As I await

My chance to speak

Words buzz in my brain

Ineloquent and inadequate

Only movement calms me

So I pace

Boots bereft of tread

Gravel ground to dust

Until a gaze stills me

I stare back

A challenge

No less powerful for its silence

’It’s a silly mantra

What you wrote’

he says and steps closer

‘One person can always make a difference’

My eyes remain on him

Note the leaden texture of his clothing

The material called Adapt

Worn by the Talented and free

The insignia at his throat

Is a facsimile of a snowflake

As he moves

His scarf waves

It tells me what he is

It gives me my response

’A Messenger always speaks the truth

Is that also a silly mantra?

For I fully believe in both’

He flinches

I turn, step incomplete

When his voice seizes me

’A Messenger cannot be measured

By truth he does not know

Only by the sincerity

He carries within himself

You are a collector of memories

A teller of tales?’

I nod

‘Then here is one you should know.’

—The One They Misplaced

In a moment, it was gone. A flash, then nothing—worse than nothing. Shrapnel spread like dust, mingling with the speckle of distant stars.

And they said it was his fault.

Zah Eenan mumbled incoherent words, repeated them over and over, a useless battering ram against these steel walls and shield-woven bars. It smelled like the rotted whatnot that had been in here before him, but he had ceased to notice. In the eight days he had been in here, Zah had ceased to notice much of anything, even the voices and proddings of his interrogators as they plagued him day by day, seeking confession.

Even Zah doubted his own innocence now.

For the moment, he was alone, curled in a corner, one arm draped across his eyes. The cell’s grime caked his short, pale hair and splotched his deep-gray skin. Though still discolored and somewhat swollen, the elbow they had several times broken was mostly healed.

Bones always mended first for those like Zah, recovery starting on the inside and working its way out. The more minor injuries accompanying yesterday’s inquiries had already vanished.

Such healing ability was not an official Talent of the Aylata, hybrid sons of the Napix homeworld and the planet Magni. Napix was now the name of the vast empire they watched over. Magni was desolate, the reason for its destruction forgotten.

Zah was an Aylata and had never had reason to dream of being anything else. Aylata were above the purebred Napix noblemen, respected even by the emperor. Without his body’s uncanny ability to repair itself quickly, Zah would have been dead by now, but he couldn’t keep this up forever.

Where could he run? He didn’t even know if the legion’s Defender was still alive, and they assured him all other Aylata within a week’s journeying distance had perished.

That meant the tragedy was real. And they blamed it on him.

Another scent approached, different from the sour rot that reigned here but no less offensive. Zah wanted to ignore it, but it tugged at his memory.

Before the familiarity fully registered, a rough cloth was jammed over his mouth and nose. It reeked of foul spices and tugged him toward unconsciousness.

Holding his breath, Zah twisted toward his assailant, and his elbow crashed into a chest. His face was released as his foe stumbled back, but before he could get up, a kick found his kidneys. Breath gone, he fell flat. A burning soreness surged through him as he rolled away from further blows.

“This should be over by now,” his attacker seethed, boot striking Zah’s back again. “I heard them call the Fifth Ravi like you begged them to, just as I was told you would.”

Zah’s feet coiled under him, but he stayed low, captured the enemy’s next kick, and directed it past him, twisting it so his foe fell. Zah was upon him instantly, but his opponent was wily and slipped away, drawing a weapon as he stood.

The dormant handle gleamed in the near dark. With the touch of a button, it would sprout a knife-like, flat laser blade the length of Zah’s hand—a kanaber, standard issue for any of the troopers in this legion.

But this was no trooper.

Coming at him from behind, Zah caught his foe’s wrist and yanked it back. The attacker spun toward him, and Zah used that momentum to swing him into the wall. The partition between this cell and the next dented. Zah pushed him harder against the stained, metallic surface and kicked the kanaber free of its master’s hand.

“Why do you want me dead?” Zah’s voice was weak, little more than a pant, but he tried to set his features in an intimidating glare.

It was lost on this audience.

His foe’s four eyes—two decently sized and spaced like a typical humanoid’s, two smaller and placed at the bottom corners of the first—identified him as Zalerit, even if his scent was much sweeter than what he had come to expect from that race.

Zah had excellent night vision. That was an Aylata Talent, included with a full set of keen senses, though this was the most common and least valued. By contrast, Zalerits could not see well in the dark. They feared it, hated it, panicked in its presence.

Yet this one, even pinned as he was, wore an aloof calm.

“Your death might expedite matters.” The Zalerit sneered, voice low and deliberate with a hissing lisp that sent shivers through Zah. “Your corpse might give your sister more reason to convince the Fifth Ravi to show up.”

“You want the Fifth Ravi here.” Zah’s gaze flicked toward the fallen kanaber as he recognized what he faced. “Ravi Kimidjee will kill you.”

The Zalerit made no attempt to escape his hold. No, not just a Zalerit. The rarest and worst of their kind: a Zalerit with Magni heritage. A lightcurver.

“Given what I know, I find the reciprocal much more likely.”

“So share what you know.”

The lightcurver tsked. “My master would not approve.”

Of course. Someone had to be helping this monster, shielding him, teaching him, commanding him. Lightcurvers were the essence of evil, killed as soon as they were discovered, usually as infants. Even those capable of birthing them were often destroyed. Here was one grown to adulthood and audacious enough to challenge Aylata.

Realization widened Zah’s eyes, and he backed off. A whisper escaped. “Did you kill them?”

“Aylata think they are invincible when for the most part they are only fools.”

He pushed away from the wall, circumventing Zah as the sound of many footsteps approached. Zah grabbed at him, but it was like trying to catch a stream.

With the words, “We will resume once they are done with you today,” the lightcurver vanished.

***

Desperation surrounds you, too sweet, too potent, swirled with pride of accomplishment and the thrill of a chase. It isn’t yours. One’s own emotions always carry some marker, some indefinable sense of self. But whosever this desperation is, he is near.

Weightlessness and a bone-jarring impact. A hard, textured floor. Heavy eyes forced open, driven by curiosity and terror. Tears blur the scene beyond recognition. Every part of you hurts.

Cold fingers tap your cheek, accompanying a voice as rough as the floor. “I went through a lot of trouble to pull you out of there. You’d better not die on me.” A stranger’s voice.

You scramble back. Adrenaline overpowers the pain exploding in your side. Where is your teacher, your class?

A hard wall hits your back, too hot. You flinch away and rub a grime-covered sleeve across your stinging eyes. The ethereal green-gold color chrysolite glistens in the grime. Your blood. You’re bleeding, probably a lot.

You try to banish fear from your mind. Aylata are never afraid. Your teacher would be ashamed to see the tears streaking down your face. That must be the source of the stranger’s disgust. He kneels before you, staring, scrutinizing.

According to his attire—durable Adapt material, black and mottled between matte and shiny, clips at his shoulders holding a scarf looped across his front and slung over his left shoulder—he is a Messenger. The scarf’s white color, mottled like the suit, tells he is a recent graduate, older than fourteen but likely younger than twenty. He is not nearly as covered in grime as you are.

“If you want to live, fly this shuttle out of here.”

You try to ask what’s going on, who this person is, but he’s leaving, and you’re half blind. You must have a cut on your forehead. Something warm keeps running into your right eye. You wipe it away again, stumbling after the Messenger.

“Tell me—” you suggest, but he turns on you, slams you against the burning wall, and you scream.

He drops you. Smoke wafts from your jacket, smelling like a gkapu’s rear end as you clamber to your feet. Your side twinges, forcing you back to your knees.

“Mind Talents annoy me.” The Messenger’s mouth doesn’t appear to move, and the voice is smoother than before, but he must be the one who says it. There’s no one else here.

He kneels again, meeting your gaze, and you look to the side as is proper for a Mind Aylata.

“What’s the highest number you can count to?”

“Numbers just keep going,” you retort, confused.

“Then pick a really high number.”

“One thousand.”

The Messenger’s grin is almost comradely. His words are not. “This school will be gone before you can count to one thousand.”

“Gone?”

“Obliterated. It took me a week to place the charges, keeping them hidden, lining them from the volatile energy transformers to every vital bulkhead.” He shrugs. “They’ll assume it was years, but I’m Aylata. I can do anything, right?” Cockiness prances in his grin.

Your mind is a tempest of thoughts, reason blown just beyond your reach. You’re in a shuttle. Fires burn just outside its close walls. You recall walking with your class, following your teacher in an orderly line, sudden flashes, noise, and unbearable heat. You were thrown. You couldn’t breathe. Then darkness, nothing until the Messenger dropped you here.

