Cassiel Winters 1: Sky's End (25 page)

“Why are you here?” I whisper. “Why do they keep you alive?”

He pauses. “Kir Kell’an.”

Yes. Kell’an’s revenge.

“Over a woman?” I whisper.

Lor’s eyes flash wide.

“Lucky guess,” I say. He doesn’t understand that expression. So I ask, “What happened?”

“Human. Like you.”

“Escape from Thell’eon,” continues Lor, pointing to himself. “Children,” he adds.

Wow.
No wonder Kell’an is pissed.

“Killed.” He shakes his head, sucking air between his teeth rapidly. “Aeon.”

I’m astounded. Speechless. Lor makes a
shh
motion with his finger. He checks for something, or someone, over my shoulder and my stomach drops.
No. I’m not ready yet!

Glancing back at me, eyebrows drawn taut with expectation, he hisses, “Promise!!” referring to our escape plan, then darts back to his downcore.

He doesn’t seem so feeble. I wonder if he fakes the extent of his injuries in order for the reprieve in sickbay. I would.

Oh
. The alarm has shut off. One of those bastards must have encountered a rift without me. Hope lots of them are dead.

The idea of an Aeon passing through terrifies me in a remote way, certainly not enough to get out of downcore—

Shit! I sense someone beside me. I remain very still on my side. Of course it’s one of the Kir. Who else could approach so silently? Whoever it is, he pauses, leaning over to check on me. I keep my eyes closed and try not to move. I don’t want him to know I’m back.

A deep sigh.

Or’ic. I can’t believe I recognize him by sigh alone. I sink back as he leans onto the downcore.

“We . . . pushed you,” he says quietly.

Crap
, he does know I’m awake.

“We would understand you better,” he adds, almost whispering. “We would know where you are strong and where you are fragile.”

What in the Jupiter is he talking about?

“We would understand the human. And to begin, you would choose from now on.”

Choose? Choose what?

Despite my ardent desire to never move from this downcore, a propensity to survive and an incredible need to eat something gets the better of me, and I roll over and sit up.

He leans back off, giving me space. I sigh because he’s smiling in my peripheral vision. I don’t want to look at him directly. I can’t believe how hungry I am. How long was I out? Seth’s at my side scanning me.

“What do you mean I get to choose?” I ask quietly, staring at Lor’s large bare feet across the room.

“You agreed to work with us for the sake of your brother. My Kirs, we mistook your cooperation for consent.”

“You mean you think you own me!”

We glare at each other. But, but his posture is,
oh
, relaxed. And I’m deeply unsettled when he looks away first. He folds his arms awkwardly across his chest, muscles squished out, and then uncrosses them.

“You would understand us,” he beseeches me, hands out. He places them on the downcore, searching the room, until he spots what he’s looking for. He returns with a stool and sits on it, making him eye level with me. A first. “Our beliefs,” he starts and stops. I’ve never seen him this . . . uncertain. “Kirs spend a lifetime training and fighting Aeon. We strive to achieve a perfect Horde, knowing the likelihood is incredibly small. And still we prevail. To get the chance to have, to fight with a sift,” he corrects himself, “with you, is . . . sacred. Once given, it is understood to be a right that is earned.”

“So you think I was, what, given to you?”

He rolls his eyes, frustrated. Ah, that’s more familiar. When he focuses back on me, his eyes are different. Earnest, I think.

“Think of how you ‘fell’ into our path. ESE sent you to our ship! You! When you took my beacon portal, then I knew for certain. It was our destiny to have a sift. You belong to us!”

His vehemence scares me more than the simple deduction. Those things all happened, but not so that I could be his sift. Not even so I could help ESE get the sift (isn’t that ironic?). But so that I could save Daz! I’m certain of this. Being their sift is not my destiny. And even if I believed in that crap, I would never belong to them. Or anyone.

“I’m a human being, Or’ic!”

“I know, I know,” he says, touching my hand with his.

I pull away. I don’t like they way he’s looking at me. Not at all. He doesn’t understand that I wasn’t speaking literally. I meant to say that I’m not an object. But he continues, oblivious to the real problem.

“This is why we would understand you. Why you would choose.”

I can do nothing but shake my head. What’s there to say? Why can’t he see that I would never choose to stay with them, that my only need is to be free of them?

“Rest. Rest for now,” he says briskly, observing the food being laid out before me. “We are at the Candidacy. They have delayed it for us. You would choose to participate, or not.”

