A Storm in the Desert: Dragonlinked Chronicles Voume 3 (45 page)

Aeron got closer. The eyes. They were so dark, so black, so wide. They reflected everything and nothing. He moved closer and closer to the right eye. It loomed before him, filled his view, filled his entire existence.

Why was it so cold?

He blinked and stared at the page. The original text was not the same. How could it not be the same? The Hour of Creation came from it, but it was not the same.

Despite the strange chill, sweat beaded on his lip.

Lifting an arm, he wiped the sweat on the sleeve of the robe. Faint tinkling came from his earrings.

His brows drew together as he flipped once more through the pages. Dragons . . . were nowhere in it. Yrdra’s gift, unclear. Ulthis’s gift, unclear.

Why? How? When?

A heavy weight filled his stomach.

Who knew? Who else knew?

A loud screech made him look down. He was standing somehow, the chair a foot behind him. He stared at it, unseeing.

Everything . . . was a lie. His entire life was a lie. All he’d had, all he’d lost—

“Umeron Takatin, were you done then?” The old archivist stared at him from the door of the small room.

“Master Bodaway, who else has access to this text?”

The ancient archivist cleared his throat. The waddles under his chin vibrated with the effort. “It is a restricted text. As such, only umeri, the Nesch, and the Capu have access to it. And myself, of course, as the head archivist.”

“Who else has read it? Do you know? Are records kept of that?”

“Everyone who has access to it eventually reads it. Just as you found your way to it, so, too, do others.”

Staring at the old man, he removed the gloves and dropped them on the table.

Everyone knew.

He pushed past the archivist and out the door.

Everyone knew.

He stumbled back to his room, eyes blind to all before him.

Everyone knew!

Standing in the entry hallway of his rooms, a voice finally made it through to his awareness. His pesan, wanting to know if he was okay. He angrily waved the boy off and made his way to the bedroom. He stood there, fighting off nausea.

His mother, dead. His father, dead. Hania, dead on a dragon hunt. And Wematin?

Takatin fell to his knees.

His twin had died working in the fields, working to feed the Order, to make money for the Order, to help the Order.

Takatin clenched his jaws and swallowed. Everyone he loved had died for the Corpus Order, leaving him alone. So that the losses would not have been in vain, he’d devoted himself completely to the Order. He poured all his energy into it and every waking moment. After all, it represented the highest ideals one could hope to aspire to: Honor, duty, and responsibility.

All lies!

His abdomen clenched, squeezing his stomach. Vomit, hot and acrid, exploded up his throat and spewed out over the rug. Again and again, his body purged itself. He endured it on hands and knees, weak and trembling.

Why was he reliving this?

Rising to his knees, he said, “I survived once. I can do it again. I
will
do it!”

The dream shattered, exploded into shards of light that spun, rotated, and reformed into somewhere else.

Sandaled feet made quiet sounds on the polished stone floors of the hallway. He looked down. They seemed small, his feet, and why was he in a manis uniform?

He passed paintings on the walls and people hurrying off on their errands. The sound of footsteps nearly in time with his came from the right. Another boy walked with him. Mahkah. They were close to the same age. Being fifteen made him uneasy, for some reason, but the worry quickly faded.

They continued down the passage on the way to the cafeteria.

“A bunch of us are going to eat in the village tonight,” Mahkah said. “Want to go with us? We need a respite from the boring cafeteria food, so we’re going into Pashi. Iye is going to be there, and everyone knows he’s sweet on you.”

Takatin sighed. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m going to pass.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Takatin thought the discussion over.

“It’s been over a year,” Mahkah said. “You need to let it go.”

“Actually, it’s been one year, two months, and four days. And I will let him go—” Takatin’s raised voice had drawn the attention of a pesan girl walking past. He took a breath and continued in a more normal tone. “Honestly, I don’t know that I can let him go.”

“He’s dead, Takatin. Gone. Killed by that dragon. Learn from it and move on.”

Takatin had been trying, but it was not easy. Things had just started to
not
remind him of Hania.

“Sihn is going to be there, too, you know. She also likes you. Don’t tell her I told you, though. She’ll break my arm if she finds out I did.”

Takatin nodded. “I think she actually would break your arm.”

“Oh, I know she would, so keep your yapper shut.”

A faint pulse of magic came from farther down the hallway.

“Yrdra’s ice-cold tits, what was that?” Mahkah jogged ahead.

They were at the edge of the residential area, nowhere near the training grounds. Who would need to use sorcery here?

Takatin rushed to catch up and then kept pace. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. People walked along the open hallway, minding their own business. No one seemed suspicious at all.

Nearing the next intersection, they slowed, stopped, and Mahkah peeked around the corner. His hand shot behind him and signed: danger.

Takatin drew his dagger and prepared himself. A few passersby slowed, wondering what the two manisi were doing.

Quiet voices came from around the corner.

“Did you think we spoke in jest?”

“Please, I don’t have the money yet. You know we don’t earn much. I just need more time.”

“Time? We gave you time. Now it’s run out.”

Mahkah slowly drew his own dagger and turned to Takatin. His hand moved quickly and clearly: Boy in danger. Man and woman threatening. They are manisi.

Takatin’s eyes widened. Manisi threatening a boy? Why?

“If you don’t have the money, you’ll have to pay us another way.”

More pulses of magic washed over Takatin. What in hells was happening?

“What are you—stop! Unbind me! No!”

Mahkah counted down on his fingers: 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . 0.

They rushed around the corner.

“This hallways is closed.” A female manis stood in front of an alcove several feet down the hall. “Investigation in progress. Take another route.” Her gaze flicked to people behind Takatin, then down to the daggers in their hands.

