by Stuart Jaffe
“Why don’t you put the gun away? If you shoot me, I can’t tell you anything.”
The Commander raised an eyebrow. “I’ll keep it where it is. You, however, need to cooperate because I can cause you a lot of pain.”
“Not enough.”
Showing more surprising force, the Commander bellowed, “Guards, get in here.”
Then the Commander made a mistake. She glanced toward the door flap in expectation of the guards’ arrival. Malja didn’t hesitate.
She flew across the room, one hand snatching the key while the other chopped the gun down. The shocked Commander pulled the trigger, and fire leaped out of the muzzle burning a hole into the bed, setting aflame the feathers inside the mattress.
Two guards blundered in. Malja kneed the first in the stomach. As the second swung a rifle around, she blocked it with her forearm, spun outward and backhanded the guard, cracking his jaw.
She barreled past the guards and into the camp. Several lanterns lit up within tents. Already a commotion of orders cascaded along as more and more soldiers awoke.
Malja heard the war cry a second too late and felt a heavy blow upon her back. She stumbled forward, caught her balance, and whipped around to find the Commander standing ready with fists up.
While flames licked the top of the big tent behind them, the Commander said, “You give us the Artisoll. Now.”
Malja dangled the key. “You don’t seem to understand how this is going to happen.”
“You really think you can simply take my cruiser? I’ll sink every ship in the ocean, if I must.”
The Commander jabbed twice with her left and followed through with a right-handed uppercut, but Malja was never there to receive it. She moved too fast. She punched the Commander twice in the side, breaking a rib with her second strike. As the Commander bent from the blow, Malja sprinted off, the intense heat of the Commander’s burning tent at her back.
Weaving through the tents, punching or kicking the startled soldiers that blocked her way, Malja raced for the makeshift dock. Men shouted at her, at each other, at nobody. Calls of Fire! rang behind her while ahead came cries of Intruder!
The sounds of confusion settled as those in charge issued orders and took control. Though several rifles discharged, their bullets went wild. That wouldn’t last long.
Malja could feel the Ro soldiers forming lines, chasing after her, getting their guns ready. The dock waited ahead. She had to keep pushing forward — Tommy, Stray, and the Artisoll would be waiting. But when she glanced back, she knew it was over.
Too many soldiers had rifles. Too many rifles pointed at her. She stopped running. The do-kha could protect her for some time, but holing up like a turtle in its shell would not work forever. These predators would not grow tired and walk away.
The Commander stepped forward, striding before the crowd of soldiers. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. “Last chance, Malja. Where is the Artisoll?”
Stray’s deep voice boomed across the camp. “She’s right here.”
Along with the entire camp, Malja looked toward the docks. Tommy cradled the baby in his left arm while he stared at the tattoo on his right. The baby had her hands wrapped around his fingers.
Malja buried her head to the ground, covering it with her hands. She felt the blast of energy rip over her. She heard the screams for a brief moment.
Then silence.
Lifting her head, she saw the entire Ro camp frozen solid like a bizarre sculpture of ice. Holding their guns, pointing at her, mouths locked in silence — they formed a tableau as if a Brother God had cut out a slice of Time. Their eyes did not move, and Malja wondered if they could see. Did they know they were stuck or had all life stopped for them? Malja always thought drowning would be the worst way to die, but this seemed to be a close runner-up.
She gave Tommy a sturdy nod. “Thank you.”
Tommy tapped his chest twice to salute and passed out.
Chapter 19
One week out at sea. Malja guessed that by now all of Dovell, Ro, and Bechstallon had learned of the Artisoll’s escape — again. But to find a little cruiser in the vast ocean, one headed for an unknown destination, meant sending out fleets in all directions. It may have succeeded had the three countries worked together, but they were still caught in bloody conflict. The way Malja saw it, her group had nothing to fear unless the Brother Gods decided to toy with them and allow their enemies to locate them by ridiculous chance. But Malja didn’t believe in the Brother Gods.
