To Whatever End (Echoes of Imara Book 1) (24 page)

“How?” he asked in a half whisper, as if he wasn’t certain he wanted to know.

“I Reached into his chest and found his heart. I wrapped my Energy around it and I squeezed.” She looked up and met Rogan’s eyes. “I gripped it with Pressure until it burst. I could feel the blood pour out and drain into his chest. It felt like it was all over me, like my hands should be covered in it.”

Rogan’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide. He stepped backward. “Oh gods, Cecily,” he whispered. He put his hand to his mouth and turned away. Cecily stared at the floor, trembling. The enormity of her admission stunned her into silence.

He turned back to face her. “There’s no shame in what you did,” he said, his voice firm. “It was war. We all did what had to be done. It is as simple as that.”

“For the good of the kingdom,” she said.

Rogan nodded. “Yes, exactly. For the good of the kingdom.”

Cecily shook her head, a slow back and forth motion. She broke her gaze from the floor and looked up at her king. “I didn’t do it for the good of the kingdom. I did it because I knew if Hadran lived to draw one more breath, he would call for his guards. And I knew Daro was in the hallway, just outside. If the guards came, there was no way he would get out alive. I didn’t kill Hadran to make you king, or to save our kingdom. I killed him to save Daro.”

Rogan stared at her, his mouth open. His face softened and some of the warmth returned to his eyes. He almost looked like the man she remembered.

“There was a time I would have followed you anywhere,” she said. Her chest felt tight and her hands still trembled. “The only thing you need to do now is stay out of my way.”

She spun around, walked to the door, and threw it open. The two guards outside had to stumble out of the way. Mira and Alastair both waited outside, but she ignored them and strode down the hallway without a word.

***

Cecily sat at Callum’s table in the Ale Stone and folded her hands in front of her. She sat up straight, her shoulders relaxed and eyes clear. She had found one of Callum’s young messengers and sent him off with a folded note, telling Callum to meet her. The buzz of a dozen conversations hovered in the air, an occasional voice carrying over the din. A pair of men sat nearby, tossing cards onto the table, pushing around small piles of coins. It seemed to Cecily they kept passing the same stack of coins back and forth as each won the next hand.

Callum arrived, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, and dropped into a chair. “I’m surprised you’re back so soon. What did our magnanimous king have to say for himself?”

Cecily’s voice was crisp, her mind resolved. “Nothing worth repeating. Whoever Nihil is, he does indeed have Daro. Now we just have to find out where they are.”

“Rogan didn’t know?”

“No. Rogan’s been lying to cover his tracks, but I don’t think he was lying about that. It’s up to us, now.”

One corner of Callum’s mouth curled in a smirk and he raised his eyebrows. “What’d you do to him?”

“Nothing.” Callum’s face sank with disappointment. “Believe me, part of me wanted to. But I thought it best I get out of the palace today. I can’t help Daro if I’m stuck on the sharp end of a spear.”

“Fair point. Okay, you tell me. What’s our move?”

“You were already on the right track. We find out where the smugglers are taking their shipments, we find Nihil. The question is, how do we do that?”

He raised a finger and pointed at her. “That I can help you with. I have reason to believe a certain Guildmaster is taking bribes to turn a blind eye to their shipments and let them in through the river.” He paused and brushed his hair from his eyes. “We’re going to have to go in, and his estate will be guarded. You sure you’re up for this?”

Her lips turned up in a smile that held no warmth. “Absolutely.”

24. FINDING CONTROL

The brisk air in the courtyard made Number One’s skin prickle. He sat on a slab of stone and the cold soaked in through his pants. The air smelled wet with recent rain, the plants drinking it up eagerly, as the moss and ferns spread through the cracks in the stone. He resisted the sudden urge to remove his mask and let the cold air brush his face.

