“It will take a few minutes for my men to prepare,” he told Jaimin discretely. “If we walk slowly from here, they should be in place by the time we confront the tutor’s guards.”
“You do know what the tutor can do to a man?” Jaimin asked.
“Son,” said General Jorge, “I was Radovan’s best friend well before his mind was poisoned. I know exactly what the tutor can do to a man.”
Two rows of white marble columns three stories high framed the long, upward-sloping entrance hall of the Celmarean palace. A deep blue carpet, fringed and embellished with gold, led up the middle. On either side of the carpet, water bubbled down channels of smooth white rocks, disappearing beneath the floor before it reached the entrance gates. Gigantic bulbous planters hung between each column, and from them curtains of vines flowed to the floor. Symbiotic plants, intertwined in the vines, showed off sweet blooms in an array of colors. The ceiling was made up of dozens of white marble domes, their edges interlocked like a honeycomb, and at the center of each dome a star-shaped patch of crystal exploded with sunlight.
The newcomers’ sluggish pace up the carpeted slope allowed them plenty of time to take in the grandeur of the place.
The lush central hall that opened up before the group next could be called heart of the palace. The new arrivals found themselves standing before a gigantic pool, into which an intricate five-story-high fountain flowed. Water was either pouring, dribbling or dripping down an elaborate plant-clothed framework of water curtains, ponds, aqueducts, and falls, into the pool, which was spanned in several places by bridges of stone. Light streamed down from the ceiling, which here consisted of honeycombed domes of glass. Corridors led off left and right. Two curving staircases ascended behind the pool and met up on a landing, and, from there, paths wound organically around planted areas to reach the upper floors of the palace. Seating areas abounded, featuring cushioned marble benches, tables, and even a few beds for napping.
In the days of the Celmareans, this central hall had been a public space: anyone could come here day or night to meditate, socialize, trade, sleep, or escape the hot weather. In fact, much of the palace had been open to the community.
Alessa and Makias were thrilled to see that the hall was undamaged and was being sustained. For both of them, the sights, smells, sounds and even the feel of the humid air on their skin stoked a furnace of emotions within them: guilt that they had survived when so many others had not, fury at the evil that had driven the war, joy that their new friends could share in the wonder of this place, and a fierce passion to protect what was left of it. Here they were, survivors of a civilization nearly lost, being given another chance to defend it.
Nastasha felt a personal connection to the place at once; the beauty of the place “spoke” to her, as if it were designed for her pleasure and hers alone. She figured it must have something to do with ratios and scale—she had read in an architecture text how the clever use of these design elements can elicit an emotional response from the observer. Or was it the warmth? The fresh island air? The intoxicating scent of exotic flowers? Whatever it was, she felt her consciousness elevated by just being here, and she felt strangely at home.
Jaimin, too, was overwhelmed, although he tried to dismiss the feelings as unhelpful distractions from the task. He could not deny his bond to this place. He had largely ignored his Celmarean heritage his whole life. Now, it felt like his islander soul was about to leap out of his body, smack him on the head, and demand that he pay attention.
At the central pool, two Destaurian soldiers offered the group crossbows and bolts. General Jorge took a bow for himself, and then looked to the others. “Anyone?” he said. Everyone left it to Jaimin to decide who would get the other three bows. Jaimin pointed to Marco, Alessa, and Mascarin, who received a crossbow and a quiver each. The general then led them up a path toward the east wing of the palace.
Another soldier ran up to the general: “Report, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve cut their communications and secured the perimeter,” said the soldier. “The tutor’s guards have come out to confront us.”
“Brilliant,” the general said. “We’ll engage them straight away. Back us up, but keep your bows down until I give the word. And try not to kill the children.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When General Jorge and the group from the Sentinel reached the east wing, they encountered nine of the tutor’s guards lined up side by side, blocking the corridor. Dozens of Destaurian troops took up positions in front of the general and his guests.
“What is this madness?” snapped the captain of the tutor’s guard: a lanky man with a dirty blonde ponytail.
