her instruments 02 - rose point (8 page)

He was not the only one trembling. The light was jittering on the edge of the knife, and her knuckles were yellow against skin stretched taut.

“Don’t do it,” he said, softer. “Don’t—”

She struck. He didn’t flinch back fast enough and took a long bloody slice down the arm. She lifted the knife again to finish him.

NO

She fell on him, her body sprawled on his chest: still breathing, and he shuddered on a prayer of gratitude. But it brought the inevitable realization that he had done it: had knocked her unconscious by thinking her so.

Hirianthial had become accustomed to the strength of his abilities. Eldritch who could read thoughts without touching were rare, but the talent had been accepted as a natural variation on the ability to read thoughts through touch. After all, some Eldritch could only read thoughts skin to skin, while others could read them through clothes... surely air was only a step more advanced. To send and receive thoughts without touch... that bordered on magic, but acceptable magic.

To be able to turn minds on and off without touch...

To
kill
without touch...

He had very little to vomit, but he turned to give it to the rug and lay there, exhausted and crushed between two bodies, one warm and one cooling, and thought back to tales of Eldritch mind-mages. Tales, passed on like fictions. But if he could do this, then what were the chances that Corel had been a myth?

Corel, who had killed an entire army with his thoughts.

Corel, who had died only because he turned his power on himself.

Corel—who had been insane. And who had not started out that way.

Reese was still climbing when a wave of nausea swamped her, so strong she staggered and then sat abruptly to put her head between her knees. When the feeling passed, she hesitantly lifted her head and found Ra’aila crouched in front of her, worry in her teal-blue eyes.

“Okay now?” the Aera asked, quiet.

“Yeah,” Reese said and swallowed. “Yeah. But something’s gone really wrong. We have to hurry.” She got up, accepting the Aera’s help, and glanced back. “Wait, where are the horses?”

“We left the camp behind a long time ago,” Ra’aila said. “Don’t worry, I told them where we were going, and I’m marking the trail. They’re pursuing their own leads.”

“And you’re following mine?” Reese asked, touching her stomach in the hopes it would stay calm.

“They can trust technology,” Ra’aila said. “I’ll trust intuition.” She grinned. “It’s gotten me this far.”

“Onto a world that instantly erupted into civil war,” Reese said.

“I’d call it more civil unrest,” Ra’aila said, tail swishing once. She offered Reese her canteen; when Reese didn’t immediately drink, she mimed her ears flattening.

Reese laughed. “Wait, you
have
ears to flatten at me.”

“So don’t make me,” Ra’aila said, smiling. “Drink, Captain. It’s dry out here and we’re doing a lot of exercise.”

“Fine,” Reese said. She was careful with it, though, not sure whether it would stay down; fortunately Ra’aila didn’t push. Reese had heard many things about the Aera, but few would have called them a compassionate people; they had other strengths, but their culture didn’t breed mercy for weakness. She found Ra’aila’s matter-of-fact concern affecting, and a lot easier to deal with than fussing would have been.

“Now...,” the Aera said once Reese had finished drinking. “Where do we go next?”

“Right. This way,” she said, not knowing how she knew and no longer caring. She heard every pulse of her heart like a drum, urging her on, faster. With Ra’aila following, she headed on, putting one foot in front of the other. Between her aches from the long ride and her lack of conditioning, it had become true labor, but she kept going.

With every heel she wedged into the uncertain orange dirt, she thought about Hirianthial. For most of her life she’d read books with Eldritch in them; they were a common offering in her monthly romances, because it was hard to beat an actual mysterious race to serve as a fictional mysterious love interest. That the Eldritch as a species were commonly held to be attractive by every race in the Alliance was a bonus that made them nearly irresistible to writers. But the qualities that made them wonderful daydream material were infuriating in person. Hirianthial kept his past to himself, along with most of his opinions; discussed his emotions not at all; was frustratingly beautiful, graceful, strong and sounded wise most of the time. It made her want to beat her fists on his chest and demand he be wrong about something. Or get angry in a small-minded, petty,
mortal
way.

