by Anna Logan
Talea’s cheeks flushed, her muscles tightening.
Rikky straightened his shoulders, as if daring Wylan to challenge him.
Wylan simply acknowledged them both with a nod and walked by.
With him gone, Rikky took her to her room and left with a smile. She didn’t have any smiles in her. Since their conversation three days ago, Wylan had given no sign of disappointment, jealousy, or even an awareness that things had changed. She didn’t want him to be hurt by the situation, or angry at either her or Rikky...but his indifference felt like a cold slap every time. Like she’d never really meant anything to him. Like he couldn’t care less.
On the other hand, Rikky’s displays of triumph and daring made her squirm. But...at least he cared. At least he found her worthwhile. And even when he wasn’t flirting, he was always kind to her, he treated her differently than everyone else, like she was special to him. That made up for a lot.
She sank onto the sofa, her bed feeling impossibly far away. Closing her eyes, she pictured Naylen and Brenly’s house. Then her parents’, with Alili scampering about. The longer she’d trained, the closer she’d gotten to the other wards and the Wardens, the more immersed in her new life as Aysa...the more she’d found her family’s quiet, domestic life to be dull. The more she’d become content with her lifestyle and disinterested in theirs. Now, she envied it. She wanted to be baking pies with Brenly, just talking and laughing like they used to as girls. She wanted to help her mom with the dishes, or Alili with her schoolwork.
Someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” she called, only belatedly realizing she didn’t actually want to be with anyone.
The door opened, and there was Mahzin, tripping into the room with his dazed grin and disastrous hair that always looked like he’d received an electric shock. Ki teased him that they actually should give him a shock, and maybe it would help.
She started to get up, at the same time as Mahzin flopped into the seat beside her. “Oh, oh, sorry!” He sprang back to his feet. “I should have asked. May I sit? Is now a good time?”
“Uh, yeah.” She settled back into the cushions and gestured for him to do the same.
“Thanks.” That dazed grin again, as he sat. “Yhkon came to see me. He doesn’t do that much. He must be worried about you.”
Better to talk about Yhkon as long as possible. “He just feels...uncomfortable around you because he thinks you’re everything he’s not.”
“I know.” Mahzin shook his head. “I wish he wouldn’t. I’m no better than him or anyone else.”
“Well, technically you are everything he’s not.”
The grin came back. “Awkward, clumsy, and overly enthusiastic?”
She smiled. Mahzin always made it hard not to. “Friendly, optimistic, and benevolent toward mankind, too.”
The compliment made him beam. He was always shy when people talked about him. There wasn’t much she knew about Mahzin—except that he had lived an isolated life since he was fifteen, when he first started delivering crazy ideas about eight teenagers with the ability to control lightning, sent by Narone to wage a war. According to Grrake, who was closer to him than anyone else, that was why—despite being so friendly—he was socially the most awkward person she’d ever met. He’d spent the last two decades as an outcast.
“Well,” he clasped his hands in front of him, “I’m here to talk about you. If that’s okay. I don’t really know why Yhkon thinks I can help, or what’s wrong, he just asked me to, so I’m here,” his brow wrinkled as he listened to what he’d just said, “I mean, not that I wouldn’t otherwise want to talk to you. You know I’m always happy to—”
“I know. Thanks for coming.” One had to do a lot of reassuring in a conversation with Mahzin.
“Oh, good. Or, you’re welcome, I guess.” He smiled before he began. “So you don’t like fighting, is what Yhkon said, that, well that you said. When he talked to you. But you didn’t tell him anything else.”
“That’s the gist of it.” She shouldn’t have bothered being vague and putting him off—Mahzin always got to the heart of an issue, usually within forty seconds.
“Mm-hmm...so why don’t you like it? No, I mean, I know a lot of people don’t like fighting...so maybe why do you so dislike it? Actually, what do you dislike about it?”
It took a moment to sift through which of his questions she was supposed to answer. “Well...I don’t like...killing people.”
