Hands Like Secrets, page 11
We’ve stopped barely two sariskan lengths away from him.
The poor oblivious cowen jabbers on until he realizes he’s lost his audience; his voice dies, and a thick silence descends. Prof Matvey scans the stable, a look of intense concentration on his face. Next to me, Rafel sucks in a soft breath and tenses, and I know what is happening.
The easiest way to break an unknown ward is to hit it with a fast, powerful explosion of qi; Push and Root strands work best for this. If that fails, however, and it often does, your opponent will probably reinforce the ward, and you’ll be worse off than ever. Rafel’s method of unraveling the strands one by one also works, but that requires more discernment and finesse than most majahel possess.
A more subtle method, the one I’m certain Matvey is employing against Rafel right now, involves mentally ‘leaning’ on an enemy’s qi, wearing them down until their defenses unravel. Not many of my professors teach this, but I know Matvey favors it; in fact, the technique was one of the many extra lessons he’d given me in his classes over the years.
I bite my lip.
If Matvey reveals us, he’ll recognize me. And he’ll wonder why I haven’t been screaming for help this whole time.
After a few minutes, however, it becomes clear that Rafel’s strength outmatches my professor’s. Matvey’s fists clench at his sides.
“Show yourself, coward!” he commands.
“I don’t think so, ankarka.”
Rafel’s loud, contemptuous voice right next to my head startles me badly. He seizes my elbow and ‘ports.
Chapter 13
This time we land near Westgate, in the middle of the main highway leading in and out of the city. The transition from stable quiet to crowd noise is so abrupt that I stumble.
“Go!” Rafel pushes me ahead of him.
I shake away my daze.
“Aren’t you going to ward the aka?”
“No time,” he grunts.
He’s right. We’ve barely cleared the spot before Matvey bursts in with a flash of color. Rafel leads us away from the gate and back toward the city proper.
The city’s western fringe twinkles with lights, and plenty of people roam the street, even at this time of night. This means that our invisible flight creates quite a stir.
Cowen and majahel tradesfolk alike shout and fall back, feeling the wind of our passing but seeing nothing. We race past an upscale carriage, causing its sariskan to shriek and rear up, tugging their reigns and waving clawed feet in the air. The carriage tips and several people scream, but thankfully it rights itself on its own.
Matvey shouts apologies as he races by seconds later, which probably would have been hilarious if I’d been a bystander.
But no, I’m the one being pursued. It occurs to me that Matvey has no way to know he’s chasing Rafel, and therefore no reason to assume I’m here at all. If I simply stop, he’ll dart right past me. In the time it would take Rafel to evade my professor and realize I’m missing, I could be back inside Aschamon’s walls.
For a moment, my heart lifts at the notion of freedom, but then it sinks again.
I’d be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. Rafel would never let something like that go. And after everything that had been said in that stable...I know in my heart that I can’t let it go, either; not yet. Rafel has slowly but surely been working toward revealing the real reason he’s interested in me, and as much as I hate it, I am painfully invested now.
I need to know.
My jaw clenches, and I put on an extra burst of speed.
All Aschamon students keep in shape, but I’m no red cord, specifically trained to run down an enemy or escape pursuit. A painful stitch erupts in my side and grows by the second.
“I can’t keep up!” I gasp between pants.
Only the sound of Rafel’s feet on the cobblestones tells me he’s still there. “A little further!”
He doesn’t sound breathless at all, damn him.
We dart into West Plaza, Matvey barely a sariskan length behind us.
Heat and orange light explode on my heels, throwing me to the ground. Terror clutches my chest as I roll out of the way. This is the danger of Matvey not knowing I’m here; he could easily kill me with a wayward form.
But when I look back over my shoulder, I receive a shock.
People scatter in every direction, screaming. A hooded Crimson Cowl stands in the western entrance to the plaza, fire streaming from lifted hands. Another flash lights the night, indigo this time, and I spot Professor Matvey on the other side of the flames, hands weaving in the air.
I have just enough time to realize the figure in black is too tall and slender to be Rafel when hands snatch me under the armpits and haul me to my feet.
“I’ve got her!” Rafel shouts next to my ear. I realize he’s dropped our invisibility ward.
The fire-wielding Cowl spins a new batch of liquid flame and heaves it toward Matvey. He dodges; meanwhile, the Cowl sprints to Rafel, who holds out a hand. Matvey weaves Void and Flow to turn fire into frost; the flames on the cobblestones solidify with a crystalline cracking sound.
Rafel seizes my hand and the fire wielder’s, whom I finally recognize as the tall Iadnahn woman from earlier.
The colors of teleportation are slow to envelop us this time, the whole process feels sluggish, and our landing is so rough it jars my knees.
For a few tense moments, nothing happens.
I allow myself to hunch over and catch my breath.
The Ascheran Temple blots out the stars beyond the wide lawn we’ve landed on, its black shadow shrouding its grass in darkness. My ears ring in the silence. No silver-clad figures leap out of the quiet night to seize us.
Nearby, Rafel has laced fingers over his head; he takes several measured breaths, his eyes closed.
