Widows of the Sun-Moon

by Barbara Ann Wright

  “Do you miss me that much? Or are you jealous?”

  The ringing built to a rushing noise, drowning out thought, turning over reason.

  “This is how gods deal with disobedience,” Naos said above the noise, her voice still calm, almost sensual. “We aren’t friends, you and me. I’m as far beyond you as the stars in the sky.”

  Natalya’s teeth dug into her tongue, and she felt her eyes roll back, her body shaking as raw power ripped through her. She couldn’t form words. Thoughts blew away like dirt in a high wind.

  “And wherever you go, I can find you.”

  Images flashed before her eyes, places and views she’d seen before every time she’d peeked beyond the curtain of Naos’s mind: stars and planets and peoples.

  As quickly as the attack had come on, it fled, leaving Natalya in the tent again, Kora sleeping peacefully beside her. Her muscles were still jumping, and tears streamed down her cheeks, though she hadn’t cried in years. She wiped them away and tried not to give in to despair, but for the moment, she couldn’t see a way out, not for her and definitely not for Kora.

  What the fuck was she doing here?

  Chapter Twelve

  Lazlo heard wind chimes. He opened his eyes and tried to place the ceiling above him or the source of the breeze blowing across his skin. Curtains swayed in an open window, the sound of the chimes coming from beyond. His curtains. His room. Gale.

  Something important slipped through his memory like an eel. Gale. Still in Gale. But why wouldn’t he be? He wet his lips and looked for water. Pain arced through his temples as he sat up. He smoothed it away, but his powers felt soggy, his brain like a wet mattress. “What the hell?” He pressed the heel of a hand to his forehead.

  Someone rapped softly on the door. “Come in?” Lazlo’s voice was a croak. Had he gotten drunk the night before?

  Dillon slid past the door, a hesitant smile in place. “Welcome back, Laz! How do you feel?” Hope radiated off him like a powerful smell.

  “Did something happen?”

  Dillon knelt by the bed. “Nothing a little time couldn’t cure. We’ve been monitoring your progress, and the healers felt you wake up at last.” He squeezed Lazlo’s shoulder, affection rolling off him in waves.

  That didn’t sit right, either. “What the hell happened, Dillon?”

  “What do you remember?”

  He cast his mind back. “The boggins attacked, and we… A building collapsed on us?” The memory was hazy, fading in and out. He tried to read Dillon, searching for clues, but his abilities wouldn’t work.

  “That was nearly nine months ago, Laz. Your brain took a hit.”

  “Nine months!”

  “You’ve been recovering—”

  “My powers should have healed me long before now!”

  “Brain damage, I’m afraid.” The smile came out again. “But now you’re back!”

  “Was anyone killed?”

  When Dillon frowned, Lazlo felt his real sorrow. “Quite a few people, I’m afraid. Samira among them.”

  The name felt as if it should have been ringing bells, like something on the tip of his tongue. “I’m sorry…I don’t remember…”

  Dillon clapped his shoulder again. “That’s all right. The healers said there was bound to be some residual damage. You hallucinated quite a bit. Talked in your sleep.”

  Lazlo felt around with his power again and knew something was wrong with it. “My power is…less.”

  “It’ll get better, especially now that you’re awake again, now that you’re yourself.”

  “I haven’t regenerated you in a while.”

  Dillon grinned crookedly, something that had always made Lazlo’s heart lurch in the past, but now there was barely a flutter. “You need to heal yourself first.”

  “I’m fine.” He sent his power over Dillon, regenerating cells and tissue. Dillon gave that same appreciative shudder that always made Lazlo feel needed, but it affected him about as much as the smile now. He loved Dillon. Had loved? He felt intense loyalty all of a sudden, but that felt so wrong. He stood up, and Dillon took a step back, but if Lazlo had been lashing out with his powers while he slept, he supposed caution was necessary.

  “I…want to take a walk.”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise, Laz. You just woke up.”

  “I’ll be fine. I feel fine.” He spotted a pitcher of water and poured himself a cup. His hands shook as he drank. “I just need a few minutes by myself.”

  “I’ll get out of your hair, and you can rest here.”