He laughed his earnest, rather nasally laugh. “That’s good. That’s very good. I’d be worried if you did.” Another chuckle. “There really aren’t that many people that like killing, Talea. Most are willing to, in self-defense or to protect others. Warriors get used to it, after a while, but even they are more able to do it when they have a cause they believe in. I don’t think even Yhkon enjoys killing, despite his actions that sometimes may say otherwise. If he enjoyed it simply for its own sake, why wouldn’t he go about killing innocents, or San Quawr?” Mahzin wagged a finger. “He only likes it as an outlet for his anger, and even then, only when he feels that his victims need to die to support a cause he believes in. Does that make sense?”
“Um…” She raised her eyebrows. Mahzin could fit more insight and ideas into thirty seconds than most people could into ten minutes. “Yeah, yeah I think so.”
“Okay,” he leaned back, “then here we have our issue. You haven’t yet found the cause that gives you peace with killing. Actually, ‘peace with killing’ really doesn’t make a lot of sense now that I say it, but what I mean is—”
“I think I know what you mean,” she said quickly, to avoid an overly long clarification. “But...I have a cause. Saving the San Quawr.”
That, unexpectedly, made Mahzin laugh again. “Nothing is so simple, Aysa! If it were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. There are so many other factors at play.” Having only been comfortably leaned back for twenty seconds, he lurched forward again to prop his elbows on his knees and gesture with his hands, scrutinizing the floor and giving her occasional glances as he spoke. “You see, we all know that the San Quawr are persecuted. But you waging a war against Kaydor is not the most direct route of saving them—in fact, there are far more effective methods. We could use our military force, and your abilities, to instead extract all the San Quawr from Zentyre and the other regions that would kill them, and we could bring them here. It would take a lot less fighting, and therefore a lot less death, on both sides. And when we were done, they would all be safe and free here in Calcaria.
“So you see, the war isn’t about saving them. It’s about, oh...well, it’s about liberating them. Giving them the same rights as other races to live in Zentyre and be treated the same way. Which is of course noble as well, but it’s still far more complicated.”
She waited to see if he would expound. He didn’t, so she thought for a moment—perhaps the complication was obvious and she was supposed to figure it out. “Okay…more complicated because…” She stuck her tongue in her cheek. It would be easier to just hear his reason. “Because…?”
“Because...” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “What if we are pursuing this ideal of liberty and fair treatment at the expense of not only innocent lives, but of better living conditions for the multitudes of lower and middle class in Zentyre? We San Quawr like to keep these things hush-hush,” he lowered his voice emphatically, “but Kaydor is doing wonders for Zentyre as a region. Those two months I was away last year? I was in Zentyre, seeing how things had been changed. Without permission of course.” He winked. “And I found that laborers were faring better than they were when you were among them. So were middle class. Kaydor has been decreasing the wealth that nobility receive freely simply by birthright, and instead increasing the wages of lower classes that actually earn their money. And he’s convinced their lords to treat them better, whether by force or by reasoning I don’t know.”
Talea frowned. No one had told her that conditions for lower and middle class in Zentyre were improving. They’d kept some sco
uts there in the last three years, who surely would have noticed...why hadn’t the information been passed on?
Mahzin continued before she could ask. “So all this, and let’s say we win our war. Kaydor is dead, or at least dethroned. We take over the ruling of Zentyre. There’s two problems with this.
“First,” he held up one finger, “that is exactly how we got ourselves into this mess, centuries ago. San Quawr had, or took, all the power. We mistakenly thought it our divine appointment to be in charge of everyone else. Hence, the other races came to hate us, and lo and behold, the Eradication of our kind. We would be repeating our mistakes. We might save ourselves from persecution for a while, but by and by, another Eradication would arise.
