Veil of Shadows (16 page)

Morne gritted his teeth as the lingering effects of the pulsar’s blast tore through him. It burned like hell—agony that tore at every last nerve ending, fire that buzzed through his veins. Digging one hand into the earth, he rode through the pain and emerged from its grip in time to see the other Warlord still fighting it.

Taking a full-body blast was less than pleasant, to put it mildly. He knew he’d be feeling the lingering numbness and alternating chills for the next several hours. He could do nothing to ease his own pain, though. Healers rarely had much effect on their own injuries—he could direct energy to serious wounds, enough to slow bleeding and possibly save his life, but that would do nothing for this sort of pain.

He could function through it, though, and it was the only reason he still lived. Dais wouldn’t have forgotten that detail. Sucking in a deep breath of air, he shoved himself upright and managed to draw his own pulsar within seconds of hitting the ground. Clutching his weapon in a sweaty grip, he managed to shove himself upright, keeping watch.

Dais—what if he lingered? If ever he would have a chance to kill Morne, it was now.

With his free hand, he dug his fingers deep into the earth and asked,
Where . . . ?

The answer came to him in a rush of images, and as his mind processed them, Morne sagged, torn between relief and disgust. Dais was fleeing. He wasn’t a foolish man—he hadn’t lingered to see if his gamble had paid off. Morne had dealt with enough blasts that he could focus past the pain, at least enough to disable the treacherous bastard. If he had lingered, Morne would have found a way to kill him.

The fuck had eluded him once again.

The pain cleared enough for him to shove himself to his feet. Giving the other man a disgusted glare, he braced his weight against the nearest tree trunk. Still holding his pulsar, he waited.

“You could have gotten all three of you killed.”

Syn stood before the commander with her hands linked behind her back, staring straight ahead.

In the back of her mind, there was a mix of relief, guilt and exhilaration.

But she didn’t let any of it show on her face.

Kalen was beyond pissed, and if he had any idea that part of her was figuratively rubbing her hands together in glee, he’d only rail at her for that much longer.

As it was, she’d been confined to quarters for the remainder of the day while he seethed. It wasn’t just her, though. Lee was also confined to her quarters, and Elina was confined to a bunk in the medicon. She was under observation—the medics didn’t seem overly worried, but head injuries were chancy things.

Of course, if they hadn’t been interrupted the way they had, Elina wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all. Lo had found them first and he’d panicked, striking Elina the same way he’d struck Syn back when she’d almost gotten lost in the energy maelstrom. Knocking her out had cut the connection.

Of course, there hadn’t been any danger for Elina, and Lo had given her a concussion for no good reason. But somehow Syn doubted Kalen would appreciate her pointing that out.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Cutting her gaze to meet his, Syn inclined her head. “Nothing that you would care to hear, Commander.”

It had been a long time since the two of them acted like commander and subordinate . They were comrades—friends. He was Lee’s husband. He was one of Syn’s dearest friends.

But right now, he couldn’t act like the frightened friend, a horrified husband. She could understand that. And even though it was hard to keep quiet, she understood his fear, and she understood his position.

She also understood her own, and she couldn’t very well expect those under her to treat her with respect if she couldn’t show it to the commander.

So she kept the words behind her teeth. Or rather, that was her intention.

He glared at her, his silver eyes flashing. “I want an answer, Captain Caar. I don’t give a bloody damn if it’s one I want to hear or not. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Syn looked away.

Kalen rarely yelled. He didn’t need to. His anger was like a cold blade, and now was no different. He advanced on Syn and she stiffened her spine, met his gaze dead-on. “Captain?”

“You want to know what I have to say for myself?” Syn narrowed her eyes at him. Spinning away from him, she stalked over to the window and stared outside. The paths were empty and the common area she could see was empty. Considering how early in the evening it was, that was rather unusual.

Except it made perfect sense.

Every last soul in the camp probably knew what happened and every last one of them knew that Kalen wasn’t going to react well. They were keeping out of the line of fire.

Smart.

Looking at Kalen over her shoulder, she said flatly, “It worked.”

Kalen slashed through the air with his hand and growled, “I don’t
care
if it worked. I said
no magic
. That means
no fucking magic
.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Syn responded. “You’re not the one who has to live with it. You’re not the one who is dying inside from that damned edict.”

His silvery eyes turned to winter ice and he shook his head. “Don’t, Captain. You know damn well I understand how hard—”

“No.” She turned back to face him and crossed her arms over her chest, fighting the chill that had lived inside her ever since the day she realized she couldn’t use her magic anymore. “You don’t understand, Kalen, because it doesn’t touch
you
. You don’t understand, because you’ve never been where we are, and even though I know you sympathize, it’s not enough. Sympathy doesn’t equate understanding, Kalen.”

A muscle jerked in his jaw. “I know this is hard.”

“Hard?” Syn shoved a hand through her hair. With a humorless laugh, she said, “You know this is
hard
? Kalen, this isn’t hard—this is like dying inside.”

