It was clear from siege damage to walls and battlements that Twisted Bend, in contrast to Many Sands, had put up much more of a fight, which was not surprising. It was a key community and port of the Sylmex People who controlled much of the Talqua, and they were among the most warrioristic of civilizations known to Miracle Springs. They had the same military society — the Azakan — and were much greater in number, if more spread out. Deros couldn’t imagine they’d be easy to wrangle, and would get worse in dealing with the further down the river the invaders went. The Sylmex would respond with endless hostility.
Kerrick finished talking with the three, and they remained where they were as he rode back to the rest.
With a raised, carrying voice, Kerrick called, “They’ve already spoken to Feogo’s group. Shaper Eklásia wants to see all of our captives. She’s currently up that cliff to the south, awaiting the imminent return of her kiksa. You two,” and he pointed at Semõìn and Paetas, “will take your quarin to be briefly coached by Sângére Jânaél before meeting her. If you don’t know, Jânaél is an aide on the ozmentus’s staff assigned to the Shaper, and a renowned special liaison. He can nok you over three directions if he wants, so mind your pont.” He jerked his head at Deros. “Can he walk, or what?”
Deros cleared his throat to answer, “I probably can… Vaetor Kerrick.”
“Came to your senses and practicing your manners, tribal? Wise of you. Too bad. You could earn your death in this meeting, easy, and it wouldn’t come down on me. I would toast to it.”
“I’m truly honored to hear that, Vaetor.”
“Sure you are. Alright, Ironbloods, the rest of us are heading to camp. Hurry it up.”
“Zeko, zeki, Vaetor!” came the answer, as ever.
As the greater bulk rode off, Semõìn and Paetas coordinated to get Deros off of the pallet and down onto the ground. He felt weak, shaky, and still lightheaded, but the ‘spinning’ had all but abated. He stood upright well enough but found that support to hold onto was much better.
As Semõìn anchored him via the cording around the waist and bound his hands — so much for his balance — Deros asked, “Any advice, Semõìn? Believe it or not, I prefer my head on my shoulders. Otherwise, I can’t mouth off to scum like you, you know?”
Semõìn characteristically snickered, but it was subdued. “Et, don’t mouth off to her. If you are so cursed that she talks to you, just agree with an ‘etsa, Ordení.’ And hope you don’t annoy her. Anyway, the sângére will tell you what to do.” He finished up with the bonds and said, “Time to go. We can’t doddle.”
Momentarily Deros found himself back up on Semõìn’s rekas, leaning back against his keeper in his weakness and sheer need of the support. They rode over to the three Ironbloods, all with little red capes on one shoulder blowing in the wind. They were exact copies — down to the triangle symbol — of the one worn by Keirtum Soriel, who’d saved him from Raetmus.
Why are there three commanders together? How many war chiefs does an army really need? It was just more strangeness from the aliens. But what he could see of the camp told him their numbers were great. It was much bigger than the other camp he’d seen — practically a town itself, of yurts and crude mudbrick constructions. Perhaps they did need so many commanders, and the keirtum rank was not as high as he first imagined.
All three of them simply turned and started off without a word, as Semõìn and Paetas merely neared. It was the relative opposite direction as the camp, back up the canyon, and toward a high cliff as well as what appeared to be a watchtower. It was not as steep and imposing as Bloodbound Bluff back home, but would have an excellent vantage for a vast range, especially to the west and north.
They angled up and around the path of the cliff in short order, keeping a firm pace over rocky, hard-packed sand. Just before the final climb was a wide cliff face, and a cluster of Ironbloods were gathered there, some mounted and some not. One particularly important-looking one was dismounted and standing with his arms behind his back. His little cape was blue, and the symbol on it was a complex one, like an hourglass of simple triangles turned on its side, with additional triangles within, above, and below, forming almost a square. The horns atop his head were also different, looking as if the harder, outgrowing tips were made of gold instead of bone.
He stood in front of the kneeling other members of Miracle Springs, who at that moment were craning around to watch the newcomers. All of their hands were bound behind their back. The battered Urchon had a gag of thick cord in her mouth.
Deros fought down his offense at the sight. It wasn’t rage, at least. There was too much answering shame from the last time for it. It seemed obvious that Urchon was predisposed toward mouthing off as well, perhaps worse than he had. The idea made his offense turn to worry. He did not want — could not handle — seeing her get herself killed for nothing.
Semõìn and Paetas detached their charges from their tethers and brought them over to kneel before the waiting figure, the cliff rise above him framing his stance in the lingering twilight, the wind whipping his little cape furiously. Deros didn’t even try to resist the kneeling measure — even if he was stupid enough to, he’d just end up on his face at even one push. He knelt, breathing a long, measured breath, and glanced to his left. Olarius, appearing haggard but reasonably hale, looking Deros over in turn with seeming relief. He nodded, and Deros returned it.
Palamera was positioned to his right and knelt down after a delay from when Deros was, and he noticed why: her bonds had been switched to behind her back, to match everyone else. She seemed somehow cooperative and proud at the same time. She looked better and more composed than the rest of them for sure.
“Eyes on me,” the figure ahead commanded in a smooth, very lightly-accented voice. “I am Sângére Jânaél. You pathetic lot of wormbait will meet the Shaper Eklásia very soon, by her bidding. Understand that her bidding is supreme for you forever. If she deigns you to die, you die, and if she grants you the mercy to live, you live. All execute her commands to the letter or pay the price. Meaningless tribal scum such as yourselves will always pay that with their life. Now you will tell me that you understand.”
“I understand, Sângére Jânaél,” Deros said immediately, loudly, so as to lead the others in what to say.
All did as he, thankfully — aside from Urchon, who couldn’t. The figure nodded to their orations, just perceptibly, as if approving. But he walked slowly over to Urchon until he was looming over her. Urchon didn’t look up, keeping her eyes on the sand. Despite Jânaél’s great presence, Deros realized he wasn’t very tall, comparatively. Among the shortest, though the suit would still tower above the Hamaleen, even then.
“You are one who refuses to bend,” Jânaél said softly, matter-of-factly, “but those always end up the most broken by the end.” He let the gravitas of that hang a moment, then continued, “I am going to give you one chance to present yourself normally to your new Ordení, without the gag. You have only to say you understand, then keep your mouth shut going forward.” With that, he nodded to an Ironblood nearby, who came over to drop the gag off.
Urchon slowly raised her head and proceeded to glare with one good eye and one swollen, bloody murder at Jânaél, saying nothing, face a rictus though the caking blood Deros remembered appeared to have been cleaned off. An uncomfortable silence persisted.
“Urchon, please-” Deros began insistently.
“Do you understand, quari?” Jânaél interrupted loudly in demand, still looking down at Urchon.
Urchon sneered up in abject hatred at the man and snarled, “I am not your quari, not your slave and I never will-” Her defiant claim was spoiled by the Ironblood behind her pushing her over hard into the sand, driving her face into it to drown her words.
Damn it, Urchon! No! Watching in horror and fearing the worst, Deros clenched his teeth and resisted acting before he saw the response. All the attendant Ironbloods moved in close in anticipation of mass rebellion, but tense restraint held in each of them.
Jânaél merely sniffed derisively, making a vague gesture with his hand to the attendant Ironblood, who commenced to re-gag the struggling Urchon, muttering some baleful curse at her.
Jânaél’s hands reclasped behind his back as he muttered, “Sad, stupid primitives sometimes just can’t understand, with their wild breeding and brains.” He then turned to the others. “Some are more reasonable. Accept your place, quarin. All is to the glory of civilization and evolution, even you. Some must be the backs stood upon, someone has to be the sacrifice. Embrace it with joy. You are made to be because you would not otherwise, but that does not mean you do not serve a worthy purpose. Even the scum and refuse will be utilized.”