  “No!” He laughed to try to take some of the volume away, but he knew it sounded nervous. “Nine months is too much time spent here already.”

  “At least let me call someone to go with you.”

  He moved to the door, but Lazlo shook his head. “I’ll be fine.” Before Dillon could summon anyone, Lazlo pushed past him and fled down the hall. He fought the urge to hug his elbows. Every noise made him jump, every face made him wince. His anxiety hadn’t been this bad in…

  When? It had always been bad but was worse after he’d come to Gale. The boggin attack had made it worse. The thought made him want to cry, and he told himself to get it together. As he passed into the bright sunshine outside the temple, he paused, letting it warm his face. It had unnerved him when he’d first come to Calamity, but now…

  Again, when? He’d been asleep for months. When had he gotten used to sunshine? Maybe they’d let him lay in it while he’d been asleep. He dived into the crowds, striding down streets. People took no notice of him. Signs of the boggin attack still littered the city; buildings were under construction, but any debris or bodies had been carted away. A few storefronts had a half-assembled quality as if the owners had run out of money or energy. Spaces loomed between houses, their former occupants torn down, and nothing new had replaced them. Smaller, shanty buildings stood in some as if awaiting something better.

  All of it caused his anxiety to spike as he remembered the fight, the boggins, the progs, the terror. He shouldn’t be there, should have stayed in the temple.

  Shouldn’t be in Gale at all.

  But where else would he be? He’d been here since the beginning, been with Dillon since the beginning. They were in this together, would always be together. He didn’t have any other friends. Pain careened through his skull as faces flashed past his mind’s eye too quickly for him to focus on. He leaned against a railing and soothed the pain away, gasping, trying to hold on to memories that wouldn’t stay still.

  After a few moments of steady breathing, the pain eased, but the confusion wouldn’t go away. How badly had he damaged his brain? How much had he lost? Now that his power was functioning again, he should only get better, not worse, so maybe…

  As he used his power, he sensed a yafanai at work nearby, a telepath. He focused and sensed an intrusion in his own mind, something that wasn’t supposed to happen in Gale. Lazlo pushed off the railing and looked back the way he’d come, spotting a man staring in his direction. As he watched, the man turned and glanced up and down the street as if trying to find his way, but obviousness radiated off him.

  Lazlo frowned. A spy for Dillon? As he continued to stare, the man hurried into an alley. Lazlo started in his direction and felt a tendril of telepathy come his way again. “Got you.” His own power followed the signal back, making the man easier to target. Lazlo clamped off the telepath’s power and then sent a micro-psychokinetic shockwave.

  When he turned into the alley, Lazlo searched the shadows and spotted the telepath lying in the gloom, paralyzed. Lazlo knelt at his side and hauled him into a sitting position. “Who are you?”

  The telepath breathed hard, and Lazlo sensed the spasms in his muscles, his brain sending out random signals as it tried to right itself, but he could still speak. He clenched his jaw as if refusing.

  Lazlo scrubbed a hand through his hair, angry but unsure how far he should go. “Dillon…the Storm Lord sent you? Why? Or are you some kind of rebel?” The
people had reason to rebel, he remembered that, because Dillon had…

  With a growl, Lazlo stood and paced up and down the alley. “What am I not remembering?” Swiftly, he knelt in front of the telepath’s face again. “Did you do this? Did someone else? Tell me who you are!”

  “Stephan,” the telepath said. “I would never betray the Storm Lord.”

  “Good, fine. Stephan, if you’re not a rebel, then he sent you to spy on me. You wouldn’t do that on your own, would you? There are laws, aren’t there? And the only one who can flaunt them is God.” He nodded, trying to make things fall into place.

  “He cares for you!” Stephan blurted. “You should feel blessed. He wanted to ensure your safety.”

  “And what could happen to me here?” Lazlo asked. “In his almighty city, what could happen that he couldn’t save me from?” He barked a laugh, heard the bitterness, and again wondered why there was so much of it. Dillon’s schemes had never bothered him this much before. He flexed his power to make sure he still could. “What could happen that I couldn’t save myself from?”