“The explosives by where you were must have been misplaced, but the others will make up for it. Do you know why I rescued you?”

The world spins as you shake your head. This is a madman, and no one will come save you. Everyone else is dead.

“You’re a Messenger, like me, and I need you to deliver a message.” He points his thumb at himself, too arrogant, too callous.

“Why?” you scream. “Why kill everyone?’

A frown tugs at the Messenger’s grin. “My motivation is not part of the message. Now prove I chose the right kid. Fly this shuttle out of here.”

“Why don’t you fly it?”

Disapproval curves his smooth features into a scowl. “An Aylata can do anything; he shouldn’t have to be rescued. If you can’t even save yourself, it’s no great loss to the world if you die, right?” He pokes you between the eyes, and despite the fires raging all around, the touch is cold, filled with barely restrained malice.

Dread drapes over you It fills your ears with the sound of your own heart and clogs your throat.

You don’t know how to fly a shuttle.

Wen Kimidjee shook his head in an attempt to dispel the looping memory. It belonged to a five-year-old Messenger named Dal Mikka, who had since been sent to Aylata Tower.

Wen didn’t want to feel Mikka’s despair as the Messenger abandoned him, his horror and panic as his attempt to control the shuttle failed to translate into movement, or the boy’s relief as Defender Mesadu’s legion found the battered transport among the debris and rescued him, euphoria quickly soured by self-loathing.

If you can’t even save yourself, it’s no great loss to the world if you die, right?

That malice. Wen had never seen anything like it, especially not on that particular face. The Messenger had been a stranger to Mikka, but Wen knew him. Or thought he knew him. Zah Eenan. Twin brother of Wen’s wife.

Twins were thought to bring good luck in the Napix Empire. Zah certainly was lucky to still be alive. The Amoya territory’s only school for Aylata aged two through five was supposed to resemble the web of an ingenious predator. Now, it looked like detritus floating in a tide pool.

Mikka was the only survivor.

News of the tragedy had immediately reached all corners of Amoya, and masses clamored for Zah’s blood. Yet, Zah could not be executed without the authority of the highest-ranked Aylata, the Ravida, and a recent announcement from the far-away capital told the Ravida had died. That gave Wen, as a Ravi—one of the Ravida’s five possible heirs—more influence than he already had.

The dispatched investigation team had met Mikka halfway between Rinkla Station and the disaster site. The child Messenger had shared his memories with investigators, and at Wen’s insistence, they had shared the memories with Wen. Wise souls had warned that since he lacked Mind Talents, the process would feel very invasive. To view a shared memory was to live it yourself.

He hadn’t known that meant it would haunt him like this.

Wen shook his head again as a vacporter’s chrome door slid shut. His reflection ambushed him from the frame, reminding him he was not a five-year-old Messenger. He was twenty-seven, of medium height and well built, dark, angular features made more noticeable by opaque silver eyes and starlight-colored hair kept in a windswept style.

He wanted to believe in Zah, but evidence against the Messenger piled on that thin sheet of faith, a brittle pane of ice ready to shatter.

“The Messenger is known for his uncanny interest in the practical uses of certain unstable elements,” investigators said, “elements he had unrestricted access to and were utilized in this disaster.”

Zah had been in the complex less than a day, sent to collect the medical personnel requested to aid the ailing Defender Mesadu, hardly the week mentioned to Mikka. Yet, Zah had lived at the complex for years as an apprentice Messenger before his assignment to Mesadu’s legion.

The detonation signal had come from Zah’s returning shuttle, and he had reboarded Mesadu’s flagship alone, no doctors, no pilots, the school he left behind obliterated.

But the most condemning was Mikka’s memory.

You’re a Messenger, like me, and I need you to deliver a message.

He never actually said what that message was.

Flanked by half a dozen armed troopers, Wen stopped before Zah’s cell. The Messenger already stood, lower lip swollen, scabbed, and bleeding anew. His wincing eyes evinced further injuries hidden. The relief Wen expected to see on his friend’s face was not there, and he could not identify the emotion that was. Terror? Frustration?

“Leave, Kimidjee,” Zah charged, voice rough as if grated over tree bark.

Wen ignored him and directed one of the troopers to open the bars.

“No!” Zah retreated, but the cell was small and offered nothing to hide behind.

The shockfield dropped, and bars spiraled into the ceiling, clearing the way for Wen to step into the space with the reassurance, “Chill, Eenan. I’ll figure out what’s going on.”

Zah already pushed him backward, continuing to shake his head. “The lightcurver wants you here. It lured you here to kill you.”

Continued in Chapter 2: I am Your Shadow

Thank you for reading!

At the utterance of the word lightcurver, the troopers raised their weapons and warily surveyed their surroundings as they squeezed closer to Wen. They hid him well, every one of them taller than him, and he a whole head taller than Zah.

Wen’s face scrunched. “Forgive me, but you sound ridiculous.”

Zah froze, hurt and annoyed and at a loss for anything he could say aloud. He had well been taught the respect that must be shown Ravi, especially in front of others. As his father had once lectured, “Wen Kimidjee will one day lead all Aylata in Amoya. He may even succeed the Ravida and hold all five territories in his grasp.”

So no, he could not say any of the disrespectful things he now thought.

“Regardless,” Wen went on, “I’m not leaving you here in these”—he paused, steely eyes roving the stained floor, the ceiling that was the witness of a thousand screams—“glorious accommodations.”

Despite the reassuring words, Zah noticed the subtle shift in the Ravi’s manner: a readied stance, a less focused gaze.

Wen’s eyesight, though above average, was not his most distinguished sense. His prized Talent, Kinetics, showed him details Zah could only imagine. Wen could feel the signature movements of matter and energy around him, and it was with this sense he searched now for Zah’s lightcurver.

Wen Kimidjee believed him.

Gratitude fell over Zah, as if the burden slowly-but-surely crushing him had been slightly tipped, as if the one shoving could push it all away if he just kept at it. Hope dared rise within him, churning in an odd mixture of emotions. He couldn’t truly believe they would all get out of this alive, and with so many innocents already dead, how dare he have hope for himself.

Yet, hope was there nonetheless, driving him forward as Wen gestured for him to abandon the cell.

Zah stepped into the company of troopers, each still bearing weapons. Throughout his life, these had been safety, a comfort. After the experience of this week, they were no longer.

As he walked with them, he inspected each man carefully. He knew none of them. Had they come with Wen from wherever he had been?

It was not uncommon to see a variety of descents in a troop. For them, one’s native territory had no bearing on one’s assignment. Among these six, only one had features considered typical of the Amoya: a tall, lean build, hair like white silk, dark skin and eyes, these latter narrow and set wide, reaching nearly to prominent ears. At one time, the Amoya were the people of the far north, their land now claimed by Skaelao. They were reputed as adventurous and observant, their conclusions and subsequent actions expedient but seldom thorough or accurate.

It was this cultural mindset that placed Zah in such danger: guilty because at first glance, evidence seemed to point to him.

Had Wen chosen these varied troopers with that in mind? The Fifth Ravi was not a planner. He was a reactor, good at thinking on his feet. He didn’t start the action, but he went with it, finding loopholes and backdoors through the plans of others.

Zah’s confidence swelled. That lightcurver had started this. Wen Kimidjee would finish it.

***

All systems failing, the screen reported.

Next to the words, a pulsing pair of numbers counted down the moments he had left to save this vessel.

He had no intention of saving it.

“The Fifth Ravi I will leave to you,” the lightcurver’s master had said, as if speaking of an inheritance. “Those of Amoya are of little use to me. With them, I will allow your cleverness a turn.”

It would be no straightforward attack. For starters, coming close to Wen Kimidjee without him being aware would be difficult enough, and even if the lightcurver were to fatally wound the Fifth Ravi, little would be accomplished. Yes, Wen Kimidjee would be dead, but the one ranked sixth would simply take his place.

It would prove nothing that was not already felt and believed. They would hunt down the lightcurver, hailing the death of their beloved Ravi as evidence of what they had long ago concluded: Every lightcurver was a monster and needed to die.

Instead, he would make them question those they loved. Those they trusted, relied upon.

“Sometimes change needs a decoy,” his master had explained.

So far from the capital, Amoya was the oft-forgotten territory. With no land on the Napix homeworld, they were considered practically foreign.

But everyone was looking now.

***

Was anyone watching?