He plucked a fern frond and trailed his fingers across the leaf to feel the life pulsing through the plant. It was almost warm against his cold touch. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then turned back to the leaf. It began to wilt as the ends of each frond curled toward the center, turning brown and dry. He felt the plant’s energy trickle into him, a tiny green line that seeped into his body. He pulled more and a crackling frost spread over the leaf as he took its heat. He crumpled it in his hand, and the frosted, dead leaf disintegrated between his fingers, falling like dust to the cobblestones below.

The others milled about the cobblestone courtyard, all dressed as he was, in black with masked faces. A few practiced with weapons. They slashed at each other with swords or shot targets with arrows. Number Four sat cross-legged on the ground, picking up small stones. He squeezed them until they glowed red hot, then threw them into a puddle. They hissed as they hit the water, curls of steam rising into the air, then popped with a loud crack. Number Six stood with his back to the others and ran his hands up and down a thick bramble that trailed along the wall. Number One watched as he coaxed it higher. The vines grew thick as he ran his hands up and down the plant. The thorns grew, black spikes protruding from the thickening vines, and the largest ones leaked a glistening drop of liquid from their tips. He dabbed the liquid with his finger and plucked the largest thorns, twisting them until they broke free, and collected them in a pouch.

Number One stood at the sound of footsteps behind him. Sindre sauntered toward him, her predatory eyes shining in the gray daylight. He saw Sindre less and less as time went on, but the sight of her always made his implant tingle. The others all stopped what they were doing and watched as she led a tall man, masked and dressed in black as they all were, toward Number One.

The man stopped as Sindre did, halting a few steps behind her. His eyes darted around the courtyard and his hands twitched at his sides. The other subjects began to meander toward her; Sindre drew them like a warm fire on a freezing night.

Number One peered at the man. He was well over a head taller than Sindre, his wide shoulders dwarfing the woman. As he looked carefully, Number One could see swirling colors in the man’s eyes, silver mixed with streaks of brown and blue. Silver. This was him, then.

“Number One,” Sindre said, her voice a purr that sent shivers down his spine, “this is Number Fourteen. It is Nihil’s wish that you work with him, help him to harness and utilize his new abilities.” She turned to Number Fourteen. His hands twitched and his eyes flicked from Sindre to Number One. “I am leaving you in the hands of Number One. I will return for you later.”

Number Fourteen nodded, and his eyes followed her as she left the courtyard through one of the large wooden doors. The rest of the subjects watched her leave, pausing as she walked past. As the doors closed behind her, they drifted back to their tasks. Fourteen’s gaze swung back to Number One and he stood silently, fingers twitching at his sides.

Number One’s mind brimmed with curiosity. This was the man Nihil had sent him after; the one traveling with the woman. Something about her had tickled his memory, but he shoved that feeling down before he could give a name to her face. Memories were too dangerous.

He stared at the man’s eyes. He could tell he’d been to see Nihil more than once, although it was hard to tell how many times he had been forced to lay his hands on the stone. Three, perhaps four? A twinge of sympathy struck him; such a foreign feeling. He searched it, stretched it out and prodded it, considering what it meant to feel such a thing for another person. It had been a long time since he had such an experience. Certainly none of Nihil’s other subjects ever engendered such a response. Why was he feeling such a strange emotion for this newcomer?

Number Fourteen’s eyes darted around the courtyard again, flicking toward the others.

“It’s okay,” Number One said. “They’ll leave us alone for a time. She isn’t watching.”

Fourteen’s eyes turned back to Number One. He glanced over his shoulder again before he nodded.

“Sit down,” Number One said. “We should see what they’ve done with you.”

Fourteen sat on the stone bench, in front of the cracked and broken fountain. Number One sat next to him and wondered how he should approach this man. He had helped with most of Nihil’s other subjects, teaching them to wrestle with the effects of Nihil’s work. He had been the first to survive the process and Nihil had labeled him Number One. More had followed; most died, usually after going mad. Those that survived with their minds more or less intact were given a number as he had been. Number One was often instructed to help these subjects, working with them to gain mastery of their new endowments, and the madness that threatened to overtake them.