And then he’d dipped into her mind and in less than a few minutes put together everything that bothered her and motivated her, and made the mistake of saying so out loud where she could hear him. He’d been half-dead at the time, disoriented by the attacks of slavers, pirates and the slaughter of several hundred unexpectedly sentient crystals, but he’d terrified her. Worse, he’d humiliated her. That all the pain in her life could be so obvious... it made her feel small.

She had had a hard time forgiving him for it, and had treated him very badly as a result. Her crew had intervened, and she’d done her best to hold her distance from him while she struggled with her ambivalence.

And he’d stayed, and granted her that distance instead of trying to fix it.

It had all come down to the question: did she trust him with the knowledge he’d taken from her? Did she trust him not to hurt and disappoint her, the way so many people had before?

She didn’t know the answer yet. But that he hadn’t tried to force the issue had won points with her, and had given her time to calm down about it. And these people had interrupted the process and taken him away from her and her crew, and that made her very, very angry. It was that anger that was putting one foot in front of the other, and her stubbornness propelled her on until she crested a ridge and saw a valley falling away below her, one filled with tents and people and horses. She was still staring when Ra’aila grabbed the back of her vest and jerked her down.

“Are you crazy?” the Aera hissed. “They’ll see you.”

“Right.” Reese scooted away from the edge. “So... now what?”

Ra’aila frowned. “Good question. I am suspecting the answer is ‘go for back-up.’”

“Did we bring enough back-up to take on all that?” Reese asked.

“No,” the Aera said wryly.

“Well, then, we should... have another plan. Maybe wait until dark and sneak in? The sun’s already setting.”

Ra’aila started laughing. “What, are you a Fleet ranger now?”

“No...” Reese trailed off and grimaced. “I guess that was a dumb idea. We don’t even know what tent they’re keeping him in.”

“Oh, it’s that purple one over on the edge.”

“What?” Reese rolled onto her stomach and inched up to the edge, peering over it. “How do you know?”

“It’s too large to belong to anyone but the Rekesh and it’s next to the largest tent in the camp. Plus there are guards in front of it. Or were, anyway.” Ra’aila squinted. “I can’t see them now, but it’s the tent design that has a place for them to stand in shade.”

“Did they... you don’t think he’s...” Reese swallowed. No, she would know if he was dead. Wouldn’t she?

“That’s strange.” Ra’aila inched forward, her shoulders tense. “There are bodies near the tent. Just lying there.”

“I wonder if he escaped?” Reese asked.

“Maybe,” Ra’aila said, but she sounded doubtful. “There are a lot of horses missing, so maybe they’ve ridden out after him? No, wait. Someone’s going in the tent. Looks like a—”

“Woman?” Reese scowled. “She’d better not have any ideas.”

“This is all very strange,” Ra’aila said, frowning. Her long ears were slicked back so far their tips touched her shoulders. “What could be going on down there? Where are the guards? If he’s escaped, why is she going in the tent?”

“I don’t know,” Reese said, “but I want to. You go for back-up, have them come as fast as they can.” She drew in a deep breath and threw herself over the ledge. Ra’aila squeaked but she ignored the Aera and headed down, trying to keep behind cover. She didn’t know what had happened to Hirianthial and going to look herself was a stupid idea... but she couldn’t just sit and wait. The sense of urgency had only been mounting in her head, and it was almost unbearable now. If he was alive, he needed her.

Reese scrabbled down off the hill and crouched behind a bush, waiting to see if she’d been seen. When no one cried an alarm, she chanced a look past the shrub. Ra’aila was right: there were bodies scattered around the tent. She lifted her head and scanned the camp: no movement there either. Maybe Ra’aila was right and they were chasing Hirianthial down. But if that was so, why had the woman gone into the tent? Why hadn’t she left yet? And why did Reese feel like she was supposed to be
here
?

Keeping low she made her way to the back of the purple tent. She listened and heard nothing, not outside, not inside. Going around the front seemed a recipe for trouble, so she felt around the bottom of the wall. It was too taut to slide under, but Sascha had suggested, a little too casually, that she start carrying a “utility knife,” when what he’d really meant was “a weapon.” She’d brushed off his concerns and then found herself something she could keep in her boot. It sliced her an entrance and she slipped inside... and halted abruptly, her breath stopping in her throat.