The footsteps were almost silent, even to Zah’s overly sensitive ears. These troopers surrounding him were highly trained, likely from the High Defender’s legion or of the Refraction Leader’s own guard, lent to his Ravi nephew.

As far as Zah could tell, Wen’s footfalls actually were silent, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a reason for their stealth. His heart pounded, adrenaline and Magni-specific chemicals racing through his veins. He wanted to run, though reason told him that was stupid. His legs didn’t care; they shook, ready to go. He could outrun them all.

No. That was ridiculous. He clenched his fists, those shaking, too, and forced himself to listen to their steps, to match pace with those around him. He counted the beats, adding, dividing, factoring in echoes. The streams of numbers helped calm him, diverting his mind from crazy notions. They told him how far he walked, where he was, kept him focused, alert.

“Kimidjee.” Zah’s version of a whisper was not what most people considered audible, so he made a conscious effort to speak loud enough for the Ravi to hear, but no louder.

Wen’s opaque eyes snapped to him in acknowledgement.

“Do my interrogators know you took me from the cell?”

Wen grimaced. “They were not in favor of it.”

“We’re a long way from it now. How far are we going?”

“Not far enough to reach genuine safety, Zah,” a voice breathed as arms wrapped around his neck. That was all the warning he had, but it was enough. This was a voice and a scent and an embrace he had known all his life.

“Lu!” he whispered, hugging her tightly before stepping back to see for himself that she was unharmed.

He should have known his twin would be here, as much as he might wish Wen would put her someplace safe. She was Wen’s shadow, everywhere he was.

Wrapped in a row of chignons along the back of her head, every hair was in place, even the brindle bangs cascading across her round face. To Zah’s relief, no bruises or cuts were manifest on her dark skin, of which more showed than was ship appropriate.

Her lacy slate shorts and skirt didn’t extend near the black leggings secured just above her knees, a silver-buckled strap there matching her simple onyx belt. Bejeweled sandals left her feet mostly bare, and her sleeveless vest didn’t quite reach her waist. The exposed skin of her biceps prickled, arm warmers stretching from wrist to elbow not much help against the air’s stiff touch.

Zah shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it over his sister’s shoulders as they continued to march.

“Thank you. Why is it so cold on this ship?”

“Defender Mesadu is an Ice Aylata. He equates cold with orderliness and efficiency.”

Zah glanced at the others in their proper ship attire, the troopers in their mottled gray jumpsuits. His and Wen’s uniforms were variations of that—black dappled glossy and dull. His Messenger scarf had been confiscated, but its clips were still evident on the shoulders of the jacket Makalu now wore.

“Why’d you wear that anyway?” he grumbled, his sister’s sensitive ears the only ones capable of catching his words. “If there was a breech and you were sucked out into space—”

“This outfit was a wedding gift from Grandma.”

That explained everything. If Makalu wasn’t publicly seen wearing her recent gift, Grandma would ensure everyone heard just how horrible a granddaughter she had.

Wen and Makalu had been married a little over three weeks before, and it was a strange thought to Zah, that his sister was now somebody’s wife. He doubted the Ravi would understand. Wen’s sister had married the Ravida before Wen had been born, and he had seen her in person maybe three times throughout his life.

Wen stopped, and before he could utter a warning, an ambush sprung. Those Wen had brought with him reacted without any spoken command, some pushing into the fray, others dropping back to defend their Ravi.

Wen caught Makalu’s arm and pulled her behind him. Zah followed, a spinning kick knocking a shooter from its master’s grasp. As his feet reunited with the floor, he jabbed two fingers into the reeling trooper’s stomach, angling up under his rib cage, and the man doubled over.

The trooper behind him fired, but Zah had already dropped to the ground, turning to see that Makalu was out of harm’s way. She crouched next to Wen, who looked barely conscious.

Chaos reigned. Zah could barely tell the troopers apart, dropping one by one around him, and the ones he knew, the ones he had called his friends, were the ones shooting at him.

Keeping low, he grabbed his sister’s wrist and ran. Makalu screamed at him to stop, to let go, but he pretended he didn’t hear her. He wove through the maze-like corridors and he made it around three corners before she resorted to falling over and lying there as dead weight.

“Get up, Makalu.” His eyes scanned the hall, ears sure a stampede of searchers would stream around every corner any moment now, though he couldn’t hear anything over his own heartbeat.

“How could you just abandon Wen like that?” Makalu hissed. “And you made me do the same.”

“They won’t hurt him.”

“But they did!” She wrenched free of his grasp.

“They won’t hurt a Ravi,” Zah repeated, “but if they catch me, they’ll kill me. I need to stay alive and free if I’m going to figure this out and fix whatever’s left before more terrible things happen.”

“Like what more terrible things?” Fear filled her entire expression but could not wipe away the firm set of her jaw.

Zah’s defiance responded, mirroring her expression. He knew they had the same curved shape to their face and shaded eyes, small nose and pouty lips. They were both petite, though Makalu’s figure was softer and more ample. They would not be easily mistaken for one another, but no one could deny they were related.

He shook his head, backing up a step. “Kimidjee is safer with those troopers. That’s all I’ll say. Hurry up, Lu.”

She didn’t budge. “I’m going back to Wen.”

Zah paused, then nodded. “You’re likely safer with the troopers, too.”

Her too-keen gaze flicked over him. Could she see the solemnity in his movements, the worry?

“What scares you so?”

He would not tell her of the nightmare that would have her be a widow, the monster that had turned his life upside-down in mere moments. She was a sheltered, fragile thing. Would she even understand?

“I need to find Defender Mesadu.”

***

There had to be a misunderstanding. It wasn’t right to turn troopers against one another. It was like what he saw the Refraction Leaders doing in their disputes: Skaelao versus Yakru or Atetu, or Atetu versus Amoya. They were all Napix. The conglomeration of descents among the troopers was a prime example of that. Wen would not divide them further.

As soon as he was sure Zah had left, he ordered his guard stand down. Fighting for consciousness, he surrendered in good faith, but they hadn’t been aiming at Zah. They had meant for the Ridduxe in their darts to incapacitate Wen, to steal his connection to the world.

Ridduxe was the worst of drugs for an Aylata. It attacked what in him was Magni and left him with less than what was not. For those as Magni as the Ravi, it was like dying slowly, cell by cell, lost and alone.

They had locked his limbs in cuffs, but he barely noticed. He tried hard to listen to those who spoke to him, to focus so he could figure out what was happening, but darkness beckoned to him. An empty chill threatened to swallow him. Its touch hurt, and he fought it.

He was losing.

Mesadu’s legion was small and close-knit. Wen understood that one of their three ships had failed, those on it gone with no battle, no warning. They had a recording of Wen’s likeness commanding that ship destroy itself. With their Defender incapacitated and their other Aylata dead or accused, outrage had turned this army into little better than a mob.

Wen knew he hadn’t done it, but that was all the rationality the darkness would allow him.

He had almost fallen completely into that void, its hands clawing at him, when the cuffs on his arms released.

He peered through barely open eyes to see Makalu’s worried face. How strange for her to be this close and he unable to feel her life-signature. Someone yelled at her in a threatening tone, but he didn’t focus enough on the words to understand them. No one dared touch her. Sereh, female of the Aylata race, were sacrosanct.

“Can you hear me, Wen?” She kissed his cheek. “They told me what they gave you, what they charged you with and why.”

“Framed,” he slurred, and a voice in the furthest depths of his mind whispered Zah’s name. Thus planted, the doubt grew rapidly, fertilized by the pain, towing anger, sharp, an anchor to focus his drowning thoughts. “Zah framed me,” he said, timbre gaining strength.

“No. Don’t dare think that. Be rational.”

He tried, but his head hurt. Every part of him hurt. As contradictory as it was, cold darkness formed a fire slowly eating away at him.

He closed his eyes, and she kissed him again, whispering close to his ear, “Our guard told me Zah warned you of a lightcurver. The lightcurver framed you, Wen, not my brother.”

“Your brother’s word is the only proof we have of this lightcurver,” Wen breathed. He knew she would hear him. It seemed she could hear even his most silent thought at times.

“Messengers always tell the truth,” she quoted.

“That’s not the case anymore. I doubt it was ever true.”

“It’s true to Zah.” Her grip on his hands tightened. He barely felt it. “You know it is. You know him.”

He heard the certainty in her tone, though the words were fuzzy and lost their meaning.

“I can’t think, Lu,” he sobbed, and she wrapped her arms around him.

