Widows of the Sun-Moon

by Barbara Ann Wright

  Samira swallowed a chuckle that she knew would sound more than a little nervous. Simon didn’t lose his temper often, but when he did, he didn’t do it by halves.

  If the Sun-Moon had a response to that thought, they kept it inside. “There’s no reason we can’t be civilized,” they said. “We were hardly ever at odds aboard the Atlas, if you’ll recall.”

  “A lot has changed,” Simon said. “Don’t try to finesse or cajole, or whatever it is you’re doing. If this was a friendly cup of tea, it would have been an invite instead of an order, so…” He waved for them to get on with it.

  “Samira,” they said, “would you excuse us a moment?”

  She looked at Simon, and with an exasperated sigh, he shrugged and nodded. If she didn’t go, she supposed they’d throw her out, and she didn’t want to try to match her macro powers against theirs. It wasn’t until the doors had closed behind her that she realized no one had mentioned her name, and she hadn’t even felt the prickle along her scalp that said they were looking. Maybe she was rusty. Before that morning, she hadn’t felt the touch of a telepath in a long time, but more likely, they were just that good.

  She stood in a long hallway lined with windows similar to those in the room beyond. She pressed her ear to the doors but heard nothing. But there’d been a smaller door, much closer to where they were seated. Keeping it out of her thoughts, she focused on the look of the hall again as she traced the walls around, looking for the smaller door. She turned the corner and stopped in surprise.

  A woman with short dark hair knelt in front of it, head turned down. Her clothing was torn and dirty, bloody in spots, and when she lifted her head, Samira saw blood crusting under her nose. She seemed a bit younger than Samira, nineteen or twenty. Staring into her dark eyes, Samira recalled her from the cart earlier that afternoon, one of the captives being taken through the city, but this one had apparently escaped. She pulled a small bone knife that looked dull, something used for spreading butter or cheese. With a grim look, she shifted as if she might spring for Samira’s throat.

  “I’m a bit harder to cut than butter,” Samira said softly.

  The woman looked to her knife and then at Samira. “I know your voice. You were inside with the spirits.”

  Samira stepped closer, her power ready just in case. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to turn you in.” She nodded toward the room. “We’re not allies.” Though she supposed if the Sun-Moon turned their attention this way just a little, they’d know everything. They probably knew already. “What’s your name?”

  She swallowed. “Mamet of the Engali.”

  A plains dweller name. “I’m Samira. Where are you from?”

  “The Engali,” Mamet said again.

  “I don’t know them, I’m sorry. The north?”

  Mamet’s eyes widened. “So, you’re beautiful but not smart?”

  Samira put her hands on her hips. “When all you have is that pitiful knife, insulting someone isn’t smart either.”

  Mamet stood up. “You have no weapon at all.”

  “None that you can see.”

  Mamet gave her an up and down glance before nodding at the door. “Then you’re a spirit like they are?”

  “They’re people, and so am I.”

  She frowned. “They’re the spirits of the sun and moon!”

  “No, they’re the Sun-Moon. There’s a difference.” And she didn’t have time to explain right then.

  Mamet tucked the small knife in her cloth belt. “Not stupid. You’re a beautiful lunatic.”

  Samira sighed a laugh. She’d never been called beautiful twice in one day. “Look, my friend is in there, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what they’re saying.”

  Mamet waved her close. “Come on, lunatic.” She smelled as coppery and dirty as Samira thought, but there was nothing for it. She knelt and pressed her ear to the door.

  *

  Simon tried to keep his temper in check, but the lieutenants kept dragging their feet through the conversation. And they kept calling him Dr. Lazlo, a name and title he hadn’t even thought about in months before that morning. He knew they were reading his mind, too; the pact they’d made to leave each other alone on the Atlas clearly hadn’t followed them to Calamity’s surface.

  “Did you start the fight between your worshipers and the plains dwellers?” he asked, interrupting them.

  They shrugged. “We must secure our borders.”

  “It seemed as if they were all doing just fine until you got here.”

