Sacrifice (Catalyst Moon #5), page 23
But Marcen, of course, took everything in his confident stride. He saluted the officer. “Thank you, ser.”
The patrol continued. Marcen had words for nearly every mage they encountered, and each interaction left the magic-users either bewildered or close to tears. By the time the patrol had finished, Sergeant Koto and the other sentinels were murmuring appreciation of their new squad-mate’s ferocity. No one had so much as looked at Flint, for which she was grateful.
After bastion patrol, she had about half an hour of freedom before she’d be expected at the midday meal, so she hurried to the latrine, then the room she shared with three others. Thank the One, her roommates were out with their own squads, either sparring or on patrol, so Flint had the space to herself. She shut the door, set her helmet on her bunk, and sat beside it to put her head in her hands. One moment was all she needed; one moment to try and calm her increasingly shaky nerves. Her breaths came heavy, but her head felt light and spinny.
A gentle knock at the door made her look up. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Bolt.”
Flint rose and let him in, shutting the door behind him. None of the doors locked. “How’d you come up with that name, anyway?” she asked.
“How’d you come up with yours?”
“I wanted a name that sounded…harsh.” Flames rose in her cheeks. Gods, she was such a moron. She groaned and flopped back on her bunk, sending tufts of straw and feathery down up from beneath the blanket. “Kali’s not even here anymore. What are we doing? We ought to leave before someone sniffs you out.”
The bunk shifted as Mar sat beside her. Their combined gear was not comfortable to lean against, so he laced their fingers together. “Not just yet,” he said gently. “The right moment hasn’t come.”
“It’ll be time for a burn soon,” Flint replied. “Don’t tell me you’ll start taking hematite to fit in.”
He shrugged. “From what I’ve seen, most sentinels hole up in their bunks to take their dose. No one will notice if I don’t actually ingest any. Isn’t that what you’re planning?”
Flint chewed on her lower lip. “I guess, but–”
“Look,” he interrupted, “I’ve been talking to some of the others. No one likes mages, but everyone’s tired of the thralls. I think some might be pleased to learn they can be cured rather than killed.”
This sent her heart back into her guts. “After your little performance today, you really think you could convince other sentinels that mages aren’t the problem?”
He clenched his gloved hands. “Most sentinels don’t hate mages on a personal level, Flint. What we do—what sentinels do—it’s just a job. Harassment and bluster are part of it; I learned that a long time ago. Stopping the thralls transcends hatred of mages. And besides, we’re here. We’ve got to try something.”
“We’re here because you insisted we come,” Flint replied.
He waved a hand. “Well, you didn’t hold me back. You didn’t argue. Too much.”
Damn him. “We could go to the One’s temple. Find that Cipher, find Kali…”
She trailed off at his scowl. “Kali’s given up,” he muttered as he pulled off his gloves. “And if the Circle has her, she’s probably no better off than here in the garrison.”
“That Cipher was on our side, back in Whitewater City,” Flint replied.
But Marcen was already shaking his head. “No one from the Circle can be trusted. Besides,” he added, almost to himself, “I can’t sit by anymore and hope someone else makes the right choice.”
Flint studied him with new eyes. The shadows of her room stuck to his face, making him look much older than his twenty-five summers. And with his hair dyed dark and his hematite-embedded gear, he seemed so…sharp, and she did not think “Bolt” was all an act. Did she truly know him at all?
“What’s going on with you?” she asked. “You’re awfully…invested in this mission of yours.”
“Of ours,” he replied. “And you’re being unfair. I’m trying to fit in with the hemies – following your directions, by the way. Do you want them to discover what I am?”
Her guts squirmed. “No, but…”
Mar put a hand on her cheek, drawing her concentration to his face. “I know this is a strange time, Mira, but we’ve come so far. We need to trust each other.”
The sound of her birthname unwound a tight thread around her heart. His touch was warm, his skin still soft despite his recent training. She leaned into his palm, seeking that comfort, that reassurance that he—that they—would be all right. “It’s just…you’re awfully good at being a horse’s ass,” she murmured.
