Outcaste

  “I think that one is true.”

  “It’s another symptom. Feeling estranged from loved ones, believing they cannot understand—Rahel had it.”

  “That rumor didn’t start until after the battle.” Razine made a soft noise of recognition. “I’ll be slapped with a wet grainstem. This lines up. If Satran is correct, then we almost lost our government, our Lancer, and our treaty with the Protectorate to an undiagnosed illness.”

  “And Shantu lost everything. Even his name.”

  “Goddess above, what a tragic mess.”

  Salomen leaned over the desk and rested her hand on the reader card. “This is another tragic mess in the making. The Lead Templar and I want to stop it. I need your help to do that.”

  Colonel Razine studied her for several pipticks, then gave a short nod. “I’m guessing you came here with a plan, Bondlancer. What is it?”

  Salomen left Colonel Razine’s office with a spring in her step, then stopped dead in the anteroom. Ronlin wasn’t there.

  Fianna was.

  “Well met, Salomen,” she said.

  The informal address, here in this anteroom, was an entire message in itself.

  Salomen’s first impulse was to walk past her and keep going. But Razine’s aide was right there, pretending not to be interested, and she already knew how good the colonel was at gathering information.

  “Where is Ronlin?” she asked instead.

  “I offered to take over. He said you were planning a trail walk, and I’ve . . . been craving one.”

  “Come on, then.”

  Salomen did not utter another word as they walked to the lift, rode it down, and exited the building. Nor did she speak while they crossed the base and stepped onto the trail at the northeast corner. If Fianna had something to say, she could damn well say it. Salomen was not going to make it easy on her.

  They were a full length into the forest before Fianna finally spoke.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?” Salomen asked lightly. “Running away? Abandoning me when I needed you the most? Breaking a friendship the first time it wasn’t easy? Your shekking cowardice?”

  Her voice cracked on the last word, and she turned away, not wanting to appear weak.

  “All of them.” Fianna’s voice didn’t sound steady, either. “Probably more you haven’t mentioned.”

  “What brought you to this late conclusion? It’s been five days, Fianna.”

  “That’s how long it took me to confess my cowardice to Lanaril.”

  Salomen stopped and faced her. Fianna looked tense but offered a tiny, hopeful smile.

  “You haven’t spoken to Lanaril in all this time?”

  She shook her head. “Not about this. She’s been . . . busy.”

  “Fahla, you’re an idiot.”

  “I know. I have a lot to make up for. But she helped me understand why I ran.”

  “Well, I am certainly eager to hear it.”

  “I, ah, I won’t be as good at explaining this as Lanaril.” Fianna shoved her hands into her trouser pockets and stared off into the trees behind Salomen. “All my life, I’ve been the strongest empath I know. Everyone else had to trust me to not abuse my powers, and I never questioned that because . . . that’s how it was. Right?”

  She briefly met Salomen’s eyes before swallowing hard and pushing on. “Then suddenly I wasn’t the strongest anymore. I couldn’t even stand up against you. Ronlin said your powers can’t be measured and I . . . didn’t know how to be that other kind of person.”

  “The kind who had to trust,” Salomen said.

  Fianna gave a miserable nod. “It wasn’t really about you—”

  “What a steaming pile of dokshin. Of course it was about me! I’m the one you wouldn’t trust!”

  “No,” Fianna pleaded. “I’m the one who had to learn that . . . that I’m not the best at something I always thought I was best at.”

  The biting words evaporated in Salomen’s throat.

  “I’ve never felt anything like what you did. I guess I’m not used to being helpless.” Her chuckle held no humor. “I have more respect for low and mid empaths these days. They live with that knowledge all the time, don’t they? They have to trust us, because they can’t stop us. And I can’t stop you. I, ah, didn’t handle that well. I’m sorry.”

  There was no sound but the breeze in the treetops. Salomen thought she should feel vindicated, or at least some closure, but all she felt was empty.