“You’re shaking.”

He tried not to, but his mind was such a blurry mess. She was right there, and he couldn’t feel her. He couldn’t feel anything, only pain.

“Don’t let go, Lu,” he pleaded.

“I am your shadow. How can I leave you?”

Continued in Chapter 3: To See in the Dark

Thank you for reading!

The longer the computer left his query unanswered, the faster Zah ran. The corridors, ribbed cylinders with a flat ceiling and floor, curved to intersect one another at inconsistent intervals, forming a maze he knew as intimately as the sound of his own heart. If it would just tell him where Defender Mesadu was, he’d know where he was running to.

He hadn’t even bothered to ask about the teleporters. This flagship was large enough to merit having them, but if they had been operational, Wen would have used them earlier. He thought of his brother-in-law’s grimaced response when questioned about the interrogators and Zah leaving his cell.

“They were not in favor of it.”

He wouldn’t get an answer from the computer. Wen had probably disabled the teleporters and the internal positioning system.

The search parties could not use it to track him.

He couldn’t use it to find Mesadu either. He had to start somewhere. Might as well try the Defender’s quarters.

The sounds of his pursuers echoed—multiple parties, frantic, flustered, angry. He crossed one’s trail, alerted by the slightly warmer air and the mingled scents of individuals.

He was only a corner or two behind the group. He knew them, all of them. They had been assigned under his command for seven months of last year, every day working alongside one another, defending ungrateful miners from Tradafin pirates or worse. Surely this group didn’t think him capable of the horror heaped upon him. If he just spoke with them, then maybe…

Maybe they were still his team.

He missed his sys—the communication device worn by all legion members. With it, he could address them without giving away his position.

Its absence weighed upon him far more than just that. It represented a sense of belonging he could not feel now, the constant connectivity gone. He was alone, a wild animal relying on his senses. Prey.

True, his senses were a lot better than theirs, but he wanted to be on their side.

He was less than a corner behind his group, past the vacporters that would carry him to Mesadu’s deck. Nothing but clear air separated him from the search party, a straight shot down the hallway.

One of them, Sani, turned, and Zah stilled in the shadow of a thick, curved girder. Sani stopped. Then Shosa stopped, gaze tracing his comrade’s sightline.

Sani’s shooter rose. Zah retreated.

As he tore around the corner, exa-darters punched into the opposite wall—all shots from Sani’s automatic. Shosa didn’t waste shots. He fired once and hit his target.

Even around corners, Zah recalled, sprinting faster.

Sani’s unit wasn’t far behind. Their bellowed calls blended into a crazed chorus.

Such was the beauty of constant connectivity: Everyone instantly knew Sani’s unit had found Zah, and everyone instantly knew where Sani’s unit was.

Zah’s heart was a twisted, tattered rag. He had been the one to teach Sani to shoot accurately while running. The trooper had caught on gratefully, despite his initial protests that someone younger than him could have anything to teach. Aylata didn’t edify their skills. Or they weren’t supposed to, not to those considered beneath them.

As his mentor had explained, “You cannot teach the blind to see in the dark.”

Now the men he had trusted shot at him, hunting him down.

It blindsided him. He had no warning, hadn’t heard it, which was the kyax’s natural advantage. They were synonymous with silence.

One moment Zah ran, too worried about the troopers behind and ahead and in every corridor to take note of the desert predator. Then he was on the floor, the creature pinning him. Its forefeet pinched his shoulders with gleaming talons. He twisted in its grip. Its beak-tipped muzzle snapped shut within a hairsbreadth of his collarbone.

He kicked at its haunches, though his toes protested the beating wrought against its armor. Few of the kyax’s iridescent black feathers were visible beyond this man-applied coat. Their color matched the sands of the homeworld it had never seen.

The creature stared at him, and though he continued to struggle, he couldn’t look away. He felt every blow, every scratch, every twist and rip of his skin, but the scene felt somehow distant, as if he watched someone else battling for his life.

The common thread between Aylata and kyax shone in their chrysolite eyes, differently shaped and currently exuding a contrast of emotions, but of a similar shade—a hazy, golden emerald. Chrysolite was the theme color of the now dead planet Magni, a warning of its children’s strength and superiority.

The kyax’s slender hips fell under his blows. He fought to roll it over completely and tear free of its grasp. His scream reverberated through the gathering crowd.

He kept one hand on the creature’s lower jaw, keeping the hooked beak at bay, but the kyax’s tail thrashed, and it was more dangerous than beak or talons. The stinger on its tip and the poison it administered would turn his insides to mush. In the wild, the kyax would then whisk his melting carcass back to the nest to feed its beakless, talonless babies.

He did not fancy becoming baby food, now or ever.

The tail swung again, and he kicked at it. Scissoring it between his feet, he dragged it to the floor as his free hand stretched around the creature and reached for its ears. These hid atop its head in a pouf of feathers that looked like an updo gone wrong.

His hand never made it.

Someone grabbed his wrist and yanked him away from the kyax as another gave the beast’s release command. Zah scrambled to get his feet under him as fingers dug into his arms. Four troopers held him, and he screeched on behalf of his bloodied shoulders as he was forced to his knees, hoarse cries barely heard above the shouting mob.

Sani stood before him, leg-sized shooter aimed at Zah’s forehead. He stared at the hollow darkness of the weapon’s barrel, utterly still. Either Sani would shoot him here or they would drag him back to the interrogators.

Either would mean his end.

Shapes and shadows blurred as tears gathered in his eyes, but amidst the pounding of his heart, sound only sharpened—Sani yelling back at those yelling at him, some to fire, some insisting he not; the tamp of angry feet; the swoosh of gesturing arms; the sticky tap of Sani’s indecisive finger on the trigger.

As this last lingered, Zah threw himself to the right. A strategically placed kick in that direction brought down the captor he knew had an injured knee. This one’s collapse helped him drag the others off-balance. More kicks loosened their grasps. He heard the click of Sani’s trigger, followed by a near silent ping, then a shriek.

One of his captors had been hit, but Zah didn’t stop, didn’t look. He didn’t want to know.

He tore away and crashed into the wall as if flung from a catapult. The sealed hatch set into the partition was his goal, fingers scrambling over its touchscreen controls.

Before he could complete his request, the crowd hauled him back, his thrashing in vain. There were too many of them.

“Computer!” he called. “Open hatch Two-Seven-Seven!”

The number painted on the circular inset signified their precise location in this largest of Mesadu’s ships—not far above its belly, but almost the exact middle between nose and aft and either side.

This time, the computer answered. “Are you certain, Aylata Messenger?”

Annoying safeties that ensured no drastic command could be given on accident. But at least the machine acknowledged he had the authority to issue the command. None of the troopers of the rank surrounding him had that option. They couldn’t contradict his order.

Someone covered his mouth, and the crowd scrambled away from the hatch, but the computer heard his affirmative reply. The circle split into a dozen curved triangles and folded into the wall, leaving an open portal half as wide as Zah’s height.

The wind was instant and fierce. Like a mythical creature luring innocents to their doom, it tugged at those standing. Many dropped to the floor and grabbed at the hallway’s ribbing. Few hands remained on Zah, and he twisted free to run with the wind.

It would not allow him to stop, even as he neared the open hatch, doubt and fear doing their best to halt his progress.

The wind took him. He barely managed to tell the computer to close the hatch as he slipped through it.

This vast room was the heart of the ship, the engine core, meant to be accessed only when docked and cleared for maintenance or in the case of extreme emergencies. No gravity was applied, and what little air belonged in here wasn’t breathable. What had he been thinking?

That you needed to escape, you dolt, his sub-conscious chided, and it worked.

But I can’t breathe in here!

Not that suffocation was the quickest way to die in this room. It was simply the first to alert panic.

The breaths he had taken burned his lungs, but he refused to empty them. His eyes were cinched shut and still stung from the brightness. Electric streams formed a loosely woven tapestry, a web that if touched would end this quickly.

As he drifted near one, its searing power was a sharp contrast to the room’s cold. Pops speared his ears—the streams’ violent reaction to the hallway’s air. He moved like a swimmer, trying to direct his course between the strands. Even with his eyes closed, they possessed an alluring beauty, a buzz that danced across his skin, but already he was losing feeling.

The cold stabbed at him, clinging to his now-scabbed shoulders, his face, and exposed hands. His Adapt jacket would have offered some protection. Folded segments in the wrists and collar would have expanded to glove his hands and form a helmet with a small supply of air.