Muffled sounds came from the recess.

“What are you doing, Manis?” Mahkah glared at her. “Let the boy go.”

Her eyes narrowed. “He’s . . . Laminae. We are questioning him. You may leave.”

Takatin swapped his dagger to his left hand and slid toward her. He feinted a slashing attack, which she moved to block, but instead, he struck at her solar plexus with the heel of his right hand, hard. He put all his strength into it, along with his forward motion. The impact made a satisfying thump.

Her eyes bugged and breath shot out of her. Dropping to her knees, she gasped for air.

Mahkah had slid as well, but to the alcove. “Bastard!”

Takatin turned to the cubbyhole. The boy, a crusan, lay face-down on the bench, sobbing quietly. His hands lay palms-to-the-floor, but struggle as he might, he couldn’t seem to move them or his legs. Pants and smallclothes were pulled down to his ankles, leaving his backside exposed. The other Manis stood over him, his own pants down, staring at them.

“You piece of filth!” Takatin slid toward him, dagger out. He might have killed the man had the dagger been in his right hand. As it was, clothing deflected the blade’s path.

A pulse of magic came from Mahkah and the man flew back, slamming into the alcove wall. The blow made the manis grunt and also seemed to knock him out. His body was pinioned to the wall, head and arms hanging slackly.

Swapping the dagger to his right hand, Takatin walked over to him.

“Takatin, stop!”

He didn’t want to. How dare this trash, this garbage, this
shitbag
, force himself on another!

“Help the crusan while I bind the manisi.”

Hands and legs now free, the boy had collapsed onto the floor and curled into a ball, eyes shut tightly.

With one last glance at the manis on the wall, Takatin sheathed his dagger and moved to help. He sat on the bench and looked down at the terrified boy. “They’re not going to hurt you anymore, I promise.”

More people began to arrive, drawn, perhaps, by the sound of fighting.

Takatin removed his uniform tunic and used it to cover the crusan’s nakedness.

The boy flinched, and his eyes opened.

“You can, ah, straighten your clothing now.”

The boy’s eyes widened. He couldn’t see the people in the hallway behind him, but he could probably hear them. Looking away from Takatin, down at the floor, he slowly pulled his clothes back on.

Afterward, he pushed the tunic along the floor toward Takatin. “Thank you,” he whispered. He sat up, then, knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs.

More manisi arrived a few minutes later. They spoke with Mahkah and Takatin and with people in the hallway. Three led the two manisi away, now also bound with leather straps around their wrists. Two led the crusan away to the infirmary.

Takatin, still seated on the bench, stared blindly into the hall. “I cannot stand that sort of person.”

Mahkah, seated as well, turned to him. “Hmm?”

“Just because they have a little power, they use it to take advantage of those weaker than them. It pisses me off.”

“Well, they won’t have any power soon. They’ll be purged, for sure, sent on their way after their sentence is up. You know, I’ve never even seen the gaol cells. I wonder what they’re like.”

Takatin hoped they were cramped, dark, and altogether uncomfortable. Those bastards deserved that and worse.

“We should probably head to lunch before we miss it.”

Takatin wasn’t particularly hungry anymore, but he nodded. “Aye.”

He stood and walked back into the hallway. Turning to Mahkah, he said, “About dinner, maybe I—”

Pain exploded in his chest. He grunted and stumbled to a wall for support.

“Takatin?”

Something filled his throat and mouth, tasting metallic. He coughed, but there was nothing there, his airways were clear.

“Is something wrong?” Mahkah stepped closer.

What was happening? Takatin looked down at his chest, expecting to see a ruin, but he looked fine. He was fine.

Takatin’s eyes widened. “Wematin,” he whispered.

“Your brother? Did you want me to—”

Another burst of pain made him gasp, and he slid to the floor.

“Takatin!” Mahkah knelt over him. “Did she land a blow on you?”

“No. My twin. He’s . . . dying.”

“What?”

“I can . . . I can feel him dying. It’s been years since I could feel—No! Wematin! Don’t leave me!” His twin’s life-flame shrank, sputtered, and winked out.

Everything was darkness.

“No.” Takatin’s quiet whisper broke the silence.

“NO!”

There was a sound, felt more than heard, and the darkness exploded.

Aeron, we must back away! He . . . is taking control.

Anaya? What?

Beams of light shone crazily from an enormous hole, torn in the emptiness. A rocky outcrop was just visible within.

Come, we must try to leave.

Aeron sensed Anaya to his left and willed himself to move toward her.

A terrifying scream came from the light and some kind of creature appeared on the precipice.

Aeron tried to make sense of the thing. It had the naked torso of a woman. Her hands, her arms, her breasts, everything about her was beautiful, but her face was twisted with hatred. Two ragged dragon wings rose from her back. Instead of legs, some kind of bug body began at her waist.

Insect legs twitching, she leapt down from the ragged hole in the darkness toward a building that was suddenly below. It was Bataan-Mok. Her breasts bounced when she landed on the stone structure, and her hands and legs scrabbled for purchase. She raised her head and shrieked again.

Alandra’s merciful heart, what is that?

I do not know, but we must leave, now.

The bug woman raised herself up and drove a large stinger into the building again and again, a terrifying look of ecstasy on her face. Stone exploded each time she struck.

“Bataan-Mok!” Takatin appeared from the light and jumped to the ground. “I can cure you!”

As Anaya removed them from the dream, the last thing Aeron saw was Takatin the man, not the boy. His arms were raised, sadness was etched across his features, and tears streamed down his face.