  “What I did to you was an accident,” she said, remembering Ronlin’s story. “What I did to Rahel was intentional. Part of me really did mean to kill her. Yet you ran, while she trusted me the very next day.”

  “How can you trust her?”

  That was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Don’t. You don’t have the right to ask. But I’ll tell you this: if it wouldn’t be such a bad fit with my Guards, and if I didn’t know that Andira will probably never stop wanting to kill her, I would want Rahel in my service. Because I know for a fact that when she gives her loyalty, nothing on Alsea can shake it.”

  Fianna’s mouth tightened. “I guess I’ve really shekked up when you’re comparing me unfavorably with a criminal.”

  “Don’t judge what you don’t understand,” Salomen snapped. “Seems to me that’s been your problem all along. Why are you here now? What changed? You were gone so long that I gave up on you.” It wasn’t true, but she was hurt and lashing out.

  And it worked. Fianna was visibly shaken as she admitted, “Lancer Tal knocked some sense into me.”

  Salomen stared at her. “Yesterday. Just before she came home. She was furious with someone; Fahla, I’ve only felt her like that once before. That was you?” At Fianna’s nod, she turned around, too angry to look at her. “So you’re here because Andira broke her promise and you’re worried about your career. How can you possibly think that will work?”

  “I’m not worried about my career.”

  Salomen made an inelegant snort of disbelief.

  “Lancer Tal called me afterward. She apologized and said I’m her Lead Guard regardless of my relationship with you. And then I went to see Lanaril, and she has a nicer way of saying You’re a dokker’s ass than anyone I know, but that’s what I’ve been, and that’s why I’m here. Because I’ve missed you.”

  Salomen had missed her too, so much that she couldn’t say it.

  “Fahla on a funstick,” Fianna said, her voice low and urgent. “Salomen, look up.”

  Without thinking, Salomen did as asked and then cursed herself for still trusting after all this. “At what?” she said shortly.

  Fianna moved up against her back.

  “There,” came the whisper right into her ear. “Third tree on the left, second fork from the ground. Do you see it?”

  Salomen followed the directions and forgot her anger at the sight of the silver bird sitting on the branch, its two enormously long outer tail feathers trailing behind it. “Is that—?”

  She gasped when the emotions hit her senses at full strength. Fianna had dropped her front, offering the gift of herself with no protective guards.

  “A bellbird,” Fianna confirmed. “After all this time, we finally found it.”

  The bellbird raised its crest, a vivid blue ruff that matched the color spots at the end of its two decorative tail feathers, then opened its beak and sang. The pure notes poured out, ringing through the forest as if produced by a creature ten times larger, and Salomen ached from the sheer beauty of it.

  “Salomen,” Fianna whispered. “I’m sorry I ran. But I’m still your friend, if you’ll have me.” She caught one of Salomen’s hands, giving the truth of skin contact on top of her dropped front, and spoke more firmly. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  With those five words, Salomen’s rib cage could no longer contain her heart. Staggered by the release of pressure and haunted by the perfect song of the bellbird, she tightened her grip on Fianna’s hand and silently wept.

  65
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  NEW LINE

  On Rahel’s last day in the healing center, the healer took off the intolerable cage her hand had been trapped in and fitted her with a new, lightweight brace. Rahel was left with a promise that if she remained diligent about her exercises, she would be able to permanently discard the brace in half a moon.

  She was still adapting to the news when Salomen and Lanaril arrived. The crisp, tangy scent of deep forest clung to Salomen, and Rahel wondered where she had been. Nowhere in Blacksun, that was certain.

  “You seem surprisingly sober for someone with an almost-free hand,” Lanaril observed.

  “The healer said . . .” Speaking it aloud was difficult. “I’ll be able to pick up my stave again.”

  “Is that so unexpected?” Salomen asked.

  “I, um, thought it might be a price I had to pay. My best skill.”