“Second,” he held up another finger, “we are not actually the best suited for the throne of Zentyre. It can be assumed that we would rule it largely the same way we rule this place, and what most of us don’t realize is that Calcaria is at its peak—the only direction for it to go from here is down. Our methods can’t work forever. We’ve created an economy where we take from the hard-working and well-off to give to the poor, non-working. In the five decades of our city’s life, this has worked, because we all knew that we had to work together to survive. But the longer we go on, the more people will take advantage of the system. When we take in newcomers and give them everything they need for as long as they need it, why should they ever choose to begin working and doing their part? And if we are constantly taking from the hard-working, why should they continue working hard, if they cannot enjoy the fruits of their labors?”
She opened her mouth to argue, failed to find an argument, and closed it.
“Aside from this,” he sighed, “we have no organization. The system of classes that Zentyre uses may be corrupted, but it does, if nothing else, create an effective, durable society. We have no system. Everyone goes where they want and does what they please. Most of us don’t even know how it is that our council members gained their position of authority, only a select few had a say in the matter. This has worked for us so far because, as I said, we were desperate and we all did whatever we had to in order to survive. We worked together. But that need is fading! We aren’t surviving anymore, we’re thriving. And the longer that goes on, the less we will need to work together, the more we will begin to divide and bicker and take advantage and want a say in things.”
Mahzin heaved a deep breath. So did she, trying to work through all of what he’d just said.
Finally he looked at her, almost as if he’d forgotten he was talking to her and not just to the carpet and now wanted to see if she was still listening. “Does all that make sense, Aysa?”
“Wow.” Talea rubbed her temples. “Yeah, it does…but I think what you’re telling me is that the cause I thought I had for killing, I actually don’t have and that even if I did have it,” she scrunched up her face, “it’s not a very good cause, because our winning the war wouldn’t be such a good thing.”
“Mmm.” He pressed his lips in a tight line. “You’re right, I suppose I did rather say that. But that’s okay. What matters now is that you do find the right cause.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against them, feeling a vague sense of bewilderment. “How can there be a right cause, if the whole war is actually a bad idea?”
“Oh, my dear! It’s not a bad idea.” He shook his head firmly. “The trick is how we go about it, why, and what we do if and when we win.”
“Well...what do we do? If and when we win?”
Mahzin shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest.”
Talea stared at him, waiting for him to say something else. He didn’t. “Um, okay...so...I’m not really feeling better about going back to Zentyre and killing more Kaydorians, in a few weeks.”
“Well,” he abruptly stood up, “the good news is you have a few weeks to think about it. I will too. Ultimately you have to find your own cause, but I’ll help if I can.” He smiled again. “In the meanwhile, I think you should realize...well, I think it’s important to consider...that understanding the situation is, in and of itself, part of solving it. Or, that is to say, even if you don’t have it all figured out before you go back to Zentyre...you should still know what you’re doing and why, and how it will affect people. Oh and I would also say,” he was gradually making his way to the door, “don’t be discouraged by your dislike for the fighting business. I think it’s a good thing.” He gave her an approving, respectful look. “Compassion, empathy, and mercy are far too often overlooked in a war.”
12
The Obsidian Woods
Z OPER left the throne room quickly, gnawing on his lower lip. What a fool he’d been, trying to escape something inevitable. Not to mention something he shouldn’t be trying to escape. “Excuse me.” He caught the attention of a passing soldier. “Could you have a message sent to the marshal of the Tarragon, Macquinn? Tell him to meet me in an hour in the Tarragon barracks.”
“Yes sir.” The man dipped his head and left.
Watching him go, Zoper hesitated. Of course, he could have gone straight to Macquinn. There was no need to send a message and delay it by an hour. But…he wasn’t quite ready yet. He needed to think.
He made his way to his brother and sister’s apartment, entered, and stretched out on the sofa, making sure to keep his feet on the floor. Much of the decorum and house rules his mother had demanded during his childhood had vanished—not that one.
His younger brother Jakkit, however, saw no problem in sitting on one chair and kicking his feet up on another next to it. There would be little point in correcting him except to start a quarrel, so Zoper pretended not to notice.
