30. TESTIMONY
TESTIMONY
YSIRA
The rest of the evening proved unusually pleasant.
Late into the night, over a meal of spicy stew and sweet fried bread, Ysira, Seth, and Jacen simply talked.
They slipped back into their old rapport with surprising ease as they spoke of classmates and teachers, old mishaps and days gone by, all the trivial details of each other’s lives they’d missed this last decade.
Ysira could almost imagine she was sixteen again, blissfully unaware of the horrors to come.
“I’ve missed you both,” Seth said, as he threw one arm around Ysira’s shoulders and the other over Jacen’s. He pulled them close, though there remained a certain sadness in his tone. “It’s been far too long.”
Ysira tensed at the unexpected touch—and saw Jacen do the same—but let it happen. Seth was a rock in all this chaos, warm and solid, and she understood the urge to cling to the familiar.
She awoke the next morning beside him, nestled against his chest as he snored.
On Seth’s other side was Jacen, asleep in a similar position with his brow furrowed, as though even in dreams, his mind never stopped working.
For a time Ysira lay there, watching them both. She didn’t move until Seth did.
Jacen remained fast asleep, as he probably hadn’t managed in days—perhaps years. Seth pulled a blanket up gently over his shoulders, and they let him be.
Neri, however, was wide awake. He shook off Seth’s concerned inquiries, buckled his dagger to his belt, and marched wordlessly downstairs to where Eneva, Ogden, and Solai already waited.
The Gatekeeper led them through the Shrouded City to a long, low ruin of a building.
Down a set of stairs they came upon a circular platform, as wide across as the great Citadel plaza in Zivora.
Beneath a ceiling covered in more massive, glowing crystals, a metal track stretched off into the distance.
“What’s this?” Seth’s voice was hushed. “A funicular? Where’s the pulley system?”
“A railway,” Eneva corrected. “It ran on wind, water, and solar power, from the Flamewood to the Fractured Peninsula. Most of the network was destroyed. But it’s a useful space for training when caution is paramount.”
She bade Neri follow her and Solai to a metal cage—about the size and shape of a kirikil cart and similarly lined with rickety seats. Opposite stood a row of stuffed training dummies. Seth remained at Neri’s side, regarding everything with suspicion, right hand never far from his sword.
Ysira walked to the edge of the platform alone. She gazed out into a necropolis of ancient machinery looming in every direction. A waterfall roared beyond the platform, spraying flecks of moisture through the air as it tumbled down.
On the other side of the platform, Solai raised her arms overhead.
After half a minute of nothing, sparks danced between her palms. Her demon’s ability to channel energy from the Source was nothing compared to Naxal’s, but the principles proved similar, and the woman was an effective tutor.
Over the last few days, Ysira had developed a cautiously high opinion of her.
As he joined Ysira, Ogden said, “It’s been several years since my last visit. Mondral and Solai are the only valak, now?”
“Not for lack of trying,” said Ysira. “In the last five years, Eneva’s sent nineteen telepaths through the Gate. Mostly Tier Two, and I’m told those rarely return. When they do . . .”
She nodded toward Solai. Extradimensional energy flickered and threatened to sputter out in her grasp. With a shout, she hurled it at the centermost training dummy. Her aim was flawless—she’d hit it square in the face. Left it slightly singed.
“It’s not ideal,” Ysira muttered as Ogden cringed.
Mondral might prove a better asset. He was getting on in years, but before his defection, he’d served in the Zivoran City Guard.
He was a strong Tier Three telepath, had actually fought Church inquisitors, and the militiamen revered him.
As for his demon, though . . . He refused to tell Ysira what it could do.
He refused to tell anyone, only claimed it was impractical in combat, and had seemed annoyed she’d asked in the first place.
Ogden sighed. “Elyas was their best warrior.” A pause. “You took a risk, sparing Brother Kheris.”
“You brought him here.”
“I thought the Gatekeeper would either find him an asset or relish the chance to kill him.” Ogden shrugged. “Either option might have afforded me some additional leverage.”
Solai had moved away, motioning Seth and Eneva to follow. The three of them sheltered behind the metal cage as Neri attempted to copy what he’d just seen.
Energy condensed between his hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The light flared brighter, and Ysira had to shield her eyes. But she felt Neri’s strike hit home. It shook loose a shower of dust and decapitated one of the dummies.
“Hmm,” said Ogden.
“I’ve seen him do much more,” said Ysira. “When we came out of the canyon, the Lord of Sickness was waiting for us. Neri destroyed his body.”
“He can do it under extreme duress,” Ogden inferred. “I assume the Gatekeeper put pressure on him until he burned her arm?”
Ysira nodded reluctantly. “I think the language barrier is the bigger problem. If Jacen is willing to attempt communion with Naxal, he may be able to help.”
Neri was frustrated now. Ysira had been quick to pick up on what he looked like when he was struggling not to cry, because she did the same thing—pacing, staring at the ceiling, making too many hand gestures.
Seth and Solai recognized it too. Seth pointed at the headless dummy.
From Eneva’s look of intense annoyance, he was making some sort of desperate joke.
Solai took Neri gently by the shoulders. She had children close to his age and was far more adept than Ysira when it came to putting him at ease. Whatever she said must have worked, because his posture loosened a touch. He nodded several times.
“Regardless,” Ysira made herself say, “we’ve made progress. Neri destroyed Nabatar, or at least badly injured him. And I saw the bones of another god in the canyon.”
“Nabatar,” Ogden repeated, puzzling something out from the name. “And Tharanoth still lives. Rakalem oversaw the Harvest, and Ileth was present in Zivora not long after. If Nabatar was in the canyon . . . that leaves two.”