  “Ah.” Lanaril touched Rahel’s new brace and smiled. “Perhaps it’s not about paying prices. Perhaps it’s just about recovery.” She settled into her usual chair and said, “This is Salomen’s last day with us for a while.”

  Rahel had been expecting that. “You have to get back to your life.”

  “More like I have to get back to my speaking schedule,” Salomen said with a grimace. “I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “You what?” Rahel bolted upright. “No. You can’t. Lanaril, she can’t! It’s not safe!”

  If she had found a hole in Salomen’s security, someone else could, too. And knowing Salomen the way she did now, after these last five days . . . it was difficult to imagine this gentle woman defending herself. Not even a stud through her arm had raised those powers in Pollonius; it hadn’t been until Salomen feared for her bondmate that she had channeled the power of Fahla.

  It took them some time to calm her down, and then only with the suggestion that she take steps right now to close that security hole. Thus most of her therapy session was spent explaining exactly how she had gotten past the Guards in Pollonius, while Lanaril recorded it on her reader card.

  When Rahel realized the report was going straight to Lancer Tal, she asked if she could add something to it.

  Lanaril handed over her reader card. “Why don’t you write your message while Salomen and I get a shannel downstairs? Be aware that I’ll have to read it before I send it on.”

  “I know.” Rahel waited until they left before beginning the most difficult message she had ever composed.

  Half a hantick later, she stared at the floor while Lanaril read her words.

  “You’re withdrawing the honor challenge.” Lanaril’s tone was approving. “This is very well stated, Rahel. Extremely respectful.”

  Relieved, Rahel looked up. “It’s the only apology I can make, isn’t it?”

  Next to Lanaril, Salomen nodded. “I’m afraid so. But it’s a good one.”

  Lanaril rolled up the reader card and replaced it in her pouch, then pulled a new one from an inside pocket of her jacket. “This is for you to use over the next few ninedays. I’ll need a better way of reaching you, and Lancer Tal will need a means of responding to your withdrawal. When your healer signs you out tomorrow morning, I’ll be here to escort you. You’ll be continuing your therapy in the retreat quarters at Blacksun Temple.”

  “The temple? I thought—”

  “I transferred you.” Lanaril glanced at Salomen and added, “I have the authority as Lead Templar, but having the Bondlancer’s signature on the order certainly gave it an extra boost of speed.”

  “It’s not only your hand that’s healing,” Salomen said. “Lanaril is treating you as well.”

  “And I don’t believe that treatment will be effective inside a prison.”

  Rahel was not about to question a reprieve. She thanked them and said good-bye to Salomen, and the moment they left, she opened her new reader card and sent an effusive message to her mother and Sharro. It was thrilling to have access to the outside world again.

  For the rest of the day, she checked her reader card obsessively for an answer from Lancer Tal. It finally arrived just before evenmeal, and consisted of a single word: Agreed.

  Rahel stared at that word and felt as if she had been punched in the diaphragm. It was a harsh reminder that the great-hearted understanding offered by Salomen and Lanaril was not typical. Shantu’s death had erased her honor, but she had made it much worse in Pollonius.

  She dropped her head onto her crossed arms in despair. For her entire adulthood, she had drawn a line between two lives: the one she lived before Mouse died, and the one she lived after.

  Pollonius, she now realized, was a new and terrible line that she could never erase.

  66

  COMFORT GIVER

  The retreat quarters at Blacksun Temple reminded Rahel of caste house lodging rooms: small, but clean and nicely appointed. Hers looked onto the enclosed courtyard, a meticulously landscaped space between the quarters and the temple itself.

  She still didn’t understand why she was here instead of in a detention cell. Lanaril could visit her on Blacksun Base as easily as she did in the healing center, and after last night’s one-word response, Rahel did not believe that Lancer Tal was supporting such leniency. Salomen and Lanaril said they were working on a long-term solution that would be fair to everyone involved, but what else could that be besides incarceration?