But he didn’t regret giving the jacket to Makalu.

Eyes cracked open and arms stiff, he lost all contact with his hands. In a shuddering cough, he expelled his captured breath, choking. His arms curled closer to his chest, as did his knees. A line of chrysolite blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and formed spheres. Their iridescent, peridot color shimmered like the streams.

This was a stupid way to die. Aylata were better than this. They were to be feared, respected, hailed, and mourned. They were often above the law, their essence a defiance of the concept ‘impossible.’

But Zah couldn’t move. His last breath was gone, and he felt nothing.

Someone grabbed the back of his shirt and towed him through the web of burning strands, deftly avoiding their oscillating touch. They dropped him on a hard floor, its metal warm against his frozen cheeks. The hand that checked his pulse was even warmer.

It must not have been satisfied with what it found because it left much too quickly, performing two firm jabs to his chest and stomach.

Zah gasped in a breath. He rolled onto his front, hands tingling as they tried to push him away from the floor. Small, retching coughs overtook him, and he fell as his savior rose.

A faint, sweet smell wafted from the folds of shadowy fabric that swathed this mystery. Feet encased in padded black boots walked past him. As Zah tried to move so his gaze could follow them, the figure they carried was blurry, cape waving farewell.

“Wait!”

The figure gave no indication of having heard him.

Nausea dared him to move again, slamming into him like ocean waves, relentless, rhythmic.

Zah closed his eyes and took deep, calming breaths. He wished his savior would return. It was nice to think someone would watch over him while he lay here for a few moments more, that an ally would keep harm at bay until he could get up again.

The obsidian peace of unconsciousness encompassed Zah from all sides like a slowly closing fist, and as he lay motionless, no one watched.

***

Makalu was gone, Wen realized, eyes snapping open. Instead of his wife, a trooper approached, kanaber in hand. Wen sat motionless and waited for this assailant to draw closer. The weapon’s laser blade was within a hand span of his re-bound arms before Wen lashed out, both feet tied together flying for the man’s throat.

The trooper was faster, a hand capturing Wen’s ankle and twisting. He flipped Wen onto his front and pressed an elbow into his back.

“I’m trying to help you!” the man hissed. The kanaber sliced through the restraints on Wen’s ankles with a sizzling pop, emphasizing the point.

Wen remained still, watching as his wrists were freed as well.

“Where is Makalu?” His narrowed eyes scrutinized this savior.

“Lady Kimidjee is calling Refraction Leader Nalavoy.” The soldier pulled Wen to his feet. No one else appeared to be around. “She was loath to leave you, but you will need his help. Until he arrives, you need to run, Ravi Kimidjee.”

Wen tried to concentrate on the man’s words, on his near expressionless face. The floor tilted back and forth like a small boat on an angry sea, but he got the impression he was the only one who could tell. He staggered though trying to do nothing more complicated than stand.

Ridduxe was not permanent. Of that, Wen was immensely grateful, but it sure did take an awfully long time to wear off.

“Go.” The soldier shoved at him.

This did nothing to help Wen’s balance, and he stumbled against the wall. His hands found nothing to catch on its smooth surface, but it was solid and calm. His Kinetics tugged at it, using it to orient himself, but the drug left his Talent far too weak to support his own weight in such a manner.

He did not flee as instructed, gaze locked on the one who wished him to go. With his hooded, deadpan eyes, harsh cheekbones, and dark fuzz he called hair, this trooper looked like Fanli, the leader of the guard Wen’s uncle had sent with him. He moved like Fanli, his limited range of expressions spot on. But his voice was somehow different—very, very close, but shallower. This man spoke with a precise approximation of the troopers’ accent, but it was just that, an imitation.

“You don’t have time to stand there gawking at me,” Not-Fanli growled with another shove.

Wen swiped at his wrists and managed to catch only one of them. “There’s something off about your life-signature.”

He wanted it to be Fanli, for this trusted guardian to tell him these inconsistencies were a result of his drug-induced confusion. Yet, it wasn’t Fanli’s eyes that glared at him now. These were the coldest, emptiest eyes Wen had ever seen. Though they were the same deep gray and sagging-oval shape as those of the guard he knew, they siphoned any hope lingering in the area.

Wen turned away, lost. It was still so hard to think, and he feared he hallucinated.

Not-Fanli grabbed Wen’s chin and forced him to turn back. His short nails burrowed into Wen’s cheeks. His voice was completely different now as he spoke, still low, but smooth and with a hissing lisp.

His words sent dread slinking down Wen’s spine. “You will run, little Ravi, because if you do not, they will come for you. They will kill you, and I will not stop them.”

Continued in Chapter 4: Madness is Contagious

Thank you for reading!

As he moved, Zah swore he heard his joints snapping like winter twigs. He was stiff, but he was alive.

He entered Mesadu’s quarters unchallenged. No guards or sentry. No doctor or med-aide either.

Odd. Last Zah had been updated, the Defender had been very ill. Mesadu didn’t have miraculous recoveries like Zah did, so even if he were perfectly fine now, the doctor still would have insisted on medical supervision.

Zah had really hoped the doctor would have something for his ravaged shoulders.

Beyond the furnished foyer and a small office was the Defender’s bedchamber, and this was where Zah found him.

Defender Mesadu was considered a handsome fellow with strong features and a broad smile to match his booming voice and compete with his heavy brows. He had a proud face and the physique to complement it.

He did not look proud now.

Dark bags under his eyes stored bruises. He was unnaturally pale, cheeks sunken. Unhealed puncture sites dotted his arms with further umbrage. His breaths were wheezy, shallow, and inconsistent. Unaware of Zah’s approach, he slept, though several times the long pauses between breaths let Zah believe he had come too late, that he had arrived just in time to see his Defender die.

He smelled of death already. Zah had only the minimum of required medical training, but in his professional opinion, he could already see Mesadu upon the funeral pyre, eternal wrappings almost complete.

The Defender’s heartbeat was so faint, Zah couldn’t hear it. Intent on finding a pulse, he took Mesadu’s arm and was assaulted with the words, “I hate you.” Eyes still closed, condition unchanged, but Mesadu was awake.

Zah smiled. “Hate is such a strong word. Let’s just say you don’t particularly like me.”

“Eenan?” The Defender gasped, eyes opening ever so slightly. “Zah Eenan, you’re alive?”

“More so than you at the moment. Please don’t look so shocked.”

Mesadu tried to sit up, head shaking in denial, but for all his effort, he accomplished little. “They told me all my Messengers were dead, but…was it all a trick? The school, then—”

“Gone.” With one hand keeping its grip on Mesadu’s arm and the other supporting his back, Zah helped him sit up. “I saw that happen. I got blamed for it. They told me…”

Zah stopped, words choking him. His too-acute eyes had witnessed the school’s destruction, and still he couldn’t believe it. Words gave it too much weight, condensed vapor and a hologram into solid walls. If he didn’t talk about it, maybe it could still be undone.

Numbers marched through his mind, seeking order and calm. An average of sixteen thousand Aylata born each year, a fifth of those belonging to Amoya. There had been at least twelve thousand boys at that school, every one of their murders pinned on him. How could he ever begin to atone for that?

Mesadu looked at him expectantly, but Zah could not yet bring himself to speak the names of the three other Messengers in this legion. Nor could he think of their bodies’ gory injuries as recited to him by the interrogators.

“They told me,” he said again, “the others were found slain, and they decided I must have done that, too. I haven’t seen them yet, alive or dead. Who told you?”

“The doctors. Same ones I meant to express my hatred for.”

“They still don’t know what’s wrong with you?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Zah realized that could have been phrased more eloquently, but what was said was said.

Fear prowled in Mesadu’s eyes. “No, and with every injection they give me, it only gets worse. I tell them to stop, but they keep coming back with more needles!” Coughs racked him, and Mesadu threw himself back on the pillows, eyes closed, jaw clenched. “I’m losing my mind!”

A stench in the Defender’s breath caught Zah’s attention.

“Where did they inject you last?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere on this arm,” Mesadu mumbled, right elbow flapping.

Zah caught the limb in question and inspected it, bringing his nose near the puncture marks that decorated the Defender’s inner wrist.

“That looks really weird,” Mesadu complained.

Zah paid him no heed. “It’s the same.”

“My arm is the same as what?”

“Not your arm. They injected you with the same reeking stuff the lightcurver tried to knock me out with in my cell.”

“That’s disturbing to hear. Please elaborate, Messenger.” He sounded beyond belief.

