“What do you mean?” Cade stalled.
“Don’t look to me for your answer. Just tell me: What do you feel?”
“Look, it’s your weapon. Or the galaxy’s or … whatever. What I feel in it probably isn’t all that important since—”
Wu-Xia stepped in front of Cade. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightened, and his eyes narrowed. Cade could see the shadow of the man who’d once led the Monaskin army to conquer half the galaxy. It was more than a little scary.
“What. Do. You. Feel?” Wu-Xia asked.
Cade closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He didn’t need the Rokura to call to him; he could feel the shadow of its pull even when it was dormant. It was powerful and clear.
“Evil,” Cade said as he opened his eyes. “I feel pure evil. It wants me to do terrible things; it compels me to do terrible things. And sometimes, I come close to giving in. I mean, there’s goodness in there, too. A lot of it, and it’s powerful. But I don’t think it can overcome whatever this evil is.”
“And that, Cade Sura, is my legacy.”
Once more, Wu-Xia brushed his hand over his head, again manifesting a black smear. This one remained dark, and Cade thought maybe he was missing something. But then, an image began to brighten as blue orbs cast their illumination over the scene.
“Chrysthums,” Cade pointed out. “From Quarry.”
The orbs’ glow grew, and Cade could see the mist-shrouded walls of the spire take shape. The chrysthums floated through the space, leading Cade’s eyes to a certain point the way they had led him and Tristan to the Rokura when this whole thing started.
The orbs converged. And in their unified light, they revealed the outline of a man sitting cross-legged on the ground. Cade took a step closer to the portal Wu-Xia had created as the orbs descended, but he already knew who they’d reveal: Wu-Xia, his body projecting a blue aura as he meditated in the chrysthums’ glow.
“I made the weapon in my own reflection,” Wu-Xia said as he stood next to Cade. As Wu-Xia spoke, Cade watched in awe as shards of metal—or whatever the Rokura was made of—materialized and swirled above Wu-Xia’s head. He remained meditative, eyes closed, as it happened.
“You must understand,” Wu-Xia continued, “my life was one defined by war and conquest. I was given a weapon when I was a child, and I had one in my hands until the day I returned the Rokura to the spire where it was made.”
The spire trembled all around Wu-Xia. Not as violently as when Tristan took hold of the weapon, but the walls and ceiling shook with an intensity that was impossible not to notice. As the chamber quaked, the swirling shards began to join, bonding piece by piece. Wu-Xia’s body trembled—perhaps from the unstable ground he was resting on, but likely more from the strain of his focus. His lip upturned, and he seemed to be experiencing intense pain, though Cade found it hard to read his expression. Regardless of whatever Wu-Xia was enduring, his concentration didn’t waver, and the Rokura continued to assemble above his head.
“Over time, I came to experience things that changed my heart and mind, but the change came too late for me. Because when I made the Rokura, I still knew evil; I embraced evil. There was goodness in me, too. But all too often, I used evil as a means to achieve righteous ends. All too often, I took that easy path, and I was wrong.”
Cade saw the Rokura’s blades forge; he saw the hilt and the staff take shape until, finally, all the pieces of the Rokura became one. The most powerful weapon the galaxy had ever known was created.
“There were two sides of my life that were entangled as deeply as the roots of this tree,” Wu-Xia said. “Good. Evil. And I was convinced that, even to bring peace, you needed both; you needed, at times, what was wrong to get to what was right. And in my hubris, I thought I could control both sides in equal measure.”
The spire stopped quaking, and the Rokura’s light extinguished. All that remained was Wu-Xia, the chrysthums, and the weapon. Slowly, it floated down into Wu-Xia’s open hands; his fingers wrapped around its hilt the moment it touched his flesh, and his eyes finally opened. In his mind, Cade was taken back to the moment Tristan united with the Rokura; Cade could see the look on his brother’s face as clear as if it happened yesterday. There was peace and calm, relief and happiness. He looked how the bringer of galactic peace and justice should look, and it comforted Cade. Wu-Xia’s expression brought Cade no comfort. Ferocity replaced tranquility, determination replaced calm. Wu-Xia looked like a man out to prove something deeply personal, and whatever it was, it was more important than allaying the galaxy’s unrest. Suddenly, Cade thought of Monaskis—particularly how it had been destroyed by Wu-Xia’s hand.