Deros wasn’t sure what to make of his words, but he absorbed it all as information. If his ilk believed such, and they held the key to his escape, he’d grant them their illusion, some way or how.
But Deros could not simply let things be with Urchon. He felt she was alive very narrowly. So he asked, “Forgive me, but If I may, Sângére Jânaél: what will Shaper Eklásia do to her?”
Jânaél did not answer immediately, walking slowly to come and tower over Deros, who gazed up and tried to maintain a ‘respectful’ expression. Though he wasn’t even sure what that looked like. After a long moment, Jânaél said, “That is to her whims, quari. Perhaps it will amuse her. Perhaps it will amuse her to peel her skin off strip by strip, instead. It doesn’t matter. Now. We shall proceed to climb the final height. If you ever dare to address her, it is as ‘my Ordení,’ which means ‘supreme superiors.’ There is no singular, for it refers to the mind of the greater organism, connecting and driving us all to excellence. You are the feet, bearing the greater mass of weight on the organism’s walk. At best, anyway. Is all of this understood?”
Once more, those un-gagged voiced their understanding.
At a firm nod from Jânaél, orders were barked from the others to round up and head out. Deros and the others were made to stand and follow after other Ironbloods in the lead, the vast lot of them on foot for the walk up the path. Deros found it a trial to walk and was panting rather quickly into it, but he was versed and trained in pushing himself when exhausted. He managed, even as his body protested with each movement.
Palamera was directly ahead of him — momentarily she dropped back, and whispered quickly to him, “Don’t do anything foolish, Deros, please.”
Before he could respond one of the keirtum-ranked Ironbloods ahead turned his head back and barked, “Quiet! No talking, unless you want a gag like your deadmeat friend.”
Deros felt a pang of worry at the warning. I have to do something. I can’t let anything happen to another of our party. Why was she so ornery? He expected it from the likes of Daexo, but not Urchon. But then, she was as freedom-loving as they came, he supposed. Freedom from marriage, freedom from children, wandering wherever she wanted, taking any lover she cared to on the road. This was the antithesis of her life more than anyone…
You don’t have to choose to die, Ambassador. It’s not over yet. Please stop daring them to kill you!
The stone watchtower was on the north-facing side of the cliff, showing some vague signs of activity in the shadows of its roofed top, but they were led more to the south, where the final natural peak of the elevation resided, a short, irregular, rocky climb with one side a gradual rise, almost like a small, steep hill. At the base where they were brought, two Ironbloods with long, purple cloaks stood holding staffs with incredibly-bright lanterns hanging down from them. At the top of the hill was a figure, cloaked in the shadows behind the light.
Just as they were made to kneel at the base in front of the two stoic Ironbloods, Deros spied a winged shape flying down toward the figure above, which raised its arm up towards the flyer as though presenting it. Vaguely, he saw the hint of flowing robes, a carried staff, and — surprisingly — long hair blowing in the wind. Deros could wish for his makar’osa to see more detail, but even if he could against the fatigue and nausea that would answer and punish him, he was better off being cautious. Because he could tell, even from a distance, that she was also one of the Blessed. It echoed out from her in a way he’d never felt.
What had to be the eagle-like animal… at first Deros had the queer impression it was clawing her arm or grabbing it to take off, as she presented it — but no. It landed on her arm, wings gradually retracting down to the rest of its body. She lowered her arm slightly and might’ve been speaking to it, though he couldn’t hear. Shortly thereafter she appeared to turn and look down. Deros swallowed involuntarily. The figure that was the Shaper moved the great bird to her shoulder where it perched, as she then descended the hill. As soon as she began, all the Ironblood aside from the lamp-bearers went down to one knee.
As she gradually came into the light, Deros was aware firstly that she was doing something with a bewilderingly complex construction of makar’osa, spinning in incredibly tight spools that narrowed to points, which carried some sort of dark, jet material from her forearm to flow and integrate into the thick staff she carried. Soon, the bracer of sorts disappeared… as the light made her form more apparent, he realized it was bare skin underneath. Pale, purple skin.
Much of that skin was visible in the twilight and the glow of the lanterns, shown by the cut of an elegant, dark dress feathered with striking abstract imprints of many colors in layered undertones, foremost in purples, some of them like blossoms of some kind. The dress left one shoulder bare, the other tied in a bow of long trails. Her long, jet hair and the divided skirts of the dress billowed furiously in the great wind, baring much of her legs and some sort of sandals on her feet. She wore gold jewelry all studded with rubies, including a diadem with a great triangle of ruby at the top. All of it — from a wrist clasp, to a simple neckband, to a few rings — was somehow short of gaudy, thin, and with nothing jangling. Whatever it was that made up the staff and unraveled bracer was also contoured up onto her shoulder, as an anchorage for the talons of that great bird.
She glided across the rock and sand right up to Deros — or rather, the Taldecs — then stopped, regarding each of them slowly, heedless of the wind blowing her hair every which way. Deros could not resist a sense of awe — she was like some alien goddess descended from heaven, beautiful and fearsome at once… impeccably presented, apparent perfection dropped into a disorderly nowhere. She seemed even more unreal than the Ironbloods had at their first appearance.
The gods have returned — here is the goddess Eklásia, looking every inch one. Deros tried once more to squelch such annoying thoughts. It was only the appearance! Everything had an explanation. This — she — would be no different.
But when her unnaturally blue, dark-framed eyes swept over his, it felt as if she looked down into his soul. Caught in a strange net of mixed, unresolvable feelings, he looked away, looked down, unable to hold her gaze at all.
He was aware of her nearing closer. And closer. He saw a set of blue-lacquered toes atop sandals in the sand, out of the edge of his eyes. Breathing too fast, Deros felt a panic. Was he supposed to divert his eyes? Was he supposed to look up? For a moment, there was only an eerie silence in answer, but for the wisp of the wind.
Practically like a slap in the face so close, he felt her spin out her impossibly-concentrated spooling of makar’osa, arcing through the strange, dark staff and then shooting out right at him, in a vast network of thousands and thousands of thread-like wires too tiny to see, making nothing more than a fuzzy blur to the naked eye.
Deros recoiled, and wanted to recoil further, to run away, to-
No. If she wants me dead, I’m dead. He knew that was true, somehow. So he clenched his fists, clenched his every muscle, and made himself stay still.
Slowly, the blur of nearly-invisible matter cradled under his chin… and lifted, like a hand, straight up. He let it, vaguely aware of the rest of the matter extending back toward the staff, like a makeshift arm, or a mass of roots, all nearly invisible, like stiffened gossamer.
His eyes were made to meet hers. He tried to ignore the very terrifying white-and-gold bird on her shoulder. Fighting down and calming his trembling, he fully met and held her gaze. Her eyes were slightly widened, curious. Bemused. The hint of a smile tilted her faintly-painted lips, and a trace of some rosy scent touched his nose.
“What do you fear, wielder of prime?” She queried him in a lightly-accented voice like rich honey and velvet. “What do you see?”
It took him a moment to open his mouth, and he hesitated still after. Wielder of prime? He had to discard that question, though. A voice told him to say, ‘my Ordenai’ or something of the like, but he discounted it and — more or less truthfully — said, “A goddess.”
Air left her nose in mild amusement, the smile curling a bit more. “A wise answer. Or a deductive one.”
“It is the truth… my Ordení.”
An eyebrow quirked ever so slightly. “Is it, now?” She held his gaze for a long moment, studying him.