“Wait, what?”

Does he mean we can go save Daz without the Candidacy if I want? “What about my brother?”

He stares back at me, briefly, as though to say it is up to me whether we rescue him or not. Pers’eus arrives for his shift, and his expression at my revived state is one of open pleasure.

“Some choice,” I shout after Or’ic’s departing back.

A little while later, Seth informs me I was out of it for more than two days.

Chapter 23

We’re waiting in our
Manar
, the ship that transported our Horde and all of its staff to the docking station of the Thell’eon intergalactic arena. I got a glimpse of the complex when Or’ic let me interface with the ship controls. From the outside, it looks like a tiny ancient hourglass. Inside, Or’ic tells me there are multiple arenas with accommodations for the attendees.

“People watch the games?”

“They are not games,” hisses Kell’an. When he recovers from the outrage, he adds, “Thell’eons, including women, attend Candidacies. It is a popular event in our society.”

Onegin’s magnificently sexy face lights up. “Imagine the class of female we would get now!”

What does he mean by that? I look at Pers’eus, who usually answers these kinds of queries, but he and Kell’an seem absorbed in thought.

“Candidacies also represent a time of breeding,” pipes in Or’ic from his spot near the ship’s exit.

Oh
. They are going to get laid after this.

Or’ic’s watching me so I guard my expression.

“After Kirs are ranked, the top classes of women each choose one to breed with,” adds Kell’an.

“The women get to choose?” I ask, unable to keep my big gob shut. I didn’t think Kell’an was being “literal” about the women choosing to mate after our awkward encounter. For some reason, I pictured them, I don’t know, pulling numbers or something, and the whole event taking place tacitly in like five minutes in a dark room or something. No wonder they’re always peacocking about in front of me. Now I picture them lining up for the women, who peruse the offerings like pieces of fabric.

Wait
,
does this mean Or’ic will be chosen?

Whatever! Who cares!

“What do you mean? Is there any other way?” asks Onegin, clearly intrigued by my question about women choosing partners.

Oh, this is awkward.

Looking around for help, I gather Kell’an knows better. He raises his eyebrow at me as if to say,
Well?
Maybe Or’ic knows better, too. Pers’eus appears curious. Shadon’s a whiter shade of pale. I think he’s nervous about the Candidacy.

“No. Nope. Not at all,” I add, glancing down at my outfit. No need for Onegin to be wise to the ways of human mating. I can just imagine his idea of ‘courting.’

I decide that I’m tense rather than nervous about this last hurdle before Taxata. I’ve really pulled it together after my little holiday. No more letting them get the better of me. I just need to focus on getting out of here. And I will.

So I ignore my nerves. If there’s one thing I can do well, it’s pilot. That being said, I do feel a tad silly in this super-glamorous outfit. It’s black, like the Kirs, with silver patterns and cording. Only mine has a touch of a gold-like metal layered into the silver. Thank the celestial makers the Kirs finally gave me pants. OKAY, so they’re tight, like the men’s, but who cares, they’re pants! I’m not robed in weapons, since I haven’t earned any. But my top, if you could call it that, sports corded metallic ropes in layers providing the appearance of weapons. Clever, though it’s still nowhere near mimicking a Kir’s arsenal.

My branding, which still burns like an SOB, is on full display. A Cinarian wove the metallic ribbons into my hair and swept it over to one side to make my branding visible.

It was that, or shave my head. After a brief tousle, in which Or’ic stepped in and emphasized I could choose, I opted for the former. I keep trying to explain that’s not, in fact, what it means to give someone a choice, but he ignores me.

He acts differently around me now, since I recovered. They all do. They give me more space, a little more breathing room, mostly by ignoring me.
Whatever.
I’ll take it.

While we were waiting outside the
Manar
to leave for the space arena, Or’ic appeared carrying a box. The other Kirs stood nearby rather awkwardly.

“What’s this?” I asked, nervous as he stood before me. I no longer cower in the shadow of his tall might, rather, I tense up, waiting for the unpredictable. And this time, it was the proud look on his face.

“A gift. For our sift.”

I had to purse my lips to keep from shouting, “I’m not your sift!”

Idiots!
But I needed to go along with this, this, truce, until I can get away from them.