  Stephan stared as if he was a lunatic. “He told me you were injured. I was supposed to make sure you didn’t relapse.”

  “Then why not send a micro?” He’d met a few; he remembered that. “Keffy or Leila or Horace?”

  Again that pain, that tinny sound he couldn’t dismiss. He had to lean against a wall and breathe. Memory fought for release like a moth trapped under glass. Maybe Dillon was right. Maybe he was only moments away from falling into a coma again.

  “Go back to the temple,” Lazlo said quietly. “I’ll sense it if you follow me.” He left the alley and wondered if he should follow his own orders, if he should rest. He couldn’t do it, not yet, even if it meant risking a relapse, he couldn’t be inside those walls with Dillon again.

  *

  After Lazlo left the temple, Dillon didn’t know what to feel. In some ways, it was the same old Laz, a little grumpy, a little quick to see the gloomy side of things. But there were little differences. That rage that had so surprised Dillon when Lazlo first left was still there, simmering. It was beyond any snit Lazlo had ever shown; it was the same anger Dillon had sensed when Lazlo had said that he’d attack with his power if Dillon didn’t let him go.

  Dillon couldn’t have that. Once he’d set Stephan on Lazlo’s trail, he went to Caroline’s room, now next to Lazlo’s, the better to keep an eye on him. She was sitting in her hammock chair, eyes closed, massaging her belly, and Dillon didn’t know if she was resting after the work she’d done on Lazlo or if she was working on him from a distance.

  “Can you do anything about his anger?” Dillon asked.

  “His mind is strong,” she said, not opening her eyes. “And his brain is constantly trying to fix itself. We have to work together to keep adjusting his memory. We can’t match him, Storm Lord. I’m sorry.” She sounded more than a little grumpy, too, but she’d earned it.

  Still, he needed her to work a little harder. He massaged her shoulders, starting gently and feeling his way around the muscles until they gave under his fingers, and she stretched like a cat. He grinned where she couldn’t see.

  “I’m sorry for all this stress,” he said softly. “I know it can’t be easy to cope with, especially with the baby.”

  She sighed. “He squirms when I’m tense. His mind can’t be quiet.”

  Dillon hid a shudder. She’d explained that she could commune with their unborn child; he didn’t have fully formed thoughts but could exchange rudimentary feelings. She said the touch of her mind soothed him, but it gave Dillon the creeps.

  “Soon now, you won’t have to worry, and with Lazlo around, delivery will be a breeze.”

  She chuckled softly. “I have thought about that, believe me, after my sister.”

  A difficult delivery, if he remembered her story. He kissed the top of her head, and she reached to caress his hands. She loved him, and he did care about her and about the child. And unlike Lazlo, she wouldn’t suddenly stop loving him and start treating him like shit.

  “He’ll fall in line,” she said.

  “Of course! You’re the best.” And she wouldn’t read his doubt. She wouldn’t dare; none of them would. “Is he…do you know if he’s still in love with me?”

  She went quiet, and he didn’t know if she was hesitating or if she didn’t know. “If he is, it’s hidden under a cloud of anger. He knows something is wrong, Storm Lord. We’ll have to convince him with words as well as this.”

  And that wouldn’t be easy. Lazlo knew when Dillon was playing him. They knew each other too well. He sighed and continued rubbing, and they talked of mundane things until she tensed and grabbed her temples.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Stephan. Lazlo spotted him and sent him packing.”

  “Fuck! What does he know?”

  She stared at nothing. “All I’m getting are hazy details at this distance, but there’s no panic, so I don’t think he knows more than he did when Stephan started following him.”

  Dillon strode for the door, but Caroline said, “I’m coming with you.”

  He didn’t ask if that was wise; she’d know her limits better than anyone. He helped her up then forced himself to slow so she wouldn’t fall behind. “It might be faster…”

  She didn’t give him a glare or a dark look. He was still her god, after all, but her chin lifted. As the strongest telepath, she was used to getting what she wanted. “You might need to knock him out again, and if I’m there, you won’t have to hit him as hard.”

  Dillon supposed that was true. It wouldn’t do to get Lazlo back just to bash his brains in.