He gave a grim chuckle. “It’s not so hard to pretend. I’ve been on the receiving end of that treatment more times than I can count.”
“Did I…?” Flint pulled away. Maybe she didn’t want to ask this question. “Did I ever act like that to you?”
He didn’t reply, which was answer enough.
Hands trembling, Flint rose and began to pace. Gods above, she missed Milo’s steady, warm presence. Every time she went too far, he reeled her back to decency. But he was gone, now, and she had to be her own sort of decent. How could she make up for a lifetime of treating others like shit on her boots?
“Mira.” Marcen took her hands, stilling her. Though his hair was dark, his eyes were the same clear blue she’d grown used to. At her look, he gave a soft smile and brushed his thumb against her wrist. “You definitely need a distraction from those tears.”
Tears? Shit. She swiped at her face and found an answering smile. “I’ve got a few ideas.”
He lifted a brow. “So do I.”
She laughed, then kissed him. It was a light kiss, but quickly grew more urgent, until she could only think of shedding their gear and lying skin-to-skin. The urge to touch without gloves, embrace without armor, consumed her whole self as she tugged at his cuirass. “Get rid of this shit.”
Mar obliged her. They shared a flurry of unfastening buckles and pulling down straps, until they tumbled back onto her bunk, flushed and eager.
“Your bunkmates will be back soon,” he murmured between kisses. “And we’ll be late for the midday meal.”
“I don’t sodding care,” she replied as she traced his abdomen. “I need to feel you.” I need to feel me, too, she thought.
He chuckled. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, and pulled him closer.
* * *
Flint and Marcen were the last to enter the mess hall. The only open seats were on either side of Rook, who sipped a mug of tea, making notes on what looked like patrol schedules. Flint glanced around—perhaps she could get Levy and Granite to shove over at their table—but Marcen carried his food to Rook, and plopped into the seat beside her. Rather than risk more questioning glances—and potential gossip—Flint resigned herself to following Marcen’s lead.
The sentinels’ chatter filled the air. Everyone was talking about the Forsworn sentinel that had been brought to the Temple of the One, but no one knew the sentinel’s name. Flint listened carefully for any recognizable descriptions but given what had happened at Whitewater Bastion after she’d left, she supposed the Forsworn sentinel could be someone she didn’t know.
At least, she hoped. Better a stranger than her brother, or even Beacon. No, she hoped her loved ones were far, far from Lasath.
As the newcomers wolfed down their meal, Rook set down her mug and looked between Flint and Marcen. “I’m going out to the Undercity this afternoon, to search for recruits. I want you both to come with me.”
“What do you mean, ‘search for recruits?’” Marcen asked in a whisper.
Flint shot him a glare for speaking so carelessly in front of the other sentinels, but thank Tor, no one else was listening.
“Don’t you know where sentinels come from?” Rook asked.
“I suppose people just show up at the garrison and say ‘I hate mages, too! Let’s all do it together!’”
Rook gave a hollow laugh. “Not quite.”
“We can’t go,” Flint said through gritted teeth. “We’ve sparring practice with Sergeant Koto.”
“I’ll speak to Koto,” Rook replied as she stood. “Meet me at the front gates after you’ve finished here.” She swept out of the mess hall before Flint could object.
Mar glanced at Flint. “What does she want?”
“Nothing good,” Flint said. “But I suppose I’ll take the chance to get out of the garrison, even for a few minutes.” She speared her chunk of pork and shoved it into her mouth.
“I know there’s bad blood between you two, but Rook’s not evil,” Marcen murmured. “She was always kind, back in Whitewater. And she helped us out here, didn’t she? Maybe you should give her a second chance.” He sat up, his eyes gleaming as if he’d just eaten hematite. “Maybe she can help us spread the word. She’s part of Silver Squad; the others respect her.”
Flint tried to speak around the food, but the words came out muffled. Mar cupped his hand to his ear and leaned toward her. “What’s that? You agree with everything I say? And…oh, I’m the greatest lover you’ve ever known? Why, you know how to make a fellow blush.”