He leaned toward Fourteen and felt the heat emanating from him. It came in waves, sheets of energy surging through the man. Number One tingled at the possibility of it. He could see why Nihil had been excited about this one.

“How do you feel?” Number One asked. Fourteen spread his hands, palms up, and looked down at them. He seemed to want to speak, but remained silent. “I can help you.”

“I haven’t spoken to anyone in so long,” Fourteen said, his voice quiet.

How long has he been here?
Number One had stopped counting the days a long time ago, so he wasn’t always sure of the passage of time. But it had to have been months. He looked up at the grey sky, the steely clouds low and threatening rain. The air was cold, coming close to freezing. Late fall, almost winter. Had it been late summer when Fourteen had arrived? That felt right. That little sliver of sympathy curled open, if only a touch.

“Sindre isn’t much of a conversationalist,” he said. Sindre was a difficult topic amongst the other subjects. A few seemed to hate her, but their deep-seated fear kept them quiet. Most developed a twisted sort of love for her. One of them had even tried to kill another subject once, simply for mentioning her by name. Granted, he had died soon after, the madness too much for his mind to bear. But Number One had never understood those who grew to love her so. His hatred for Sindre burned hot, deep within his chest. The only time his dreams didn’t descend into nightmares were the nights he dreamt of killing her, sucking the life out of her and watching her body wither away to nothing. As he always did, he pushed those thoughts away quickly, fear always winning out over hatred. He reached back and scratched the skin around his implant.

Fourteen looked up at him. His wariness seemed to be melting. It was hard to see much through the mask, but his eyes softened. “No, she isn’t.”

“You don’t have to fear me,” Number One said. “They put us together so I can help you.”

“I still don’t understand why I’m here. My wife…”

“No!” Number One said and held his hand up to stop him. “No, don’t talk about that. Believe me, it will be better if you accept things the way they are. It’s easier that way.” Fourteen’s eyes narrowed, tension showing in his arms and shoulders. Number One leaned away. He didn’t know what Nihil had done to this one. He would have to tread lightly, not risk angering him. Better to build trust first. It wouldn’t be the first time Number One had been attacked by another subject. “What Nihil has been doing, it will change things,” he said, hoping to shift the subject. “What sort of Wielder were you when you came here?”

“I’m not a Wielder.”

Number One paused to look at him carefully. Not a Wielder? All Nihil’s subjects were Wielders. “A Shaper, then?”

“No.”

This was unusual. Number One looked down. Fourteen pressed his hands into the bench and the stone crumbled beneath his fingers. Bits of rock rattled to the ground.

Fourteen pulled his hands up quickly, leaving finger-shaped cracks in the bench. He looked at his hands, turning them over in front of him. “I keep breaking things without meaning to.” His voice was troubled and he rubbed his eyes with a sharp exhale. “I’m losing my mind.”

“If you do go mad, you won’t be the first,” Number One answered. Fourteen’s face jerked toward him and Number One shrugged. “Dealing with the madness isn’t easy, but it can be done. Embrace it. Embrace the chaos, embrace the pain. Own them, and they will no longer own you.”

He grabbed a piece of rock from the ground and handed it to Fourteen. The man hesitated, then reached out with a shaking hand. Number One dropped the stone into his hand and continued. “You need to learn control. You have to take all that energy swirling inside of you and focus it, use it. Hold the rock, but don’t break it yet.”

Fourteen gripped the rock and held it out in front of him. Number One watched as dust leaked from his fingers and small bits of stone scattered to the ground.

“Slow down,” Number One said. The pulses of energy coming off Fourteen were palpable. “Slow your breathing, and regain control.”

Fourteen gripped what was left of the stone and threw it against the far wall. It hit with a crack and shattered, shards of rock flying. The other subjects looked over. Several started to walk toward them, but Number One put his hand up to keep them back.