Flynn took a moment to clutch his wounded limbs, to let the rain wash some of the blood from him. Zella knew not all of it was his own.
“I worked with what I had,” he replied. “And what did you do?”
Zella was speechless. What did she do? Nothing. The Callah’s crew was ambushed and massacred only meters above her, and she did nothing.
“You know, even if you’d dashed out as soon as Shea opened the grate,” Flynn said, “even if you ran above deck and warned the entire crew, I wouldn’t have been mad at you. The others? Probably. But at least you’d have tried doing what you knew was right.”
“I promised I wouldn’t get involved,” she replied, trying to keep from cracking. “I came to observe and define my own fate.”
“Maybe your fate calls not for observation, but for action,” he said, grunting as he pushed away from the railing. “Whose side you’re on is up to you. We brought you with so you could find out for yourself.”
As Flynn staggered toward the rope that tethered Jean to the ship, she genuinely considered for the first time taking a more active role. Assisting the others instead of merely following them. But then, Zella asked herself, how far would that go? Foraging for food and supplies was fine, even theft might be necessary wherever they ended up. But if she was asked to hurt another person, would she be allowed that one compromise? Decades traveling the worlds, and she had never harmed another person, except perhaps by accident. Never killed.
“And what if I take my father’s side, here and now?” she demanded as Flynn assessed the rope. “If I ally myself with the first Reahv’li we meet and return to my father with sacrifice in mind?”
Flynn glanced back at her and answered. “You’re not going to.” She cursed him for reading her the way he did. “But if you did … that would be a different conversation. For all of us.”
Jean was bobbing in the waters below, fighting not to drown. Poe was in her arms—unconscious or dead, Zella couldn’t tell. Flynn was already pulling at the rope, calling his allies for help. Zella was about to step back, get out of the way. But she found her hands on the rope behind his, felt the cords digging into her gentle skin, and began to pull.
*
Poe faded in and out of consciousness. He had only a vague memory of choking up salt water on the deck, of the clamor made over him, of being carried below deck. The ship around him was creaking steadily, rocking like a cradle. He had been stripped naked and was buried in blankets, but still his skin felt chilled; Poe’s skull pulsed with a rhythmic pain and his breathing was marked by a steady wheeze. Time dragged on, and it could have been minutes as easily as hours from when he awoke to when Chari entered the room.
“Chariska.” It hurt to speak.
“You’ve awoken,” she said with some surprise. “Some among us had our doubts that you would.”
“Who … saved…?”
“You were drawn up from the depths by Jean, but it was Flynn who resuscitated you.” She paused, then smirked. “Briefly, I mistook his technique for a series of strange, breathy kisses. But he breathed life back into you, a method unknown on TseTsu.”
“Then I should be dead,” Poe said in a steady wheeze.
Chari ignored his comment, and peeled away the blankets covering him. She placed her hands on his chest, but he could barely feel anything save the pressure, as his skin trembled from exposure. As she put her magick to work, the agony in Poe’s lungs subsided and his wheezing ceased. As his comfort returned Chari’s own strain increased, but she did not waver until the task was done.
She clutched her arms to her chest in shared pain. “This feels dreadful.”
Poe did not yet have the strength to sit up, but speaking came easier. “You’ve never mended my injuries before.”
“Never have they been so grave,” she replied. “I have seen the drowned survive only to be ruined by untreated injuries. You have value to our cause, Guardian, so I suffer for the sake of you.” When the pain subsided, she collected herself once more. “You tremble,” she observed, as he lay naked before her.
Chari wrapped her hands gently around his neck before slowly, meticulously, gliding them down his body. His shoulders to his arms, his collar to his chest. At times, he suspected, she was staying longer than necessary, but the warmth was returning to his skin and his tremors eased, and so he gave no complaint. She paused from time to time to let her own chills pass before setting to work once more.
“I have done something terrible.” She stopped her work and looked at Poe as though he’d confessed the blindingly obvious. His head throbbed, making it difficult to think. “It … was not recent. Long ago, when I was a boy. When allowed a choice, between love and legacy or lustful power, I chose poorly.”