  Still, she would enjoy this for as long as it lasted. No Guards hovered outside her door, and she had the run of the temple complex.

  Her entire first day was spent beneath the ancient molwyn tree at the center of the temple, reading a book and enjoying the soaring space. Now and again she filled her vision with the branches overhead and the sky visible through the glass in the domed roof, or gazed across the vast space to the open double doors. There were no Guards barring that exit, either, but not even Fahla could have induced her to break the trust she had been given.

  Worshippers came and went, most seeking out a free oil rack among the many that were scattered about the open space. Some, usually the elderly, took advantage of the cushioned benches that lined the walls. Another set of benches dotted the edges of the large wooden deck where Rahel sat, but they attracted fewer people due to their visibility.

  Over time, she noticed a few patterns. The majority of worshippers dropped in a few cinteks to light one or two oil bowls and did not linger long. Others unlocked a whole row of ten bowls. They would stand much longer before their rack, staring at the flames and whispering in a private conversation with Fahla.

  On six occasions, a worshipper walked in, slid a credit chip into the offering box of an oil rack, and proceeded to unlock the covers over every bowl in all ten rows.

  Rahel had never thought about it before, but now she could see that the oil racks were designed to vanish. They were made of a transparent material, as were the bowls, and the oil itself was clear. An entire rack set alight had the breathtaking effect of one hundred flames floating in the air, a powerful offering to Fahla.

  Judging by the body language of the worshippers, two of those racks were burned in a prayer for aid to a loved one. One was burned in remembrance. The other three were gifts of gratitude from worshippers who watched with joyous faces. One, a man Sharro’s age, stood with tears tracking down his cheeks and a smile that rivaled his flaming rack for brightness.

  Templars made regular trips through the open space, their steps slow and silent as they moved between worshippers, never intruding but always available. The silver molwyn tree design on their dark tunics made them easy to pick out even when the temple was crowded. Rahel watched the same interaction over and over again: a worshipper would look up, make eye contact, and wait as a templar walked to them. Sometimes they just needed a palm touch and a word. Others wanted a templar to pray with them. Some left their racks behind and accompanied the templar through one of the side doors discreetly tucked into the walls. Behind those doors were private counseling rooms, where a person could speak without fear of being overheard.

  Ra
hel wondered how many of those worshippers were as broken as she was, in need of forgiveness and redemption. Both seemed within reach here in this quiet sanctuary.

  She saw Lanaril make her way through the temple four times over the course of the day. Despite her title, she behaved no differently from the other templars, offering comfort or company to any who needed it. Many did. She never finished a round in less than half a hantick, and often vanished into one of the counseling rooms with a worshipper right behind her.

  At the end of the day, when the light coming through the roof bore the orange tint of sunset, Lanaril gave a farewell palm touch to a heavily pregnant young man before resuming her passage across the space. Rahel hadn’t intended to do anything but watch, but when their eyes met, she set down her book and scrambled to her feet.

  Lanaril changed direction, mounted the steps to the broad wooden deck around the tree trunk, and walked across to meet her. “Have you found what you sought here?” she asked.

  “Some of it. Lanaril, I . . . I need to ask you for a favor.”

  “You know I’ll do what I can.”

  This was embarrassing. Rahel looked down at the boards and mumbled, “I, um, need to borrow some cinteks. To make an offering.” A glance up showed neither surprise nor judgment, so she added, “I don’t have access to my accounts right now, but I promise to pay you back as soon as I do.”

  “I believe your promise is as good as a signed note.” Lanaril reached into her tunic pocket. “How many bowls do you wish to light?”

  “A rack.”

  “Both sides? That’s a substantial offering.”

  “I have substantial thanks to give.”

  “Then you’ll need more than a few cinteks.” She withdrew a credit chip and gestured toward the nearest open rack. “And you’ll need my thumbprint. But I’ll leave you alone after that.”