Widows of the Sun-Moon

by Barbara Ann Wright

  Nettle sprang through the doors after Cordelia, and the Sun-Moon’s power stabbed for her mind, too, but she wasn’t alone in her head. No drushka was, as Horace had found out when he’d tried to use telepathy with them before. In her mind, they found the link to Pool, one that had gently denied Horace entry, but now it flared with the combined mental strength of the drushka. Nettle pushed back with evolutionary power, and the Sun-Moon slumped on the divan.

  Their hold on Horace slipped. The Moon hurled Nettle across the room with her macro ability. Before Horace could try to cripple her, a sword point rammed through her chest from behind, through the divan. Cordelia was awake.

  Blood dribbled from the Moon’s mouth, and she stared at the sword point poking through her chest. The Sun screamed and leapt to his feet. Cordelia stood, leaving her sword where it was. The Sun’s gaze locked on her, and his power coiled and burst outward, surrounding Cordelia in a shroud of flame.

  “No!” Horace wrapped Cordelia with healing, keeping the flames at bay, though they swirled around her, trying to blister and maim and kill. Cordelia staggered, and through the haze of flame that consumed her clothing but left her whole, her eyes widened in wonder. After a moment, they rolled, and she collapsed again, but this time, Horace felt something odd about her, as if her mind slipped free.

  Nettle leapt on the Sun’s back and smacked the side of a dagger against his temple. He fell, and the flames winked out.

  Horace scrambled to his feet and went to Cordelia, but he’d shielded her completely. She wasn’t even warm. “Did she…did she leave her body?”

  “Later. Are you well, shawness?”

  “Yes, but the Moon won’t be for long.” He took hold of Cordelia’s sword and before he could think too hard about it, yanked it free. The Moon gave a gurgling shriek. Horace dropped the blade and put his hands on her shoulders to slowly close her wound.

  Nettle covered Cordelia with a small rug and then moved to face the Moon. “Is it wise to heal her, shawness? I know it is your nature, but she is powerful.”

  Horace clamped down on her macro power once he was sure the sudden shock wouldn’t kill her. “I’m keeping her power subdued. I can’t break her telepathy; her connection with the Sun is too strong. Since telepathy doesn’t work on you, we should be all right. And if we let her die, I doubt we’ll make it out of here alive.”

  Nettle looked at the Sun as if entertaining the idea of killing him, too, making sure they’d have a better chance of escape, but Horace shook his head. He wouldn’t let her kill someone who was unconscious, and he knew Cordelia wouldn’t like that, either. Luckily, Nettle didn’t press, watching Horace work instead.

  He moved around the divan, healing as he went. The Moon’s eyelids fluttered, and she wiped the blood from her chin. He filled a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and handed it to her.

  She took it and looked from him to Nettle. “Well?”

  “You and your mate have stolen our shawness,” Nettle said. “We will take him back now.”

  “We need him.” She glanced at where the Sun laid on the carpet. “I’m guessing he’ll be all right?” Her voice was even, but Horace sensed her fear.

  “You have the same disease as the Svenal,” Nettle said. “Do not bother to lie. You have the same smell. To cure this sickness, you need two shawnessi, Horace and Simon, and Simon has been taken by the Storm Lord.”

  “We know. We never should have let Lazlo go, but we were hoping to catch both of you at once. We can’t lose the one healer we have.”

  “We’re in your city,” Horace said. “I know it would be a big fight to leave. Lots of people would get hurt. You’d get hurt.”

  She stared.

  “I don’t want that,” he said. “I don’t like hurting people, but Nettle is right. Help us get Simon back, and we can all work together.” He nodded toward the back of the divan. “Or would you rather try to argue with my stabby friend?”

  The Moon seemed to consider, but the other door burst inward, and the same tattooed woman that had captured him stepped through, followed by a host of guards.

  *

  Just as when Cordelia first left her body, the pull of being killed and healed at the same time threw her spirit out. She catapulted into orbit again, and before she had a chance to look for any smidgen of her lifeline that might have followed her here, the same immense presence as before moved toward her, the copilot.