“Why bring this up now?” she asked as she continued her work.
Poe’s arm slowly pointed at the darkest corner of the room. Though thoroughly obscured, he knew the Dark Sword teetered there, mocking him. For the first time, the allure of claiming it was gone. “Because the sacrifice I made was what tethered me to that thing.”
“And what was this sacrifice?”
“Her name was Moira,” Poe replied. “Fainshild Moira. She was my dear friend and the intended mother of my child. When my father died, she accompanied me to the Dark Lands, where I sought the sword of fabled legend. We were not the clever thieves we thought, and were met by the Dark Madam of that ancient keep, who offered me that prize in trade.”
“And you accepted?”
Poe gave no reply; there seemed little point. He allowed Chari to continue her work in peace, turning onto his stomach at her prompting. She sat on his back and continued her efforts, starting with the crown of his head. The swelling in his brain finally subsided and he could think clearly for the first time since awakening.
“I am going to die alone,” he concluded. “Whether it is on this journey or after a hundred lifetimes of godhood, I have ensured there is no one left who would bury me.”
“If you seek absolution from your sins, I can offer you none,” she replied. “You have done terrible things to get this far, and you will do many more. We all have, we all … will. That is why now, more than ever, it must all count for something.”
As their session closed and Chari blanketed Poe’s body once more and headed toward the door, he noticed something.
“You’re wounded.”
He hadn’t realized it before, but she was walking unsteadily. Chari lifted the folds of her garment to reveal the bloodied wrappings underneath, where her right hip had been injured. “A graze. There is no urgency in it. I’ll tend myself when I know it to be safe.”
“You should take care of it soon,” Poe advised. “It’s easier to avoid the pain, but it may be more damaging than it appears.”
“I intend to,” she replied. “But there are others who now need my care. My own injuries will have to wait.”
Poe was left alone with that, lying back to recover his strength as he could do nothing more now than ride out the storm.
*
Captain Longhart’s blood stained the floor of her former cabin. It had set in, dried, and there seemed no point in trying to wash it clean. Her crew was gone, and Flynn had taken her favorite chair—brought over from the Callah. He was alone now.
“You think yourself a good Samaritan?” Taryl Renivar stood across the room, near the bloodstain. A construct of the Living God. “Allowing what remains of her crew to live is an empty gesture when one casts them out to sea in a lifeboat in the middle of a storm.”
The ship jarred as if on cue.
“The worst had passed,” Flynn replied, though this did nothing to ease the judgment he now felt.
“It seems to me that the worst remained right here on this ship,” Taryl replied. “Captain Longhart at least bore a compassionate heart while doing what she felt necessary. For every mercy given, you spat in her eye.” He glanced down at the stained wood. “To the end.”
Flynn tapped his fingers on the desk
, bothered by the truth of it. “Should she have lived? Gone off to fight her country’s wars until your people could come and take the noble soldier away from all this?”
Taryl shook his head. “Edia Longhart deserved no place among my people. She fought for country, not justice, and did the terrible things demanded of a soldier. Had she maintained the strength of character to resist the commands of uncaring leaders, she may have found a place in Yeribelt. But she waived that chance the moment she took another’s life.”
While Flynn could not know Renivar’s true feelings for certain, this facsimile more than likely reflected the reality. “Seems hypocritical,” he said. “Maintaining your own army while denying application to the soldier of a less noble cause.”
“The Reahv’li know what they sacrifice. It is not just their absence of sin, but their devotion to the cause that belies their value. Soldiers like Longhart fight for a land that will one day no longer be, and such attachments to this old reality will foster the sort of hesitation that gets good people killed.”
Flynn rose from his seat and crossed the room, while Taryl watched him silently. The swords Flynn and Longhart had clashed with lay abandoned on the floor; the one she had wielded was sticky with his blood.
“It wasn’t hesitation that got her killed,” Flynn replied at last. “It was a proper lack of ruthlessness.”
“Ruthlessness?”