“I infused both good and evil into the Rokura, and it was the greatest mistake I’ve ever made.”
The image of Wu-Xia in the spire faded away, and when Cade looked to Wu-Xia, he saw how heavily regret weighed on his life—and even his afterlife.
“I know in my heart that I was a good person, and I wanted to do good things, remarkable things. But I made the same mistake all good people make when trying to fight back against evil. When confronted with the galaxy’s darkness, we think good will naturally overcome as if that is the natural way of things. We think evil will see the error of its ways and come around to our side. But we’re wrong, and we never realize the truth until it’s too late.”
Cade winced. The Rokura felt heavier than ever in his grasp. “What is the truth?”
“Evil will not be negotiated with,” Wu-Xia said, his face as implacable as stone. “You cannot bargain with it, you can’t compromise with it, and you certainly cannot use it for your own means lest you become evil yourself. That’s why I brought the Rokura back to Quarry. I used my power as the Paragon to freeze it there until someone like me—someone chosen by the galaxy, but better than I was—came along.
“Your brother was incorruptible. Percival was, too, although it only took moments of being exposed to the Rokura’s true nature to take his innocence from him.”
“So what do I do, then?”
“Vanquish it. It’s the only way to truly stop evil. You must burn it at its roots and then burn its ashes.”
“Okay … okay,” Cade said. He nodded agreeably, but he had no idea why. “I really hope this is the part where you share some specifics and say something like, ‘But there’s hope…’”
Wu-Xia smiled and clasped Cade’s shoulder. The gesture was symbolic, though; Wu-Xia was incapable of clasping anything. “Ego was my downfall. True power never comes from within your own self; it comes by learning from others, by surrendering yourself to the world around you. You need to be strong, Cade Sura, there’s no question, but you must use that strength for the betterment of the whole. But you already know this.”
Cade laughed defensively. “I wish you were right. Most times, when it comes to the Rokura, I don’t feel like I know much of anything.”
“Oh, but you do. Twice, you’ve done something remarkable, and you don’t even realize it,” Wu-Xia said, and he looked at Cade with an expression of pleasant awe. “You were prepared to surrender your life on the War Hammer—not to secure the Rokura’s power for its own sake but to protect others. You did it to save your friends and countless other people you’ll never even meet. Ga Halle would never even consider such a sacrifice; the very idea undermines the only thing she cares about, which is acquiring the weapon for no reason other than her belief that she’s owed it.”
“Okay, but being better than Ga Halle—morally, at least—is a goal everyone should strive for, Paragon or not.”
Wu-Xia scoffed. “If that were true, then she’d have far fewer followers,” he said. “There was a second instance as well—when you tamed the gorgan in the arena. You drew upon the Rokura’s goodness to heal the gorgan. I’ve never even dreamed of something like that being possible. You laid down your ego and took a chance that could have gotten you killed. And you did it thinking only of the gorgan and its suffering. You, and you alone, brought forth the Rokura’
s goodness through the dark.”
Cade admitted, if only to himself, that the moment with the gorgan was meaningful. If only because it felt so different from any other experience he’d had with the Rokura. It was the first time he’d used it the way he’d wanted to use it. He wasn’t trying to mimic what he assumed Tristan would do, nor was he trying to decipher what the Rokura wanted and compromising with it just to survive. The Rokura had finally become an extension of his own self, and Cade was actually happy with what he’d been able to accomplish using the weapon’s power. Cade would be comfortable—proud, even—to let Kira, Mig, and 4-Qel witness him using the Rokura in such a way, which was a stark contrast to how he’d felt about them watching him take Ortzo’s head off with a concentrated blast. He’d never thought that’d be possible, but seeing the gorgan relieved of its misery gave Cade a glimmer of hope that maybe things could work out with the weapon after all.
Maybe. Because Cade still harbored many doubts.
“That’s great, Wu-Xia, really. But it still doesn’t change the fact that I’m not the Paragon. I’m not the person chosen by the galaxy or whatever to stabilize its course.”
