The Forgotten Sky

by R. M. Schultz

  She sits on a post and waits. Waits for something or someone. She’s lost. More lost than she’s been since she made Silvergarden her home.

  The sun crawls down from the sky and collapses into the sea, washing the horizon with pinks and reds. Shadows swing across the pier. The people depart, and moonlight glazes the walkway and the water.

  Seeva leads Kallstrom to the end of the pier where it will be safer. Someone can only sneak up on them from one direction. She lies on a wooden bench that presses uncomfortably against her healing ribs.

  Kallstrom cocks a hind leg, closes his eyes, and droops his head. His attentive ears splay outward.

  Sleep takes Seeva, her dreams her own.

  Two days pass like this on the pier, Kallstrom drinking and feeding off the sea, Seeva starving. People begin to throw things at her feet: a few fried clams remaining in a white bag, three oysters that carry a hint of yellow and brown, fried algae buds.

  Seeva nourishes herself as best she can on the buds and feeds the rest to Kallstrom, her lithe frame already thin from months of imprisonment. During the day she wakes often, not even realizing she fell asleep. At night she uses Kallstrom’s saddle as a pillow, and Kallstrom never leaves her side.

  The third night, creaking wood startles Seeva.

  She cracks her eyelids, searching the darkness, pretending to be asleep. Assessing the area for adversaries.

  A figure in a mauve cloak shuffles across the pier toward her.

  Seeva’s hand instinctively reaches for her pulser but grasps only empty air. Kallstrom’s muzzle rests in her hair, breathing softly.

  Could she jump on Kallstrom, leap out onto the bay, and ride away? She has no other defenses but to run.

  The creaking of wood advances.

  She jerks up. Kallstrom twitches, his ears standing erect, his eyes flashing open. He snorts.

  The figure in the hood stands before her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Seeva settles Kallstrom with a palm on the side of his neck and a whisper. “What do you want? I already told you I will not give up the horse.”

  “I was hoping that if you had to wait a couple of days, you’d change your mind.”

  “Never.” Seeva folds her arms and stands.

  “I see that, now, clearly. The horse loves you, but not nearly as much as you love him.” The humanoid woman turns to leave. “I wish you luck.”

  “Wait! We … I need assistance. I need to return to Silvergarden. I’ll repay you for everything, twice over if we make it there safely. I work for the Silvergarde.”

  The woman is silent for a moment. “Silvergarden. Why didn’t you just ask? The Silvergarde do not cheat Elemiscists. They compensate us well.”

  Light reflects in a splatter across a swath of air beside the woman. Silver droplets of water as thick as mercury run upward across its surface.

  “Just take my hand and we’ll be at Silvergarden in no time.” A hand as pale as snow reaches out, fingers with silver claws unfurling to reveal an empty palm. An offer.

  “I need to take Kallstrom with me.”

  “Of course. You just have to be touching him, all of us linked as I lead the way through.”

  Seeva stares at the woman’s open palm. Those claws might bury into her wrists, slit the arteries there, and kill her as soon as she submits, as soon as she eases up.

  The woman curls her fingers, beckoning Seeva to take her hand. “Come now. I can’t keep this Stride window open all night.”

  Nearly a minute passes.

  Seeva slaps her palm against the woman’s much larger one, her other hand on Kallstrom’s reins and his lower lips.

  The woman turns and steps into the mirror of mercury, and Seeva and Kallstrom follow.

  Nyranna

  Nyranna marches up to the obsidian gates of flowing liquid.

  Storms rage in skies above and behind her. Tree limbs, stones, and chunks of buildings clatter in the spirals of a funnel cloud reaching for space. A smell of unsuspecting prey permeates the air. And one star far overhead gutters as if to signal the passing of the sweaver commissioner.

  Aches roll along the length of Nyranna’s back now from the repetitive Strides without recovery time in between. But killing Breman was empowering, much different than harming herself for someone else’s desires.

  A swelling pride burgeons in Nyranna’s chest.

  You kill him or you die.

  She remembers her father. She would control her own fate now, finally. Maybe even the fate of the galaxy. She would not end up like her mother.