  “They stole from us.”

  He nodded. “In the past. They’re trading now. Given time, they’d probably merge.”

  “If they want to submit to our rule, to live as we instruct—”

  Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Funny, I thought I’d left the megalomaniac behind in Gale.”

  “And how is the Storm Lord?”

  He sighed. “You tell me. You’re the one who can speak with him from here. Is that why you brought me? You think I can give you some insight into Dillon?”

  “Your powers have returned.”

  His mind became a black pit, letting out nothing, not even the suggestion of thought.

  The Sun laughed while the Moon shook her head. “Keeping your surface thoughts blank won’t help you.”

  As he wondered when he’d let it slip, they smiled. Oh, he’d let nothing slip, and they hadn’t gone deep diving in his mind. He’d just confirmed their suspicions with his surface thoughts. “Sneaky bastards.” He clapped his hands slowly.

  “What about the other one?” they asked. “The other micro whose powers you burned?”

  “His aren’t coming back. Ever.”

  “But if yours—”

  “Ever.”

  “Ah.”

  “So, you’re going to lock me up to be your immortality dispenser?”

  “There is comfort here.”

  “And discomfort, too, I suppose?”

  They shrugged, but their smiles said it all. “You won’t ever have to see Lisa and Aaron if you don’t want to.”

  “So immortality just for you two, then? What happened to all the others?”

  “They’re here and there. Most went wandering.”

  Seemed a fine idea to him. He made as if to stand, but an invisible force held him still. His anger flared, tapping into his power, and with a desperate push, he broke their grip. Funny how quickly it all came back to him. With a lash of his mind, he shut off Marlowe’s powers, and both of them recoiled, their synchronicity briefly shattered.

  “Samira!” Simon shouted. He shut off Christian’s abilities, too, but his own power flagged, and they hit him with a telepathic attack. He reeled, staggering. “Samira!”

  Someone was pounding on the doors, probably the servants. Swaying to his feet, Christian grabbed for him, but Simon tapped his power again and gave Christian’s lungs a squeeze. Christian grabbed his chest and tottered, falling over the low table. Marlowe picked up the tray, sending the tea things crashing to the floor. She raised it over her head.

  The side door burst in, and Samira strode inside, another woman just behind her. Samira looked at the lieutenants, and they flew across the room under her power. The large doors opened, and a pair of servants took one look at the scene and called for the guards.

  The lieutenants stood, faces red with anger. Pain stabbed through Simon’s head, and he moaned. Without a word, Samira threw both lieutenants into the wall again. Their heads slammed into the stone, and Simon focused all his power on their minds, putting them out completely.

  “We have to get out of here,” Samira said. Her companion had shut the main doors and moved a piece of furniture against them, but cries were coming from the hallway.

  “Where?” Simon moved to the window, but the ground was at least thirty feet below.

  The new woman looked down at his side. “We wouldn’t survive such a jump.”

  Samira ripped down one of the long curtains. “I don’t have the c
ontrol to lower you down, but I could hold this against the wall with my power, and you could climb.” She dangled it down the wall, and it stuck as if glued in place. “Hurry.”

  The new woman scurried down but was left with a ten-foot drop to the street. She let go of the curtain and rolled when she landed. Simon expected her to run, but she glanced around and waved for them to follow.

  Simon licked his lips. “I don’t know if I can.”

  Samira grunted, lines of stress creasing her face. “You can heal yourself if you have to. I heard about your powers.”

  He gaped but did as she asked. Halfway to the ground, he heard the doors inside the room give. The curtain dropped without warning, and he fell, bruising himself on the ground, but it didn’t feel as if anything was broken. He looked up. “Samira!”

  She leaned out, looked over her shoulder once, and jumped. Simon sensed it as she tried to slow herself with her power, but she’d never had that kind of careful control. Few macros did. She fell fast, her dark hair fluttering behind her.