  Based on what Stephan had told them, Lazlo was somewhere near the warehouse district. Dillon hurried as fast as Caroline could go. The stink of hoshpis was worse than ever. The new drushkan envoy had made good on her promises to deliver more of the animals. She’d even given them food for the things, something he didn’t know if the old drushka had bothered to do.

  Caroline kept her telepathic probes to a minimum, and they searched for Lazlo the old-fashioned way, but the streets were crowded. A group of drovers herded several hoshpis out of their pen, and the beetle-like creatures bumbled about, bumping into one another and squealing, some of them humming a bass rumble.

  Caroline grasped Dillon’s arm. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Lazlo?”

  Before she could answer, one of the hoshpis keened, a harsh scream that made everyone grab their ears. The drover pushed toward the animal, but it kicked loose from the pack, breaking into a gallop as if someone had stabbed it in the ass.

  Dillon launched a bolt at it as it thundered toward them, and it crashed into a small shanty, bouncing into a half-built warehouse, still alive and kicking. Dillon pushed Caroline behind him, out of the creature’s path. The hoshpi clipped Dillon’s shoulder and spun him around while Caroline fled into an alley beside the damaged shanty.

  Dillon stumbled after her. “What the fuck happened?”

  The shanty’s supports cracked, the sound of buckling wood echoing up the street. It leaned forward, then slid sideways in a rush, slamming into Caroline and sending her to the ground. Its remaining stilts buckled, and the damaged wood fell on top of her, piercing her legs with bloody efficiency.

  She screamed like a banshee, waking Dillon to action. He rushed to help, and the shanty groaned sideways, threatening to crush her. Dillon braced his feet on other side of her and put his back to the wall, trying to hold it aloft, his arms outstretched to catch as much as possible.

  It sagged, and Caroline screamed again. Her telepathic power lashed out in waves, and Dillon grunted along with her. “Hold on,” he whispered, both to himself and the shanty. He couldn’t get enough air to call for help. Where the fuck had everyone gone?

  A shadow moved across him as someone loomed in the alley mouth. Dillon began to wheeze for help when he saw the knife shuddering in the man’s grip. Another assassin. Fan-fucking-tastic
. He licked ragged, thirsty looking lips, glanced up the street, and then stepped forward, knife pointed at Dillon.

  One bolt would finish him, but Caroline pressed against Dillon’s legs, her nails digging into his calves. If he used his power, he’d catch her and the baby. What then? Let go? Blood already pooled where the shanty dug into her. It might sever her legs if it hadn’t already. If he moved, the weight would finish her.

  “Come on,” he whispered as the assassin took another step. “Come on, you fuck.” Fat raindrops pattered on his head, slithering down his neck. Had he called the storm, or was this some kind of poetic nonsense?

  He told himself to keep holding, even if he was stabbed. Help couldn’t be far. After this, maybe he’d wear armor all the time. He’d even left in too much of a hurry to grab his gun.

  Someone else stepped into the alley and took in the tableau with wide eyes. She called out, and people seemed to appear from nowhere. It’d only been seconds since the hoshpi, but it felt like eternity. Now the people seemed motivated.

  The assassin spun, but he wasn’t fast enough. The people were on him in an instant. Young and old, they beat him with brooms or whatever they had to hand, the wet pounding sounds carrying between snarls of thunder. Those who couldn’t get in the fight ran to Dillon and braced the shanty. At least some people in this town still cared about him.

  Once they had it steadied, Dillon knelt next to Caroline. “Brace yourself, baby.”

  She wailed something, but he couldn’t make it out.

  “I know, I know. Just a few seconds more.”

  Those bracing the shanty counted to three and then lifted. The broken boards came free from Caroline’s flesh with a wet, sucking sound. She screamed again, but it had a desperate, dying sound.

  Dillon grabbed her under the arms and pulled her free, setting her next to the bloody lump of the assassin’s body. He couldn’t look at her mangled legs. She coughed as if trying to draw breath to scream.

  “Call Lazlo,” he said in her ear. “If you have any strength left, call for Lazlo. He’ll fix you.”