“She was devoted to her cause, but she still fought fair. You’re right—she was better than me. And she’s dead for it, because she put her own integrity above what needed to be done.” Flynn kicked her sword, and it clattered against the one he had wielded—clean but for the nicks in the blade. It hadn’t mattered how many times she’d struck him; he had gotten her where it counted. “Ruthlessness, Taryl, is something you understand.”
Renivar bristled at the accusation. “Ruthlessness may be a necessary evil of this reality, but at least I seek to erode it. Your actions here have broken families and orphaned children. And what takeaway have you found in all this carnage?”
“If I found myself in the same circumstances?” Flynn asked. He grasped the door handle, and didn’t spare a glance back. “I’d do it all again.”
CHAPTER TEN: Trails of Blood
The shore was less than an hour away, and the winds had turned chilly when Zaja walked to the bow. She had contributed all she could, but there were no duties left worth performing for the vessel they were preparing to abandon. She ached all over, and it was a pain she bore proudly.
The ship had been ravaged in its retaking. The sails were riddled with bullet holes, turning their remaining two days’ journey to four. The cold of the storm and exhaustion had both taken their toll on Zaja, who’d slept for a day and a half, and barely slept in the days that followed to make up the difference. But she hadn’t fully recovered, and the sudden gust that seemed to pierce her very skin reminded her of this.
Her hair fluttered in the wind and as she combed her fingers through to hold it in place, a tuft came free and danced between her fingers. This terrified Zaja, who quickly looked to make sure no one else had seen. Only Shea was above deck, manning the helm and paying Zaja no mind. She let the strands fly off to the sea and excused herself below deck.
“Near the shore,” Shea reminded her. “Time comes, brace.”
Zaja nodded, then hurried below. There were no ports in the area, and they’d have avoided them if there were. Anyone this far north would see their Trynan vessel as the enemy, so they were going to beach the ship and walk inland from there.
Inside the ship, everyone was preparing to depart. With so much commotion, Zaja was able to slip unnoticed into an empty cabin. She locked the door and promptly shed her coat, then found a wooden hand mirror left behind by one of Longhart’s crew. She twisted the mirror frantically and uncomfortably, trying to get a decent view of the back of her head.
“I knew it.”
She placed the mirror face down in disappointment. A small patch had formed on her scalp, dark as the ones on her belly. The hairs that had torn loose would never grow back.
“It’s a necessary sacrifice,” she reminded herself.
After several minutes of checking, she concluded that no other spots had recently appeared. No more hair was going to fall out, and the patch on her head was easily concealed. She didn’t want anyone to see it; she hated being fawned over.
“Yo, Zaj!” Jean pounded abruptly the door. “You masturbatin’ in there or somethin’?”
Zaja’s heart nearly stopped at the interruption, before her surprise turned to bewilderment. “Ah—what?”
“Just checkin’. Accidentally walked in on Cha—actually, forget that shit. Ali says we’re about to shore up. Might wanna find somethin’ to hold onto in there.”
“Alrighty,” Zaja replied flatly. “Thanks.”
There was a support beam just a few feet from the inner hull that Zaja could brace her legs against. She settled in and held fast, and not long after, the ship began to tremble—lightly at first, but with increasing roughness. Then, with a sudden jerk, it all came to a stop. The ship creaked as it settled in, and Zaja felt a return to stability she hadn’t known for weeks.
As she stepped out of the room to gather her belongings, she nearly collided with Chari, who was hurrying down the hall.
“Sorry about that,” she said as she tried to slip by.
“Actually, Zaja—have you a moment?”
Zaja halted, and forced a smile as she turned back. “What’s up?”
The concern on Chari’s face made Zaja worry she’d seen the newly formed blemish. “I wished to make certain you’ve been feeling alright. Since our retaking the ship, you’ve worked yourself half to death, all after a massacre we both had a hand in.”