  When she hit the stones, Simon cried out as he felt something snap within her. Broken ribs and cracked vertebrae, a fractured pelvis. He took back all the times he’d wished to be normal and laid his power over her, clutching her hands at the same time. Her pain-wracked expression relaxed as his powers flowed through her, but he could hear the sounds of guards calling for help. He wasn’t fast enough.

  “We have to go,” the new woman said.

  “Just a little more,” he whispered.

  “Pick her up and come!”

  “Almost done. Almost. Hold on, Samira, please.”

  She gasped, and life seemed to rush into her eyes where it had been ebbing before. “I can walk.” She struggled to her feet. “Finish me as we go.”

  She still wheezed, and he put everything into one last push. Red spots bloomed in front of his eyes, and he heard a roar in his ears. He clasped the new woman’s shoulder as Samira was healed, and his sight returned. The three of them hurried into the city as cries of alarm spread through the palace behind them.

  *

  Fajir stepped over the ruined furniture and fought to keep from frowning in front of her gods. The partnered servants looked away quickly, fearing to look too closely at her tattoos, a stupid superstition, though one she’d held when Halaan was alive. When she’d first been promoted to seren, the leader of a Celestian patrol, she’d seen respect in the eyes of her troops and fear in the faces of recruits, but it wasn’t until after she’d lost Halaan that she knew what real dread looked like in the faces of others.

  But her gods did not show fear. They stood among the wreckage of their sitting room and stared at the window through which their quarry had escaped.

  “Shall I kill them for touching you, Lords?” she asked, though they had no doubt already plucked the thought from her head, as was their right.

  “Their escape had to be believable,” they said together. “Dr. Lazlo’s power hasn’t recovered as much as he thinks, but we had to make it seem so, or he wouldn’t have had the confidence to escape.”

  Fajir bowed. “Your will in all things.”

  “Was their little Engali helper your idea?” the Lords asked.

  Fajir smiled. “I thought a native guide might be helpful, Lords, so I let one escape.” And she’d picked her most hated clan on purpose, but no doubt the Lords already knew that, too. An Engali had killed Halaan, so she must forever hunt them, but she would also do as her gods bid, two purposes merged into one.

  The Lords gave her a kindly smile and cast a knowing look at the bone sword on her hip, as if confirming that it would soon drink Engali blood. “Give them enough time to get out of the city and then track them. If we’re right, Dr. Lazlo will head straight for this other healer to warn him. Take them both alive and bring them here.”

  Fajir bowed again and left. As she crossed the threshold of the palace, her company fell in behind her, all of them raising their hoods to block out the sun. It was a warm day, but that didn’t matter. Warm days, cold ones, rainy or dry, she marked all of them the same. Eight months, seven days since Halaan had been taken from her. Tomorrow would be eight months, eight days, and time would go on that way until it ended, until she ended. All those in her company counted days the same way.

  Nico, her second, fell in beside her. Shorter than her, he was still stocky and strong, fast with a sword. For him, it had been three years, four months, ten days. They all knew one another’s counts. As they mounted their ossors and turned out of the city, entire crowds averted their eyes.

  Eight months and seven days ago, it had been a warm day, too. She and Halaan had been patrolling a ranch near Celeste’s northern border. The keening of ossors drew them close to a paddock, and they laughed as they bet on what predator would be harrying the animals this time. Halaan had strode fearlessly into the pack, shouting to make the ossors scramble out of the way. She’d watched the play of light on his hair, the sweat along his bare, muscled arms and wondered if they had enough time before they were due to report to be alone together.

  When he fell, she called out, asking if he’d tripped. He didn’t answer, and she’d hurried over, but even when she’d seen the spear sticking out of his chest, she hadn’t believed. She’d thought his staring eyes must be some trick, the blood dripping from his mouth a shadow. Then she’d screamed as she’d fallen by his side, as she’d torn the spear loose and cast it away. He’d sucked in air then as if the shock revived him, but he could only grip at the hole in his chest and try to breathe, a wet, sucking sound that would rattle in her ears every night to come.