He was finally distracted by the mass of ‘tendrils’ retracting back from their hold under his chin, swiftly back into the dark staff. He couldn’t help but marvel at the bizarre object… dark as jet, yet having some semblance of being wood, or bone, or perhaps something like the Ironblood’s armor. Indeed, it seemed like it could be alive, and even had little black leaves sprouting here or there, particularly at the top. He initially thought them to be mere spikes, as black as they were.
At some signal Deros missed, all the Ironbloods rose from where they’d been kneeling. Eklásia’s gaze shifted to sweep over the others. Deros noticed the bird — a kiksa, he remembered — looking down at him briefly. Its incredibly Hamaleen-like, but unblinking, fierce gaze stirred a slight revulsion in Deros, but he felt it far worse for what he noticed above its eyes: something was attached to its forehead, green-brown and jutting slightly like a growth or some parasite. Insectoid-like, reminding him of the suits again. Something about it particularly made his skin crawl.
When Eklásia saw Urchon at the end, the Shaper strode slowly over to stand in front of her, looking down. Urchon met her gaze proudly, despite the gag in her mouth. At least it wasn’t saturated with hate. In fact, there was certainly awe stirred in her as well, he thought.
“This one can’t abide her tongue?” Eklásia seemed amused. “She is rebellious?”
Jânaél answered, “Very much so on both counts, my Ordení.”
As Eklásia cocked her head to consider the puzzle knelt beneath her, Deros was aware suddenly of those same tendrils flaring out from the staff, but impossibly quick, flicking, lashing like a whip. He almost cried out, and he heard a frightened gasp from Palamera, but all that resulted was the gag falling to the ground. She’d sliced it in two, as if by a thought.
Urchon — who appeared entirely unharmed — was nonetheless momentarily stunned. Deros took advantage, calling, “My Ordení, I beg your mercy for her! She’s important — an ambassador and knowledg-”
He cut off as a hand came up flat from the Shaper, directed at Deros despite not looking at him, but clearly calling for his silence. He swallowed his words down, feeling dread and anxiety for what could happen. He could do nothing if he wasn’t permitted to speak.
Eklásia let her held-up, lacquered fingers simply fold down idly as she continued gazing down at Urchon. “Well? Do you have some rustic curses and spiteful utterances for me? Demands?”
Urchon stared back and… thankfully, appeared to consider it carefully. Her eyes dropped momentarily before looking back up at the powerful figure above her. “No.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ve seen eyes such as yours before. Instead of just executing me, you might murder all others but me for a mere slight. And you have the power to.”
The Shaper seemed amused, her face crinkling in a bit of a smile. “And the Ironbloods you’ve hassled had none?”
“They’re simple. Easy to understand. Under orders. They’ll beat me, threaten me, maybe kill me. But they’re good at stopping short, even when they don’t want to. Obedient, transparent scum.”
“I see.” Eklásia nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “We’ll use your suggestion, quari. If you don’t cooperate and conduct yourself obediently from now on, the one to your right will be executed. Is that fair?”
Thalamon…
Urchon shook her head. “They’ll lie! They’d love to see me suffer!”
“Are you asking me for a boon, quari? Why should I?”
Urchon struggled, clearly despairing. Her eyes flitted around. Finally, she glanced up at the Shaper, then sagged down, bowing her head low. “Please forgive me for my offenses, my Ordení. I beg for your mercy, please… my Ordení.” She was almost whispering by the end, words saturated with shame to be made to speak so.
Deros held his breath as all seemed still, with the Shaper looking down impassively at the bowed figure of Urchon, letting the matter hang for a long spell.
“Granted,” Eklásia said finally, “so you and these others may have hope in the order of our ways. So long as you bow to them, embrace them? Your hope will be well founded. I will assign you someone I trust, quari, and you can have a fresh start. I hope you understand not to breach this trust now, especially.”
“Yes, my Ordení,” Urchon murmured, voice breaking a bit.
Deros felt a bit sick to hear such from her, even as she’d possibly saved Thalamon’s life at the least. He believed it was so. Semõìn had warned him that he’d be better off dead than to cross them. Did that count escaping? It wouldn’t matter, as long as he succeeded in escaping with everyone.
Eklásia walked by slowly, studying each in turn. She said nothing to Thalamon or Olarius, neither of whom met her eye or spoke — perhaps wisely. She eyed Deros as if she were daring him to do so in turn. At least, he imagined it so. He did so dare, meeting her gaze directly, since she had already made him to once… effectively driving away much of his fear. Besides, no one had told him not to look at her. Was one really supposed to be meek under those circumstances? He was not sure if he detected a note of bemusement in her expression as she passed by him…
He noticed something else while watching her, in a brief flash through her body, a resonant pulse of makar’osa perhaps, that flared from within like a blown-on ember within a fire. It extended through every angle and stretch of her — at the core — as though the embers were her marrow. A shiver ran through him again, at the strangeness. But it was all over in an instant.
What is she — really?
Stopping abruptly in front of Palamera, Eklásia stared down implacably. Quite suddenly, the farsense spooled out from the Shaper, focused and concentrated on Palamera, enveloping her, passing through and back out in moments. Palamera jerked a bit initially, but did not raise her eyes — instead, they flashed every which way to the sand and rocks at the Shaper’s feet. The Hospitaller was visibly breathing heavily and sweat was on her brow. Deros resisted saying anything. It seemed unlikely to help.
“Raise your eyes to me, wielder of prime,” Eklásia commanded softly.
Palamera first squeezed her eyes shut, beginning to mutter something that cut off at a too-high pitch. She took a deep, deep breath and opened her eyes, raising them slowly to the Shaper’s own as she trembled in fear. She seemed ready to break into tears, her expression being precisely what one who had to look at divinity must be like.
The Shaper smiled mildly, as ever without a flash of teeth, appearing to regard the one kneeling before her in compassion. Her hand reached down, touching Palamera’s cheek — who flinched and quaked but did not recoil or pull away. Eklásia seemed to study her, and the fingers moved slowly, as if tracing the tattoos.
“What do they mean?” Eklásia asked.
Palamera’s mouth opened, but no words initially came out. Her lips quivered. Finally, breathless, she managed, “T-tracing… our path as a-a Hospitaller… The runes are a… s-secret of our order… my Ordení.” The last was a whisper that barely came out.
“Secrets?” The Shaper’s brow quirked. “I love secrets.” The forefinger of her hand came to rest under Palamera’s chin. “Allow me to share mine. Use your ability on me.”
“Wh-what?” Palamera was mortified and shocked, her mouth agape, as she stared back.
“Use your ability on me,” Eklásia repeated calmly, and let her hand drop. “I know what you can do.” It had an odd note, almost of sadness perhaps. Or disappointment.
From the staff came once again a makar’osa-manufactured lash, flaring out, up and around Palamera to curl back and slice open the bonds like they were made of straw, surgically quick and precise. Deros’s heart leapt into his chest at so dangerous a thing being done near his love, and from Palamera’s face and reaction, so had hers. The tight lines soon retracted, only slightly slower than they launched out.
She could behead us with one stroke, couldn’t she? Gods. Why is she doing this? Does she enjoy it? Is she just showing off?
Bringing her freed hands around in front of her, Palamera looked as if she was very unsure of what to do with them. “I-I have to-”
“I know, young quari,” Eklásia interrupted, bemusement painting her face. “You may touch me.” Yet she offered no hand. Yes. On some level, she was enjoying it.
