Then, in the center, one of the Methiemum stood, his cowl down, clearly showing his smug face. Rilan hissed in a breath, rage blooming in her belly like bloody roses. Of course he was the traitor, not Hathssas. That skinny, mustachioed, be-laced, traitorous…
“You bastard,” she growled. Then, “With me,” to Enos. Rilan strode forward through the chaos, lost in the Symphony of so many bodies.
* * *
Origon winced as his gust billowed the column of smoke and fire Hand Dancer was controlling. He hadn’t anticipated that part, but he could hear the faint echoes of the capering melody, new notes adjusting the tempo and key. Working with all these half-trained maji was disrupting his attack.
He took notes from his song, intending to hem in the slow phrasing in the air, compressing it to enclose the Life Coalitioners with the smoke. His notes slipped away, back to his song, and he staggered and bent over. Had he copied another change? No, he could no longer do what he was once able to. He cursed the ancestors of the lazy engineers who had sent him to Ksupara in nothing more than a steel box on a jet of flame.
Origon saw a flow of fire block the exit, casting long shadows toward them. One shadow contained a figure with a crossbow. Origon fumbled through the music of both his houses—a shield of air, a burst to overpower the mechanism, a twist of air current—but he was exhausted; weak as an apprentice after his first use of the song.
He heard the click and the bolt flew toward his face.
A hand like a plank of thick mahogany passed in front of him, jerking with impact. Caroom grunted. “Hmmmm. Careful. That one’s body has not the density this one has.” The green glow shielding the Benish was like liquid emeralds. Beside them, Inas’ own shield was dull and spotty.
Caroom snatched an iron strong box from a second shelf as if it were a pillow, and tossed it toward Origon’s attacker. The box arced, but another dark form stepped forward and caught the iron box with an upraised glove. Origon’s crest rose in surprise. The box weighed more than any two of them. The majus of the House of Potential shone with a rich brown aura, and twirled in place like a top, sending the projectile back toward them. Origon bent forward, arms up, though he knew it would make no difference.
* * *
Sam flattened into the shelving as the box descended on his mentor. I can’t help. I can’t do anything. Even the Symphony faded from his hearing.
Then Majus Caroom was there again, moving with Inas, who kept a hand on his mentor’s back. Their combined green glow pulsed as the iron chest impacted the Benish majus’ raised arm—and bent around it.
There was a deep rumbling creak from Caroom, and Inas stooped as if he carried a bag of cement. Then both straightened, and the wooden floor around them shook and creaked in an expanding circle, warping, but never quite breaking, until the impact finally dispersed. The crate fell to the ground with a ringing clang, bent beyond repair.
The House of Strength. Sam turned to where the Life Coalition were recovering, waving smoke and fire aside. One re-cocked a crossbow, five others drew heavy swords. They have a majus from the House of Potential. The transfer with the box was like what Rey had done, back in the alley, but on a much larger scale.
Inas is helping Majus Caroom. I’ve only hindered my majus. Majus Cyrysi was still shielding his head, straightening. Across from them, four of the figures in black whispered together, pointed to targets, and raised their blades. Do something! Stop being useless! What could he do? What did the House of Communication do?
Communication. Separate species talking. The Nether was the only thing keeping them together. He closed his eyes, and the fractal Symphony blazed in his head. He stepped under a rack of hanging fabric as the black cloaks advanced.
Where is it? He let the music in his head fill him, like listening to all the songs he owned at once. Themes built under and over each other, even dissonant sections supporting the main harmony.
Communication should be—there? One Symphony-in-Symphony gained more meaning, the notes becoming clearer. It was deeper in the pool of music than he had ever been. The phrase was rolling and complex, with a rondo of iterations, each set of measures subtly different.
This is the link between species, interpreting and aiding each individual song. The voice was in his head, but Sam wasn’t aware of thinking the words. Here is the intersection of song. It was like someone taped pages of music from different pieces together. This is the translation we hear.
Sam listened to the Symphony around the cut—the taped page—and found something deeper yet. It had a strange harmonic, both higher and lower than the key of the House of Communication. He shoved notes between the taped pages of music, twisting the connection for their opponents.