“Stand aside, Lenx. I have business with your master,” General Jorge commanded.
“Do you now?” said Lenx. “And does this motley crowd have business with him as well? I don’t recall seeing you on his diary for today, Jorge. Perhaps if our communicators hadn’t mysteriously stopped working you could have notified us a bit sooner. Shall I ask the Master if he can fit you in?”
“Have your men move aside. By order of the king.”
“Protocol, protocol,” whined Lenx. “Wait here, and I shall announce you. Be back shortly.” He turned to walk off.
The general gave a signal, and the Destaurian soldiers raised their crossbows in unison. Lenx froze, and his guards moved their hands to their swords. Nastasha pulled Jaimin behind a pillar. Marco, Alessa, Mascarin and the general raised their bows.
“This rudeness is hardly necessary,” Lenx said, not turning back around. “I shan’t take long.”
Crack! General Jorge sent an arrow into the back of Lenx’s knee. Lenx cried out and fell hard onto his other knee. Lenx’s guards immediately drew their swords, but they did not advance. “We’ll bring you all down if we have to,” Jorge yelled. “Drop your swords and move aside.”
None of the guards dropped their swords.
“Shoot to kill,” Jorge ordered. “Fire at will.”
The bow-fire in the next moment was deafening. Alessa and Marco had both been aiming for the back of Lenx’s head, and their bolts went in side by side. Some of the tutor’s guards advanced a few steps before they were shot down.
Soon, all nine of the tutor’s guards lay on the floor, looking like pin-cushions with all the arrows sticking out of them. A few who still twitched received one or two extra bolts in the head.
“That was extreme,” Nastasha whispered to Jaimin. Her hand shook as it hovered over the hilt of the Dagger of Shen Yan, which remained in its scabbard on her side.
“I suppose old Jorge knows better what we’re dealing with here,” Jaimin said.
General Jorge’s troops heaved aside some of the bodies to clear the way, and then they rushed in to secure the corridor beyond.
The general waited with Jaimin and the others for word that the way was clear. “The tutor’s residence is on the right side of the corridor, halfway down,” the general explained. Soon his troops returned and reported that it was safe to advance into the east wing.
When the group reached the tutor’s residence, one of Jorge’s soldiers was standing outside the door, looking rather pale. He whispered something to Jorge, who shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Son,” the general said, calling Jaimin over, and Jaimin received a quick, private briefing.
Jaimin then tapped Nastasha, Mascarin, Alessa and Makias to enter the tutor’s residence with him.
“Stay alert,” Jaimin told them, and the general led the five of them into the tutor’s living room.
In the room’s center, three bodies lay awkwardly posed on couches, with their heads covered in black sacks. It appeared to be a man, a boy, and a girl whose long flame-red hair stuck out from beneath her black sack. “The tutor and his family,” the general explained. “We didn’t kill them. They killed themselves. Some kind of poison, I figure.”
“Are you sure they’re dead?” Jaimin asked.
“I think those two are still
breathing,” said one of Jorge’s soldiers, pointing toward the man and the boy.
“I must approach them—don’t stop me. I know the risk,” Jaimin told the general.
“Very well, son. We’ll stand by,” he said.
“Careful, Jaimin,” Nastasha warned. “Don’t touch them.”
First, Jaimin knelt down by the girl: the tutor’s daughter. She had on a mid-length skirt, and a white Celmarean wrap on top that left her midriff exposed. Jaimin placed his hands lightly over her belly to see if the white light would manifest itself. Nothing happened. Gently, he pulled the black sack off of the girl’s head.
Nastasha gasped at what she saw underneath.
The tutor’s daughter was an attractive girl in her mid-teens with hair an intense orange-red. She looked dead: her blue eyes were stuck open, and her mouth was clogged with a bright white foam, which had spilled out over her lower lip onto her chin.
“That must be the poison,” Nastasha said. “Don’t get it on yourself.”
Jaimin closed the girl’s eyes and carefully laid the sack over her face.