She gave it little more thought. Partially because she believed such thoughts to be a waste of time and energy. Mostly because her time was spent vomiting every meal over the railing of the Commander’s cruiser.
She never like being at sea, but seasickness did not usually plague her. She found her nausea odder still because they had avoided any major storms. The waters had been choppy throughout, which didn’t help, and each time she emptied her stomach into the ocean, she wondered what had happened to the calm, smooth surface she had seen at the Ro camp.
However, as Malja leaned over the railing that morning, she discovered for the first time since going aboard the vessel, her stomach had finally settled. Granted, she had only eaten a roll and a mauve-colored vegetable Stray called a cluit, yet even holding that down proved a victory.
At least, she had the wide open space around her. The cruiser moved fast despite having only one mast — she wondered if the Artisoll had “assisted” the boat in its journey. Below deck, they lived in two narrow cabins and a living area that also had sea charts nailed to the walls. The single mast stuck straight through the living area forming an ugly post. After only two days, Malja felt the confined space pushing in on her. So, when she had the opportunity and when her stomach allowed it, she would look off toward the horizon and revel in the vastness.
Holding onto the railing, just in case, she breathed in the salty sweet air of the sea and decided that if her stomach held out for another hour, she would attempt some exercise to regain her strength. That was important. She had lost a lot being ill the last week. She feared she might be unable to aid Stray when they finally reached the Temple.
This meant even more because Tommy had remained unconscious since his attack on the entire Ro camp. Below deck he rested with the Artisoll at his side. She had resumed the form of a young woman and spent most of her time with her hand on his chest, letting the magic pulse off of her and seep into his body to help him heal faster.
Malja shuffled aft, keeping one hand on the railing. Stray stood behind the Captain’s wheel, guiding the ship. He had done most of the work. Malja helped when she could, but oftentimes, in her condition, her help became more of a hindrance.
“It’s been seven days. How much longer?” she asked.
Keeping his eyes on the horizon, Stray said, “I’m doing my best. Just because I can steer a ship does not make me an expert sailor.”
“But we are going in the right direction? We’ll be there soon.”
“That I can guarantee. The Artisoll will make it to the Temple for the Rising. You have my word.”
Malja reached over and put her hand on the wheel. “Want me to steer for a while?”
Stray eyed her up and down. “You look a little better.”
“For now. I just wish we’d be done with this trip soon.”
Stray released the wheel to Malja and stepped aside. “I’m sorry that you had to go through this.”
Malja shrugged. “I’ve been through worse.”
“But not from me. This debt I’ve incurred towards you — it weighs on me.”
“What debt?”
“Everything. Lynoya’s death, Fawbry’s crazed condition, and Tommy lies below unconscious and injured — all to help me protect the Artisoll. Why do you do this?”
Malja closed her eyes to clear her thoughts, but that only made her more aware of the rise and fall of the cruiser. Facing Stray, she sighed. “You’re the second person to ask me that, and I don’t have a
n answer. I once did. I once thought I understood why I did everything. Back on Corlin, all the fighting, the killing, had purpose. At first, I fought to survive. Then, I fought for revenge. Later, I fought to improve the world I lived in. To make it worth living in.”
Tapping his chin with a sage expression, Stray said, “You’re no longer in your world. Is that the problem?”
“I thought it was an opportunity. We all did. We thought we were going to change all the worlds — but now, I think I lied. I’m not sure I ever believed in that. Not deep inside. I think it was an excuse so that I wouldn’t feel bad about taking Tommy and Fawbry from world to world with me while I sought my people.”
“This is the Gate people?”
“I’ve been trying to find where I came from, who I came from, for so long. But the real problem for me is that I think I shouldn’t be doing this.”
As the words stumbled out of Malja’s mouth, a lightness lifted her shoulders. “On Carsite, Tommy and Fawbry were doing fine. They had built a new life. A decent life. Far better than anything we had on Corlin. Why did I take them away from all that? For what?”
