Sacrifice (Catalyst Moon #5), page 31
“Taken care of, can’t you see?” Flint hissed, though her eyes burned behind her helmet and her heart had stuck in her throat. She removed his cuffs and brought the mage to Marcen. By now, Rook and Koto had joined him, and the others were coming over, too, as the rest of the thralls were dead.
“What are you doing?” Granite was saying to Mar.
“Just…hold him still,” Marcen hissed, then he glanced up, saw Flint and the mage, and his face turned to stone. His helmet was gone, blood streaked the bridge of his nose, and he shook his head. “Get him out of here, Flint…”
But she ignored him. “Here.” She shoved the mage toward Mar. “Heal the thrall. Show us it can be done.”
“But I’ve never done it,” the mage protested, shaking his head. “Besides, he’s bleeding like a stuck pig. He won’t survive.”
“Just sodding try,” Flint snarled. She pushed him down beside Marcen, who stared at her. “Bolt, hold the thrall still.”
The bastion mage looked helplessly at the thrall, who screamed and twisted in the sentinels’ grips, then took a deep breath and placed his hands over the thrall’s heart, atop the gold, gleaming plate armor of the queen’s army. Marcen ducked his head, ostensibly focusing on holding down the thrall while the bastion mage worked. Flint stood by, breath short, heart slamming against her ribs. The world went still.
The thrall’s eyes dimmed. He stopped writhing, but his head lolled to one side as if he were drunk. Watery brown eyes fixed on Flint. “She’s gone,” he whispered in a drawling Redfern accent. “I can’t hear her any longer.”
“Good,” Flint said, tugging at Mar’s arm before the other mage sensed his magic. But Mar jerked out of her grip and kept his place.
“You’re safe, lad,” Vigil said, kneeling beside the soldier. She looked at the bastion mage. “It seems you’re a better healer than you knew.”
The mage lifted his hands. “I didn’t do anything. I just…” He stood up, backed away, looking around wildly until his gaze fixed on Marcen. “But you…”
Flint didn’t think. She lunged forward and sliced her dagger along the mage’s throat, and he crumpled to the saffron grass.
“Sodding hell, Flint, what in the void was that?” Sergeant Koto snapped.
Rook rested a hand on Flint’s shoulder. “The mage was about to escape. Couldn’t you tell, Sergeant?”
Koto frowned at the dead mage. “I suppose. Still…it’s against protocol to execute without proper authorization.”
“Then let the High Commander decide what to do,” Rook replied. “But I say, good work, Flint.”
No. It wasn’t. Flint glanced at Marcen. Tears shone on his face, and he would not meet her eyes.
Levy knelt by the Aredian soldier, who groaned softly. “I can’t believe it,” Levy whispered. “Thralls can be cured.” He looked around at the other bodies lying in the grass. “Oh, gods…what have we done?”
Granite’s mouth pressed in a hard line. “We didn’t know. We were only defending ourselves.”
But Levy shook his head. “We should have–”
“Should have what?” Granite snapped. “Let the thralls slice us to bloody pieces?”
“No, but…” Levy shuddered. “This can’t be part of the One god’s plan.”
The others gathered around, murmuring similar remarks to both Levy and Granite. Vigil looked at Marcen. “Well, mender?”
Marcen blinked as if emerging from a trance, and then frowned at the former thrall. “His wounds are too severe,” he said flatly. “He won’t survive the journey back.”
“We’ll risk it,” Vigil replied. “Put him in the carriage.”
She signaled to the others, who began to gently gather the injured man. Marcen drew back with Flint but still would not look at her.
“They can be cured,” Levy murmured again, pressing a hand to his temple. “Sweet Mara, if only I’d known…”
Granite crossed his arms. “Aye. This changes everything.”
Flint shot him a startled look, but Vigil interjected. “This changes nothing. Mage treachery takes many forms. No, this is some magical…trick. Nothing more. Don’t let the moon-bloods fool you.”
“But ser,” Levy protested.
Vigil cut him off with a glare. “Shut your mouth, boy, else I’ll do it for you.”