Next, Jaimin moved a few steps and knelt before the boy. He could see the sack pulsing with weak breaths from beneath, and he heard a faint gurgling noise on each exhale. Jaimin slipped his right hand beneath the boy’s garments, over his chest, and immediately a white light flared up around Jaimin’s hand and poured into the boy. With his left hand, Jaimin removed the sack from the boy’s head and tossed it aside. Beads of white light jumped from his hand into the boy’s head, eager to do their work. Jaimin settled his hand on the boy’s hair.
The tutor’s son was a handsome boy, about ten years old, with short, brown hair. Jaimin saw the lad’s blue eyes for just a moment before the light reached the boy’s irises and turned them an icy white. His mouth had been gummed up with the same white sticky foam that had claimed his sister’s life, but when the light reached it, the foam turned to a fine powder, which floated out of the boy’s mouth and quickly dissipated into the air.
“What…” the boy said, coughing out white dust once, and then again, and then taking some deep breaths. He started to turn his face toward the tutor, but Jaimin reached out and held the boy’s jaw, keeping him from looking that way. The light faded.
“Just look at me, kid,” Jaimin told him. The boy obeyed. “You’re going to be fine, understand?” He nodded. The irises of his eyes stayed white, which was unsettling to look at, but otherwise the tutor’s son appeared to be healthy. Jaimin helped him to his feet and handed him over to a Destaurian guard to be led away.
Next, everyone’s attention turned to the tutor. “Are you going to chance it?” Nastasha asked Jaimin. “It looks like he’s still breathing, too.”
“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Jaimin said.
“Of course he doesn’t,” Nastasha said.
The general drew his sword. “I’ll finish him off if you don’t want to.”
“Hold on. What’s he holding? Let me see that,” Alessa said. The tutor had an intricate silver circlet in his grip. Alessa stepped in and took it, being careful not to touch the tutor’s skin.
Slowly, Jaimin drew his sword. It was so quiet in the room, everyone could hear the faint hum of Jaimin’s blade moving through the air. With one hand, he brought the sword to the tutor’s neck and used it to gently lift up the black sack’s edge.
Piercing the tutor’s throat would avenge thousands of innocent lives, including Elaina’s, he thought. He would have closure—a better chance of moving on. Was it the right thing to do? Or did he owe it to the divine spirit, who had given him back his own life, to spare this man too?
Jaimin was so focused on what he might do with his right hand he didn’t notice when his left hand brushed against the tutor’s exposed knee.
Immediately he was paralyzed.
A red face materialized like a mask, just outside the tutor’s black hood.
And Jaimin confronted his worst enemy.
“Let us die here, prince,” growled the tutor’s red mask. “Don’t take us away. Let us rest with the ones we love, in the place we love. Please! You’ve won.”
Jaimin glared into the spirit eyes of the man who had taken from him Elaina, and his father, and dozens of his friends. I hate you, Jaimin spoke from his mind. I want nothing more than to cause you pain.
“We know,” said the tutor. “And you should hate us. All the strife we’ve wrought. All the suffering we’ve caused you. Quickly, now. Press the blade into our neck.”
Jaimin felt a force seize control of his sword arm. He tried to resist, but he couldn’t stop himself from sliding his sword down onto the tutor’s neck. The blade pierced the skin and sank in the width of a finger before Jaimin found enough strength to pull it back out. Blood streamed from the wound.
“What are you doing, Jaimin?” he heard Nastasha cry out. “Make it quick. Don’t torture him.”
How can a human host such an evil? Jaimin thought.
“Evil?” said the tutor’s mask. “I’ll show you what evil is.”
Just then, Jaimin heard a rumbling, roaring sound behind him, like a quake or avalanche, growing rapidly nearer and louder. When the peak of the sound wave hit him, it felt like someone had yanked him backward by the shirt, off his feet. Everything in the room, including the people, distorted and morphed, becoming the walls of a dim tunnel, through which Jaimin was being sucked backward. He was just falling back, flailing, at a horribly fast pace.