“Weren’t you trying to save the Artisoll?”
“I think I jumped out of that window partly on instinct — or habit — but also because I wanted to try and gain the attention of other Gate. Harskill, Abrazkia — both are disappointments. Maybe that’s what my people are like. Maybe they’re all horrible. I suppose if that’s true, then I don’t need to seek them out anymore. That’s only ever hurt the ones I love, the ones I care about.”
Stray walked to the mast and adjusted several ropes. When he completed the task, he returned to Malja’s side. “When I trained with the Holy Men — we also called them the Old Men — they were very tough. They drilled and drilled and drilled. Knowledge into our heads, training into our bodies, until every moment of my life was consumed with guarding the Artisoll. For me, it’s never been troubling because I have a sole purpose. The Artisoll. All I’ve learned, all I’ve done, all that the Old Men have put me through was for these days. For protecting the Artisoll when she needs me the most. I think you had a purpose, and you seem to have lost it. Go back to when it started. Where does your heart take you?”
“I’ve never been one to trust my heart.”
“Perhaps you should try.”
The Artisoll bounded up to the deck, her eyes wide and a broad smile on her face. Stray gasped at the sight. It took Malja by surprise, too — she had yet to see much of any expression on the girl’s face. The Artisoll pointed down and Malja understood.
“Tommy?”
Forgetting about steering, Malja left the wheel, jumped the short ladder below deck, and burst into Tommy’s small cabin. He sat in his bunk — weak but cheerful in the way he offered a friendly wave.
Malja wrapped her arms around him and kissed the top of his head. He endured.
“Are you okay? Are you sure?”
Tommy nodded and patted his chest to show off his health.
“Good,” Malja said, then slapped him lightly on the cheek — lightly for her. His cheek still turned red. “How many times do I have to tell you not to push yourself so far? You are not allowed to die.”
Though his cheek clearly stung, Tommy smiled. He rubbed his heart and pointed at her. I love you, too.
A silence descended upon them. Malja felt that she should say something but didn’t know what. She stood, wanting to pace the room, but the cabin was so small — only enough space for the bunk. She could stand, but even one step would take her out of the room.
Tommy patted the space next to him for her to sit. He reached toward a compartment that flipped from the wall and pulled out a square of thick, amber paper and a black writing stick. Malja watched as he bent over the paper and scribbled for a moment. Her heart pounded as if she were in a difficult fight.
Tommy handed over the paper. It read: We need to talk. I need your help.
Malja stared at the paper, her mouth dry from hanging open. She lifted her head, brushed back the tears welling, and returned the paper. “You’ve graduated from pictures, I see. How long have you been able to write this well?”
A few years now.
Malja wanted to rip the paper, shred it, crumple it, take out as much aggression as she could on it, but she feared there might not be enough left to work with. So, instead, she ripped the bedding and tensed her muscles.
“Why have you never shown me this before?”
No need. Life with you was simple. You knew all my thoughts.
“But something’s changed now. The Artisoll?”
Tommy wrote for a moment, paused, thought, wrote some more, then handed the paper back to Malja. Partly the Artisoll. But I’m worried about me. Lynoya died and I barely reacted. Shouldn’t I be torn apart? I treated her horribly. Shouldn’t I feel guilty? But instead, I feel a stronger and stronger connection to the Artisoll. I see what happened to Fawbry and I think what if that’s what has happened to me? But she assures me that my feelings to her are pure and true.
Malja wanted to ask about that — how they communicated — but she feared if she looked at him, the tears would gush out. She read on: I’m not sure I’m human anymore. I’m not sure I ever was. What if I have no heart?