  “It’s the little bee! Have you reconsidered my offer? Come to stay?”

  “Just an accident, sorry,” Cordelia said.

  “I’m surprised no one’s squashed you yet.”

  Cordelia had to chuckle, even if the copilot made her so nervous it was hard to think. “The Sun-Moon just gave it a good try.”

  The presence moved closer, though Cordelia still saw no body to speak of. She did see something glittering in the distance, the sun striking metal in orbit.

  “The Atlas,” the copilot’s voice said in her ear. “Impressive, no? You little groundlings are always so hungry for metal.”

  “A ship?”

  “Once, now a satellite, though I suppose it could be a ship again if it were properly motivated.” She sighed, and her voice seemed to change a little, sounding lost but infinitely more human. “The skip drives are broken. We can’t go home.”

  “Right. Speaking of home…” She tried to drift away, but the presence held her like an anchor.

  “Did you say Sun-Moon?” it asked in its normal, confident voice. “Are you a pain in their ass?”

  “Um, when I’m not on fire, but I just came for my healer.”

  “Are you in the market for a new god? I’ve got lovely rates and a free gift!”

  Cordelia didn’t know how sarcastic she could be given the fact that the copilot could keep her here.

  “Naos,” the voice said distractedly. “I liked being the copilot once, but now it’s all Naos. Ooh, tell the Sun-Moon I’m coming for them, but use a dramatic voice, something impressive. Think seer, like a vid about ancient Greece.”

  “Sure,” Cordelia said, still lost but unwilling to argue with someone who could pluck things out of her head. “You’re coming for them personally?”

  “No, silly, with my army. Didn’t I mention?” She sighed. “I have an army, and it’s really big, and I’m coming for the Sun-Moon and maybe the Storm Lord is, too, and I’m going to be the last god standing unless someone is as entertaining as you.” She said it all in a rush. “Have I forgotten anything?”

  “How big of an army?”

  “See how focused she is! You should be mine, you know. Just a little more drifting, and I’ll add you to my collection!”

  The shining Atlas was coming closer, or maybe she was getting drawn in by it, though she didn’t know how that was possible in her spirit form. A suffocating feeling overcame her, drowning or being buried alive, she couldn’t tell. “No.”

  The voice kept chattering on, and Cordelia started to struggle, but if the copilot, if Naos, was paying attention, Cordelia couldn’t feel it. She gasped for air with no lungs and fought to get away, to help Nettle, help Horace, warn everyone about this disembodied madwoman who claimed to have an army on Calamity’s surface.

  The babble faded, and she sensed someone else, that lonely presence who’d spoken of skip drives. “Go,” it said.

  The space around Cordelia lightened, and she struggled free before she was hurtling toward the planet again, streaking into her body like a falling star.

  When she opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the foot in the middle of her back. The second was that the floor was ice cold beneath her, and the third was that she was naked and partway under a rug.

  “She’s awake,” someone said.

  Cordelia tensed. One good push…

  “Leave her be, Fajir,” someone else said. “Everyone, be calm.”

  “That’s a good idea.” She knew that voice, Horace.

  When the foot lifted, she shifted away, standing and
taking her rug with her. She saw her blade and scooped it up before moving to the corner of the room where Nettle stood with Horace. She wrapped the rug around her like a towel, but it was barely big enough to go around her hips. Liam would have made some crack about sexy fighting.

  The Moon still sat on the divan, healed; must have been Horace’s doing. The Sun was slumped beside her, and she and Horace were staring at one another, probably having some kind of mental standoff. Behind the divan stood the tattooed woman, Fajir, Cordelia guessed, and a host of other guards, all with weapons drawn.

  “What did I miss?” Cordelia asked.

  Nettle kept her eyes locked on the guards, her daggers drawn. “We have explained that we need shawness Simon if we are to…aid these gods with their problems.”

  The Moon inclined her head. So, there was some secret at play.