“For what?”
“Do you remember my patient—the man we couldn’t wake?”
“Are you saying—” Ysira stopped, as the memory of Casandra Semira’s final moments flashed unbidden through her mind. “He was possessed? By a god?”
Ogden nodded grimly. “One of their own, spying on me for days. It’s a miracle Urien escaped notice. We have to be cautious. These creatures are cunning, and nothing if not patient.”
He was troubled, more than Ysira had ever seen him. It alarmed her enough to ask, “Why would they have targeted you in the first place?” “When you were on the station,” Ogden said, instead of answering,
“which of the gods did you meet?” “Only Tharanoth.”
“Did he say anything about Turil?” Ogden struggled to say the name; it came out of him a broken whisper. Old as he was, Ysira had never thought he wore his years as a burden. Now, though, he seemed positively frail.
“No,” she said. “Why?”
For a long while Ogden was silent, staring off into the dimness. Ysira let him take as long as he needed. She knew this feeling, of preparing to disclose something she could not take back.
She would have understood if he chose to say nothing at all.
At last, he met her eyes and said, “You know, by now, that weak telepaths on this world are often targets of the Harvest. Most are used to power their technology. When I was a boy, the Church sent seekers through my village, assessed me, and found my gifts too limited to be of use to their order. A few years later, I was Harvested. I was to be something the Firstborn call a navigator.”
Faster-than-light travel. That limbless boy with the exposed brain—helpless and sightless, world reduced to the inside of a ship and the unknowable expanse of the Source. Suddenly, so much made perfect sense. Ysira’s questions, and her horror, must have been plain on her face.
“They treat their navigators well at first,” Ogden said.
“They want us healthy, in prime mental and physical condition for many years of service. We’re fed and cared for as they test our abilities and tell us we’ve been chosen to serve their empire.
A whole new universe had opened up to me.
It was beautiful, Ysira. To see the stars like that .
. .” He closed his eyes and almost shivered.
“To this day, I’d give anything to see it again. ”
“I know,” she said quietly. She would never forget the feel of that cold glass against her fingers as she’d stood among the stars, nor that sense of holding all Celes Lor in the palm of her hand.
“So many worlds, so many possibilities, and it was a goddess who taught me. Turil. The Lady of Pain. I had never been one for religion, but for a time, I believed.” Ogden lifted a metal arm, flexing his fingers and examining them in a detached sort of way.
“It cost me everything.” Ysira could guess what must have happened next.
But Ogden kept talking, ever more distant, as if narrating the facts of someone else’s life.
“I befriended Urien while I was among them. When he learned the truth of what was to become of me, he told me. Like a fool, I begged Turil for mercy.” His lip curled.
“As I understand it, the process of creating a navigator is much more effective when the subject goes willingly. My foreknowledge ruined that. And so, my goddess told me she’d make me wish for that fate, beg for it.
She took my legs first. She made me crawl.
She took my hands. My arms. My genitals.
She served my limbs at a dinner party and made me watch, as I hung on her wall like a piece of art. ”
There was agony in Ogden, etched deep into the lines of his face. He took another breath, shaking off the story like a fading nightmare. “I owe Urien my life. He gave me new limbs and a chance at a new future, at the expense of everything he’d ever known.”
“That’s why you took me in,” Ysira realized.
“We were the same.” “That was one factor.” Ogden’s expression softened.
“I helped you because you were in need, like any patient. And Ged would have let you die.” He smiled sadly.
“When I guessed the truth, perhaps I felt more compelled than I otherwise would have to keep you safe. I came to care for you, and Neri, more than I ever anticipated.”
“Neri told me he gets a treatment once every cycle for his breathing problems,” Ysira said. “That’s you, isn’t it? You’ve been using Firstborn technology.”
“The best approximation I can manufacture, yes. Urien and I stole what we could, when we escaped, and I’ve put it to good use in my clinic.” Ogden grew pensive. “Now that you know the truth, I would like to teach you more. You could be a proper apprentice, even a physician someday.”
Ysira was taken aback, but the old man waved a hand. “Think about it. You’d be better than you realize.”
As quickly as it had appeared, the vulnerability in Ogden’s demeanor faded.
His features hardened into familiar steel.
“I could not have known events would play out as they have. But if Neri Semira is the one who brings our world freedom—vengeance—I will consider my latter years well spent.” Ogden leaned toward her.
“We cannot waste this chance, Ysira. No half measures. If the Lady of Pain lives, I lack the power to kill her myself, but I will see her destroyed. Before I breathe my last, I will see their empire reduced to dust.”
Ysira took his hands. He’d never allowed her to do that before—never let her feel the hard metal beneath his gloves. She squeezed them tight and said, “You’ll have your revenge, and you’ll see those stars again. We all will. I have a plan.”
“And you have my support. But you know what would make this all much simpler.” Ogden looked back at Neri once again struggling to channel energy.
Integration. Ysira would not force it on her son. But he would come to understand. He had to. He would realize the risk was worthwhile and he would rise to the occasion, because her plans hinged not only on that world-shattering power but on the faith it inspired.
“You’ve seen this empire up close,” Ysira said. “Even if Neri figures this out, do you think we stand a chance?”
“I know Naxal’s power is no fiction. Moreover, the fervor this could inspire, with the proper leverage, at the proper pressure points .
. .” Ogden scratched his beard, considering, and when he locked Ysira’s gaze again, she knew he understood.
“It is far from a half measure. But faith, as a means of control, is volatile. If it breaks . . . the breaking is violent. And you’ll only know it’s taken root when you’ve lost all control. ”
“What’s your advice, then?” Ysira asked.
He offered a humorless smile. “Don’t lose control.”