He peeked out from the hanging fabric. Two of the robed figures were rearing away from each other, slowing. Another attacker faltered as he saw his fellows, and asked them something Sam couldn’t hear. The first attacker, a Lobath who had pushed back his hood, said something else angrily, and the other shouted back, just as loud. Sam grinned as Majus Caroom lowered their head and bowled the fighting attackers over, sending them sprawling. A ripple was running through the line of dark cloaks as they found they suddenly couldn’t understand their compatriots. Behind them, he caught a flash of Majus Ayama running, Enos by her side.
He could help. Majus Cyrysi was back on his feet now, chest inflating, as orange and yellow spiraled up about his neck and face. Sam clenched his hands. His heart was trying to beat its way through his chest, and not just because of panic.
Inas, coated with a sheen of emerald green, glanced at his good hand, then up to Sam. He winked, then touched one of the long brown and gray floor planks. A crackle of green ran down its length, the wood creaking in protest. The other end pulled up in a curve, tripping an attacker sighting down a crossbow.
Majus Cyrysi’s boot heels thumped on the planks as he ran toward the circle of light from the lanterns. One hand rose, and Sam’s ears popped in protest. The Symphony of Communication was in chaos, measures playing over each other, tied together with the majus’ notes. The Lobath across from him shook his head violently, splattering drops of dark blood from his pug nose.
Majus Cyrysi spoke a single word and all was silence; white noise buzzing like flies in Sam’s head. His vision wavered, and Majus Caroom and Inas staggered. Two of the cloaked figures fell with muted thuds to the ground, and the others shook their heads.
Sam pinched his nose, fighting off a sudden headache at the dip in pressure. Clanks and yells drifted back into audible range, and his mentor swam into focus, too close to the cloaked figures, bent on one knee. His head was bowed, thin hands clasped across the feathers on his head. Sam ran to help him.
* * *
Rilan batted away smoke to reach the traitorous piece of slime at the middle, her rage trying to strangle her brain. She didn’t even look toward the metal crate Caroom had thrown. Another maji intercepted it and threw it back.
“You took my seat, you Brahm-cursed monkey dung!” she yelled at Vethis. She threw a punch from her hip, and the oily man fell back, robes billowing. She followed with a front kick that would have doubled him over, had he not scampered out of the way.
He was off balance, and she grabbed a wrist, twisting Vethis’ arm back and up. His head followed his body as it tipped forward. The Symphony of Healing blazed through her and she added notes to the drumbeat that was the density of her bone. She took notes away from his. Her fist would go through him like a mallet through a cantaloupe.
“No! I can explain!” All trace of Vethis’ affected lisp disappeared, his face just above the floor. Rilan raised his wrist, forcing him closer.
“Should have thought of that before you decided to betray the Council of the Maji,” she spat at him, and plunged her fist down.
It hit nothing. She blinked, realizing she was tumbling to the ground. Her notes came back with a snap that almost made her eyes cross. The edge of a dark cloak brushed past her visi
on.
She rolled, coming up on her heels, hands out. Vethis was on the ground, cradling an elbow out of joint, pale white and deep blue misting around the fingers of his other hand, his face pasty. He must have hated to wear that black cloak instead of his usual lace.
In front of him was a smaller figure, clothed all in black, with its cowl pulled down. The figure raised its head enough for Rilan to catch a flash of light on predatory teeth.
“I look forward to dancing against you,” the figure said, sibilant. “This, I have long been waiting for, to show the Nether maji their weakness.”
Rilan flicked her eyes once more to Vethis, and then all her attention was on the newcomer. “So be it, Snake,” she said, trying to goad the Sathssn.
It didn’t work. She feinted forward with a wrist strike to the cloaked head, intending to follow up with a reverse punch augmented by her song. Neither strike landed. Arcs of sapphire blue and a dark, bruised purple swirled around the Sathssn’s feet and he was out of her range. She moved again and he was behind her, slipping past in a waltz-step. A strike to her kidney staggered her and she grunted.