Zah shook his head. “You tell me first. What happened just before you took ill?”

“We were close to the Atetu border, meeting the transport that carried Lady Sarika.”

Zah knew that. Lady Sarika, High Defender Asheema’s daughter, was Mesadu’s lady of interest, and when her presence was imminent, Mesadu spoke of little else. Because of her father’s prestigious position and the fact that she belonged to another territory, their dates took considerable planning.

“Her arrival went well, and we ate dinner in my quarters. She was even more alluring than I’d ever seen her. I’ve always been told the most gorgeous Sereh come from Atetu.”

Zah rolled his eyes. Sure, tell me where the beautiful Sereh are.

Messenger genes were not worthy of being passed on. No Sereh would give Zah a second thought, and even if she did, he would never be allowed to take her.

“I passed out sometime during the meal, though I have no recollection of exactly when. I’ve been seeing things, hideous creatures, things that make sense only to one insane. She must think I’m completely mad.”

Lady Sarika had vanished. Their Defender had taken ill, and a Sereh, along with her entire entourage, had gone missing. The legion had panicked. On the advice of their doctor, they had rushed to the nearest dock, that of the Amoya school, and sought medical backup. And then…

“It wasn’t her,” Zah breathed.

“It wasn’t her that thinks I’m delusional?”

“You didn’t eat dinner with Lady Sarika. It was an illusion, her whole party was, a lightcurver in disguise. He poisoned you, then pretended to be the doctor to keep poisoning you, even as he got us to come here so I could be framed.”

“Wonderful. My madness is contagious.”

“It’s true. I’d bet my life it’s true.”

Mesadu looked at him with pitying eyes. “My madness now claims you’re about to get your head bashed in by an unidentifiable object.”

Zah rolled to the side. Where he had been, a metal-lined med-kit struck the mattress with a thunder-like clap. The case dented and burst open, spilling syringes and shattering glass vials.

“Plead no one takes you up on that bet, Messenger,” the familiar voice hissed.

The sound came from everywhere, but Zah’s gaze was drawn to the hideous figure that appeared between him and Mesadu. Its face and form were melting wax, but its eyes were the worst. Still whole and unaffected by whatever ailed the rest of the flesh, those eyes were just as dead, twice as cold, and they held Zah.

He scrambled back, heart thumping. Logic told him it wasn’t real, but that gaze felt like the filthiest of hands on him, like a curse he could never wash off.

The stench from the broken vials already made him feel lightheaded. Zah held his breath and closed his eyes. The lightcurver’s illusions could not distract him if he couldn’t see them. He let his ears be his sentries, his scouts. Mesadu had passed out, and the illusion before him was completely silent.

It was the breeze that gave his assailant away. Air pushed ahead of the lightcurver’s blow, and years of drills had an arm in place to block it before the thought even registered.

Zah struck back, first fist redirected, second slashing through empty air. Both hands retreated quickly, catching an arm swung at his neck, but the lightcurver was already airborne. He used the leverage of the hold to add power to his kick.

Zah flew, bounced off the wall, and landed in a heap on the floor. His ribs felt shattered, but he knew if that were the case, he would not have been able to gather in his arms and push himself up.

Maybe there was something broken. On hands and knees, eyes open, he couldn’t catch his breath, and a cough revealed a dark sprinkle of blood on the carpet.

The tamp of his adversary’s padded boots drew closer, the exact tread Zah had heard the last time he lay on the floor. He forced his feet under him, confusion a hot, swirling fog shimmying through him. The grotesque image hovered closer, still stabbing him with that gaze. It matched the released poison’s stench.

“You saved me in the engine core. Why?”

A sneer. “Because you need to die by the correct hand.”

Zah’s eyes avoided the apparition, focusing instead on a small refraction by the doorway. That was where the lightcurver would be, the scene tweaked as he hid in its light. He heard no more footfalls.

“You change your mind about Kimidjee then?” He would wait for the lightcurver to move, then he would charge, scooping up one of the syringes along the way. “Find him more dangerous than you bargained for?”

The voice sounded bored and still didn’t seem to come from any particular location. “I’ll let you form your own opinion of how dangerous Ravi Kimidjee is.”

Zah’s heart fell. “In the cell, when you said reciprocal, you didn’t mean you would kill Kimidjee. You meant Kimidjee would kill me.”

Something snapped tight around his left wrist.

But he hasn’t moved!

The distortion was still in place. Zah had heard nothing. Dread replaced confusion’s fog with boiling pools of oil.

I only hear him when he wants me to.

Zah’s right fist swung, but it, too, was captured, bonds recoiling so as to lock his arms together.

His right foot was not far behind his first attempted strike, crashing into a hip. His other foot cut in from the opposite direction and swept into ankles. The lightcurver fell, and by the restraints on his arms, Zah was yanked down with him.

As he hit the floor, the lightcurver was visible for only a moment. Zah grabbed one of the scattered syringes, but an unseen foot stomped on his wrists. Crying out, he kicked at his foe but found his ankles were also bound.

“It’s a shame, your cleverness,” the lightcurver lamented, “and I had hoped for something more useful from your chat with Mesadu. Instead you told him more than I would have liked.”

“So, I was right.” Zah strained against the bonds in hopes of getting at least one of his limbs free.

“You shouldn’t bet your life, Messenger. It has never belonged to you.”

His right leg pulled free of the restraint, and he lashed out. The lightcurver leapt back, visible yet again in his surprise.

Zah rolled into a crouch and stood. “It still makes no sense. What would make Kimidjee—”

A foot slammed into his stomach. The lightcurver had not appeared to move, but Zah doubled over.

Blinding pain exploded in his head as a second blow connected, this one just above his right ear, and Zah collapsed.

Continued in Chapter 5: All of This

Thank you for reading!

Both the Atetu and the Amoya believed in twin luck. It was said that together, the twins brought good fortune to all involved. If kept apart too long, the blessing dwindled and could even tip into misfortune. Should one twin die, disaster would follow.

Zah and Makalu were not the mascots some twins became, fretted over by an entire territory. Many even in their own family chose to ignore the existence of Makalu’s brother. All Aylata genetically less than sixty percent Magni were categorized as Messengers. Aylata were hybrids. It was great to be mostly Magni and a little Napix, but not so grand to be the reciprocal.

Makalu, however, while inheriting her Defender father’s Sensory Talent same as Zah, also exhibited her maternal grandfather’s more concentrated Magni genetics, making her Talent even more potent. People joked that they must have started out even, but in the womb Makalu had stolen Zah’s better genes.

These had gained her the attention of Wen’s mother and had led to her betrothal.

Makalu Kimidjee could hear the heartbeat of everyone in the room, every gulp, every blink. She could distinguish the scent of each individual, whom they had been around, what they had eaten last. But this had not helped her track where Wen had gone in time.

Her nose told her Wen, confused and still greatly impaired by the Ridduxe, had fled from a sweet-scented Zalerit. Wen had felt he was in great danger, but she had lost his trail. She had thought he might attempt to find Zah, but not like this.

She wished blindness rather than to see what she now saw.

Wen held a kanaber to Zah’s throat. The determined expression he wore was one she had seen him make a thousand times, yet it seemed foreign, especially with the kanaber’s glow highlighting it from below in whatever dim room he stood. He spoke, but she did not hear him. The screen she watched shook in her grasp, and her feet refused to carry her forward.

For her twin to die and Wen to be the one to end him? She could think of no greater disaster.

No, Wen, no! her heart screamed, but even with the most sensitive ears, he would not have heard her. She would not find where they were in time. She could do nothing.

“No,” she gasped aloud as she sunk to her knees.

She knew exactly when Zah regained consciousness.

***

The eyes haunted him. Disembodied and floating in a canvas of darkness, they were all he could see. They were the eyes of death itself, and they stared.

Zah gasped, awareness instant and shocking like a dive into a cold river. But his surroundings were not nearly so refreshing.

His arms were secured behind him, feet asleep, weight mostly on his knees. A hand gripped his nape, holding him upright, but the warmth suffused across his throat was the most alarming. This coupled with a kanaber’s sizzling buzz, and his knew exactly how close to death he stood.

He tried to control his breathing, to make it seem like he was still unconscious, but his heart refused to slow its pace. Its pounding echoed in his throbbing head, which he was sure had caved in like a melon mistaken for a ball in some game where kicking was involved. The melon in his imagination looked tasty but hardly intact, and its image did nothing to calm him.