She swallowed her food and glared at him. “Ass.”
“You’re a fan, if memory serves.” He toyed with his potatoes. “You really hate her?”
Once, Flint would have said yes. But now… She pictured Rook’s warm eyes, her freckled face, her smile, and could not find an answer. Instead, she glanced around to be sure no one was listening. “Like you hate Kali now?”
He began collecting his dishes. “It’s complicated, all right? Look, we should get going.”
You shouldn’t even be here, she thought, but her plate was empty and he was right; it was past time to leave.
About fifteen minutes later, Flint and Marcen wove through the Undercity’s crowded streets, hurrying after Rook. There wasn’t a breeze to speak of at the bottom of the canyon, so every unpleasant smell—of which there were many—lingered like a bunkmate’s unwelcome visitor. Flint wished she were a Sufani; at least then she’d have an excuse to cover her nose and mouth in public. All she could do now was try not to inhale. At least they were out of the garrison.
“Where are you taking us?” she asked Rook.
“Not too far.” Rook dug into a large pouch at her belt and withdrew a few smaller bags, which she handed to Flint and Marcen.
The moment Flint saw the pouch, her stomach dropped, for she remembered what was coming. Marcen frowned over his, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Rook hurried on, slipping through the throngs of people with ease, nodding and smiling to any who didn’t scramble out of her way. She didn’t shove through, as Flint would have done in her burnie days, but kept her pace steady enough to cause others to step aside. Despite this, some folks still fell over themselves to keep out of the sentinels’ way, and Flint saw more than a few terrified looks aimed at Rook.
“It’s the armor,” Rook said as they waited at an intersection. She skimmed a gloved hand over her gleaming silver chest plate. “It…makes an impact.”
“Why doesn’t the High Commander change your gear?” Flint asked.
“Argent likes the impact,” Rook replied quickly. “Come on.”
The street cleared enough for the trio to move out and they hurried across. Sunlight could not penetrate this deep in the Undercity canyon, and as the sentinels went, the number of lit lanterns along the streets dwindled.
Further into the Undercity, the streets grew a little less crowded. After a few more minutes, Rook glanced around and led them toward a group of dirty children, who stared at the sentinels with wide eyes. A few scurried off at the sentinels’ approach, but many stayed. Rook smiled at them and reached into her belt pouch. “Well met, little ones. Is anyone hungry?”
A few more children scattered, but the lure of food drew most of the urchins close. Rook knelt among them and began handing out the sugared almonds, smiling at each child as they snatched the food from her hand. “It’s all right,” she said in a soothing voice. “There’s no need to fear, and there’s plenty more where this came from.”
She nodded to Marcen and Flint, who each dug through their pouches to hand out the candied treats. Flint offered a few sugary almonds to a little girl—no more than five summers, surely—and the child stared at her with huge, red-rimmed eyes before grabbing the treats and retreating a few paces to gobble them down. Gods above, she was all bones and eyeballs. Had Flint ever been so small?
Marcen was laughing in earnest as the children swarmed around him. “Settle down, settle down. There’s enough for all of you.”
“That’s right,” Rook said, beaming down at the gaggle. “And there’s even more in the sentinel garrison. Do you know where that is?”
Some of the children ignored her, but a few studied her with interest. To these, she gave a few more sweets – along with clear instructions on how to reach the garrison. Flint, who’d given away her almonds, felt something flop in her belly at the scene: the kindly-looking sentinel among the street urchins, bribing them with treats and gentle words, coaxing them into a life of fighting and death. Some children who had known so little kindness clung to the smallest compassion.
The trick had worked on her and Mi, on Stonewall and Drake. It’d worked on so many sentinels. How many of these children would take the bait? How many would see their lives cut short by hematite?
“Flint?” Marcen touched her arm.
“I’m fine,” she said before he could ask.
He looked from her to the children, who were dissipating. A few, though, were already racing in the direction of the garrison. “So this is how sentinels are made,” Mar said quietly. “I like my idea better.”