  Twenty Elemiscists with cloaks draped over their faces follow Nyranna. One hundred Silvergarde soldiers march in rank at their backs, the insurgents’ entire platoon.

  We advance on the Northrite city, Nyranna Whispers to all the Whisperers of the galaxy.

  She removes the obsidian-black v-rim from her robes and places it on her forehead outside the liquid gates. A chasm of an opening appears as the black waters part.

  Enter the Stygian Gates, she continues to all.

  She steps through the opening into the courtyard.

  Five sweavers stand guard inside, holding pulsers. Their weapons are held passively at their sides.

  Four Beguilers rush past Nyranna, their energies already directed at placating and relaxing the soldiers.

  One of the pacified soldiers falls, landing flat on his face with a crack. Teeth skitter across stone like tossed dice. His face is relaxed, as if asleep. He will sleep forever. The Sculptors have begun to crush brains or hearts with their Will. Another falls, and another before more sweavers start to rouse.

  Two hooded men race past Nyranna, one wielding a longsword of shadow, the other a warhammer—weapons of the elements themselves. Paladins. They cut and smash through any moving or Beguiled sweavers in their path, slicing off limbs, crushing torsos, heads.

  Past the outer guards, Nyranna Whispers.

  The remainder of the Striders and Whisperers all carry short knife blades of the elements, powerful and deadly but of very limited range. They rush in and stab or slit the throats of Will-imprisoned or Beguiled sweavers.

  The Silvergarde platoon follows, firing projectiles or shudder rounds of paralyzing energy to cover them.

  One Beguiler questions a dying sweaver, reading him for lies, asking about a prisoner, his location, and about specific cells.

  When the Beguiler indicates a locked cell inside the obsidian walls, Nyranna makes one stop. Another Elemiscist utilizes a dead sweaver’s eyes for a retinal scanner and forces a titanium door open.

  A moment later, Elion limps out, battered, one cheek swollen, his chin cut and lined with dried blood.

  “Assist us,” Nyranna says.

  Elion confiscates a pulser from a dead sweaver, and the insurgency moves as an amorphous, untrained swarm for the infinity walls of the palace, killing or shuddering and incapacitating as they go.

  Elion grunts as he fires projectile rounds in targeted salvos. His expression appears different, more so than his bludgeoned face. His eyes are less sad. Something … maybe relief has sunk in, maybe relief to kill quickly without horrid suffering.

  Into the infinity palace, Nyranna Whispers.

  A brigade of bronze sweavers waits in the atrium.

  The trumpets, drums, and gongs of screaming projectiles, explosions, crunching stone, bone, and flesh create an unorchestrated symphony of noise.

  Ten Silvergarde soldiers are hit. Their bodies bubble from within—the exploding pulser rounds releasing nanobots into their vasculature.

  A Beguiler falls. Two Sculptors. Whisperers. Striders.

  Silvergarde salvos and Elemiscists answer in bursts.

  Soon, the last sweaver is down.

  The insurgents’ numbers are dwindling rapidly. There will still be many sweavers inside.

  They march into the long hall.

  On to the governing chamber, Nyranna continues.

  Ten Paladins with weapons of shadow appear behind them in Elemiscist
glass robes, their faces not concealed. New arrivals. More Beguilers, Sculptors, Whisperers, and Striders follow carrying Elemiscist knives.

  Nyranna pauses. This is the moment that will determine if the newly arriving Elemiscists who followed the Kindling, or who are from the galaxy at large, are intrigued by Nyranna’s boldness and building victories. Are they with her, or will they turn her in for Northrite favor? Fight her, or fight with her?

  Live or die?

  You kill him or you die.

  “Lead us into the governing chamber,” Nyranna says to the arrivals, pointing ahead.

  Everything slows. The moment becomes more than a moment. It solidifies and does not move forward. The walls seem to spiral around her, towering higher, warping and bending and pressing inward.

  The new arrivals rush them.

  And flow around them like water around rock, into the hall and domed chamber beyond.

  Rynn

  Two sweavers shove Rynn forward.

