘What did they mean by the full force of the dualakat?’ he asked, remembering the Khronostians’ parting threat. ‘Are there many more?’
‘The dualakat are the assassin-warriors of Khronosta,’ Char said sourly. Perhaps he was remembering how easily they’d overpowered him. ‘And yes, I expect there are a whole lot more.’
Medavle smiled to himself. If Kyndra had done one thing by rescuing Char, it was to ensure another meeting with Khronosta. As long as they had the young man, the Khronostians would come to them.
He caught a pale flash and turned his head. There she was, not a hundred paces away, standing on a rock, her robes impervious to the hot wind that blew dust into his eyes. He blinked and Isla was gone, a mirage of his yearning. Medavle swallowed and looked away. Yes, the Khronostians would come for Char, as long as they believed him their leader reborn. The cogs of his mind began to turn. If what Char said about their ability to time travel was true, they needed someone to serve as anchor. What might the Khronostians do with a man who’d lived through the war, who had witnessed the rise of the empire and the fall of Solinaris?
The ember in his stomach became a spark, a spark that he’d thought Kierik’s death had extinguished: hope.
22
Causca, Acre
Char
At least they’d removed his manacles. The golden bands had weakened as the day waned until they’d faded altogether. So this was what an aberration’s power looked like. Char remembered how the Khronostian had dismissed it, mocking its reliance on the cycles of sun and moon. He wasn’t ready to share that attitude just yet. These Wielders – as they called themselves – were dangerous opponents. He remembered the fireballs thrown by the tall woman; he remembered the stench of them like superheated metal. Had the Khronostian not pulled him aside, he’d be a charred husk now, and then he’d truly resemble his name. The thought brought an ironic smile to his lips.
They had made camp in the first grove of trees they’d come across, which meant they had finally reached the edge of the blasted waste that was Baior. Char knew they were now entering a region called Causca, home of the Raucus Cities. Except the Raucus Cities weren’t actually there any more, not in the way they had been. Unlike Cymenza, they were shadows of their former selves, their famed towers torn down by Sartyan artillery. Cymenza had witnessed the fall of its siblings and surrendered before that same artillery toppled its own walls. Because of that, the old city was still standing, one of the only relics of pre-Sartyan Acre. Char had never seen it.
A pathetic stream dribbled through the grove, but it was enough to slake their thirst and refill skins of water. Char sipped from one, trying to put his thoughts in order. The Wielders from Rairam had saved him twice over and he resented being in anyone’s debt.
Then there was the Starborn. Char grimaced at all the questions he was too proud to ask. Rairam and Starborn seemed to go hand in hand; it shouldn’t surprise him that one had returned with the other. But why had she done it? The last Starborn had saved Rairam from the empire while the rest of Acre fell to Sartyan rule. What if the Davaratch began the conquest anew? Char remembered the wind he’d felt in Na Sung Aro, the wind from the east, the wind of Rairam. He had a sudden desire to see the lost continent for himself, remembering the scent of its mountains and forests. Maybe he would ask the Wielders some questions after all.
‘Why do you hate Starborn?’
It was her, come to stand beside him on the edge of the grove. Char thought he could see the glimmering curve of the desert far to the south. Where was Ma? Would he ever see her again? At least now he knew she’d escaped from the Khronostians in ’Aro. ‘I didn’t want company,’ he said flatly.
‘I saw your expression when you looked at me earlier,’ she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘You were horrified.’
‘I know the stories. The last Starborn to walk Acre had the power to rend stone, to call fire from the deepest parts of the earth. He was like lightning in battle, walked into a fully manned Sartyan garrison and slaughtered them all with his bare hands.’ He paused. ‘The Sartyans did some bad things, but Kierik did worse. Starborn aren’t human.’
Something he said raised a bitter smile from her, but she didn’t go away. ‘It’s strange to hear his name spoken so openly,’ she remarked. Char returned his eyes to the distant silver sands. He felt a rumble in his chest – the familiar uncoiling of the rage as it woke – and he took a deep breath. Not now.
‘I don’t want this power,’ she said finally.
The declaration surprised him. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s changing me.’
‘You are what you are,’ he said. ‘And even if you don’t want to use your power, there are others who would. If you let them, they’ll make the decision for you.’ Why was he talking to her? He wanted to be alone, needed to concentrate on not submitting to the force that only his skin was keeping in. ‘You don’t belong here,’ he said harshly, turning away. ‘You know nothing about this world.’
She was silent again and he thought his words had angered her – she seemed to be struggling with herself. ‘Then show me what I don’t know,’ she said.
It was such an unexpected answer that he looked at her again. She had pushed back her hood and the moon brought out the glowing points of light on one of her cheeks. Other marks pulsed in her skin too, but none as bright. She was holding her hands rather stiffly at her sides and there was a stillness about her that he found both alien and appealing, perhaps because he was never still. The rage roiled and raved inside him so that he trembled slightly with the effort of holding it in. Tonight it felt like wind and fire and it wailed, as if desperate to escape the prison of his bones. He drew in a ragged breath and tightened his hold, but it always grew more difficult.
‘What’s the matter?’
> He had no concentration spare to reply and he closed his eyes before she noticed the flames in them. And then there was a cool touch on his arm – no, a cold touch, so cold it was almost painful. Under her fingers, the force that flayed his insides subsided. Shocked, he opened his eyes, already feeling the rage dwindle, and he drew a few breaths, remembering Ma’s lessons on finding the calm centre in which all great warriors fought.
‘How did you do that?’ he said without thinking.
She took her hand away, but the rage stayed curled up inside him, compliant now. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ she said. ‘I thought you were ill.’ Her face flickered. ‘But I felt something. You were fighting it.’ The capricious moonlight showed him a flush in her cheeks.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Char lied quickly, unwilling to discuss the rage and what he feared it could do. He dropped his eyes, staring at the sparse growth that carpeted the grove. He found the place disconcerting. The only trees in the desert belonged to the small, widely spaced oases that disturbed the dunes of the Beaches.
When he glanced up again, she seemed to be on the verge of saying something – her expression was like a decision halfmade. Then she sighed. ‘What’s Cymenza like?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, grateful for the change in subject. ‘I’ve never been there.’
‘Anything at all?’
‘It’s the capital of the Raucus Cities,’ he offered. ‘Rich.’
She raised a hand to her forehead. ‘That reminds me. This gold problem could be the end of everything I’m trying to do. Without the possibility of trade …’ She looked at him squarely. ‘If I ask you a question, will you answer honestly?’
He shrugged. ‘Depends on the question.’
‘I came to Acre to forge alliances,’ she said. ‘I hoped we could forget the past, leave the war behind, but now that seems naive after everything we’ve been through. Do you believe the empire would ever agree to a truce with Rairam?’
Char was about to scoff at the idea, but he hesitated. Was it so outlandish? Khronosta was gaining in power; rumours spread of assassinations in the upper echelons of the emperor’s court. Those same rumours attributed the killings to the dualakat. Compared to Khronosta, the Defiant weren’t a threat, but their reach was growing – Char had seen their propaganda in the streets of Na Sung Aro.