“Well,” he says, “I hope I don’t have to do that again for a while.”
The Temple is far enough away from Westgate that making the trip in one go would strain even a strong teleporter, I realize, mentally calculating the distance. Plus, this is the fifth time he’s ‘ported us this evening.
I remember my experience as a city ‘porter; two or three teleports in a row can take it out of you, especially when transporting more than just yourself. I can’t imagine doing five in such a short time, hauling me along, and then hauling me and another along that last time.
Even the legendary Rafel Kailar has limits, I guess.
And we are alone; Rafel’s partner has ‘ported elsewhere, again. She and Rafel seem to favor that trick.
He leads us to one of the benches that surround the Temple grounds and flops down. I perch next to him, as close as I dare, and, if I’m being honest with myself, not nearly as close as I’d like.
My eyes keep returning to his face with irritating frequency.
“Are we safe?” I ask at last. “Does ‘porting alongside someone else confuse the aka trail?”
“Something like that.”
The Theory student in me mulls that over. Prof Matvey postulated that melding aka trails is possible when we’d studied teleporting, but he hadn’t been able to create a way to do it.
I still can’t believe I’d had to run away from him like that.
“In this case, it worked because Mauri is my suras,” Rafel adds.
Suras. That better not be the Cowl word for spouse, my mind whispers, and I mentally shush myself. He doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and I don’t particularly want to discuss the women in his life anyway.
We sit in the dark stillness for a while.
Is he ever going to get around to telling me what this whole night is about, or does he intend to continue dragging us around the city, feeding me tidbits, and asking pointed questions? Fascinating as he is, this whole escapade is exhausting, dangerous, and eventually someone will make a mistake.
Yet a not-insignificant part of me wants to stay a little longer, despite the danger. Rafel talks about things; something nobody else — not my mother, not my professors, not even my friends — ever does. He forces me to look at all the ugly parts of my culture, things I’d never dared question directly.
I need this.
“How did your partner know to attack when she did?” My eyes follow a speckled ulula as it swoops past on silent wings. “It was like she knew we’d be in that street, at that exact moment.”
“She did.” He looks at me sideways. Daring me to ask how.
I sigh and say nothing.
Silence again.
The hunting ulula circles the Temple, gives one long hoot, and soars out of sight. I wonder how late it is; I vaguely recall having heard the city Temple bell at least once during this adventure.
“How long have you hated the war?” Rafel asks out of nowhere.
Finally. Maybe this time we’ll get somewhere.
I open my mouth, the expected denial ready on my lips, but his solemn expression gives me pause. For once, he doesn’t seem to have asked a question merely to needle me. And something sharp in those pale eyes tells me he doesn’t want to hear what we both know I should say.
“Always,” I admit instead in a small voice. “I’ve always hated it.”
I’ve never said it aloud, but at that moment, I know it’s true. Is that the real reason I’ve never fit into Aschamon, why I never earned a Mantle despite all my work and talent?
Has some part of me never truly wanted to?
How is it that this Cowl can read me better than my own teachers, who’ve known me for years?
“When did the hatred start?” His face reminds me incongruously of the High Priestess’ just then: wise and a little sad.
My fists clench.
“When the war stole my father away, it turned my mother into someone too distant and cold to ever really know her daughter.”
I never got to meet my father; he was killed in a Cowl raid mere weeks before I was born. My mother claims my facial expressions and mannerisms are all his, despite how much I look like her in every other physical aspect. I know she misses him. When I am home, she sometimes watches me with a certain heart-wrenching, wistful expression.
In my more charitable moments, I wonder if losing him is the reason she buries herself in all her damned accomplishments, that famous persona I can never hope to live up to.
Rafel takes one of my hands in his. No mockery, no patronizing smirk, just simple understanding. I feel a rush of gratitude toward him.
“Any other reasons?” he asks.
I sigh.
“People suffer all around us in this city, every day, and nobody cares. They say they care, but since nobody ever actually does anything about it, do they really? We’re supposed to be the force for good, truth, and justice in this world! How can we claim to represent those ideals when we oppress our own people?”
Rafel’s hands are comfortingly warm on mine. I notice my own are trembling; I’ve been pushing this down for so long. Cowl or not, he’s the only person who’s ever listened.
Let alone empathized.
“Don’t blame your Council too much.” His dark tone jolts me. “Their inertia is not their fault.”
“What?” I look sharply at him.
“It is the gods’ fault.” Pale eyes burn into me. “This war belongs to them, Saeli, not to us.”
The nape of my neck prickles.
“Don’t say things like that. What are you talking about? The war has always been about Mantle versus Cowl, not Isasar versus Iuril.”
“Perhaps. But consider this.” He leans toward me. “Your High Priestess is the commander in chief of this region, right? From whom does she receive her orders?”
I frown. Everyone knows Anjahel answer only to the silver god. Having that direct, seventh-strand link with Isasar is what gives them their authority over the rest of us.
“Who decides where to send the Mantle regiments?” Rafel asks. “Isasar. Who decides which cities to attack, which towns to burn, which strategic locations to secure? Isasar.” He sighs. “Our society is a little more egalitarian than yours, but ultimately our raiders are as beholden to our goddess Iuril as your soldiers are to your god.”