  “She’s going to help us get him back?” Cordelia asked.

  “We do not relish an assault on Gale,” the Moon said.

  Naos’s conversation played through Cordelia’s mind. “You might not have to.” Quickly, she told them what Naos had told her, her references to the Atlas and skip drives making the Moon’s eyes widen and hopefully backing up her story.

  Still, when she told them that an army of indeterminate size and maybe the Storm Lord were coming to attack Celeste, Fajir said, “Lies.”

  Cordelia sighed, but she would have thought the same thing. Skeptical always looked good on a guard, especially a leader.

  “Will you permit me into your mind?” the Moon asked.

  Cordelia looked to Horace, who nodded slightly.

  Nettle tensed again. “If anything harmful happens to Sa…”

  Fajir took a step forward. “You’ll do nothing.”

  “Enough,” the Moon said. “I think we all understand one another.”

  A tingle passed over Cordelia’s scalp, but nothing as great as before. If she hadn’t known what was happening, she might have thought it a stray breeze.

  “She’s telling the truth,” the Moon said, her voice disbelieving. “What is Naos playing at? Why attack us? Why now?”

  “Could you ever get a straight answer out of her?” Cordelia asked.

  The Moon ignored that and stared at nothing.

  “The Storm Lord may bring shawness Simon to us,” Nettle said.

  “I know he’d agree to help you in order to keep the peace,” Horace said. “So would I, but you have to put an end to these threats, thinking you can take what you want. We don’t work like that!”

  “Shut your mouth!” Fajir barked.

  “Here’s your chance to prove you’re better than the Storm Lord,” Cordelia said. “We could be allies.”

  The Moon tilted her head and nodded. “Heal the Sun, and we’ll talk about it.” She gestured over her shoulder, and Fajir and the guards sheathed their weapons.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As the soldiers and yafanai made preparations to leave Gale, Dillon felt freer than he had in months. He knew people bothered him as little as possible with the day-to-day running of the city, but the chance to leave it all behind was nearly as freeing as when he’d first left the Atlas.

  There were some drawbacks. Little Evan would have to be left with a nurse. A stricken look had taken over Caroline’s face when he told her he needed her to come. He’d had to massage and cajole; hormones were probably screaming at her to stay with her baby. He’d promised they’d be gone as short a time as possible, and she’d agreed. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to the crying ahead. He’d make sure she had her own tent so they could have a little space.

  All that was left was to wonder whose side he’d be on when he reached Celeste: Christian and Marlowe against Naos or the other way around? If they killed all of Naos’s troops, they still couldn’t get at her. She’d make more eventually, but with Lazlo in Dillon’s camp, he could kill them forever, too. Might be nice to have a recurring enemy to knock around. On the other hand, if Christian and Marlowe were dead, Dillon would be free to pillage their city, maybe convince their followers to turn to a stronger god. He’d have to think of a better name than Celeste; that was for damn sure. Unless the former Sun-Moon worshipers decided Naos was the better god. Or she decided it for them.

  No, better to hide and watch at first, let them tear each other’s throats out, and he’d mop up whomever was left. As strong as they all were, he had yafanai, railguns, and powered armor. He’d mow down the remainder and pick through what was left.

  In his mind, he counted the yafanai. The pregnant ones would have to stay behind, as well as the youngest acolytes. The others could either ride on carts or be bolstered by Lazlo and the healers. His armors could pull the carts. He’d bring a few servants along, people to cook and clean and fetch. Maybe after the plains dwellers saw the full might of Gale, they’d join the ranks of his faithful.

  After a few sessions with Caroline, of course.

  *

  Lazlo read every emotion in the Yafanai Temple as news spread that they were going to Celeste. It didn’t matter who’d spoken to whom, or who was supposed to be keeping quiet about what. There was no stopping a rumor once it got started, especially one as tantalizing as a big fight. Some were calling it a war, even.