Flint didn’t hear Levy’s response. She only watched Marcen, gray-faced, staring at the dead mage lying among the red-stained grass. Her stomach churned and she looked down at her dagger, still painted crimson. What have I done?
* * *
True dark had fallen by the time the sentinels returned to the Undercity. Vigil and Sergeant Koto hurried off to make their reports, while Granite and Levy took the injured Aredian soldier to the infirmary. Koto also said something about alerting the Circle to tend to the bodies of the fallen, but Flint didn’t think until later to ask if the mage she’d killed would be included.
Stomach in knots, she found her way to Marcen, who stood just outside the infirmary, watching the menders work over the former thrall. Marcen didn’t turn when she said his false name, so she touched his shoulder.
He looked at her, but she wished he hadn’t, for the man who glared at her was no one she knew. “What?” he said.
Flint tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “Can we talk somewhere private?”
He brushed past her and strode through the corridors and gates, and out into the Undercity streets. She had no choice but to follow. This late, she and Marcen were some of the only souls brave enough to tread through the shadowed city.
When they were far enough away from the garrison, Flint glanced over at her companion. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look at her. “For what?”
“For killing the mage.” Flint resisted the urge to grip her daggers.
“Wilf.”
“What?”
“The man you murdered. His name was Wilf.”
“Wilf.” Flint took a shaking breath. “Mar, I’m sorry. I just…acted. I saw what you were about to do, and I couldn’t–”
“Why did you stop me?” he broke in, glaring at her. “And why, in all that’s holy, did you kill another in my place?”
Her lips trembled with a restrained sob, but she refused to drop her gaze from his. “Because I love you.”
She didn’t know what she expected from the revelation, as much to herself as him. But Marcen only shook his head. “What you did today…that’s not love, Mira. It’s ownership.” His voice sharpened. “You think you have a right to control my fate, but you don’t. None of you do.”
The last word echoed around them and fear stabbed Flint’s heart as she scanned the area, certain a sentinel patrol would come around the nearest corner to arrest them both. “Keep it down,” she hissed, grabbing his arm to pull him toward the nearest alley. “Or you’ll–”
But he snatched his arm free. “Or I’ll what? Get killed by a sentinel?” He snorted. “Fine by me. My two dearest friends in this life are dead, Flint. Gideon and Cai died fighting for my freedom. This,” he gestured to his armor, “is the very least I can do. And if I die in this shithole, trying to make the world a better place, then so be it.”
Horror swept over her like ice as she stared at him, only now seeing his intentions for what they were. “You…thought you would die on our mission here. You expected it.”
Marcen laughed, but the sound held no humor. “You give me too much credit. I didn’t plan this to the letter, but the One works in mysterious ways and all that.”
“You wanted to die? Or just to be arrested and thrown in a cell the rest of your sodding life?”
“If I am to die at a sentinel’s hands, let it be on my terms,” Marcen replied. “I just…couldn’t run away any longer.”
“I don’t understand,” Flint whispered. Her head swam and she had to lean against a nearby building lest she topple to the street.
Marcen threw up his hands. “That’s the problem. You sentinels don’t give us a choice because you assume we’ll make the wrong one.”
Flint squeezed her eyes shut, hoping she’d wake up when they opened again. But all she saw was Marcen watching her, his face shadowed and his eyes bright with tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. “I just wanted to protect you.”
“I don’t need you to protect me,” he said flatly. He sighed and adjusted his mender’s satchel. “Gods above… What I really need is a drink.”
Flint shook her head. “You need to leave. Now. After today, the others will surely figure out what you are. Unless,” she couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice, “you want them to.”
“Don’t worry. I’m already gone.” With that, he strode away from her.
And just like that, their self-appointed mission failed.
What was she supposed to do now?
Rook would know. At least, Rook could help Flint sort out this mess. She was the only other person around who understood – even a little. Even so, Flint stared after Marcen until the Undercity shadows swallowed him whole, then she trudged back to the garrison.
“Where’s Bolt?” the gate-guard asked as she came to the gates.