Palamera awkwardly moved closer on her knees, enough that she could reach a hand over to… she hesitated as her shaky palm neared a divide of the skirts at the bottom of the Shaper’s dress. She looked up uncertainly, but Eklásia nodded her approval — with the shadow of a smile. The Hospitaller steeled herself with a breath, then thrust her hand through, grasping a calf. Immediately after, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused, flaring out the farsense and then her form of makar’osa soon thereafter, sweeping it through the Shaper’s body.
An instant later Palamera let out a disturbed cry and released it all, her hand coming away as though burned. She sagged down, eyes tearing, her hands stopping her from dropping face-first into the sand.
“Palamera!” Deros was on his feet without even thinking about it, though before he could think about what he was doing or act, a powerful hand was at his shoulder, holding him firm.
Eklásia for her part ignored him. She gazed down at Palamera with an almost clinical sort of curiosity, which reminded him of Hospitallers like Eursett. “Is it so horrible to you, young beauty?”
“Kneel, kampriço,” Semõìn’s voice at his ear whispered. “Ous evrie. Or I make you.”
Deros grimaced but complied, falling to his knees again, otherwise utterly focused on what was happening to his love. Semõìn’s hand relented.
Slowly, racked with sobs, Palamera raised her head to meet the waiting eyes of the Shaper. “Are you in pain?”
Eklásia’s head cocked, observing the one before her in rapt fascination, like one might a small, curious animal. Her hand came down once more, to pet at Palamera’s hair. “You would ask me such a question? What a precious little bird you are. No, my sensitive quari. What does a body do for what is lodged within by chance, yet unremovable? Adapt, adjust. Far more can it be made to do so for what is modified by intent and design. By which I stand before you now, in the flesh and power like no other who came from afar.”
Deros puzzled over the words. “You were modified for the gravity,” he blurted. All eyes turned to him, including Palamera’s. She shook her head at him as if to say, ‘no, don’t do anything stupid, Deros.’ But he continued, “It’s less where you’re from. It’s why these great warriors can’t be one minute without their suits, right? Suits the Shapers designed? But you can change yourselves, too. My Ordení.”
Hand sliding away from Palamera’s head, Eklásia made the sparse few steps over to Deros and gazed down on him with amusement — and perhaps another reflection of fascination. But Deros saw too something else in her eyes and understood what Urchon said, on some level. Danger and unpredictability seemed poised within. “The brave and lovely boy,” she declared, “is clever, too. Daringly so. What a cornucopia of fruits you are.” Her eyes shifted over to Palamera. “Is he yours?”
Palamera seemed struck dumb for a moment. “Wh-... I-no, I don’t own him. W-we’re not together.”
“And yet you anguish over each other just so.”
“We’ve known each other since childhood,” Deros interjected smoothly. “We care deeply for each other.”
“Childhood friends, she is beautiful, so are you — and charming besides, I’m sure. Both young, both wielders. All these things conspire, yet you say you feel no romance? Do you prefer your same likeness, then?”
It took Deros a moment to realize what she meant. “What? No.” He cleared his throat. Her amused expression, and the tone she’d had, made him realize she had already known. “We just… I messed it up. My Ordení.”
“How so?”
She is so pressing. Why does she care? Deros did not want to get into it, so he hesitated to answer. His eyes shot over to Palamera briefly.
Eklásia turned to her, seeming all too intrigued. “So you were together. What did he do, Palamera? Cheat? Break your monogamous agreement? Tell me.”
Once more, the Hospitaller was stunned, as if the Shaper’s eyes were a coming stampede she couldn’t avoid. “I-... we weren’t together. My Ordení! He-he was with many others...” Her face was redder from the turn of the conversation, and she trailed off, looking away, unable to continue.
The rich blue eyes of the Shaper turned back to Deros, her expression grown to a greater amusement. “So you’re a playboy.”
A mild gaggle of laughter went through the Ironbloods, foremost from the two caped ones. Eklásia did not discourage them, her eyes instead shifting to them while sharing in it. Her face finally broke into a striking, perfect smile fit to melt hearts. It only encouraged the merriment.
Great.
“Who is this boy’s handler?” Eklásia asked with an almost-laugh, gesturing with a hand. She looked above Deros’s shoulder, where no doubt Semõìn waited. “It is you, et? Is all of this to your impressions? Speak freely, now, Ironblood. Tell me something amusing if you have it. Off-color, perhaps. I love off-color. Don’t be shy. You may be rewarded.”
This isn’t good, this is-
“Ah, et, my Ordení,” Semõìn began, obviously awed and nervous. “Well, et, we already heard it is so, my Ordení. They argued a bit. Off-color? Ah. Et. When I was, ah, asking him if he had weapons? He said he had a… huge, pretty one. Very dangerous, especially to virgins. In his pants.”
Eklásia’s face broke into laughter that quickly grew into resounding, rich peels as her head fell back somewhat, joined in copiously by the Ironbloods. Somehow he doubted they were faking it. Her laugh was like everything else about her: beautiful. Addictive. Unreal in some subtle, core way.
Deros grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see anyone’s face looking at him, though he felt the heat just the same. He took a deep, calming breath. This stupid belt knife had better be worth it.
The laughter finally died down, and Eklásia — through the aftershocks of her merriment — declared, “A satisfactory close to this encounter! I needed that. Soldier, you will be rewarded, as promised. I hope he stays so amusing. There are rare gems among them, no? But darkness falls. Ironbloods, you may return to your camp.”
Deros opened his eyes to find her looking down at him again, a flagrant smirk on her lips. In another moment, though, she turned away, walking over to Sângére Jânaél. At the same time, all of the Taldecs were made to rise. Palamera looked a bit pale, almost sick, and he couldn’t be surprised. She definitely avoided casting any looks his way.
“A fine mess you tumbled yourself in, Deros,” Urchon said dryly.
“As if you did any better?” Deros retorted sharply in annoyance.
Before any further arguing or calls for quiet came, Jânaél barked, “Leave the mouthy one, ah — the ambassador. She must be reassigned, by the grace of our Ordení. We’ll handle it.”
“Zeko, zeki, Sâng,” the Ironblood near Urchon said, the final syllables of the title only hinted at under the heavy accent. A battle-born shortcut, perhaps.
“Good luck, Ambassador,” Thalamon called.
“And you all,” Urchon said before she was drawn away.
Amazingly, the Ironbloods didn’t rebuke them for talking, seemingly possessed with a good mood, though there was also the fact that the Sângére and his troupe were not with them, which probably loosened them up a bit. As they started back across the cliff’s top, an unknown member of their number gave Deros a mild nudge and said in teasing tones, “So, tribal, you’re packing a real sand monster in there, eh?”
Into their varied assortment of humorous exclamations, Deros — feeling virulently dismissive and uncaring — replied, “Et, et. With two heads. But only one ball.” An explosion of laughter resounded from this.
“One Ball Deros! He’s got it where it really counts!” Semõìn called. More laughter. Let them. A fool entertaining greater ones.
As the idiots were more or less occupied, Deros moved up closer to Palamera. “What did you see from her? Within her? How is she different?” No answer. She ignored him. “Palamera… I’m sorry.” Still nothing. He fell back.
She’s upset. With me… but probably with more than that. She can hate me, though. As long as we get free. Whether his antics were helping that eventuality was impossible to say, but amiable captors were better than captors that wanted their charge dead, like Urchon. She’d gotten beaten, likely came close to getting someone else killed, and ended up separated, for her troubles. All pointless.
We were brought up here… for what? Entertainment, it seems — a predator playing with its food. One that consumes the mind and soul. A cruel smile, even in joy. A cruel beauty. Would that I not have to see it again.
