Second Don: Ardulum, Book 2 Page 29

  “Emn,” she called out. Atalant placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, hoping to find the presence she had come to rely upon.

  Emn turned her head, eyes slitting open. She searched Atalant’s face and then glanced at her robe. She blinked, rapidly, shaking her head as she did so. “Who…”

  Atalant stared. Processing. Emn didn’t know her. The fucking planet was moving, she was an eld, and Emn didn’t know her. She didn’t know what had happened—she didn’t care what was happening. The remains of her patience frayed. Atalant stifled a scream.

  The wisps on her back began to wave rhythmically. Words formed in her mind: move move move move. The planet was ready. The planet was impatient.

  “Emn, just— Come on!” Atalant ducked under two entwined arms and stood in the center of the ring, facing the younger woman. She put both hands on Emn’s shoulders and ran them down her arms. Emn’s skin was hot, the Talent marks burning. Atalant caught the other woman’s presence, then, in the andal. Emn was guiding the flares, driving them forward in their mad quest. Without her, they couldn’t succeed. Atalant just had to figure out how to break their link.

  Physically breaking it seemed a good place to start. Atalant pulled Emn’s hands away from the flares, nearly bringing the younger woman into an embrace. Emn’s consciousness appeared to remain entwined, as her eyes did not focus on Atalant’s, but one presence did break away.

  Arik moved forward, with what looked like a smile persistently twitching at the corners of his mouth. He picked up the hem of Atalant’s sleeve and then tossed it aside in disgust, his hand still reaching towards her. “A subspecies wearing an eld robe. You do not stand with us. You were not to get in our way.”

  Atalant batted Arik’s hand away, balancing against the swaying of the ground. Emn moved from her arms and rejoined the group.

  “Right now, I stand with getting Ardulum through the move in one piece.” She jabbed the knife tip towards him. “You are getting in the way. This—” She gestured to the crowd. “—isn’t helping anything, and you all trying to connect with the andal is muddying my connection. Stop it.” Atalant’s voice dropped as she let the anger at her present circumstances, the anger at her lost connection to Emn, and her general frustration with the entire situation come forth. “And you will let Emn out of whatever mind thing you’ve done to her.”

  Arik grasped the knife’s blade. Blood streamed as his eyes unfocused. “We will move the planet,” he said, dropping his hold on the knife before rejoining the circle. “We’re not interested in an eld, imposter or otherwise, and we’ve done nothing to Emn. The complexity of the andal engages her. You have no place here, Neek. Go back to your planet. Leave ours.”

  Andal surged across the dais, lapping at Atalant’s ankles. The ground fractured around her, fissures opening across the landscape. The metal and plastic structures that remained collapsed, falling amongst confused Ardulans who did not move out of the way.

  “You have to stop!” The dais was rising, the ground around it falling away in fissured sinkholes. The andal teetered, awaiting a command. The knife in Atalant’s hand was sticky with blood and stuk. She could use it on the other flares, but their deaths would not change anything. Emn was the one she had to reach, and Atalant would let the planet break apart before she’d use the knife on Emn.

  She grabbed Emn’s hand, trying to force out her stuk, desperate for a connection. “Emn, please.”

  Emn turned her head, eyes still focused on something far away. She reached for the gathering of fabric at Atalant’s hip with her free hand and ran her fingers over the silky weave. Her eyes met Atalant’s, but the confusion lingered.

  Flares, the andal whispered into Atalant’s mind. An open wound.

  Unhelpful, Atalant sent back. What the hell do you want me to do about them? When the andal offered no solution, she offered her own. Can you connect me to Emn? Fix me? She sent an image of grassland, andal saplings swaying gently in a breeze. You want this? You need to help me make it happen.

  Flaresssss, the andal hissed. Then, there was streaking pain in her head, as if the roots were physically inside her brain. She felt squirming and teeming threads rearrange, focus, and break apart. Her vision broke to gray, color bleeding from the world around her.