Yaila, meanwhile, floated into the room on her bare feet, humming some tune. Her hands went to her hips and her tune stopped when she saw them both loafing. “Hello Zoper.” She considered him and Jakkit a moment. “Haven’t either of you something better to do?”
She almost never failed to make Zoper smile—even when she was being something of a spoiled brat. Everything about her reminded him of their mother, despite the fact that Yaila had only been eight when she died. “Personally, I don’t. Why, what would you ask of me, little bird?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged daintily. “Jakkit, however, might help me tidy things up. Since he lives here.”
Jakkit opened one eye and wrinkled his nose. “Tidy? Then why on Kameon do we have a maid, if we’re supposed to tidy?”
“Our maid has a son and she can’t be here every minute of every day.” She said it quite wisely, for a thirteen-year-old wisp of a girl.
Jakkit simply grunted and closed his eyes again. “I didn’t think maids were allowed children, for that very reason.”
“Jakkit!” Her two blond brows were almost touching with her scowl. “Sometimes, you are truly wicked. Zoper!”
He had just popped a berry from the glass dish on the table into his mouth, and looked up at her innocently. “What? I’ve nothing to do with it.”
Yaila stamped one foot. She really was spoiled. “Fine then,” she said at length with a deep breath, as if it was causing her great pains to put up with their nonsense. “Well. You haven’t been here often the last few weeks, Zoper. What have you been doing?”
“Uncle Kaydor keeps me busy sometimes, you know,” he answered around another two berries.
It was probably taking great restraint for Yaila not to comment on his talking with food in his mouth. “Doing what?”
Oh, soul of a deadman. If he told her, she would be mortified. If he didn’t tell her, she would pout and glare until he did. “Well...the war, you know. It’s keeping all of us busy.”
Sure enough, she crossed her thin arms over her chest. “The war against the San Quawr? You’re participating?”
Ha, participating? In the meeting he had just left, Kaydor had assigned him to capturing the four teenagers that had been harassing Aydimor. Of course, he’d been given that assignment earlier—and he’d failed it, twice. Now, the unspoken unde
rstanding was that continued failure would result in consequences.
He didn’t know what those consequences were. With Kaydor, one didn’t take chances. “Yes, I’m afraid I have to be somewhat involved.” His attempts to avoid involvement in the war had failed, and now he didn’t dare try to avoid it any longer.
Yaila wasn’t convinced. “Somewhat. Exactly how involved is that?”
Jakkit gave an exasperated sigh. “What does it matter? The San Quawr started the war. If they weren’t so—”
“They only started it because we’ve been murdering them for decades!”
Zoper got up. He’d come to visit his siblings in hopes of escaping these kinds of debates since he had plenty of them raging in his own mind. “I have to go. No fighting while I’m gone.” He winked in an effort to lighten the mood.
It only made Yaila pucker her lips in a pout. “You mean you have to go kill San Quawr.”
“Yaila…” He shook his head. Part of him envied her innocence, her oblivion to the harsh reality of the situation. “Just trust me. Someday you’ll understand.”
“I understand just fine!” She followed him as he started for the door. “In fact, I seem to be the only one who does!”
He kissed her forehead and opened the door to leave. Sometimes, that was all he could do with her. “I’ll see you later.”
Besides, he really did have to go. He’d best start planning, so that he and Macquinn could devise a strategy in their upcoming meeting. The news had come earlier that morning that the eight warriors who had rescued the lightning-throwing teenagers from Zoper and Dejer had been spotted. If they were back, the lightning-throwers wouldn’t be far behind. The girl had been seriously injured, yes, but it had been almost two months—long enough for her to have recovered and made the trip back from wherever their refuge was.
And if they were back, the Tarragon had work to do.
~♦~
The early-morning air was crisp, like inhaling ice as Talea took a deep breath. Her back was getting stiff from sitting wedged between two tree branches for an hour. So she pulled her boots up and adjusted slightly.