“Nakan, he shall show the Nether majus who is more capable. We have all heard of the prowess of Councilor—ah, Majus Rilan. Will she stand up to me?”
Rilan whirled, barely catching Nakan’s arm with her fingers before he could slip away. Shiv’s dagger, he’s fast. She added notes to the melody of her fingers, turning major chords to minor, fixing her fingers in claws, dragging herself along with the Sathssn.
He moved a step, then spun, tilting her off balance. She felt a knee buckle when he kicked, and turned piano to forte, strengthening the tendons.
Must get on the offensive.
No time for her mental tricks. This would all be physical, and she had to make changes to Nakan, not herself. She recognized some of his steps, had fought against them before.
“Zsaana can’t have taught you all his tricks,” she said. Her fingers were still on his arm, giving her a connection, and she burrowed into his music, turning solid measures into trills, loosening his tendons in a flush of white and olive. Nakan stumbled, but his aura pulsed against hers, blue and purple against white and olive.
“Old Zsaana, he was my teacher as he was yours,” Nakan said. His movement was drunken with his loose tendons, but he used one arm as a whip, flicking the fingers of his glove out to her temple. She stepped back, looping an arm around his attack, but he stepped in with a strike from the other side. “He recounted your matches many times. This, I have been excited to see for myself.”
Rilan countered with a double-arm block, and muted notes, intending both his arms to go numb. Not enough time to grab my knife. Something went wrong when she did and Nakan snapped upright, stable again. She shook tingling fingers, eyes wide. There were extra notes in her song. He had made her reverse her change to his tendons. She didn’t know the House of Grace could do that.
Her foot came up to knee Nakan in the gut, but the Sathssn moved fluidly around it in a flash of blue and purple, flipping over her head. His hands caught her shoulders, pulling her backwards. She made quarter notes into eighth notes, then sixteenth notes, adjusting the curvature of her spine. She accelerated his motion and slammed him into the floor with a crash. Rilan rolled over, pinning his arms across his neck, choking. The majus growled as blue and purple fought against her white and olive, but she locked the joints in her elbows, shoulders, and fingers, pressing down. Above her head, an impact shook the air, and her ears popped. Must be Ori. That would take down two or three of the thugs, if they were lucky.
“How’s Zsaana’s training going for you? The old bigot must have forgotten a few things.” She breathed into Nakan’s face. “Is the Life Coalition so arrogant it separates itself from the Council of the Maji? This traitor—”
“Has something you should see,” interrupted a smooth voice. The lisp was back. Rilan looked up to see Vethis clutching Enos to him, one hand pulling up under her chin, keeping her head back. The skin of her neck had gone an unhealthy color of purple, as if it were being crushed. Vethis winced with the effort to control her, and his ridiculous moustache was all awry. Little sparks of white passed between them, with splashes of dark blue on his side, and Rilan could hear warring strains of music, each trying to go dissonant against each other. Enos looked like she had swallowed a bee. Her face contorted as she warred against Vethis, but there was no contest.
“I propose a trade, Rilan,” Vethis said, and she bit her tongue to keep from spitting at him. As he spoke, a spiraling portal opened behind him, ringed in green and burgundy. So the last majus was House of Strength. Rilan glared at Enos, willing her to understand.
You have another power, girl, she thought at her apprentice, use it and you make this much easier for me. Enos was staring back at her, and pursed her lips, though whether in concentration or reluctant agreement, she couldn’t say.
“Why, Vethis?” she asked. “Why betray the Council?”
“Your precious Council,” Vethis sneered, giving Enos a jerk, “is falling apart. You’ve seen the same thing. I’m only aligning myself with the winning side.”
“The Life Coalition will attack the Nether!” she said. Impossibly, she could feel her grip on Nakan slipping. He was using the House of Grace against her, sliding away. She couldn’t keep this up for long.
Enos, do something, she thought.
“I know that,” Vethis replied. “I gave them the best time and place to attack.”