“The gods are wiser than we are,” I argue. “They’re just trying to help.”
“Help us what? Destroy each other?” He grips my shoulders, but it’s the intensity of his expression that holds me captive. “Does anyone even remember how the war started or why we’re still fighting? Think, Saeli. If the gods love us so much, why devote so much energy sending their loyal followers out to slaughter one another? Isasar doesn’t even allow your Anjahel to set aside funds to rebuild what’s falling apart in their own city; that’s how important this war is to him. Why?”
Strands...could he be onto something?
At worst, I’d assumed that my professors had lied about the Cowls despite our god’s commands, but Rafel’s words put a horrible notion into my head.
What if Isasar himself is behind the lies?
That actually felt far more likely than a faculty full of pious, upstanding Mantles all lying behind their god’s back to train killers. That’s the only way it could have gone on as long as it had; otherwise, Isasar would surely have put a stop to it.
Before tonight, I wouldn’t have thought the silver god capable of such deception, but really, what do I know about him? I don’t even wear his Mantle. A chill walks down my spine.
I don’t wear his Mantle...which is precisely why Rafel singled me out.
“That’s crazy,” I say aloud.
“Isn’t it.” Rafel’s voice hardens. His hand moves to cup my face.
“And you,” he adds, his words and touch drawing me in like a flower to sunlight. “Deep down, you know the war is wrong. Maybe you’ve never put words to it before tonight, but you know. You know, because they haven’t yet twisted your mind into no longer caring.” He smiles gently. “That is why, despite all your work and frustration and heartbreak, they will never make you one of them.”
They will never make you one of them.
Tears prick my eyes as those awful words sink in. I don’t want to believe him, but what other explanation have my professors ever given me for delaying my dedication, again and again?
Nothing.
They never tell me anything.
Every year, they simply say I’m not ready and leave me wondering what in the strands I’ve done wrong this time. I turn my head, shaking off his touch.
“I’m not saying I believe you,” I say. “But if you’re right, if the war is nothing but a quarrel between our gods, then that means everything I’ve worked for at Aschamon, my studies, all of it, is a lie. Can you even begin to comprehend...?”
I take a shuddery breath and dare to look at him. “Why should I take the word of a Cowl, in one night, over everything I’ve ever been taught by people I trust?”
Rafel, infuriatingly, just shrugs.
“Because according to everything you’ve been taught to believe, by these people you supposedly trust, you should be one of them. You are not. That is the reality of your situation. Is that not enough to make you question whether anything they’ve ever told you is real?”
I make a small noise of frustration. He thinks he knows me so well.
“And what am I supposed to do if you’re right, and our war is just some divine disagreement?” I demand. “Should I inform my professors that a Cowl assassin believes our god is a liar and that we should all stop fighting each other and ask what they think?”
“Listen to me.” He leans closer. “Your professors are never going to end the war. I am. For good.”
I laugh aloud, quickly stopping when he doesn’t join in.
One man wants to single-handedly stop a war that’s been going on for over a hundred years? Is he really that crazy?
I stare deep into those hard blue eyes and feel a chill.
“By Isasar, you’re serious.”
He nods.
The most dangerous Cowl on Verre. He would attempt something that mad. And if anyone could succeed...
“But I need your help to do it,” he adds.
“My help?” I sputter.
Oh please. The embarrassment of Aschamon is going to help a Cowl save the world? Strands alive, is this what he’s been leading up to all night, what he spirited me out of Aschamon to say?
“Do you have a plan?” I say dryly.
He smiles. “One that’s been a long time in the making. One I thought impossible until last night.”
“How convenient.”
The patient, irritated face he makes reminds me of Yan, and I fight an absurd urge to giggle.
“You don’t believe me,” he says softly.
I exhale and rest my head in my hands, bone-weary of this whole night. I’m tired of running from my people, tired of holding my own against an enemy I shouldn’t trust and a man I’m really, really starting to like.
I peek through my fingers to find those cold blue eyes still watching me.
“Look, right now, I don’t know what to believe,” I say.
“It is a lot to take in all at once.”
“You think?” I refuse to lift my head.
“Will you see me again? Let me at least prove to you that I’m telling the truth about the gods’ part in this.”
I do look up at that.
“You cannot be serious. If you break in again, the HP will hang your head from Aschamon’s wall for the kraits to eat!”
Rafel thrusts a finger at the sky.
“Three nights from now, the moon will be full. Do you know the Sari Café, on Koel Street?”
I nod.
“Be there, that evening, at sunset.”
He’s not joking. He honestly thinks he’s got a plan to end the war.
For a moment, my heart misgives me.
This is absurd. My professors would have apoplexy if they saw me right now. The most wanted Cowl in Aschera has just asked me to tea, and I’m considering it.
Because what if Rafel is right? What if I’ve been living a lie my entire life? Bad enough we Aschamon students often feel like pawns in a war we don’t understand; how much worse if we truly are? What if the war is nothing but some inexplicable divine feud, one the gods will keep throwing lives at until nobody is left?