Zaja felt an inward sigh of relief at Chari’s ignorance. She recalled the clash with Longhart’s crew only vaguely—chaos and noise and an embarrassing feeling she hadn’t done her share. It had been a crew of dozens, but the ones Zaja had dealt with, she could count on one hand. She didn’t want a bloody tally like Poe had, but Zaja knew she’d let both her hesitation and the storm hold her down.
“I’m doing my part, that’s all,” she assured Chari. “We spent almost a week in that cell. I was getting restless.”
Chari looked at Zaja as though she didn’t quite believe her. Even so, she eventually gave way and nodded. “It may be I’ve thrust my own worries upon you. I’ve not slept so well these last few days.” Zaja rubbed Chari’s arm to comfort her. “Dreams haunt me of a return to TseTsu. In them, I am armed.” She placed a hand on her rifle. “My laity gathers and taunts me for my powerlessness. I raise my rifle at them. I…”
She could no longer speak.
Zaja looked her in the eyes. “That’s not you,” she assured her. “Killing a few people doesn’t automatically make you a killer.”
Chari was clearly bothered by this interpretation. “Um … it rather does, technically.”
“You know what I mean,” Zaja said dismissively. “Even if we end up going to TseTsu, you’ll be okay. You’ve shown compassion and looked out for all of us through thick and thin. I don’t think you’re the kind of person who could enjoy hurting people.”
Chari didn’t seem any more assured, but Zaja needed to excuse herself. “I have to get my stuff together—but no regrets, got it? Be glad you’re here.” And as she turned away, she confidently added, “I know I am.”
*
The Red Coast lived up to its name; its sands were a rusty color, lighter at distance, darkest where the water touched. Shea had waded from ship to shore and was soaked halfway up her torso, her clothes clinging to her skin and letting the cold wind through. When she reached the tide’s edge, she fell to her hands and knees and buried her fingers in the sand, squeezing until the coarse granules slipped through. Any doubt left in her mind had been erased: she was a deserter now, and worse still, a traitor. It sickened her to remember the things she’d done to come this far, but if anyone had
offered Shea the chance to take it all back, she’d have declined in an instant.
“Shall we carry on, or settle here?” Chari asked.
“Day’s wastin’,” Jean replied. “Which way, Ali?”
This deference unnerved Shea, who’d only ever held the lowest rank of service and was unused to being treated as such an authority. She hardly felt qualified now, for all she had was a compass and Captain Longhart’s map, whose intelligence would fail long before they got near Thoris. Just the same, she unrolled the map on the coastal sands and lit a recently pilfered cigarette as she began to study it.
“Avoid here,” she said, signifying a radius of terrain. “Near Briss border, might get hot. No roads, either—don’t know the terrain. Bit of a spot, if we have to hide.” She traced her finger through a potential route, but ran afoul of a river canyon. “Bridge there, could be manned.”
“No fuckin’ bridges,” Jean said firmly.
“How about here?” Zaja asked, tapping a spot further inland. “Puts us more in line with that chunk of land south of Thoris, right?”
“Atvuon Peninsula,” Shea said. She studied Zaja’s suggestion for a moment, then shook her head. “No good. Runs through Briss territory.”
“Does it get us by the border?” Flynn asked.
“Does. Still Briss.” She ruminated for a moment. “No towns—nothing mapped, ’least.”
Shea went through a second cigarette before charting an adequate route, one whose safety she still had almost no confidence in. In the past, surer hands had planned things for her. Shea had only ever charged into the fray, and reluctantly at that.
As she folded up the map and placed it in her satchel, Flynn smiled at her and asked, “Are we ready to go, Private den Vier?”
“Odd, hearing that said.” She couldn’t help but smile back.
The foliage bordering the Red Coast was lush and dense, and just for stepping inside, it felt like the day had turned late. Both the sea and their ship vanished after a short distance, and with them the last tethers of Shea’s homeland. She walked on in silence for a while, puffing away on her cigarette. Shea may have traced the route, but it was Flynn who was at the fore of the group, and though she was following his lead, she realized she still hardly knew him.
Killers, Traitors, & Runaways: Outcasts of the Worlds, Book II Page 25