Rilan gaped. She couldn’t imagine even this social climbing rat doing anything so blatant. She struggled to keep Nakan immobile until he passed out.
“The Dissolution will be upon us soon,” Vethis told her, and Rilan screwed up her face against the incongruity of the old fairy tale. Yet it kept coming up. “Always, I’ve been second place to the noble, the brilliant, the special Rilan Ayama,” Vethis spat. “Let the universe burn, if one time I can come out first—Ow!” Vethis jerked, and Enos slipped away from him like a viper. Vethis was staring in shock at a trickle of blood running down his arm—the one that had been holding her wrists. “She bit me!” he cried. “How did she bite me?”
Nakan writhed and Rilan saw him grin under his cowl as he wriggled free. “Take the rat with you,” he ground out as he slipped away. “He is lazy and dishonorable. You, you are a good fighter. I wish to test you again before the end.” Then he was gone, a shadow, heading for the portal. Rilan reversed the changes to her body, her notes a welcome warmth. She sprang up, ignoring Enos’ hand, and stalked toward Vethis, who shrank back in fear.
* * *
Origon could do little more than stand and observe, with Sam holding his elbow. A voice called from the center of the confused Life Coalitioners, and Sam looked up in interest. His apprentice had done some other impossible thing, twisting the communication between the non-maji. Later he would get an explanation. For now, they would mop up this bunch. Hand Dancer was bringing her column of smoke and fire to circle around the defeated group.
Rilan and her apprentice were fighting with two of the maji, and Caroom had a hold on the much smaller maji from the House of Potential, pulses slamming back and forth between them, green and brown and tan. Energy ripped and transferred and equalized.
The brown flared and Caroom went down to one knee with a creak like an oak swaying in a high wind. Inas was at their side in an instant, but the Life Coalition majus tipped a stack of barrels over. The barrels swayed, then righted themselves, swathed in a swirl of brown. Origon recognized the transfer of energy, and called out, but too late. The majus backhanded Inas with a lazy glove and the young man flew backwards, the weight of five tottering barrels propelling him.
Origon moved, painfully, to help them both, but the voice called again from across the warehouse and a portal formed, ringed in green and burgundy. The majus from the House of Potential looked back, swung one more massive punch at Caroom, who fell to the ground, and ran toward the portal. The non-maji st
ill standing were already going through.
Origon crossed the distance to Caroom, Sam beside him. Was the Benish still alive?
“Hand Dancer,” he called, waving a tired hand. His robe—singed during the fight—slipped down his arm, baring far too much skin. “You are needed here.”
Hand Dancer glanced toward him, gestured an agreement, and made a rounding-up movement. The rest of the ash and smoke, still warm, lost its heat and drifted to the floor, behind the exiting dark cloaked figures. Hand Dancer helped him lift the heavy Benish up.
* * *
Sam saw the shadow flick by as his mentor helped Majus Caroom to their feet. The Benish was bleeding from a deep puncture on their chest—the same thick, greenish fluid Sam had seen in Gloomlight. They had scrapes and cuts all over. Sam aimed toward Inas, collapsed in a pile by a large barrel. His heart pounded, but he couldn’t give in to the panic. His friend’s life might depend on him. Is he alright? He can’t be dead. Another shadow crossed his vision and Sam stumbled.
His foot slipped out from under him. The House of Grace? He fell, cracking his head on a board, and saw stars. When his vision cleared, another short figure in black was holding Inas in a painful grip, his arm twisted behind his back, walking him toward the portal.
“Our assistant, your cousin of sorts, told us you can help us in our holy cause,” the Sathssn said to his prisoner. “You should be overjoyed to contribute so much as a blasphemer.”
Sam tried to get to his feet, but sat down again heavily, dizzy. “Inas! Fight him! Change!” Inas only gave him a terrified look over one shoulder. Sam scrabbled forward, but his balance was off, and he collapsed on one arm. Get up. Do something useful! “Help him!” he shouted to the maji, but they looked around in confusion. When Sam looked back, the figure and Inas were gone.
The Seeds of Dissolution (Dissolution Cycle Book 1) Page 39