Flint tried to look nonchalant. “He needed a drink. He’ll be back.”
The sentinel guard gave an apologetic nod. “Lover’s quarrel, eh? Sorry, lass.”
Were they so obvious? Flint’s cheeks burned. “We’re not–”
“But don’t worry,” the gate-guard went on, “he’ll come around. And if not, there’s always someone else to warm your bed.”
Not likely, but Flint didn’t have the energy to argue. “Thanks.”
She moved through the rest of the gates and the corridors like the walking dead, only registering others enough to get out of their way or nod in acknowledgement if anyone spoke to her. At last, she reached the women’s barracks, only to find Levy pacing by the entrance.
“Ah, there you are,” he said as she approached. “Here. This came in while we were out. Sarge asked me to give it to you.”
He handed her a folded piece of parchment, stamped with a wax emblem of the Circle. The seal had been broken. Flint glanced at Levy. “Did you read it?”
“Not me, but Koto probably did,” Levy said. “The officers read all our mail. Didn’t they at Whitewater?” He tilted his head to study her. “You all right? You look like–”
“I’m fine,” she broke in, tucking the letter in her belt. “Just tired.”
He didn’t look convinced but nodded. “It’s been a long day. Get some rest.”
“You, too,” she said, and they parted ways.
After she’d stumbled to her thankfully empty quarters, she sank on her bed, too weary to do more than toss her helmet and gloves to the floor. She needed to bathe, clean her gear, get some dinner, and probably a hundred other things, but all she had strength for was to rest her head in her hands. She was too weary even to sleep.
At last, she rallied enough to pull out the letter and read the familiar sentinel script.
Flint,
I heard you’re in Lasath. I am, too. Find me at the Temple of the One as soon as you get this.
I love you, relah,
Mi
She stared at her brother’s note until her tears blurred the words beyond recognition. A huge weight pressed on her chest, and she couldn’t summon the strength to wipe away her tears. Only when they fell against the parchment and marred Mi’s messy handwriting did she move. She tore the note into tiny pieces and threw them in the brazier kept around for the colder nights, then curled on her bunk, alone and in the dark. It was all she deserved.
* * *
Several days later, when Flint finally had a few free hours, she retreated to her quarters to armor up. But while her gear usually made her feel invincible, now her fingers shook as she buckled on her gauntlets. As she reached for her weapons, one of her bunkmates, Nalda, coughed into her hand. “Aren’t you off-duty now? Why are you all kitted up?”
Gods above, Flint liked her better when she wasn’t around. “Going to the Temple of the One.”
“But it’s not our turn to attend prayers,” Nalda replied. She sat at the edge of her bunk, sharpening one of her daggers. An empty vial of hematite rested at her side.
Flint’s dose was probably mingling with the sewer-water, as she’d dumped her vial into the latrine. “I’ve been trying to go, but I keep getting pulled away,” Flint replied. “So I’m feeling especially pious today.”
Nalda’s words came in quick but blurred succession. “Poor thing. I’m still shaken up by that attack, and I wasn’t even with you on the escort mission. You never said… Are the thralls as bad as the stories make them out to be?”
Burning-star eyes, closing around her like a wolf’s mouth. Saffron-colored grass, bloodied and beaten flat. The eerie shrieks she would hear for the rest of her days.
“They’re worse,” Flint said. Another memory tugged at her, and she frowned. “But these were strange, even for thralls. They weren’t reckless or wild when they fought, like most of the thralls I’ve seen. Except…”
Her breath caught. The thralls at the hematite mine had moved with the same honed grace, the same deliberateness.
“What is it?”
Flint looked over, but the explanation stuck to her tongue. “Thralls are innocents used for some unholy evil. They kill us and we kill them, and it will never end.”
Nalda lifted a brow. “It will once they’re all dead.” She examined her blade’s edge. “In any case, you know the Circle guards won’t let you in the One’s Temple with those blades.”
“I’ll worry about that when I get there,” Flint replied. Sparks flew off Nalda’s whetstone, and Flint scowled. “Do that outside, for Tor’s sake! Our beds are made of straw. You want to burn us all to ashes?”