  He’d have thought they’d had enough of combat. Some still spoke about the night of the boggin attack in hushed or angry tones. Some were too traumatized to speak of it at all, but others were excited for war, and he wondered if they were the lucky few who hadn’t had to fight, who’d managed to hide and not lose anyone they cared about. He couldn’t believe such a person existed. They had to be as rare as unicorns. He laughed harder when he realized the Galeans wouldn’t have any idea what that was. He’d been laughing a lot at random things lately. When someone caught him, he blamed the brain damage, and they nodded sympathetically, which made him laugh harder.

  Well, some of them nodded sympathetically. Caroline was a ball of anger. With her deft touch, he hadn’t caught her poking around in his mind again, but she could probably do it so he wouldn’t feel her. Still, once he knew how angry she was with him, he couldn’t help seeking her out with his senses, as if her anger brought him clarity. It felt worlds better than Dillon’s hope or anyone else’s sympathy. Her emotions seemed pure, and as he sat in the courtyard of the temple one day, he remembered something similar Dué had once said.

  He’d been sitting in the mess, nursing a cup of coffee and reading one of the many novels stored in the Atlas’s computers. Sports fiction, he’d read it before, probably a hundred years before that moment, but because of the way his brain regenerated, he remembered it exactly. He’d been trying to forget that fact, trying to lose himself in the story, when she’d come in.

  Her steps were always jerky, as if she couldn’t find a rhythm. She took a seat near the wall, facing the door, her left eye darting around the room, but at least she wasn’t focused on him. She didn’t get any food, nothing to drink, and he was starting to think he should leave when she spoke up.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

  Lazlo didn’t know if she was talking to him or not. She didn’t look at him, and he didn’t know how to respond, so he slid off the stool and headed for the door.

  “Linear emotions,” she said. “A nice good fight.”

  Yeah, she probably didn’t need his help with whatever she was doing, but a half second later, the door slid open again, and a couple of breachies walked through, having an argument. They didn’t seem to notice him, and he had a brief thought that he was either invisible, or it was time to swing his power around a little.

  But of course, he never did that. Funny thing was, they didn’t seem to notice Dué either, and everyone noticed her. She wore a broad smile as the breachies argued about one of them saying something the other thought was insensitive, and he was suddenly so glad he didn’t have a love interest on board, lonely as that was.

  Unless he counted Dillon, which he was not doing that day.

  “One following th
e other,” Dué’s voice said in his mind. “Cause and effect.”

  He looked back to her, but she’d vanished, and he realized she’d never been there at all. She’d been projecting herself in his mind. Her chuckle echoed in his head, and he brought his shields around as tightly as he could, hoping that if they didn’t keep her out, she’d at least take the hint. The arguing couple looked at him at last as if sensing his power.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, even though they were the ones who’d ignored him, but now he’d gotten their attention. Cause and effect. “Sorry.”

  At the time, he hadn’t worked out what she meant, but now he had an inkling. Caroline was angry with him, and she had to have a reason, a real reason. The sympathy givers and Dillon, they felt sorry for him, and their reason was that he was injured, but that rang false.

  Caroline felt right. He’d done something, and now she loathed him. Cause and effect. He went inside, searching for the bright light of her anger. When he found her holding her baby and talking to some people near the kitchen, he thought he’d open with an inquiry about the child’s health then lead into what had been happening between them, but he knew the child was fine.

  He blurted, “What did I do?”

  Their conversation went silent, and he felt shock from Caroline as well as the loathing. “What?”

  “Don’t play games with me, not you, too.”

  People were staring, and she grabbed Lazlo’s arm and led him away from her friends. Stunned, he went along. Only Dillon grabbed him. Other people didn’t touch him at all, and he preferred it that way. No one had gone out of their way to make him feel welcome since…

  Who?

  He snarled and jerked his arm back. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Watch your mouth,” she said, glowering. “You want to know what’s going on? Do you? We’re in mourning.”

  “For…the boggins?”

  She sneered and opened her mouth then shut it again. “For Marcus.”

  He searched his memory and came up with a face glimpsed only a few times. They’d never spoken. “One of the telepaths.”