Though she knew it would bring nausea, she closed her eyes. Just a moment, a split second to fight the heart-wrenching pain in her chest. Using all her courage, she opened her eyes and looked upon Tommy. “You have nothing to fear. You’ve been through a lot, and despite all of it, despite all we have seen and done, despite all I’ve ever become, one thing has been constant. You. Without you, I would never have felt anything for what I’ve done. You provide that. The only way you could do that is if you had a heart. Without you, I would never see love or kindness in the world. You’re a good man. Maybe even the best.”
Chapter 20
Two more days at sea. Though Malja’s stomach never settled completely, she never regurgitated her food again. The extra days gave her plenty of rest and afforded her do-kha the time it needed to bring her back to reasonable health. She didn’t feel perfect, but if a fight came her way, she knew she could hold her own. Tommy, too, seemed in good shape.
A full day later, the morning fog rolled in but never lifted. Stray pointed it out. “The Fogs of Tunistall. We are here.”
He slowed the craft and eased toward a landfall that Malja could not see. The humid air did not move. The fog hovered above the water, clumping together at times like white and gray statues.
“There,” Stray said, pointing starboard. “Do you hear that?”
Malja listened intently and heard the lapping of water against wood. “What is that?”
“The dock.”
Several minutes later, though the fog never left, patches opened up. Malja spied the dock first. Made of thick tree trunks and long wide planks, it looked as if it had been constructed ages ago.
Tommy hurdled the cruiser’s railing and landed on the dock. He tied the boat off and helped the Artisoll disembark. Malja followed. Her first steps on land were shaky. The firm, non-moving surface played with her body’s equilibrium.
Stray patted her on the back. “It passes. You’ll be fine shortly.”
She opened her mouth to make a sarcastic comeback when she finally saw the Temple through the fog. She froze. While the Artisoll’s snow structure at the Revelation matched the real thing — crevice for crevice, balcony for balcony, step for step — in no way had Malja been prepared for the majesty of the real Temple.
The cliffs rose high and sheer like buildings stacked upon buildings. Birds nested above in whatever small nooks they found. The main entrance served as a marvelous testament to what people could do when their souls were devoted to something.
“Hello?” Stray called out, and his voice bounced off the walls. “This is strange. There should be plenty of people — Servants of the Temple as well as those who pilgrimaged here.”
As they walked closer towards the pillared stairs that led
to the front entrance, Malja felt a twinge of worry — a faint odor in the air stung of something bad. Of death. The moment she identified the smell, she saw it. Off to the side, hidden in the fog at a distance but easy to spot close up, they found a pile of bodies.
Stray flashed out his scimitars, crouched for balance, and searched with his eyes for the perpetrators of this crime. Malja knew better. This had been left as a message, not the start of an ambush.
“Oh, no,” Stray said, his eyes falling once more to the pile. “Two of those bodies, I know them. Two of the Old Men, the Holy Men, the ones who trained me.”
A clang of metal and the rusty whine of rolling wheels echoed from within the Temple. The two enormous doors slid open and four heavily armored soldiers walked out. Behind them came five people resembling those in the corpse pile — hands tied to a long string, none had clothes, all had fear.
“You finally made it,” Abrazkia said, stepping out of the Temple like a conquering general. Her wild hair, now colored in blue-and-white stripes, shot off in all directions like thick bolts poking from a poorly made quiver. “I know you’ve had a long trip. You could have been here instantaneously, but some day you’ll learn how to use your do-kha properly. Let me make this quick so you may get rest and relax from your arduous journey.”
Abrazkia pulled out a handgun. From its size and sleek design, Malja could tell it did not originate on the world. All black, precision metalwork, no wasted parts — like a perfectly crafted sword.
Abrazkia leveled the weapon at the head of her first prisoner. “Simply hand me the Artisoll, and nobody has to die.”
Stray shook one sword at her. “You’ll be the one dying.”
Abrazkia pulled the trigger. The gun made a surprisingly quiet sound — but deadly nonetheless. A small hole of blood appeared at the front of the victim’s head. He dropped to the ground, tugging the arm of the woman next to him.