Nalda’s fevered, hematite-stricken eyes met Flint’s. “I must be ready.”
Flint frowned at the other woman. “What are you talking about? Ready for what?”
Nalda shook her head and skimmed her whetstone harder, faster, sending more sparks flying. “The dregs hate us; the frips hate us. The Pillars are about to transfer their power, and no one knows who’s been chosen. Whitewater City’s been wiped out by thralls; Nox knows which city will be next. I must be ready. You feel it too,” she added, nodding to Flint’s armored form. “The world’s falling apart.”
Flint grimaced. “In that case, I’ll pray extra hard.”
She slipped out of their room and strode through the corridors. As she went, she passed a group of children—former urchins—who’d found their way to the garrison. Her guts twisted at the sight of the future sentinels but she mustered her own resolve. She’d wasted enough time; she had to get to the temple, to Milo, lest he think the worst. She had the afternoon off, but there was no telling if Sergeant Koto would decide otherwise. He’d mentioned Mar’s absence only once, and Flint had just shrugged, saying she had no idea where the mender had gone. That had been yesterday. There was still no sign of Marcen. Had he truly left Lasath?
He’d better have, Flint thought, gritting her teeth as she trotted through the first set of gates that led outside. Else I’ll kick his sorry arse myself.
But the words rang hollow in her mind, and the anxiety she’d tried to force away since her and Mar’s horrible fight roared to life once more.
“Flint!”
She paused at the second set of gates and glanced back to see Levy racing after her, red-faced, eyes shining. When he reached her, she tried not to wrinkle her nose at the metallic scent of hematite on his breath. It’d never bothered her before.
“Make it quick,” she said. “I’m–”
“The High Commander wants to see you,” Levy broke in. “In the detention area. Now.”
Flint’s stomach plummeted to her boots. “Why?”
He urged her into an alcove just past the gate, where they could speak in relative privacy. “So you haven’t heard?”
“Just spit it out,” she hissed, though she knew, she knew what he was going to say.
Levy removed his helmet and met her gaze. “Your mender friend…apparently he was a mage all along. Silver Squad found him drunk in a tavern, and he confessed. Gods above, a mage! Living among us. Can you imagine?”
No. No, no, no, no! The litany repeated over and over, but she could do no more than shake her head.
“You really didn’t know?” Levy asked.
“No,” she managed, though it wasn’t a response to his question, just her voice finally asserting itself.
Levy’s gaze turned sympathetic. “I’m sorry. I know you two were close. Well. Mages aren’t to be trusted. Well, I’m glad I found you first. The High Commander sent me and Granite both out to find you. Gran swore you were in on it.”
Another time, Flint would have acknowledged the danger she was in, but now she didn’t so much as blink. If Argent wanted to arrest her, he’d had plenty of chances. No, he probably had some other ghastly fate in mind, especially if Marcen had revealed her true intentions. Gods, what would he do to Mar? Her stomach churned harder.
I’m sorry, Mi, she thought, but she had no choice. Hopefully, Milo would understand. Hopefully, she would see him soon. Somehow.
“I guess I’ll go see what he wants.” Thank the gods for her paranoid brain insisting she bring her gear and weapons. She might need them sooner than she hoped.
After the guards let her through to the gate that led to the detention area, she waited for a few seconds, ostensibly fiddling with her boot but inwardly shoring up her own strength. Whatever happened next was going to hurt.
She paced down the long line of cells. There were more here than in Whitewater – a lot more. But the place was cleaner than Whitewater, and there were more torches. Neither boded well, as it meant the detention area saw more use. At the passage’s end, a distinct gleam of silver shone; a mockery of a beacon. Argent waited there. Flint took a deep breath and stepped forward.
The sentinel High Commander stood outside the last cell, hands on his hips, studying the prisoner. As Flint approached, he glanced her way and—to her shock—beamed at her. His smile was boyish, charming, and his teeth were very white. “Ah, there you are. Come, come.” He waved her over and she came to stand beside him.
