Measure of a Messenger ch 6: Scare the Dark

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