“No, you’re not the Paragon—you’re something else,” Wu-Xia said as he looked at Cade with eyes that were both sympathetic and hopeful. “And maybe that’s a good thing. You don’t carry the burden of having been chosen. You’re free of the rigid constraints that bound everyone who came before you, and that means you can do things that even I could not.
“I see things, Cade Sura. Being unstuck from time and space has given me more wisdom than I could have ever obtained while I was still alive. And I know you’ve spent so much of your life searching for your identity, for your place in the galaxy. But you’ve always sought the answers for these questions in anyplace other than where your real truth can be found—within your own self.”
Wu-Xia stepped back to the tree and flashed his hand in its direction. “Think of this tree. Think of it and remember that life just needs to be—and so do you. I saw you do it in the War Hammer and again in the arena; you followed your own instincts, which tell you to protect others. To do for others before you do for yourself. And in those instances, you were never more powerful.
“Cade Sura, you separated the light from the darkness within the Rokura, darkness that should not, and need not, be there. What you seek lies within your own heart—you just need to be brave enough to follow it.”
The aura around Wu-Xia began to fade as he slowly stepped away from Cade. Wu-Xia was leaving, and Cade suddenly felt a rush of panic throughout his body. He still had so many questions, so many things to learn and to understand. And if everything Wu-Xia knew was lost now, Cade feared it would be gone from the galaxy forever. That would leave him solely responsible for the Paragon’s legacy.
“Wait!” Cade pleaded, but Wu-Xia continued to fade. “What I did with the gorgan, I don’t know if I could do that again. I’m not even sure how I did it in the first place.”
“Just be, Cade Sura,” Wu-Xia said as the light of his existence was snuffed out. “Just be.”
Cade bowed his head and ran his fingers through his hair. His shoulders slumped as he exhaled sharply. When he looked up again, he realized how much darker the chamber was, absent of Wu-Xia’s light. It made him feel small and very much alone. Cade turned toward the exit, and the stone door rumbled itself open right on cue.
The open door let in a sound that stopped Cade in his tracks. His blood ran cold, and he had to turn his ear toward the door to confirm what he was hearing, because he couldn’t believe it.
Traveling all the way though the tunnels that led to the Chamber of Memories, past the overgrown roots that threatened to bury the entire path, was the sound of blaster fire as distinct as anything Cade had ever heard. Then an explosion.
Monaskis was under attack.
Cade raced through the tunnels, his heart thumping in his ears. He needed more time to put what Wu-Xia had taught him into practice; to learn how to control the Rokura the way he had on the War Hammer and in the arena. But neither would happen, not now. Praxis was coming for him—they’d always be coming for him.
Unless he finally did something about it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rivulets of water ran down the side of the diminutive bunker’s abrasive concrete wall and pooled in accordance to the room’s sloping grade. Rain had been steadily drumming the surface for hours, and Kira felt the dampness that it brought deep in her bones. Kira welcomed the steady downpour; its consistent rhythm was like white noise that sheathed her in solitude and helped detach her from the rest of the world. Secluded in her tiny space—she could simultaneously touch the walls on either end of the room—Kira worked hard to keep her mind focused, forbidding it to wander toward anything other than the mission at hand. She stood above the single twin-size bunk that was just able to squeeze inside the room and not block the door, studying the weapons cache she had laid out on the bare, musty mattress: two sidewinders, fully charged, with a half dozen extra charge packs; a whipblaster and an extra charge; a tri-blaster, because you never knew; and a half dozen proton-charged explosives, all Mig’s making.
“That should do it,” Kira said, and she went through the process of checking that each blaster was fully loaded and that the explosives were free of the detonation glitches that often plagued similar models. As the serpentine streams of water passed beneath her feet, Kira felt a sense of quietude within herself. She was grateful for it. It was just her and her weapons locked inside this tiny room, and they could have been floating in the vacuum of space for all she cared. She only needed one thing: a plan. But she could always stitch one of those together along the way. What was important was that she amassed a Praxian body count on the journey from Kay’s underground bunker to Praxis’s nearest moon, which was where the Crucible was located.