“Me too.” Flint swallowed hard, fighting for calm. It was difficult not to glare at Rook as the other woman put away her empty pouches. The system wasn’t Rook’s fault.
But even so.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Flint asked her former friend. “Sending them to die?” She gestured to the handful of children who’d remained, but had retreated to watch the sentinels from the shadowed alleys. A few larger human shapes waited there, too, and a warning danced along Flint’s spine.
“Everything dies,” Rook replied after a beat. “It’s the way of the world. Isn’t it better for these little ones to have a chance at a life worth living, rather than starvation – or worse? You know what evils lurk in places like this, Flint.”
To Flint’s surprise, Marcen answered. “I remember all too well.”
“Sacrifice is a part of our oath for a reason,” Rook said. “But that doesn’t mean a life of service must also be without joy.”
“But it will be too short,” Flint muttered.
“True,” Rook replied. “But even brief survival is better than the alternative.”
“Even when others hold your leash?” Marcen asked.
Rook did not answer, only lowered her chin, then glanced up at Marcen. “Go.”
Both he and Flint started. Marcen recovered first. “Just like that?”
“Argent won’t be fooled forever,” Rook replied. She wove her gloved fingers together, shifting her weight as if eager to run, herself. “You must leave. There’s no patrols now, so if you hurry, you can avoid the next one. I’ll spin a tale to set them on the wrong track. Here,” she added, handing him another pouch at her belt. “It’s not much coin, but it should get you well out of Lasath. Sergeant Abril at the gate owes me a favor, and should let you through with no questions. Just mention my name.”
But he shoved the pouch back at her. “I’m not going anywhere, not when I can do something here. Don’t you want to stop the thralls?”
“Of course,” Rook replied, eyes wide. “But it’s not that simple.”
“Bullshit,” Marcen shot back. He glared at Flint. “You going to chime in?”
Movement caught her eye. Some of the shadows detached from the walls and stalked toward the sentinels. Her daggers were in her hands before she’d registered the number of encroaching enemies. Half a dozen, at least, no doubt with more too chickenshit to show their faces just yet. “Mar, get behind me,” she murmured.
He scoffed and drew his sword with a jerky motion. “I can take care of myself.”
Flint and Rook exchanged glances; Flint saw her own assessment of Mar’s fighting prowess mirrored in Rook’s face, so they moved to flank him. Their attackers formed a ring around the sentinels: a motley group of scowling civilians, although their spears and axes looked deadly enough. A slender, dark-haired woman seemed to lead the way, coming the closest to the sentinels, her spear aimed at Flint’s heart.
“The lad asked a good question,” the civilian said in a dark voice. “Aren’t you armored sods going to do anything about the thralls?”
“We’re working on it,” Flint said through gritted teeth.
The woman stepped closer. She was all angles and sharp edges, with a thin face and a nose that looked like it’d been broken more than once. Her spear leveled at Flint’s heart. “Perhaps your fellow hemies need some motivation to work harder.”
Rook stepped between them, hands raised. Unlike Flint and Mar, she’d not drawn her weapons. “Please, ser, we didn’t come here looking for trouble, though it seems we’ve found it.” A few of the civilians chuckled darkly, although their leader didn’t budge. Rook continued, her voice gentle. “As much as I wish we could, we can’t solve the thrall crisis here and now. Know that the sentinel High Commander is working with the Council, the Pillars, and Queen Solasar to stop the thralls and protect the people.”
The woman spat at Rook’s feet. “I’ve heard those empty words before, hemie. Whitewater City is still lost to the demons.”
Marcen cleared his throat. “That’s true, ser, but we—sentinels and mages—are trying to help.”
Had Flint’s hands been empty, she would have slapped him. But the civilians all stared at him, and the woman in charge murmured, “Mages bring nothing but death.”
“Everyone knows they’re behind the thrall attacks,” someone called. “Just ask the poor sods who couldn’t leave Whitewater City before the demons took over.”