He tried to think of numbers, seeking comfort in their structure and predictability. What were the chances he would die today?

No, that wasn’t calming.

The Zalerit’s too-sweet scent permeated the air. The high-pitched hum of recorders surrounded them, so this was being archived or broadcast.

Because you need to die by the correct hand, the lightcurver had said.

Zah now knew what he meant by that. Wen’s voice filled the room, and Zah’s surprise rose, weak and languid. What would make his friend do this? Was it some trick? Zah would trust the Ravi with his life if he asked, but he hadn’t asked.

“I claim the Ravida title,” Wen declared, “and as such, I exact justice from this traitor who has stolen so much from Amoya.”

“It wasn’t—” Zah started, but the movement brought his skin in contact with the kanaber.

He jerked back. Blood trickled down his neck from where the laser knife had bitten in, and chrysolite shimmered accusingly in the weapon’s light. He saw it on a lonely screen dutifully rendering every detail. It, an array of recorders, them, plain walls, and darkness. The small room held nothing else.

The cut burned, especially with the kanaber’s heat still so near. A hand tangled in his hair and yanked his head back, further exposing his throat.

Zah looked at the face of his captor. It appeared so much like Wen Kimidjee’s, he bet even Makalu would be fooled unless she were this close. But the eyes were the same as those in Zah’s nightmare. Cold. Eyes that had seen too much and saw little hope left, starving for it.

Where was the real Wen?

Move, I need to move, to fight!

But his slumbering legs refused to lift his weight.

Roll backward. Do it fast.

“Anyone who challenges my claim,” the illusion said, “will share this one’s fate.”

Zah’s back and shoulders curved, but the kanaber already sliced into his skin. Its fire devoured every thought and all other sensation.

A gurgling scream broke through, then faded like a hand sinking beneath merciless waves. Was it his own? It didn’t sound like him.

He kept his eyes on the impostor until the fire stole that image, too. All Zah had left were darkness and pain, and when they were done feasting, they also abandoned him.

***

Ridduxe’s effect had faded on Wen, but not enough. He was too slow, too late. As he kicked down the closet door within the Defender’s suite, the instant he had to take in the scene felt like a thousand years and he a statue unable to interfere.

The edge of a kanaber’s laser blade disappeared within Zah’s neck, and Wen’s outstretched hand did nothing. His Kinetic call was no more than a whisper, too weak to tear the weapon from its master’s grip.

Wen lunged, shoulder ramming the imposter’s side and fingers prying at his hand. They hit the carpet and rolled. Knees, elbows, and fists struck soft places. Fear bruised every blow, its tremors spreading through his body, but Wen refused to let it weaken his hold.

That fear had every right to be there. This was a lightcurver, the incarnation of evil, a being that could rival the power of Aylata, had already proven he could and would kill them, and Wen had him pinned for only an instant.

The monster’s knee cracked against Wen’s jaw. Stars and black blotches blossomed across his vision as his captive slithered free and reached for his dropped weapon.

Wen grabbed it first. He knew he did. Its cool metal handle pressed into his palm. Its electric signature hummed to his sleeping senses. But he couldn’t see it.

Instead, he saw his foe standing over him, kanaber in hand, blazing blade aimed at Wen’s heart.

It’s only an illusion.

The body had no signature.

It’s only light, but then, so is a kanaber’s blade.

It looked real, white light filling an invisible mold—finger-length, pointed tip, serrated edges. If it touched him, would it cut?

I can’t block it.

Beyond the figure, the clomp of running footsteps spilled through the door. The ping of a firing shooter repeated again and again, blending into a hiss like rain. Luminous darters passed through an unaffected target and chipped away at the thick back wall.

The illusion brightened.

“Stop!” Wen rolled closer to his guards, and the figure slid with him as if chained to his side. “He’s stealing the light from your ammo.”

A chuckle filled the small room. “Clever little Ravi. Listen to that fear in your voice. It has a certain music to it, don’t you think?”

Brandishing his rifle like a club, the closest soldier leapt at the illusion, but light was faster. Within the space of a blink, his weapon split in two. He hit the floor face-down, dark blood seeping from beneath his chest.

The illusion vanished.

Does that mean he used his one shot, or is that just what he wants me to believe?

Fanli’s unit surrounded Wen, five well-trained men, rifles hanging lax from straps around their shoulders, swapped for physical knives pulled from emergency pockets. The diminutive blades were not as effective as laser-lined weapons, held in reserve for situations like this.

Wen kept low. Their hands trembled like his. He was Aylata. His very presence should have inspired confidence. They shouldn’t have had to protect him.

Stupid Ridduxe!

Prodded awake by his thumping heart, his Talent reported his surroundings like a drunk trying to paint.

Concentrate. Where is he?

The soldier in front of him fell. Several blows exchanged before he hit the floor, his own knife in his heart. Visible as a bundle of black robes, their foe leapt at Wen.

Eyes closed, he felt Fanli knock the lightcurver aside. Through a blurry, undulating lens, he watched others turn too slowly.

Concentrate.

He called to their knives, pulling them faster. Like before, the monster turned his foe’s weapon against its wielder, and Wen shoved at it, narrowly avoiding Fanli’s chest.

As Wen opened his eyes, their enemy slipped away, leaving behind the vision of a melted body, but glowing chrysolite dripped down Fanli’s blade. Lightcurver blood.

Weight slammed into his chest and knocked him flat. He saw only billowing black robes and the stained knife aimed at his throat. Instinct screamed, and the most practiced aspect of his Talent responded.

Heeding his summons, electricity abandoned the array of recorders. He held the reins of a growling beast. Its tendrils slithered through his veins, dancing between the atoms that made up his blood.

He slammed his palm onto the floor, and lightning pounced on his foe. The lightcurver flew back, hit the carpet, and rolled to a stop, steaming.

As silence reclaimed the room, the smell of chemical smoke hung in the air. The carpet was burnt in some places, melted in others. Fanli straightened, as did his remaining men, tremors stilled and a confident grin appearing on one. They had their Ravi. Of course they won.

Wen did not rise, gaze on the Zalerit.

“A message from my master.” Stretched by a hissing lisp and cracked on every edge, the words bounced off the walls, disembodied and everywhere.

Holding his side, the lightcurver stood.

Fanli lifted another knife, but Wen flung an arm in front of him. “Let us hear it.”

“All of this is the message.”

A mocking smile warmed the statement. Before its echo faded, the lightcurver vanished.

Drained from using his Talent despite the Ridduxe, Wen could barely stand. At his elbow, Fanli steadied him, but a long gash on the soldier’s bicep soaked his sleeve.

Wen pulled away. “Call for med-aides. We’ve lost two. What about the Messenger?”

Zah lay unmoving on his side, facing the wall and the recorders. He did not respond to the soldier’s approach or touch. Wen caught the man’s sorrowed gaze. A subtle wag of the head answered his question.

Mimicking, the gesture, Wen collapsed.

Continued in Chapter 6: Scare the Dark

Thank you for reading!

Eleven days later, Mesadu’s two remaining ships were docked at Rinkla Station, Amoya’s capital. It was the first day of the Amoya-wide Honoring for those lost, a ceremonious affair for which Wen donned traditional Ravi attire and stood onstage alongside his uncle.

The fabric—white since he was Fifth Ravi, an odd number—took on a surreal glow under the bright lights. The robe-like outfit, with its black under layer and obsidian, silver embroidered belt and trimmings, was ancient, altered many times to fit the Ravi before him. Although the garment had been thoroughly washed, Makalu assured him it still smelled of those long gone.

Wen said he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

His very visible position was partially to show he was alive. Billions had watched him take on the lightcurver, but the recorders had cut out before the fight was over. And the clothes he wore signified he still considered himself a Ravi, not Ravida as the lightcurver had declared. Refraction Leader Nalavoy had made that fact public and clear very quickly. It stepped out of line with his carefully earned reputation of languidness.

Wen’s uncle was also known for lengthy speeches.

He said the name of each of the lives taken. Twelve thousand two hundred thirty-six Aylata boys, four thousand twenty-two others. His grandfatherly timbre and throaty accent somehow imbued honor and a last spark of life into the endless syllables. He spoke endearing tales and wove grandiose words that made Wen’s heart feel pinched in a vice.

Or at least, he said so when asked to comment.

The Refraction Leader spoke of Dal Mikka, who vowed never to forget his classmates for as long as he lived.

Lastly, he addressed Zah Eenan. The Messenger was innocent in this matter. He had done everything in his ability to uphold the interests of justice.