“You think I haven’t thought about that?” he snarled. He spun away from her and stalked over to stand by the narrow table she used as her desk. He braced his hands on it, stood with his head bent low. “You think I can’t see how hollow this leaves you? How hollow it leaves my
wife
? Lee is suffering the same way you are—dying inside, bit by bit. That woman is my heart—my soul. When she suffers, I suffer. So don’t
tell
me that I don’t know how hard it is. I damn well do.”

“No.” Syn shook her head.

He straightened and turned to look at her.

“You don’t know, Kalen. You
can’t
. Both of us have gifts, but psychics grow into theirs. It comes with puberty, or it comes with trauma. You grow into it—like you learn how to use a pulsar.” She gestured to the weapon at his side. He was never without it, at least not that she’d seen. She imagined it was close to his hand even as he slept. “And I know that weapon feels like part of you. But magic
is
part of the witches. It’s who we are. It’s
what
we are. And now we’re not supposed to use it, and it leaves us feeling splintered inside. Broken. I’m not
me
right now, Kalen. The only time I feel complete . . .”

She cut her words off, blushing even as she realized she’d been about to share some very, very personal details with her very pissed-off commander.

“Kalen, I am sorry that we went behind your back,” she said, once more turning to stare out the window. “But whether you like it or not, we had no choice. We cannot just wait and see. We can’t. It leaves us weaker, it leaves us confused and it leaves us uncertain. And bit by bit, it’s killing us. We’re hemorrhaging, Kalen. We’re dying inside.”

She slid a look at him over her shoulder and asked, “Is that really what you want from those you’ve chosen to help lead this army? Is that really what you want for your wife?”

“Damn it, Syn.” He gave her a disgusted look. “That’s a low blow, and you well know it.”

She did. But it was also a calculated one. Whatever it took to win, that was how Syn fought. That was how she survived. Fairness didn’t play into it.

“You can’t expect us to wait forever. It’s been two months, Kalen. We had to do something—we can’t stay crippled like this. And it’s damned cruel, damned unfair for you to expect us to, just at your say-so.”

The commander’s mouth twisted in a snarl and he stalked toward the door. “You broke orders, Syn. Don’t expect me to forget that.”

“I’m sure you won’t. But if you would be a little more reasonable when it came to discussing the problems your witches have, it wouldn’t have been necessary.”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “I’ve tried discussing these problems, Syn. Remember?”

“I remember the one meeting we’ve had since you passed the no-magic rule, Kalen. All you did was shut it down without evening listening to what any of us had to say. That’s
not
discussing the problems. It’s ignoring them.”

She looked away from him and continued to stare out the window.

Even when the door slammed shut behind him, hard enough that the windows rattled, she continued to stare outside at absolutely nothing.

“Should have known better.”

Morne cocked a brow as the Warlord forced an eyelid open and managed to glare at him.

“Regarding . . . ?”

“You. Dressed like a damned primitive, yet you speak my tongue. Shouldn’t have trusted you.” He forced his other eye open and then shoved over onto his back, staring up at Morne.

His face was impassive, but Morne imagined he knew what the man was doing. Taking mental stock—could he fight? Could he run? Could he even
move
? Not well, at least not for a few more minutes. Leveling his pulsar at the man’s prone figure, he said, “The effects will linger for some time. If I see you so much as twitch a finger, I finish the job.”

“Then finish it already, but if you do, you’ll get to know a Warlord’s vengeance, personally.”

“I understand it personally already. I lay claim to nothing not rightfully mine.” Morne’s mouth quirked in a smile. He studied the Warlord. Despite himself, he was curious. “What is your line?”

Surprise flickered in the man’s eyes. “My line?”

His voice was impassive, but Morne sensed his surprise. “I’m a blood-son of the Ramire line, from the High City.” In Anqar, blood-sons were the direct patriarchal descendants. If the matriarchal ancestors were higher in their society, one would claim a pledge-son.

In Anqar, power was all.

Whichever familial line yielded the most power was the familial line a Warlord lay claim to.

“So you claimed. But again, I question the truth of your words,
Ramire
.” The Warlord’s eyes narrowed. He scrutinized Morne from the top of his head to his feet and then shook his head. “There is only one blood-son to the Ramire line in the High City and he cannot lay claim to a Warlord’s vengeance. You’re not him, either.”

“No.” Morne’s mouth twisted as grief ripped through him. “He was my brother. He lies dead because of that bastard’s treachery—his blood is mine.”

One thing that killed curiosity damn fast—grief. As it settled inside him, Morne found himself unconcerned with this man’s line. He holstered his pulsar and shoved away from the tree. His body reacted well enough. Minor weakness remained but it was nothing that would slow him much. “Dais Bogler is mine, and I’ll gut the Warlord who dares interfere.”

He caught sight of the dead Sirvani lying nearby and he paused. “Best bury that body or get gone before the sun falls. The predators in these woods care little if there is a pulse or not. To them, meat is meat.”