Measure of a Messenger ch 5: All of This

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!