  Atalant fell to her knees, clutching her head in her hands. The pain ebbed, slowly, but the roots continued wiggling through brain crevices Atalant had been unaware even existed. When they finally slid away, she opened her eyes to patches of color. Blue spotted in first, and then yellow. Red followed, green dotting in and blending. Just beyond the spots of color was Emn. Their connection snapped back into focus almost painfully and with it, telepathy. Complete telepathy—a link with every goddamned Ardulan around her.

  Atalant blocked them all as soon as they surfaced, keeping only her connection to Emn open. But there was still the andal, too, its seemingly limitless power at her control. Atalant grasped at it. She didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t care. Somehow, cellulose came together and gave her the strength to reinforce her connection with Emn. She reached into the younger woman’s mind and severed her link to the other flares.

  Without Emn’s lead, the flares could not maintain their control. They broke apart, their consciousnesses kicked from the andal and Atalant’s mind. Vibrations built under Atalant’s feet, this time without pauses. Emn fell into Atalant’s arms as the others stumbled, gripping one another for stability.

  “Atalant!”

  Clear eyes looked up at her. Then, there were hands in her hair, Emn’s cheek pressed against her own. The andal swirled in her mind, but Atalant ignored it. She grounded herself in Emn’s touch, in the slender form pressed against hers. Atalant allowed herself one moment, arching her chest into Emn’s, lingering in the contact. She wanted time to talk. To explain. To apologize for all the stupid avoidance and fear she’d been dragging between them.

  The planet, Emn sent.

  I know. Emn—

  She didn’t get a chance to finish. Hands dragged Atalant backwards, and Tik and Kisak threw her to the ground. Emn yelled, tried to reach her, but Atalant did not land. A thick mat of roots shot up underneath her, cushioning the fall. A veined fist came towards her face, but she rolled onto her side, kicking the flare’s shins as she did so. Tik yelled in pain while Kisak brought zir heel to the base of Atalant’s spine. Atalant fell onto her front, dirt in her mouth, whereupon Ukie straddled her back and began to land blows to her kidneys.

  “We don’t have time for this!” Atalant gasped as she leaned first to the right and then shifted her weight quickly to the left, flipping the woman off. She slashed the knife behind Ukie’s knee, severing the connecting tissue, and leapt to her feet. This had to stop. She had to grab Emn and get someplace quiet so she could—

  Kisak spun and lunged for her midsection. Atalant sidestepped and landed a fist to zir stomach, knocking out zir wind. Desperate to quickly resolve the situation, she slashed the knife along the gatoi’s outer thigh, opening a shallow but long wound she hoped would be painful enough to keep zir from standing. Before she could see the results of her handiwork, Tik wrapped his arms around her from the back and tried to wrestle the knife from her hands. Atalant let her body go slack and slipped through his hold into a crouch. She brought her elbow upward and made contact with his groin, collapsing the flare in one blow. Without pause, she took the hilt of her knife and brought it down on top of his skull, knocking him unconscious.

  She could see Emn just ahead, struggling against Arik. His hands were squeezing her arms to her sides. It looked like he was talking to her, perhaps trying to draw her back in. Emn struggled, but did not break away. Atalant puzzled over the situation. Emn was the strongest one here. Why she wouldn’t pull cellulose…

  Kisak rammed into her, ignoring zir wound. She fell onto her back, the impact again buoyed by several thick andal roots. Ukie clawed at her from her spot on the ground, fists and fingernails flying everywhere. Their desperation was palpable, even witho
ut the connection to the andal. They searched for cellulose—in the ground, the metal of the dais…the people.

  Cellulose in the cotton. Atalant hadn’t thought about that, hadn’t thought the flares would be so callous. A sea of Ardulans lost their garments.

  A moment later, she was burning. At least, that was what it felt like as the flares both shot a continuous stream of heat energy into her. Her eyes dried, and her skin felt like it was melting off as her stuk production went into overdrive. Atalant dropped to her knees as the flares continued their telekinetic assault. Stuk poured from every pore on her body, pushing off the remains of the synthetic compound she had inadvertently bathed in, coating her hair and skin. Instead of dripping to the floor, however, it built like lacquer, and with each layer, the burning feeling gradually lessened.

  Open wound, the andal sent again, its tone pleading.