  She’s forced along a tunnel of stone to a chamber of the Frontiersmen’s she’s never seen. They have avoided the paths outside, keeping to caverns far below the area Rynn knew about on the cliffs.

  An ancient book lies open on the stone walk like a shot bird whose wings become fluttering pages as they pass.

  Days or even weeks have crawled by. Rynn was kept inside her cell with little contact.

  Now, others are also forcibly marched in from connecting tunnels, their heads bowed, their hands bound. Kiesen, Bruan, and Nadiri are there with many other recruits. No officers remain and no Elemiscists—they were converted to Northrite servants or gassed.

  Rynn passes a window, an opening carved into the stone. The sky is almost wiped clear of fog and cloud, cleaned. With her acuity of vision, she sees something moving in the distance high overhead, blowing, something she’s not seen here before.

  Up the cliffs, on the plateau, glacial blue roses grow in droves, blooming in the area of the battle, in the area of spilt blood.

  People wander there. Two men, searching for something, probably looking for survivors. One is adorned in reflective metal. The other brings a jolt of memory; he reminds her of her dad. Had her dad ever come looking for her? Would he?

  Dad, I’m here. Your Stareyes, Stareye, is here.

  Her dad could not be out there, not looking for survivors … or even worse, could not have assisted in this attack.

  Much closer along the cliffside, Elemiscists and chosen recruits march out of a Northrite ship, raw rubies of flesh newly imprinted around their necks, their heads hanging in defeat, trading their lives for Northrite servitude.

  Rynn’s shoved into a vast cavern inside the mountain with the other recruits. Lights hover overhead, casting everything in bright white and erasing shadows.

  Many sweavers stand guard in the periphery, plus those terrifying Everblades in white and black, and their white-caped leader with the axe of the elements taller than himself.

  Other recruits are marched out, wearing linkchains or fighting restraints, crying or shouting, headed for servitude or the gas chamber.

  Six people in masks stand on a dais, looking impatient, waiting as Rynn and the recruits with her are ushered into the center of the room.

  Rynn shivers with fear. The Northrite council, the ultimate power of the elder generation … the disease afflicting the galaxy stands before her.

  The creature of shadow, their powerful servant, isn’t here. He was defeated by others in his dream world, by those she awoke. Did that only remove him from their dreams, possibly make him weaker, or destroy him altogether?

  Something at the back of her mind grips the bars of some hidden cell, shouts, and screams. It’s her dad’s voice, buried deep inside, but she can barely hear what it is he or her brain is trying to say …

  There are six of them, the Northrite council. And six kings, six ways to rule, one tied to each of the elements. Someone cannot master all six routes to power in one lifetime, but this group is trying.

  Faces and masks of the rulers of the galaxy move about in Rynn’s head like a game. She heard that the Grand Patriarch died, as well as some Supreme Emperor of some pearl place. The Northrite are removing rulers and implanting themselves to control all human life. She sees the face of Ost: power by wealth and manipulation. Jasmonae: power by fame. The Silvergarde must represent power by love, respect, and honor—and they were attacked. Their leader would probably be assassinated soon. A place called Uden was drawn into war with the Northrite. The Frontiersmen were destroyed, their power charisma. A replacement from the councilmembers would be found for each organization’s ruler.

  All will be controlled by one.

  Rynn glances about the six. Who controls them? One of astounding power. Not the Messiah—too obvious. The Herald? Their leader is hiding, using the others for protection.

  She absorbed other people’s memories from the dream world. They hit her like darts, two floating lights coming at different times, thrown at her by those she awoke. She’s skeptical of the memories, fears they were planted by the creature, but the memories showed her all six masks as moons or as slaves, working for someone else, trading places and switching order.

  Rynn’s eye settles on someone.

  Adersiun. The Phantom. He could control them all.

  “Recruits,” the Messiah says in a distorted voice, the words echoing about the cavern. “You’re accomplices in an intragalactic crime. You assisted the Frontiersmen in their opposition of the Northrite and attempted to destroy us. You’ll take the linkchains and swear servitude to the Northrite, or you can choose death for betrayal and treason. It’s your decision. Those who wish to receive the linkchain stay where you are. The others, step forward.”