  She’d rolled him flat and put her hands to the wound, thinking she could stop the blood by sheer will. He’d given her a confused look, frowning and working his bloody teeth. He’d mouthed something like, “Am I dead?” but before she could tell him he lived, his eyes rolled back, and his arms fell limp to his sides.

  She’d screamed his name and shaken his dead weight. When she paused to breathe, she heard a gasp, turned, and saw him. He’d pulled his scarf down below his mouth and looked at her in horror. “I…thought he was a grelcat.”

  The long-limbed predators of the north. That was probably what Halaan had thought was scaring the ossors, too, but it had been an Engali raider. Fajir memorized his every feature and lunged for him. He’d leapt atop an ossor and fled. Fajir had run in his track until it was nothing but a dust cloud, and even then, she’d run until she collapsed.

  The Engali had sent an envoy later, claiming Halaan’s death had been an accident. They’d sent her skins and food to pay for his death, the death of her partner, her one love.

  In the saddle of her ossor now, she kept her rage close, letting it seep into every pore. Only the arrival of her gods had kept her from hunting all the Engali down. She’d thought their arrival a sign that she should do as tradition demanded and keep the Engali out of Sun-Moon territory, but now the Lords had chosen her for this mission, to follow their prey, and she had made sure it was an Engali who led them. Perhaps on their journey, they would take her to the Engali territory, maybe to find the one that killed Halaan, maybe just to kill as many as she could.

  Chapter Four

  After they’d ridden all night through Calamity’s grassy plains, Simon begged a halt; his thighs couldn’t take anymore. From the moment Mamet had suggested they steal ossors to make their escape from Celeste, he’d known it was a bad idea. Problem was, sticking around to feel the wrath of the lieutenants was a far worse idea, so he had to clamber aboard one of the large insects and secure his legs under its wings, fighting down the urge to vomit as their pulsating warmth encased him.

  Mamet bounded out of her saddle and held the reins for Samira. She’d barely taken her eyes off Samira long enough to introduce herself to Simon, let alone guide them toward her people. He tried not to roll his eyes at the obvious smitten-ness.

  “Where are we?” Samira asked as she stretched.

  “We went north,” Mamet said. “Close to where
my people camp this time of year.”

  “Did the Sun-Moon capture you way out here?”

  Mamet shook her head, and in the growing light, Simon spotted a flush on her cheeks. “We were sent to another village to trade.”

  “They attacked you just for being there?” Simon asked.

  Mamet ducked her head farther. “They had a huge herd of ossors, and we thought…”

  Samira gave her a wry smile. “That they wouldn’t miss a few? Let me guess, everyone in your trading-turned-raiding party is as young as you?”

  “I’m nineteen!”

  “Ah,” Simon said, “the age of wisdom.”

  Samira turned her head to hide a laugh while Mamet glared at Simon.

  “They caught us,” Mamet said slowly, “with their mind powers.” She gave Samira a nervous yet admiring glance. “But your powers are so much better! If we hadn’t been in such a hurry, we would’ve killed them, I’m sure, and then we could’ve rescued my people from the dungeon and…avenged the dead.”

  “Oh.” Samira laid a hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t know some had died. I’m sorry.”

  She gave Samira a glowing smile, and Simon fought the urge to sigh. With Samira’s natural tendency toward kindness, Mamet would be nursing a hell of a crush in no time. “Samira, a word, please. Sorry,” he said to Mamet, “it’s, um, a mind power thing.”

  Mamet nodded slowly and let them walk out of earshot.

  “I don’t think we should get attached to Mamet or her people,” Simon said.

  “I wasn’t planning on it.” Samira narrowed her eyes. “Or are you saying you want to leave her behind now?”

  “No, if we go to her people, we can get our bearings. Maybe they can give us directions. I just…” He nodded over her shoulder. “She’s already staring at you.”

  Samira shrugged, but the look on her face said she knew very well what was going on.

  “So, you’re going to let her…woo you?” he asked.

  “You sound like my grandmother.”