“To act in the presence of fear, be it reverential or terror, that is the measure of a Messenger,” Nalavoy concluded.

Standing before him, Zah tried very hard not to cry.

As customary for one exonerated, he thanked the Refraction Leader for his diligence and wisdom, voice smaller than the hidden microphone striving to catch it. But Nalavoy was not yet finished.

“In recognition of and appreciation for your audacity, Messenger Eenan, you will be reassigned to the Kimidjee household, where you will be exponential in guarding my grandnephews.”

Nalavoy looked pointedly at Wen as he said this, and a few in the crowd chuckled. Out of the corner of his eye, Zah saw Makalu blush several shades darker.

It was an odd thought. Only a slight difference in genetics, yet offspring were forbidden to Messengers, and Wen Kimidjee was all but required to pass his genes on.

Though, Refraction Leader Ruesh Nalavoy hadn’t, despite years of the public’s expectations.

As Zah rejoined the crowd, Makalu embraced him, wary of his recently broken rib. That had been the first of injuries to heal, but as his body was busy with all it attempted to mend, soreness still lurked in all the recent repairs.

“Wen warned me his uncle might say something like that in front of everyone,” she whispered, “but since I do not yet carry any grandnephews for His Royal Pushiness, Wen says you may stay with Mesadu’s legion for as long as he’s willing to put up with you.”

“Tell Wen thank you.”

“Tell him yourself. He wants to speak with you. Go sit by the cake table.”

Zah was grateful for the instruction. He hadn’t known where he should go. People seemed reluctant to be near him, and he felt lightheaded. The doctor had allowed him to come mostly because Nalavoy had granted no choice in that regard, but a med-aide flanked him at a discreet distance, and Zah had been advised not to stand for too long.

Cake sounded like a good idea, too.

He sat and watched the mingling crowd, counting them. Numbers helped keep him calm, took his mind off the burning nuisance that was his throat.

He wore a high-collared uniform. The Amoya insignia, a symmetrical gathering of chrome triangles descending in size and meant to resemble a snowflake, was pinned just to the right of his top button. The Messenger scarf that was supposed to drape over his left shoulder bunched so as to hide more of his neck, and the bandages were designed to match the deep gray of his skin anyway.

These last had numbing properties and traced the wound from just under his left ear and across his external carotid artery. This initial path had been deep and expertly curved. The rest of the cut, also bandaged and made when Wen tackled the lightcurver, was of inconsistent depth and swerved wildly on its way to his right shoulder, deepest point there at the end, more of a stab than a slice.

One of the med-aides had commented it was pure chance he hadn’t been decapitated.

Zah didn’t like him saying that.

Against the doctor’s advice, he had seen the recording. The doctor had been right. He shouldn’t have watched it.

The same med-aide who had made the inappropriate decapitation remark had asked if he wanted to see it again since the image could be spun to any angle.

Zah had thrown up on him.

Even without the video, he remembered it all too well—his skin splitting under the kanaber’s searing touch, those unblinking eyes forever frozen at that moment, neither condemning nor hateful, just empty. Then sound rushing back to him—his own racing heart, blood spilling onto the floor, his breaths gurgling. Heavy darkness pinning him. Shouting and antiseptic smells and too many hands and tools.

He felt all of it, and he feared he would never forget. He had a kanaber in his pocket now, standard issue. He didn’t think he would be able to turn it on without the memory overpowering him.

Wen slid into the chair across from him with a half grin. “You can officially consider yourself the most famous executed criminal alive today.”

“I’ll cherish the title.” He tried to sound lighthearted, but speaking hurt, and his words didn’t sound like him. He was healing, but his tongue felt clumsy and slurred most of his consonants, especially l’s and t’s. “Did you catch the lightcurver?”

Wen shook his head. “No. He’s very good at vanishing, though we did trace his path here all the way back to Yakru. Refraction Leader Donrul Quanko tried to tie him to our controversial new emperor.”

Zah had heard little of the political intrigues in the faraway capital. Somehow, the Second Ravi had been declared emperor, but that was not a position an Aylata could legally hold. It made no sense, so Zah let those people who could figure it out worry about it.

“At least the lightcurver failed.”

Wen shook his head. “I don’t think he did.”

“But you’re still alive,” Zah argued, adding mentally, We both are.

A drop of paranoia ran through his mind. What if this wasn’t Wen but the disguised lightcurver instead? He paid close attention to the details of his brother-in-law’s face, voice, scent, but detected no variant from the Wen Kimidjee he knew.

“I don’t think killing me was his objective, ultimately. I think he wanted to scare me,” Wen supposed, “and others. I think he wanted to show me what it would be like to be someone other than me, something other than Aylata, something always hunted, like him.”

Zah tried to acknowledge this with a nod, but the movement triggered a spasm of pain, so instead, he concentrated on remaining completely still, face carefully neutral.

Wen frowned. “You don’t look so good. Do you need the med-aide?”

“The lightcurver’s lessons are memorable,” Zah mumbled through a clenched jaw.

Beckoned closer by a wave from Wen, the med-aide knelt before Zah, checked his pulse at his wrist, and inspected his eyes. Zah didn’t move, staring at a dust mote on the wall behind Wen.

“I should take you back to the med-room.”

“No,” Zah breathed.

The med-aide looked to Wen for backup, and the Ravi questioned, “Are you sure?”

“I want to hear what you were saying.”

Wen’s half grin reappeared. “Aylata live in defiance of the concept ‘impossible,’ and often with the help of great med-aides. I’ll call you again if he needs you.”

With a bow, the med-aide retreated.

Zah looked at Wen expectantly. “Were you scared?”

“Weren’t you?” Wen’s pale eyebrows rose. “Fear is a powerful motivator, one he can still use. Killing me would have been…unprogressive. Atok Quanko would become Fifth Ravi, and he’s not an easy one to scare.”

Zah’s fingers subconsciously brushed the bandages on his neck. “I think that lightcurver could scare the dark if he put his mind to it.”

“Atok Quanko’s father is more of a nightmare than that lightcurver will ever be, which I think may be someone’s point.”

A moment of silence passed in which Zah dared insert nothing.

Wen cleared his throat. “Besides, I’ve heard Atok Quanko can kill with a glance. The lightcurver would much rather haunt me.” He sunk into contemplative silence.

Zah’s attention gravitated toward the cake. It smelled delicious, and his stomach mournfully questioned why he wasn’t eating any of it yet. It was sweetmilk cake, smooth and heavy, one of Makalu’s favorites. Being a hostess for this event, she had probably picked it out, and it would be delicious.

He started to get up, but Wen stopped him. “Whom do you think the lightcurver’s master is?”

“I don’t know many masterminds.” Zah’s shrug triggered another spasm, and he gritted his teeth, annoyed at the inconvenience. “Did someone say it was Ravi K’alaqk?”

“No. Refraction Leader Quanko implied it, but he has no proof, and I don’t believe him.”

Because you don’t like him. You did just call him the worst of nightmares.

“But it is suspicious.” Wen’s silver eyes fell to his hands. “The Ravida reportedly died of some unidentified disease, as did the former emperor. What if they were poisoned like Defender Mesadu? Now the Ravida’s last decrees will be even harder to challenge, including his unconventional choice for emperor.”

“You think the lightcurver or whomever he’s working for assassinated the Ravida because he wants Ravi K’alaqk to stay emperor?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Wen looked up, gaze steady, reassuring. He was a leader, even when at a loss. As Zah had thought before, he would entrust his life to this Ravi. All Wen had to do was ask.

Zah sat forward, feeling like everyone was listening. “What do we do now?”

“We move on. We live. We fill the roles that need filling because tomorrow will come whether we’re awake to see it or not.”

Zah wasn’t sure he liked this ‘filling a role’ business. The lightcurver had played them, might still be playing them, and he didn’t like to be thought of as a piece in someone else’s game.

Yet, he admitted, it was a lot better than being dead.

~END~

Thank you so much for reading Measure of a Messenger, the first companion novella of the RALI series!

The events of this story take place within the timeframe of book 1, Renegade. If you haven't already, check it out. If you've already done that, the tale continues in Alliance, book 2, but don’t miss the other series companion novella, Stranger Skin.

Renegade link: https://theprose.com/book/1466/renegade-rali-bk-1

Stranger Skin link: https://theprose.com/book/1668/stranger-skin-a-rali-novella

Alliance link: https://theprose.com/book/1714/alliance-rali-bk-2