Since I couldn’t reject the item until I opened it, I stepped forward and lifted the lid of the intricate organic box. The sight was incredible. Cuffs. Beautiful wide ones like those I’ve seen the Kirs wearing, made of some shiny burnished coppery metal, but so light, and designed with intricate cording that matched my outfit and, exasperatingly, the brand behind my ear. Clearly it had all been well planned.

I started to mumble something about how I can’t accept these when he told me they are made of the something called
Linor
.

“It is the strongest material in our universe. Not even Aeons weapons can penetrate it.”

Wow.
Refusing something that could help protect me would have been stupid, right? Apparently I’m vulnerable to distraction by shiny objects because before I knew it, he was putting them on me and I’m still not sure how to get them off. I moved my arms around, admiring how the
Linor
caught the light. When I glanced back up, the Kirs were back to business, directing and loading crap on to the ship.

Only Or’ic stood waiting.

“You like them?”

I was loathe to admit it but I nodded. The look on his face in that moment made me wish I hadn’t accepted them. I can’t explain it, but suddenly I hated this game.

I hate all of it.

Oh, the waiting is interminable!
Vibrations rock the ship, which Shadon confirmed, tight-lipped, is indeed caused by the stomping crowds outside.

Apparently, once we are given the go-ahead, we’re to emerge from the shuttle into the ceremonial bay, where, I’m told, everyone’s waiting to greet Hordes and take in the new sift. That would be me.

I’m about to ask, ‘How much longer?’ again, but a nasty glance from Kell’an quiets me. At least he didn’t bark at me. I’m over our little incident. Read, I’m totally pretending it didn’t happen.

I tug at my top’s low neckline, hoping it’ll miraculous expand to cover more of my boobs, but I only succeed in jiggling them around.

“Do you need assistance?”

I glance at Onegin sitting beside me. He’s looking down at my chest practically drooling.

“Bite me,” I say, giving him my fake smile but he’s not looking at my face. Since he beat the crap out of me, my fear of Onegin’s now only about an eight.

Uh-oh
. I think he’s taken me literally! I’m all set to give him a much clearer rejection, when Or’ic shouts at us, “This is precisely the kind of discord I warned against!”

Earlier, Or’ic informed me how as a Horde we must appear united. Otherwise we risk another Prime challenging Or’ic for me. Yeah. Like that isn’t unsettling, even without the part he added, how another Prime might not treat me so well, since he’s been such a charmer. Still, there’s an ancient saying from Earth; better the enemy you know . . .

Scrutinizing these Kirs, waiting, I ponder how familiar their faces already are. How Pers’eus is encouraging and forthright. Shadon has taught me more than he needed to or probably even realizes about finding emotional strength within. And as much I’d like to, deep down I can’t fault Onegin for his noble intentions, wanting me to be able to protect myself, however misguided his strategy.

Kell’an. If he wasn’t such an asshole I might appreciate his little lessons, too. He does seem to think I can handle the truth, whereas my Prime treats me like a child. Or’ic. What is he to me? I realize in that moment, that the toughest part of fooling thousands of Thell’eons will be convincing them I’m united with him.

Suddenly, the Kirs stand.
Holy shit, this is it.
I do as Or’ic told me, and stand in front of them.

The door vanishes instantly, and I’m walloped by deafening noise. So many Thell’eons screaming and stomping. Thousands! Are they cheering? What kind of noise is that? It’s a weird sort of screeching chant. After a moment of complete panic, Or’ic pushes me a bit and I stumble out.

The noise ends. You could hear an atom form.

Hey, look at that
. The expression’s accurate, my knees really do feel weak.

Quickly I look around before I begin the long walk down the aisle of Hordes toward the Order. Faces, oodles of fascinating, big, and beautiful faces, many of them women’s, are staring at me down from a colossal circle of stands. In a flash, I read mostly curiosity.
Oh, no,
there’s avarice. That’s on the faces of the Kirs in the Hordes waiting for me to walk past, lined up so deep it’s a blur.

What have I agreed to?

Walk straight ahead. Walk straight ahead
.

I hear bristling as I pass and the Kirs turn and close in behind our Horde. The tension in the room is physically unpleasant. The clay-like, metallic odor is stronger here than on Or’ic’s ship. It’s not unpleasantly so, just strong.

Whatever. Almost at the end. Keep it up!

As I scan the faces, I make eye contact with no one, just as Or’ic ordered. I wonder just now whether he told me to do that to avoid observing their first impressions of me. Probably wise.

I walk as proudly as I can. Straight ahead, toward dozens of old Thell’eons standing on an elevated area, waiting.