It was clear from siege damage to walls and battlements that Twisted Bend, in contrast to Many Sands, had put up much more of a fight, which was not surprising. It was a key community and port of the Sylmex People who controlled much of the Talqua, and they were among the most warrioristic of civilizations known to Miracle Springs. They had the same military society — the Azakan — and were much greater in number, if more spread out. Deros couldn’t imagine they’d be easy to wrangle, and would get worse in dealing with the further down the river the invaders went. The Sylmex would respond with endless hostility.
Kerrick finished talking with the three, and they remained where they were as he rode back to the rest.
With a raised, carrying voice, Kerrick called, “They’ve already spoken to Feogo’s group. Shaper Eklásia wants to see all of our captives. She’s currently up that cliff to the south, awaiting the imminent return of her kiksa. You two,” and he pointed at Semõìn and Paetas, “will take your quarin to be briefly coached by Sângére Jânaél before meeting her. If you don’t know, Jânaél is an aide on the ozmentus’s staff assigned to the Shaper, and a renowned special liaison. He can nok you over three directions if he wants, so mind your pont.” He jerked his head at Deros. “Can he walk, or what?”
Deros cleared his throat to answer, “I probably can… Vaetor Kerrick.”
“Came to your senses and practicing your manners, tribal? Wise of you. Too bad. You could earn your death in this meeting, easy, and it wouldn’t come down on me. I would toast to it.”
“I’m truly honored to hear that, Vaetor.”
“Sure you are. Alright, Ironbloods, the rest of us are heading to camp. Hurry it up.”
“Zeko, zeki, Vaetor!” came the answer, as ever.
As the greater bulk rode off, Semõìn and Paetas coordinated to get Deros off of the pallet and down onto the ground. He felt weak, shaky, and still lightheaded, but the ‘spinning’ had all but abated. He stood upright well enough but found that support to hold onto was much better.
As Semõìn anchored him via the cording around the waist and bound his hands — so much for his balance — Deros asked, “Any advice, Semõìn? Believe it or not, I prefer my head on my shoulders. Otherwise, I can’t mouth off to scum like you, you know?”
Semõìn characteristically snickered, but it was subdued. “Et, don’t mouth off to her. If you are so cursed that she talks to you, just agree with an ‘etsa, Ordení.’ And hope you don’t annoy her. Anyway, the sângére will tell you what to do.” He finished up with the bonds and said, “Time to go. We can’t doddle.”
Momentarily Deros found himself back up on Semõìn’s rekas, leaning back against his keeper in his weakness and sheer need of the support. They rode over to the three Ironbloods, all with little red capes on one shoulder blowing in the wind. They were exact copies — down to the triangle symbol — of the one worn by Keirtum Soriel, who’d saved him from Raetmus.
Why are there three commanders together? How many war chiefs does an army really need? It was just more strangeness from the aliens. But what he could see of the camp told him their numbers were great. It was much bigger than the other camp he’d seen — practically a town itself, of yurts and crude mudbrick constructions. Perhaps they did need so many commanders, and the keirtum rank was not as high as he first imagined.
All three of them simply turned and started off without a word, as Semõìn and Paetas merely neared. It was the relative opposite direction as the camp, back up the canyon, and toward a high cliff as well as what appeared to be a watchtower. It was not as steep and imposing as Bloodbound Bluff back home, but would have an excellent vantage for a vast range, especially to the west and north.
They angled up and around the path of the cliff in short order, keeping a firm pace over rocky, hard-packed sand. Just before the final climb was a wide cliff face, and a cluster of Ironbloods were gathered there, some mounted and some not. One particularly important-looking one was dismounted and standing with his arms behind his back. His little cape was blue, and the symbol on it was a complex one, like an hourglass of simple triangles turned on its side, with additional triangles within, above, and below, forming almost a square. The horns atop his head were also different, looking as if the harder, outgrowing tips were made of gold instead of bone.
He stood in front of the kneeling other members of Miracle Springs, who at that moment were craning around to watch the newcomers. All of their hands were bound behind their back. The battered Urchon had a gag of thick cord in her mouth.
Deros fought down his offense at the sight. It wasn’t rage, at least. There was too much answering shame from the last time for it. It seemed obvious that Urchon was predisposed toward mouthing off as well, perhaps worse than he had. The idea made his offense turn to worry. He did not want — could not handle — seeing her get herself killed for nothing.
Semõìn and Paetas detached their charges from their tethers and brought them over to kneel before the waiting figure, the cliff rise above him framing his stance in the lingering twilight, the wind whipping his little cape furiously. Deros didn’t even try to resist the kneeling measure — even if he was stupid enough to, he’d just end up on his face at even one push. He knelt, breathing a long, measured breath, and glanced to his left. Olarius, appearing haggard but reasonably hale, looking Deros over in turn with seeming relief. He nodded, and Deros returned it.
Palamera was positioned to his right and knelt down after a delay from when Deros was, and he noticed why: her bonds had been switched to behind her back, to match everyone else. She seemed somehow cooperative and proud at the same time. She looked better and more composed than the rest of them for sure.
“Eyes on me,” the figure ahead commanded in a smooth, very lightly-accented voice. “I am Sângére Jânaél. You pathetic lot of wormbait will meet the Shaper Eklásia very soon, by her bidding. Understand that her bidding is supreme for you forever. If she deigns you to die, you die, and if she grants you the mercy to live, you live. All execute her commands to the letter or pay the price. Meaningless tribal scum such as yourselves will always pay that with their life. Now you will tell me that you understand.”
“I understand, Sângére Jânaél,” Deros said immediately, loudly, so as to lead the others in what to say.
All did as he, thankfully — aside from Urchon, who couldn’t. The figure nodded to their orations, just perceptibly, as if approving. But he walked slowly over to Urchon until he was looming over her. Urchon didn’t look up, keeping her eyes on the sand. Despite Jânaél’s great presence, Deros realized he wasn’t very tall, comparatively. Among the shortest, though the suit would still tower above the Hamaleen, even then.
“You are one who refuses to bend,” Jânaél said softly, matter-of-factly, “but those always end up the most broken by the end.” He let the gravitas of that hang a moment, then continued, “I am going to give you one chance to present yourself normally to your new Ordení, without the gag. You have only to say you understand, then keep your mouth shut going forward.” With that, he nodded to an Ironblood nearby, who came over to drop the gag off.
Urchon slowly raised her head and proceeded to glare with one good eye and one swollen, bloody murder at Jânaél, saying nothing, face a rictus though the caking blood Deros remembered appeared to have been cleaned off. An uncomfortable silence persisted.
“Urchon, please-” Deros began insistently.
“Do you understand, quari?” Jânaél interrupted loudly in demand, still looking down at Urchon.
Urchon sneered up in abject hatred at the man and snarled, “I am not your quari, not your slave and I never will-” Her defiant claim was spoiled by the Ironblood behind her pushing her over hard into the sand, driving her face into it to drown her words.
Damn it, Urchon! No! Watching in horror and fearing the worst, Deros clenched his teeth and resisted acting before he saw the response. All the attendant Ironbloods moved in close in anticipation of mass rebellion, but tense restraint held in each of them.
Jânaél merely sniffed derisively, making a vague gesture with his hand to the attendant Ironblood, who commenced to re-gag the struggling Urchon, muttering some baleful curse at her.
Jânaél’s hands reclasped behind his back as he muttered, “Sad, stupid primitives sometimes just can’t understand, with their wild breeding and brains.” He then turned to the others. “Some are more reasonable. Accept your place, quarin. All is to the glory of civilization and evolution, even you. Some must be the backs stood upon, someone has to be the sacrifice. Embrace it with joy. You are made to be because you would not otherwise, but that does not mean you do not serve a worthy purpose. Even the scum and refuse will be utilized.”