  Admonitions from the Northrite council drag on.

  Kiesen and Nadiri do not step away from Rynn’s side.

  Rynn is still considering Adersiun, if he could be bested by any means. The impossible task. Her heart crumbles into black dust with realization.

  Rynn steps forward. She’d rather die than become the slave of these Northrite, using what little power she controls to harm the galaxy.

  Two sweavers approach in thudding boots.

  A firm grip encircles Rynn’s wrist and pulls her back into the line of survivors. Kiesen lets her arm go but doesn’t even look at her.

  Kiesen … instead of Jaycken. What does he care?

  Rynn pictures her future as a servant of the Northrite: caring for sweavers, traveling to far-off planets to massacre or enslave resisting humans and humanoids. Watching the rise of the one who controls them—most likely Adersiun—watching his will encompass a trillion souls, turning everything to dust. How could she resist them?

  “What is that?” A Northrite Elemiscist in glass robes stands in front of Rynn, studying her neck. Others gather around to stare and scrutinize.

  Rynn covers her eye patch and missing eye.

  A moment of murmuring follows.

  “She wears an emertel necklace,” Adersiun says. “The emertel trees are the elements themselves.”

  Hushed arguments and discussions follow from the sweavers, the Elemiscists, and the Northrite council.

  “She must have someone very special if they can gift such an item,” the Redeemer says.

  Anger rises inside Rynn like a tide. How dare they speak of how special her dad was, after what he did.

  “Wanted her young body for themselves, probably.” The Emissary laughs at her.

  Rynn feels as if she’s shrinking under their attention, their jests.

  I have to put on an act until I’m ready. If I’m not brave enough myself, I must become someone else.

  Rynn’s fingertips drag along the scar on her scalp—the talon strike. Jaycken.

  These Northrite will kill her, or she will become their slave, even worse than with Prabel. They will never give her the opportunity or allow her to find and comfort her mom.

  Rynn can no longer hold back. Her head lifts; her lips part. Words fly.
“My dad gave it to me, and he wasn’t special to anyone in this galaxy. But he did warn me of you. The six of you are attempting to fill the six paths to ultimate power, to rule all of humankind.”

  Silence swells inside the chamber, rolling over everyone.

  Ten seconds pass.

  “You’re all liars, destroyers of planets, of civilizations, of people.” Rynn’s entire body trembles with fear, although she attempts to hide her shaking hands. “And you’re all unaware that you’re being controlled by one.”

  She looks each of them in the eye. She’s taking a huge risk, not knowing for certain who their master is, but a bluff may cause a distraction or some other response. What other option does she have? “If you reveal yourselves and turn yourselves over to other authorities so the people of the galaxy may judge you, I’ll tell you who your puppet master is.”

  The Northrite councilmembers share glances, their masked faces twisted renditions of shock.

  The Messiah laughs.

  “Well chosen with this one, Adersiun.” The Messiah glares down at Rynn. “You’re a powerless, one-eyed girl who should be performing magic tricks on the streets. Adersiun took pity on you by allowing you to live, to not be taken to the gas chamber when you were arrested, and you spit in his visor. Take her to the ship’s chamber.”

  Two sweavers jerk Rynn by the arms and shove her to the ground.

  Rage burns through Rynn’s veins like hot mercury as something else joins in: energy, a power, one released by the decaying elements. She feels it more clearly, more tangibly this time.

  The sweavers pick her up, their fingers biting like talons in her flesh.

  One of the councilmembers steps down and walks up to her, their eyes sunken craters amidst forest-green scales, swarming with hate, the small opening for their mouth a muzzle to contain their fury.

  “It’s her,” Adersiun says from the far side of the chamber. “The Shadow Whisperer of Pseidoblane. She attempts to deceive us with her handicap. Perhaps there’s an eye under that eyepatch after all.”

  The dozen Everblades standing in a semicircle along the periphery of the chamber step closer, one already much closer than the others. That one’s hands extend for Rynn.