Kira breathed deeply as she worked, considering the silence around her. She liked the idea of being surrounded by nothingness, particularly as it captured how she’d felt ever since being dragged away from her mother’s quarters. She was numb from heartbreak, numb from disbelief. All she knew was that the only thing she had left of her mother was an image of her face, looking steadfast and brave, as Kira abandoned her to die. The woman who’d saved Kira from the very same evil that now threatened her own life was a picture of tranquility as she steeled herself for her eventual trip to the gallows. And all Kira could do was turn and run. To save the lives of millions—to save Praxis from total annihilation—Kira had to sacrifice the life she cherished most. Suddenly, Kira was fifteen again and overwhelmed by the enormity of the circumstances engineered by her ruthless father. But this time, it wasn’t fear that threatened to paralyze her; it was rage. She thought of the series of events that led her to having to make such a damnable choice—abandoning her mother in order to save the entire planet or staying by her side as her heart compelled—and she knew that every link along that chain was poisoned by Ebik’s touch.
But there was no time for distraction or for dwelling on the past, so Kira took all the love for her mother and all the fury for her father, worked them into tiny balls, and shoved them down deep within herself. They were her fuel; they were her greatest weapons against the impossible odds she was soon to face. And there was only one way to beat those odds: She had to keep fighting. That’s all her life had been ever since she’d escaped Ebik—fighting to survive, fighting to find her place, fighting to protect the galaxy from the pain she knew all too well. She didn’t want to think about her mother’s fate; she didn’t want to think about losing Cade to the Rokura’s power or how cold she’d been to him before he left; she didn’t want to think about the father Ebik once was, the loving, happy man she could still see in the furthest recesses of her memory. All she wanted was to take a supply of weapons that would make a small militia blanch and use them to storm the Crucible, thwart Ebik’s plans, and, hopefully, end him in a hail of blaster fire at the same time.
Kira wanted to brawl.<
br />
The galaxy, though, had different plans. Because just as Kira was putting the final touches on calibrating her whipblaster, there was a knock at her door. She had told everyone she wanted time alone; given what she’d just gone through, she figured her wishes would be respected. But no. Whoever was there kept knocking, and Kira continued ignoring the rapping until finally it stopped. Kira breathed a sigh of relief but immediately wished she hadn’t. Because seconds after the knocking on her door ended, it was replaced by someone picking the lock.
Kira knew it was Mig before he’d even finished the breaking part of his breaking and entering. He sauntered in like he was dropping by a friend’s place for dinner.
“Hey, you’ve been in here for a few hours, so I wanted to check and see—” Mig stopped at the sight of Kira’s arsenal. “WHOA. Now that … that’s a lot of weapons.”
“The door was locked, Mig,” Kira said as she continued the calibration of the whipblaster.
“Yeah, I knocked, and you didn’t answer. So, where are you going with all these blasters and bombs and stuff?”
“I’m going. That’s all you need to know.”
“You don’t have to act tough and mysterious with me,” Mig said as he shut the door to Kira’s room. “I know you think you’re going to the Crucible.”
“There’s no thinking about it,” Kira said, still not turning to face her friend. “This is what I’m doing.”
Mig sighed, and Kira could hear him sucking at his lips—a habit of his, she’d noticed, when he was stuck on what to say. “Look, I get it. What you’ve gone through with your dad, and now having to … everything with your mom. I know it’s not easy, but you can’t—”
“Having to leave my mom to die,” Kira interrupted. “Those are the words you were looking for.”
“I’m just trying to say that I get what you’re—”
“No. You. Don’t!” Kira turned and hurled the whipblaster against the wall; it busted into pieces. By the time the blaster parts were scattering all over the floor and bed, Kira had taken long, determined strides that brought her right in Mig’s face. “Did you know, Mig? Did you know that my mom could have saved herself instead of me back when I was a kid? She knew everything Ebik was up to, and she had a tiny window to do something about it. The only option available to her was to run. But she didn’t. She put everything she had into getting fake papers for me, drawing all the coin she could get her hands on so I could get away. Not her—me. And now, I finally had the chance to be the one to save her, and I blew it. She’s going to die because of me.”
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