Deros wasn’t sure what to make of his words, but he absorbed it all as information. If his ilk believed such, and they held the key to his escape, he’d grant them their illusion, some way or how.
But Deros could not simply let things be with Urchon. He felt she was alive very narrowly. So he asked, “Forgive me, but If I may, Sângére Jânaél: what will Shaper Eklásia do to her?”
Jânaél did not answer immediately, walking slowly to come and tower over Deros, who gazed up and tried to maintain a ‘respectful’ expression. Though he wasn’t even sure what that looked like. After a long moment, Jânaél said, “That is to her whims, quari. Perhaps it will amuse her. Perhaps it will amuse her to peel her skin off strip by strip, instead. It doesn’t matter. Now. We shall proceed to climb the final height. If you ever dare to address her, it is as ‘my Ordení,’ which means ‘supreme superiors.’ There is no singular, for it refers to the mind of the greater organism, connecting and driving us all to excellence. You are the feet, bearing the greater mass of weight on the organism’s walk. At best, anyway. Is all of this understood?”
Once more, those un-gagged voiced their understanding.
At a firm nod from Jânaél, orders were barked from the others to round up and head out. Deros and the others were made to stand and follow after other Ironbloods in the lead, the vast lot of them on foot for the walk up the path. Deros found it a trial to walk and was panting rather quickly into it, but he was versed and trained in pushing himself when exhausted. He managed, even as his body protested with each movement.
Palamera was directly ahead of him — momentarily she dropped back, and whispered quickly to him, “Don’t do anything foolish, Deros, please.”
Before he could respond one of the keirtum-ranked Ironbloods ahead turned his head back and barked, “Quiet! No talking, unless you want a gag like your deadmeat friend.”
Deros felt a pang of worry at the warning. I have to do something. I can’t let anything happen to another of our party. Why was she so ornery? He expected it from the likes of Daexo, but not Urchon. But then, she was as freedom-loving as they came, he supposed. Freedom from marriage, freedom from children, wandering wherever she wanted, taking any lover she cared to on the road. This was the antithesis of her life more than anyone…
You don’t have to choose to die, Ambassador. It’s not over yet. Please stop daring them to kill you!
The stone watchtower was on the north-facing side of the cliff, showing some vague signs of activity in the shadows of its roofed top, but they were led more to the south, where the final natural peak of the elevation resided, a short, irregular, rocky climb with one side a gradual rise, almost like a small, steep hill. At the base where they were brought, two Ironbloods with long, purple cloaks stood holding staffs with incredibly-bright lanterns hanging down from them. At the top of the hill was a figure, cloaked in the shadows behind the light.
Just as they were made to kneel at the base in front of the two stoic Ironbloods, Deros spied a winged shape flying down toward the figure above, which raised its arm up towards the flyer as though presenting it. Vaguely, he saw the hint of flowing robes, a carried staff, and — surprisingly — long hair blowing in the wind. Deros could wish for his makar’osa to see more detail, but even if he could against the fatigue and nausea that would answer and punish him, he was better off being cautious. Because he could tell, even from a distance, that she was also one of the Blessed. It echoed out from her in a way he’d never felt.
What had to be the eagle-like animal… at first Deros had the queer impression it was clawing her arm or grabbing it to take off, as she presented it — but no. It landed on her arm, wings gradually retracting down to the rest of its body. She lowered her arm slightly and might’ve been speaking to it, though he couldn’t hear. Shortly thereafter she appeared to turn and look down. Deros swallowed involuntarily. The figure that was the Shaper moved the great bird to her shoulder where it perched, as she then descended the hill. As soon as she began, all the Ironblood aside from the lamp-bearers went down to one knee.
As she gradually came into the light, Deros was aware firstly that she was doing something with a bewilderingly complex construction of makar’osa, spinning in incredibly tight spools that narrowed to points, which carried some sort of dark, jet material from her forearm to flow and integrate into the thick staff she carried. Soon, the bracer of sorts disappeared… as the light made her form more apparent, he realized it was bare skin underneath. Pale, purple skin.
Much of that skin was visible in the twilight and the glow of the lanterns, shown by the cut of an elegant, dark dress feathered with striking abstract imprints of many colors in layered undertones, foremost in purples, some of them like blossoms of some kind. The dress left one shoulder bare, the other tied in a bow of long trails. Her long, jet hair and the divided skirts of the dress billowed furiously in the great wind, baring much of her legs and some sort of sandals on her feet. She wore gold jewelry all studded with rubies, including a diadem with a great triangle of ruby at the top. All of it — from a wrist clasp, to a simple neckband, to a few rings — was somehow short of gaudy, thin, and with nothing jangling. Whatever it was that made up the staff and unraveled bracer was also contoured up onto her shoulder, as an anchorage for the talons of that great bird.
She glided across the rock and sand right up to Deros — or rather, the Taldecs — then stopped, regarding each of them slowly, heedless of the wind blowing her hair every which way. Deros could not resist a sense of awe — she was like some alien goddess descended from heaven, beautiful and fearsome at once… impeccably presented, apparent perfection dropped into a disorderly nowhere. She seemed even more unreal than the Ironbloods had at their first appearance.
The gods have returned — here is the goddess Eklásia, looking every inch one. Deros tried once more to squelch such annoying thoughts. It was only the appearance! Everything had an explanation. This — she — would be no different.
But when her unnaturally blue, dark-framed eyes swept over his, it felt as if she looked down into his soul. Caught in a strange net of mixed, unresolvable feelings, he looked away, looked down, unable to hold her gaze at all.
He was aware of her nearing closer. And closer. He saw a set of blue-lacquered toes atop sandals in the sand, out of the edge of his eyes. Breathing too fast, Deros felt a panic. Was he supposed to divert his eyes? Was he supposed to look up? For a moment, there was only an eerie silence in answer, but for the wisp of the wind.
Practically like a slap in the face so close, he felt her spin out her impossibly-concentrated spooling of makar’osa, arcing through the strange, dark staff and then shooting out right at him, in a vast network of thousands and thousands of thread-like wires too tiny to see, making nothing more than a fuzzy blur to the naked eye.
Deros recoiled, and wanted to recoil further, to run away, to-
No. If she wants me dead, I’m dead. He knew that was true, somehow. So he clenched his fists, clenched his every muscle, and made himself stay still.
Slowly, the blur of nearly-invisible matter cradled under his chin… and lifted, like a hand, straight up. He let it, vaguely aware of the rest of the matter extending back toward the staff, like a makeshift arm, or a mass of roots, all nearly invisible, like stiffened gossamer.
His eyes were made to meet hers. He tried to ignore the very terrifying white-and-gold bird on her shoulder. Fighting down and calming his trembling, he fully met and held her gaze. Her eyes were slightly widened, curious. Bemused. The hint of a smile tilted her faintly-painted lips, and a trace of some rosy scent touched his nose.
“What do you fear, wielder of prime?” She queried him in a lightly-accented voice like rich honey and velvet. “What do you see?”
It took him a moment to open his mouth, and he hesitated still after. Wielder of prime? He had to discard that question, though. A voice told him to say, ‘my Ordenai’ or something of the like, but he discounted it and — more or less truthfully — said, “A goddess.”
Air left her nose in mild amusement, the smile curling a bit more. “A wise answer. Or a deductive one.”
“It is the truth… my Ordení.”
An eyebrow quirked ever so slightly. “Is it, now?” She held his gaze for a long moment, studying him.