And then, just as suddenly as it had formed, the tunnel un-formed, and Jaimin was in an entirely new place. Strangely, he was perfectly still now, as if he had never been in motion at all.
He was standing on a wide beach at night.
Jaimin looked around. An inky expanse of ocean spread out before him, lit by the moon in some spots, and obscured by roaming showers in others. A light gust of wind off the sea splattered him with drizzle. The beach ended in a forest, quite like the Celmarean forest. And even the air smelled like Celmarea’s, except for a subtle hint of something unnatural—chemical, perhaps.
He looked down at the long, white sleeves of the tunic he was wearing, and noticed that the drizzle was leaving behind a grey residue as it soaked in. His intuition told him what it was: Ash. But where was the fire?
When his spirit eyes scanned the sea’s horizon again, a bright spot caught his attention. A light seemed to be hovering just over the ocean’s surface.
The light grew larger as he stared. It was approaching!
Soon, he saw it wasn’t just a light—it was a metal object, with several lights attached to it. It sailed through the air like a rocket, but it wasn’t moving in an arc: it maintained a constant height over the surface of the ocean. He hoped it wasn’t a rocket, because it seemed to be headed right toward him.
The closer the object came, the more details he could make out. It was a capsule of sorts, metallic, shaped roughly like an egg with its rounded tip pointed toward him, with a flattened bottom, and an upper third that seemed to be made of glass. It had a large white light at its nose—an electric light from the looks of it, but brighter than any electric light Jaimin had ever seen. Two more blue lights shot out from the capsule’s base and illuminated the patch of sea below it. Other, smaller lights of various colors dotted the front and sides of the object.
The thing slowed as it neared, and Jaimin could see it was roughly the size of a coach. It made no noise whatsoever. It wasn’t going to hit him, so Jaimin didn’t bother moving. The capsule came to a stop, and then it began beeping softly, and gradually descending until it hovered just above the sand.
With a click followed by a hum, a hatch opened upward from the side of the object, and a young man jumped from the hatch out onto the sand.
The capsule’s occupant had long, brown hair, and he wore tight-fitting clothing like a uniform. He touched a device strapped around his wrist, and the hatch gently closed behind him. When he touched the device again, a brilliant electric light beamed forth from it. Ignoring Jaim
in entirely, the man took off running into the forest, holding his arm out before him to light the way.
Jaimin chased after the man through the trees.
The young man seemed to be following a rough trail. Jaimin, not having the benefit of the light, lost the trail a few times, and got snagged in the foliage.
When Jaimin finally caught up, the young man was stopped, and his wrist light was illuminating a group of people of various ages in brown robes, gathered around an open hatch leading underground.
One of the brown-robed men was dragging a young dark-haired woman backward by her armpits towards the open hatch. Her cheeks shone wet with tears. She wasn’t struggling, but she was clearly trying to be dead weight in the arms of the man who had her. When the girl saw the young man with the wrist light, she gazed plaintively at him, and he began shouting at her captors. Jaimin couldn’t make out the words, but they were angry words.
An older man among the brown-robes flung out his hand, and a curved blade of water appeared in the air and slashed into the young man’s chest. The water blade turned and cut deeply into both his legs. The young man stood stunned for a moment, and then dropped to the ground in pain.
On seeing this, the young woman screamed. Jaimin felt the waves of her scream, not just as sound, but as intense pain, as if all of the molecules in the air, and those in his body, trembled and fell slightly out of place for a moment.
The young woman now struggled with all of her might to break free, and a few of the other brown-robes moved in to restrain her. Seizing her by her flailing limbs, they violently stuffed her down into the hatch. The rest of those in brown quickly crawled down into the opening and pulled closed the hatch’s white stone lid.
Bleeding from his lacerations, the wounded young man crawled over to the hatch and tried to pull it open, but there were no handles, and it seemed to be locked from the inside. He pounded his fists on the flat white stone. And he still didn’t seem to notice Jaimin watching him.
The Fallen Mender Page 17