“No, no,” she said. “No...” She dove for the pile of bodies, shoving the woman off first. “You can’t be dead, you’ve lived too long to die, you are not allowed to be dead!” The man on top of him was heavier... and stiffer. She didn’t realize until she’d pushed him off the Eldritch’s back that he was almost certainly dead and then she shuddered. No time for collywobbles—shoving her hair out of her face with her forearm, she bent close. “Hirianthial...! Hirianthial?” No response. She bit her lip, then resolutely set her palm on his naked shoulder.

He jerked away, eyes opening, and the panic in them—”No, no, it’s me!” she cried, holding out a hand. “Sssh, ssh. I’m here to get you out of here.”

“Theresa... Captain...” His breathing was disordered, and it made her heart stumble, that moment of confusion where he couldn’t decide whether what he needed was intimacy or distance.

“It’s all right,” she said, willing him to feel her resolve, to be steadied by her calm. Hopefully this esper business could be useful that way? It seemed damned inconvenient otherwise. “We’re getting out of here, right now. Can you get up?”

“I... I think,” he said, hoarse. “Rib fractures. Can’t move...”

“Probably these ropes,” Reese said, finding his hands at his back. She hesitated only a moment at the sight of his injuries, squared her shoulders and started cutting through his bonds. “There. Can you feel them?”

“No,” he admitted. “They... dosed me several times. One of them...” He trailed off and looked at her, his pupils too small in his wine-colored eyes. “How many dead?”

“How many... you mean outside?” Reese sat back, glanced at the woman. “I don’t know. They might be unconscious, like her. Speaking of which...” She plucked up the ropes and applied herself to securing the prisoner. She had just finished the feet when Hirianthial said behind her, “Gag. On the ground... at the edge of the rug.”

“Thanks.” Reese tied it in place, trying not to think too hard about what she was doing. Sascha would have made a joke about this; imagining it helped her finish the job. Then she started hunting through the tent for something to wrap around the Eldritch, who was going into shock, she thought. Keep things brisk. Keep them moving. “If it’s all right with you, I can rub your feet and arms until you can feel them? I can’t carry you and we have got to get out of here.”

No response. She could hear him breathing, and it was a shaky, strained sound. She let him be and considered the wooden chest. If Irine was here... but she wasn’t. Frowning, Reese leaned forward and fingered the lock, testing its weight.

It opened. She stared at it for a moment, then bit back an inappropriate laugh and flung the lid up. Clothes mostly too small for the Eldritch, but the robe might work. And there was at least one sash that could be improvised into underwear—that worked in books, so surely it would work in real life? She gathered them into her arms and turned... and dropped them, running to him and... and hell with the not-touching thing, and with her not being good at comfort, but her crew would say there was a time for hugging and this had to be one of those times. She closed her arms around his head as he shook, set her hand on the back of his head. The twins had once told her his hair was like warm silk. She didn’t want this to be the way she found out they were right.

“Hey,” she said. “Hey. We’re going to get out of this. I promise. And you’re going to be okay.”

He wasn’t crying. That would almost have been easier. The anguish she’d caught in his gaze before she lunged for him... surely tears would have helped wash it away. But this silent trembling was worse, somehow, much, much worse. She had wanted him to break down, to be normal, to be fallible and frangible. With every fiber in her, she regretted that desire. She would take his insufferable perfection and thank the bloody soil for every aggravating minute of it if only they could have avoided this moment.

Reese rested her cheek on his hair and closed her eyes, let him lean on her as much as he was willing, and didn’t care that her thoughts were in his head. She hoped they hurt less than the ones he’d been thinking himself.

“They do,” he whispered. When she raised her head and tried to look down at him, he said without moving, “Hurt less.”

Very slowly she felt his hand come to a rest on her back. It was a very broad hand... and it was shivering.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

“Oh no,” he said softly. “The bodies... they certainly are.”

He expected her to falter, but she did nothing of the sort; in fact, she gripped his shoulders tighter and said, “They kidnapped and tortured you. Good bleeding riddance.”

She didn’t understand, couldn’t possibly. And he needed her to. “I did it with my mind, not my hands.”