He was finally distracted by the mass of ‘tendrils’ retracting back from their hold under his chin, swiftly back into the dark staff. He couldn’t help but marvel at the bizarre object… dark as jet, yet having some semblance of being wood, or bone, or perhaps something like the Ironblood’s armor. Indeed, it seemed like it could be alive, and even had little black leaves sprouting here or there, particularly at the top. He initially thought them to be mere spikes, as black as they were.
At some signal Deros missed, all the Ironbloods rose from where they’d been kneeling. Eklásia’s gaze shifted to sweep over the others. Deros noticed the bird — a kiksa, he remembered — looking down at him briefly. Its incredibly Hamaleen-like, but unblinking, fierce gaze stirred a slight revulsion in Deros, but he felt it far worse for what he noticed above its eyes: something was attached to its forehead, green-brown and jutting slightly like a growth or some parasite. Insectoid-like, reminding him of the suits again. Something about it particularly made his skin crawl.
When Eklásia saw Urchon at the end, the Shaper strode slowly over to stand in front of her, looking down. Urchon met her gaze proudly, despite the gag in her mouth. At least it wasn’t saturated with hate. In fact, there was certainly awe stirred in her as well, he thought.
“This one can’t abide her tongue?” Eklásia seemed amused. “She is rebellious?”
Jânaél answered, “Very much so on both counts, my Ordení.”
As Eklásia cocked her head to consider the puzzle knelt beneath her, Deros was aware suddenly of those same tendrils flaring out from the staff, but impossibly quick, flicking, lashing like a whip. He almost cried out, and he heard a frightened gasp from Palamera, but all that resulted was the gag falling to the ground. She’d sliced it in two, as if by a thought.
Urchon — who appeared entirely unharmed — was nonetheless momentarily stunned. Deros took advantage, calling, “My Ordení, I beg your mercy for her! She’s important — an ambassador and knowledg-”
He cut off as a hand came up flat from the Shaper, directed at Deros despite not looking at him, but clearly calling for his silence. He swallowed his words down, feeling dread and anxiety for what could happen. He could do nothing if he wasn’t permitted to speak.
Eklásia let her held-up, lacquered fingers simply fold down idly as she continued gazing down at Urchon. “Well? Do you have some rustic curses and spiteful utterances for me? Demands?”
Urchon stared back and… thankfully, appeared to consider it carefully. Her eyes dropped momentarily before looking back up at the powerful figure above her. “No.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ve seen eyes such as yours before. Instead of just executing me, you might murder all others but me for a mere slight. And you have the power to.”
The Shaper seemed amused, her face crinkling in a bit of a smile. “And the Ironbloods you’ve hassled had none?”
“They’re simple. Easy to understand. Under orders. They’ll beat me, threaten me, maybe kill me. But they’re good at stopping short, even when they don’t want to. Obedient, transparent scum.”
“I see.” Eklásia nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “We’ll use your suggestion, quari. If you don’t cooperate and conduct yourself obediently from now on, the one to your right will be executed. Is that fair?”
Thalamon…
Urchon shook her head. “They’ll lie! They’d love to see me suffer!”
“Are you asking me for a boon, quari? Why should I?”
Urchon struggled, clearly despairing. Her eyes flitted around. Finally, she glanced up at the Shaper, then sagged down, bowing her head low. “Please forgive me for my offenses, my Ordení. I beg for your mercy, please… my Ordení.” She was almost whispering by the end, words saturated with shame to be made to speak so.
Deros held his breath as all seemed still, with the Shaper looking down impassively at the bowed figure of Urchon, letting the matter hang for a long spell.
“Granted,” Eklásia said finally, “so you and these others may have hope in the order of our ways. So long as you bow to them, embrace them? Your hope will be well founded. I will assign you someone I trust, quari, and you can have a fresh start. I hope you understand not to breach this trust now, especially.”
“Yes, my Ordení,” Urchon murmured, voice breaking a bit.
Deros felt a bit sick to hear such from her, even as she’d possibly saved Thalamon’s life at the least. He believed it was so. Semõìn had warned him that he’d be better off dead than to cross them. Did that count escaping? It wouldn’t matter, as long as he succeeded in escaping with everyone.
Eklásia walked by slowly, studying each in turn. She said nothing to Thalamon or Olarius, neither of whom met her eye or spoke — perhaps wisely. She eyed Deros as if she were daring him to do so in turn. At least, he imagined it so. He did so dare, meeting her gaze directly, since she had already made him to once… effectively driving away much of his fear. Besides, no one had told him not to look at her. Was one really supposed to be meek under those circumstances? He was not sure if he detected a note of bemusement in her expression as she passed by him…
He noticed something else while watching her, in a brief flash through her body, a resonant pulse of makar’osa perhaps, that flared from within like a blown-on ember within a fire. It extended through every angle and stretch of her — at the core — as though the embers were her marrow. A shiver ran through him again, at the strangeness. But it was all over in an instant.
What is she — really?
Stopping abruptly in front of Palamera, Eklásia stared down implacably. Quite suddenly, the farsense spooled out from the Shaper, focused and concentrated on Palamera, enveloping her, passing through and back out in moments. Palamera jerked a bit initially, but did not raise her eyes — instead, they flashed every which way to the sand and rocks at the Shaper’s feet. The Hospitaller was visibly breathing heavily and sweat was on her brow. Deros resisted saying anything. It seemed unlikely to help.
“Raise your eyes to me, wielder of prime,” Eklásia commanded softly.
Palamera first squeezed her eyes shut, beginning to mutter something that cut off at a too-high pitch. She took a deep, deep breath and opened her eyes, raising them slowly to the Shaper’s own as she trembled in fear. She seemed ready to break into tears, her expression being precisely what one who had to look at divinity must be like.
The Shaper smiled mildly, as ever without a flash of teeth, appearing to regard the one kneeling before her in compassion. Her hand reached down, touching Palamera’s cheek — who flinched and quaked but did not recoil or pull away. Eklásia seemed to study her, and the fingers moved slowly, as if tracing the tattoos.
“What do they mean?” Eklásia asked.
Palamera’s mouth opened, but no words initially came out. Her lips quivered. Finally, breathless, she managed, “T-tracing… our path as a-a Hospitaller… The runes are a… s-secret of our order… my Ordení.” The last was a whisper that barely came out.
“Secrets?” The Shaper’s brow quirked. “I love secrets.” The forefinger of her hand came to rest under Palamera’s chin. “Allow me to share mine. Use your ability on me.”
“Wh-what?” Palamera was mortified and shocked, her mouth agape, as she stared back.
“Use your ability on me,” Eklásia repeated calmly, and let her hand drop. “I know what you can do.” It had an odd note, almost of sadness perhaps. Or disappointment.
From the staff came once again a makar’osa-manufactured lash, flaring out, up and around Palamera to curl back and slice open the bonds like they were made of straw, surgically quick and precise. Deros’s heart leapt into his chest at so dangerous a thing being done near his love, and from Palamera’s face and reaction, so had hers. The tight lines soon retracted, only slightly slower than they launched out.
She could behead us with one stroke, couldn’t she? Gods. Why is she doing this? Does she enjoy it? Is she just showing off?
Bringing her freed hands around in front of her, Palamera looked as if she was very unsure of what to do with them. “I-I have to-”
“I know, young quari,” Eklásia interrupted, bemusement painting her face. “You may touch me.” Yet she offered no hand. Yes. On some level, she was enjoying it.