  Busy here! Atalant yelled back. The pain was bearable. They’d run out of clothing quickly with this level of usage, and then the only cellulose left was in the people themselves. Atalant’s free hand moved to her stomach, to her scar. The sound of her flesh separating was still crisp in her ears. She’d survived, but only because a medical facility had been close by. Here, there would be no hope—unless Emn could help…

  Emn was sparring with Arik. Atalant felt her desperation, dodging energy, determined not to pull more to herself. Arik, however, was not so careful. The last of the mob’s clothes disappeared.

  “You have to stop!” Atalant yelled to the flares, hoping the command carried through the andal.

  Whether the stuk lacquer inhibited her telepathy or whether the flares ignored her, she wasn’t sure. The inevitable occurred. Ardulans began to collapse, row by row. As entire families crumpled to the ground—the cellulosic components yanked from their bodies, leaving spills of entrails and blood—Atalant understood, finally, the motivation of the previous Eld. The importance of Corccinth’s work. That level of power…it would take a lifetime to wield properly. There was no way to train everyone. Those that proved they could remain in control, that escaped and lived peacefully among the rest, like Corccinth, could be trained. The rest had to be kept away from civilization. Stored. Goaded to find some internal motivation to control themselves so that this would never happen.

  Atalant couldn’t fix this. Couldn’t reach all the flares to explain, not in the time she had remaining. She wasn’t going to save the planet by saving the flares. Choices had to be made.

  Atalant dropped the knife, her layer of stuk shedding as she did so. Startled at the sudden change, the flares paused long enough for Atalant to form a picture of each in her head and send a silent command.

  The andal did not hesitate. Whipping strands surrounded Ukie and Kisak, pulling them down. They shrieked, struggled, released energy to burn the roots…but the andal did not react. In a sweeping movement, two thin tendrils rose and struck out at their eyes. The flares stopped moving.

  The pressure in Atalant’s mind raged. Wetness began to run from her ears down her neck, and when she checked it, her fingertips came back red. She could feel the impatience of the andal, its yearning to begin the move. Just a few more minutes, she pleaded. We’re almost sorted here.

  Heal the wound, Atalant. A chorus of trees chanted the words, each voice distinct. Healthewoundhealthewoundhealthewound.

  Decided that arguing with trees was a waste of time, Atalant ran to the other side of the dais. There was no one blocking her field of view. Naked appendages of all melanin contents overlapped one another in a sea of death. There was no movement. No wind. There was only the vibrating planet and snap of energy from Emn and Arik, locked in one another’s grip, legs braced back and arms interwoven.

  She wouldn’t chance the andal mistaking Emn for one of the other flares. I want them to stay in one place, she sent. Leave their arms free, just root their feet and legs. I’ll do the rest.

  The andal seemed pleased, she thought, as roots snaked across the clearing and began to wrap themselves around the legs of the flares. With a sudden tug, they were pulled apart, and they fell to the ground.

  “Enough!” Atalant ordered in a low, cool tone. As if the trees agreed, the andal scaffolding of the palace began to unwind, branches and roots slowly receding into the ground. A breeze picked up, slowly at first, but then sent several large gusts, blowing the leaves from every tree. Just as suddenly, the breeze stopped, and the leaves swirled lazily to the ground, forming a still blanket over the Ardulan bodies.

  Arik struggled against the andal, reaching for Atalant. Emn was quiet, breathing heavily, her eyes scanning the clearing.

  “Do you—” Atalant paused and tried to control her breathing as she addressed the flares. “Do you have any concept of the magnitude of your argument here?”

  A crunching sound came up behind her, and Atalant spun, reaching for a knife she no longer had. Nicholas walked towards the trio, Corccinth trailing behind him. Relief flooded through her. He was alive. The damn Journey youth. Somehow, however improbably, he had survived.

  “How…” Atalant asked, choking on her relief as Nicholas reached them.

  “She protected us,” Nicholas answered flatly, indicating the older woman. His voice was emotionless. “I wish she wouldn’t have. Look at this.”

  Arik did look, then. He dropped his arms to his sides and turned as much as he could, surveying the destruction. He paled, his breathing becoming shallow.