The Order. Former Horde Primes who run the military side of operations. It’s not clear to me how the Order works in relationship to the Thell’eon Guardianship. I probably should ask.

When I get about 40 feet in front of the ancient-looking Kirs, I stop, and sense my Kirs settle behind me. I hear some movement. I want to look back but I don’t. I don’t make eye contact with the Order. A long period of silence makes me think I forgot something.
Was I supposed to kneel or something?

“Sifter Cassiel Winters. Is this your Horde?”

Now I finally look at the one who speaks. Big. Craggy. Missing a hand. Age doesn’t erode his menacing impression.

“Yes,” I respond loudly.

I knew they would ask this. There are too many unknowns to risk answering ‘no.’ Where might I end up? Or rather, with whom might I end up?

I proceed to name my Kirs, speaking loudly, starting with Prime Or’ic. I’m about to introduce Pers’eus when another Order member steps forward. Short, abnormally so for a Thell’eon, and one mean-looking bastard. Age has done a really number on him. His jowls jiggle when he talks.

“My master, before we continue, let us address the challenge to this Horde.”

Challenge? There’s a symphony of murmuring. I want to swing around and ask Or’ic, CFA (come fucking again?), but I recall how he emphasized that no matter what, I should maintain a commanding presence.

I clear my throat.

“What challenge is this?” I ask. But no one hears me. We had an agreement. I shift anxiously, before I remember to remain still. What’ll I do if that’s jeopardized?

“Louder,” hisses Kell’an behind me.

I repeat my words, practically screaming. “What challenge is it that you speak of?”

The murmuring ends as we all wait for the explanation.

“Prime Aardon challenges Prime Or’ic,” answers the Order member.

More murmuring.

That son of a bitch!

“Aardon claims his Horde already has the prize which you seek and are therefore more worthy of you,” continues the short, nasty one over the murmurs.

Well, well, well.
The prize is Daz, of course.

I’m slightly confused but have a sense where this might be headed.
Isn’t this an interesting turn of events?
Is it possible to sense emotional energy? I’m drenched in tidal waves of rage from Or’ic and his Kirs standing behind me.

The squat, ugly Order member continues. “Prime Aardon would have you know that this prize which you seek was obtained through no malice. And he says he would trade this prize, give it back to your people, to soothe feelings of ill will. You would join his Horde, compete here at the Candidacy, and continue the search for the missing sift.”

Ah, there’s the catch.

Same crapola, different smell. Maybe, maybe, I would have agreed to switch sides if he didn’t still want the other sift, too. I can’t, I just can’t deliver another person into their clutches.

I pretend, with the crowds so silent, that they aren’t really here.
Ah, that’s a little easier
. And I focus on the iota of pleasure I’m experiencing of lording this brief bit of power over
my Prime
, by delaying my answer. It’s glorious. He so deserves it. If only I could turn around and see the look on his face.

But the reality is, how could I possibly agree to join the thug who imprisoned by brother in the first place? Who I know nothing of? Sifters only have power for appearance’s sake. Look at me. At least with Or’ic’s gang I have an escape plan.

“And where is this Prime Aardon?” I shout. “Can he not speak for himself? Or is he too much of coward?”

The crowd goes crazy. Screams and yelps, fists pounding palms.

Oops.
I turn slightly, hoping Or’ic will give me some direction but I can’t find him before our Horde and Kir guards huddle around me, facing the agitated Hordes, with their weapons ready, clanging loudly as they press down on ours.
Uh-oh
. Looks like I have just issued some kind of challenge. A pretty major one. The outer defenders are pushing back against angry Kirs. We are jostled as the Hordes sway and I panic, huddling into Onegin’s back for protection. Blades clang overhead and there’s grunting. Or’ic and Kell’an are shouting orders, like ‘hold’, or ‘flank’ or something.

I’m still huddled over when I realize the attack’s on pause. I stand on my tiptoes to peer between my defenders. Or’ic and Kell’an are face-to-face with what I can only assume is Aardon’s Horde. I can’t wait to see this Aardon’s face.

“My Masters,” yells Or’ic, glaring into a set of bright, flickering blue eyes, which sit in a chiseled square face, marred only by a deep scar running from his eyebrow down his cheek. “This Horde has no Prime to answer the challenge. I issue a stay.”

What? Blue Eyes is not the Prime?
I glance up at the Order.