Palamera awkwardly moved closer on her knees, enough that she could reach a hand over to… she hesitated as her shaky palm neared a divide of the skirts at the bottom of the Shaper’s dress. She looked up uncertainly, but Eklásia nodded her approval — with the shadow of a smile. The Hospitaller steeled herself with a breath, then thrust her hand through, grasping a calf. Immediately after, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused, flaring out the farsense and then her form of makar’osa soon thereafter, sweeping it through the Shaper’s body.
An instant later Palamera let out a disturbed cry and released it all, her hand coming away as though burned. She sagged down, eyes tearing, her hands stopping her from dropping face-first into the sand.
“Palamera!” Deros was on his feet without even thinking about it, though before he could think about what he was doing or act, a powerful hand was at his shoulder, holding him firm.
Eklásia for her part ignored him. She gazed down at Palamera with an almost clinical sort of curiosity, which reminded him of Hospitallers like Eursett. “Is it so horrible to you, young beauty?”
“Kneel, kampriço,” Semõìn’s voice at his ear whispered. “Ous evrie. Or I make you.”
Deros grimaced but complied, falling to his knees again, otherwise utterly focused on what was happening to his love. Semõìn’s hand relented.
Slowly, racked with sobs, Palamera raised her head to meet the waiting eyes of the Shaper. “Are you in pain?”
Eklásia’s head cocked, observing the one before her in rapt fascination, like one might a small, curious animal. Her hand came down once more, to pet at Palamera’s hair. “You would ask me such a question? What a precious little bird you are. No, my sensitive quari. What does a body do for what is lodged within by chance, yet unremovable? Adapt, adjust. Far more can it be made to do so for what is modified by intent and design. By which I stand before you now, in the flesh and power like no other who came from afar.”
Deros puzzled over the words. “You were modified for the gravity,” he blurted. All eyes turned to him, including Palamera’s. She shook her head at him as if to say, ‘no, don’t do anything stupid, Deros.’ But he continued, “It’s less where you’re from. It’s why these great warriors can’t be one minute without their suits, right? Suits the Shapers designed? But you can change yourselves, too. My Ordení.”
Hand sliding away from Palamera’s head, Eklásia made the sparse few steps over to Deros and gazed down on him with amusement — and perhaps another reflection of fascination. But Deros saw too something else in her eyes and understood what Urchon said, on some level. Danger and unpredictability seemed poised within. “The brave and lovely boy,” she declared, “is clever, too. Daringly so. What a cornucopia of fruits you are.” Her eyes shifted over to Palamera. “Is he yours?”
Palamera seemed struck dumb for a moment. “Wh-... I-no, I don’t own him. W-we’re not together.”
“And yet you anguish over each other just so.”
“We’ve known each other since childhood,” Deros interjected smoothly. “We care deeply for each other.”
“Childhood friends, she is beautiful, so are you — and charming besides, I’m sure. Both young, both wielders. All these things conspire, yet you say you feel no romance? Do you prefer your same likeness, then?”
It took Deros a moment to realize what she meant. “What? No.” He cleared his throat. Her amused expression, and the tone she’d had, made him realize she had already known. “We just… I messed it up. My Ordení.”
“How so?”
She is so pressing. Why does she care? Deros did not want to get into it, so he hesitated to answer. His eyes shot over to Palamera briefly.
Eklásia turned to her, seeming all too intrigued. “So you were together. What did he do, Palamera? Cheat? Break your monogamous agreement? Tell me.”
Once more, the Hospitaller was stunned, as if the Shaper’s eyes were a coming stampede she couldn’t avoid. “I-... we weren’t together. My Ordení! He-he was with many others...” Her face was redder from the turn of the conversation, and she trailed off, looking away, unable to continue.
The rich blue eyes of the Shaper turned back to Deros, her expression grown to a greater amusement. “So you’re a playboy.”
A mild gaggle of laughter went through the Ironbloods, foremost from the two caped ones. Eklásia did not discourage them, her eyes instead shifting to them while sharing in it. Her face finally broke into a striking, perfect smile fit to melt hearts. It only encouraged the merriment.
Great.
“Who is this boy’s handler?” Eklásia asked with an almost-laugh, gesturing with a hand. She looked above Deros’s shoulder, where no doubt Semõìn waited. “It is you, et? Is all of this to your impressions? Speak freely, now, Ironblood. Tell me something amusing if you have it. Off-color, perhaps. I love off-color. Don’t be shy. You may be rewarded.”
This isn’t good, this is-
“Ah, et, my Ordení,” Semõìn began, obviously awed and nervous. “Well, et, we already heard it is so, my Ordení. They argued a bit. Off-color? Ah. Et. When I was, ah, asking him if he had weapons? He said he had a… huge, pretty one. Very dangerous, especially to virgins. In his pants.”
Eklásia’s face broke into laughter that quickly grew into resounding, rich peels as her head fell back somewhat, joined in copiously by the Ironbloods. Somehow he doubted they were faking it. Her laugh was like everything else about her: beautiful. Addictive. Unreal in some subtle, core way.
Deros grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to see anyone’s face looking at him, though he felt the heat just the same. He took a deep, calming breath. This stupid belt knife had better be worth it.
The laughter finally died down, and Eklásia — through the aftershocks of her merriment — declared, “A satisfactory close to this encounter! I needed that. Soldier, you will be rewarded, as promised. I hope he stays so amusing. There are rare gems among them, no? But darkness falls. Ironbloods, you may return to your camp.”
Deros opened his eyes to find her looking down at him again, a flagrant smirk on her lips. In another moment, though, she turned away, walking over to Sângére Jânaél. At the same time, all of the Taldecs were made to rise. Palamera looked a bit pale, almost sick, and he couldn’t be surprised. She definitely avoided casting any looks his way.
“A fine mess you tumbled yourself in, Deros,” Urchon said dryly.
“As if you did any better?” Deros retorted sharply in annoyance.
Before any further arguing or calls for quiet came, Jânaél barked, “Leave the mouthy one, ah — the ambassador. She must be reassigned, by the grace of our Ordení. We’ll handle it.”
“Zeko, zeki, Sâng,” the Ironblood near Urchon said, the final syllables of the title only hinted at under the heavy accent. A battle-born shortcut, perhaps.
“Good luck, Ambassador,” Thalamon called.
“And you all,” Urchon said before she was drawn away.
Amazingly, the Ironbloods didn’t rebuke them for talking, seemingly possessed with a good mood, though there was also the fact that the Sângére and his troupe were not with them, which probably loosened them up a bit. As they started back across the cliff’s top, an unknown member of their number gave Deros a mild nudge and said in teasing tones, “So, tribal, you’re packing a real sand monster in there, eh?”
Into their varied assortment of humorous exclamations, Deros — feeling virulently dismissive and uncaring — replied, “Et, et. With two heads. But only one ball.” An explosion of laughter resounded from this.
“One Ball Deros! He’s got it where it really counts!” Semõìn called. More laughter. Let them. A fool entertaining greater ones.
As the idiots were more or less occupied, Deros moved up closer to Palamera. “What did you see from her? Within her? How is she different?” No answer. She ignored him. “Palamera… I’m sorry.” Still nothing. He fell back.
She’s upset. With me… but probably with more than that. She can hate me, though. As long as we get free. Whether his antics were helping that eventuality was impossible to say, but amiable captors were better than captors that wanted their charge dead, like Urchon. She’d gotten beaten, likely came close to getting someone else killed, and ended up separated, for her troubles. All pointless.
We were brought up here… for what? Entertainment, it seems — a predator playing with its food. One that consumes the mind and soul. A cruel smile, even in joy. A cruel beauty. Would that I not have to see it again.