  “It’s just the capital,” Corccinth croaked. She grabbed onto Nicholas’s sleeve for support as a string of coughs wracked her body. “Enough of the underground flare community here to block the idiots’ attack going any farther. Our network is strong, but not strong enough to protect against the move. That is your burden, Atalant. The rest of Ardulum is safe, if only for the next few minutes.”

  Atalant returned her attention to Arik. He looked younger, suddenly—like a lost Journey youth on his first day away from his family. Like Nicholas after that first battle on the Pledge.

  “We…” He began to shake, small tremors stuttering through his body. The roots around both flares slowly unwound and slunk back into the ground.

  “We need training,” he said finally to the old woman. “I didn’t… I’m sorry.” Arik fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

  Atalant stepped up to Arik, grabbed his wrist with her free hand, and jerked him to standing. She brought up her knife so it rested just below his sternum, the blade piecing the thin fabric. “An apology isn’t enough. Not after this.” She lowered her voice as the remains of the stuk patina began to move from her skin, rolling off her hair and face. Atalant pushed the knife tip in slightly, bringing a droplet of maroon to the surface of his skin.

  “Emn, I can deal with. You—I’ll gut you where you stand.”

  Still, she hesitated. In that moment, Arik turned to watch Emn, and Atalant did the same. Emn was staring at Atalant, her breath stilted. Slowly, as if she was afraid Atalant might object, Emn reached for Atalant’s robe. Her fingers touched the fabric, lingered on the delicate weave, but then pulled away.

  “Are you really an eld?” Emn asked in a whisper.

  Heal the wound, Atalant. The Eld are threethreethree. Arik is threethreethree.

  What the hell did that even mean? The command came again, a single, solitary voice that echoed through her mind, much louder than before.

  Atalant scowled. I’m not a healer. You are out of luck.

  The wound, Atalant. The wound of threethreethree. The command was back to communicating in shadowy wisps, as if the andal was trying to decide which tone she reacted better to.

  “Argh!” she yelled out loud, startling Emn. Stop speaking to me in fucking nonsense!

  Two images clouded her mind, so dense that she was briefly disoriented. The first showed Arik, on his stomach, the Dulan knife arching from his back. The second showed him dressed in the same golden robe she wore. The second Arik smiled and held out a hand, but melted with the first image back into reality.

&nb
sp; “Okay, right.” Atalant muttered. “Clearer, I guess. He’s an eld—I’m an eld. We’re all elds, even though he is only second don and this is technically impossible. Great.” She offered Emn a smile. “The andal seems to think so, anyway. I’m still working on it.”

  Emn nodded and backed away, so Atalant returned to Arik. She twisted his wrist, her stuk production increasing. The pores on her right hand opened, and stuk poured onto Arik and hardened, the casing joining their arms. Arik moved his hand away from his face and straightened. In his eyes, she could see a mixture of defiance and hope.

  “Sentient beings live by the rules their society sets, or they work within the system to change them.” Atalant’s voice was hard, unwavering. “The flares need help, maybe more intense training, or maybe genetic counseling, but whatever it is, I’m willing to work with you and the rest to figure it out.” She moved the knife away and tossed it towards Corccinth. “I need your help. The planet is moving. The andal is prepped. The mental weight is below the threshold. Everything is prepared, but I can’t guide it alone. There are supposed to be three of us, but there’s only me. I need you, and the andal seems to think you are just the guy for the job. But if you do this—” Atalant paused and pointed to the leaf-covered ground, “—you do it right. You follow the rules. You agree to training. You atone for what you did here today.”

  As if in response, the andal tendrils riding on Atalant’s back swarmed over her front and around her arm, further binding her to Arik.

  Arik watched the roots, steadying his breathing. Atalant caught fragments of memory. Arik was planting seeds in a field he’d turned by hand. He was watering first-year saplings, picking insects from their leaves. He was a first don, sitting between rows, reading his favorite stories to trees no taller than he was. The andal swayed to his words. The leaves curled at his touch. They listened.

  “The andal…” he whispered. “I had a dream like this once, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Atalant returned, as the wisps of andal consciousness seemed to flow through her mind and into Arik. “I’ve had a couple of those, too.”