Erelah was aware of shapes moving around her. They spoke in low serious voices. She could discern none of it. The shaped spoke about her, of course, nothing she would want to hear. Her eyelids felt so heavy. Opening them took a great deal of concentration.
She glimpsed a room filled with the mellow amber light of glow spheres. The lines here were soft and imperfect. Earthen walls. There was not a glint of metal to be seen. If there was a world opposite to the endless series of medsuites and labs of her time with Tristic, this was it. Those rooms had been cold, sterile; she never felt warm in them. Here the warmth was comforting and seemed to soak into every aching inch of her body.
One of the shapes loomed closer. She recoiled into the soft cushions beneath her. The shape coalesced into a broad set of shoulders, dark hair. A strong hand gripped hers. Jon.
Even in this state, half-awake, half-aware, she steeled herself against the flood of images from him. But this time there was no onslaught. Instead, it was a thin eddy of emotion rolling from him: a mix of relief, untwisting anxiety. A brief echo of an argument with Ty that was now a firm knot of regret.
Her own crushing thought bobbed above it: I wanted to be dead. I was supposed to be dead
.
“Erelah?” His voice sounded just as battered as she felt.
Her tongue felt too thick. “What…is this place?”
He ran a soothing hand over her hair. “Shhh…Rest.”
She forced herself to focus on him. Unshaven. Slept-in clothing. Darkened eyes.
All because of me.
“I’m sorry.” She managed a dry whisper. “I couldn’t fight it.”
“They tell me you’re through the worst. You’re going to be alright.”
That thought should bring relief.
Instead, she felt the thing
stir. It stretched from its dark nest. With it came coldness that the warmth of this place could not overcome. The now-familiar pressure/pain wedged into her skull.
“What did you do?”
Erelah heard a voice rasp. She realized it was her own.
She seized Jon’s wrist, squeezed. The strength in the action was impossible. It came from afar. From her: Tristic
.
Pain flashed across his face. Jon pulled free. “Calm down.”
Tristic must have been waiting, standing ready to crawl through that soft place in her head and take her over.
Erelah watched what she did next as a bystander in her own body. She was as flimsy as a shadow.
“Where have you taken her? I demand you return her to me.”
She climbed from the bed on legs that felt hollow, unreal. Her muscles burned with cramping pain. All happening to someone else.
Tristic filled her now, moving from within to glare out on the room.
“Return you? Where?” This was a new voice raised in challenge. Tyron.
Erelah’s head pivoted. Arms folded, and with an imposing weapon holstered at her hip, Veradin’s breeder glowered from the doorway. An incredible example of selective breeding.
Such a shame it would be to destroy her.
/If only to inhabit a body like that…such strength./
“I understand your sergeant expired, Commander. ‘Glory all,’ I believe is the correct sentiment.” Tristic stretched her host’s mouth into a mocking grin.
“Erelah? What are you doing?” Veradin demanded.
Moves rigid, Erelah turned back.
/The brother. Always the brother. The insufferable guilt-ridden expression on his hatefully perfect features. As if all manner of ills the Known Worlds could visit upon their cursed party were specifically designed by his actions. As if a mere mortal could command such influence./
Yet the brother’s words seemed to trigger something in her host. Tristic felt the squirming twitch of the girl’s will, weak but still willing to struggle. Erelah’s fought her even now.
The image of a beach beneath a pale blue sky came to her. Then a crumbling temple, vine-covered and abandoned. Hands, impossibly large and strong. Helio’s, as they walked along the shoreline.
With a shake of the head, the images dissolved. However weak, they were a costly distraction.
“This is for Valen.”
She caught a blur of motion. Then the powerful collision of Tyron’s fist with her jaw. The world flattened under a white hot snap of pain.
“I didn’t see any other choice,” Sela said. It was as close to an apology as she was willing to step. She placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder.
“But tie her down like this?” he asked looking up from his sister’s still body. The girl’s skin held the plastic sheen of sweat. Although her breathing was deep and regular, she had not stirred since Sela’s punch had ended the unnerving
transformation.
“Lord Veradin.” Lineao arrived in a breathless swirl of robes.
The boy must have gone to find him. He edged Jon out of the way and leaned down over Erelah. Gently, he pried open one of her eyelids. Fear deepened the lines in his face.
“Quickly,” Lineao snapped his fingers at Sarrid. “Summon Brother Liri.”
Sela caught the boy’s expression of relief as he sprinted past. Anything to be free of the raging lunatic girl tied down to a cot. For a fleeting moment, she envied him.
“What? What is it?” Jon said, crowding the priest.
“You must be honest in your answer to my next question, Veradin,” Lineao said. “Although I fear I already know the answer.”
Sela tensed. Lineao had turned his back on her, his full attention on Jon.
“Are you Human? Is this female—”
“She’s my sister.” An edge of defensiveness to Jon’s reply.
“Your sister. Is she Human as well?”
Jon looked at Sela over Lineao’s shoulder.
She gave him the slightest of nods. What was the alternative?
Jon released a pent-up breath. “Yes.”
The two other priests in earshot turned to each other in silent astonishment. They made some ritualized gesture with their hands. The one closest to the depiction of Miri genuflected in the painting’s direction.
Sela heard him whisper: “Poor child. The poison would have been a mercy.”
Lineao returned to his examination of Erelah. His mouth compressed into a thoughtful frown.
“I must make preparations.” With that, Lineao turned for the doorway. Sela grabbed his robe, swiveled into his path.
“You gave me your word. You said they’re safe here,” she
hissed.
“They are. You are.” He carefully pried her hand away. “Brother Liri may be able to help the girl. Pray it is not too late.”
“Too late for what?” Jon demanded. “What’s going on?”
The priest regarded him. The pity was plain in his voice. “I have only seen this once before. A Trelgin whose mind had been invaded by a Sceeloid. Long ago during the conquering of Hedas.”
Her mouth went dry. “You mean sight-jacked
.”
Lineao nodded. “When the host resists, it makes the damage worse. It twists their perception. Existence becomes torture. If anyone can sever the link and end this, it will be Liri.”
“This is her salvation?” Sela sneered. She stood between the priest and her captain. Her hand traveled to rest on the grip of the A6 in its holster. A well-trained reflex.
She studied the creature that had been introduced to them as Brother Liri. The hunched shoulders beneath the ragged brown cloth of the hood. The pale scaly skin, veined in deep blue, the milky white eyes that by all rights should be blind, yet somehow appeared to take in everything. Long bony hands ending in curved thick nails like alabaster hooks. Needle-sharp teeth hosted by pale gums.
Sela had fought Sceeloid soldiers before in her career: they were slinking, sinewy adversaries of immense strength. This one was ancient, seeming carved out of dust and decay.
“Ty. Stand down.”
“He’s a Sceeloid. You can’t trust them.”
“He would say the same of you, Commander.” Lineao inserted himself. “Brother Liri has known no other life than this
temple. He was rescued as a youngling, left to die. He has spent his life in service to our Order.”
“Fear not, soldier. I am not your enemy,” Liri said.
The deep rumbling voice stirred a wave of revulsion in her stomach.
“I have come to ease the suffering. It is my service to the Fates. It is my duty to use my gifts in their service and aid where I must. Time is short.”
“Stand down,” Jon repeated. His hands gripped her shoulders.
“Captain?” She turned her head slightly, reluctant to take her gaze from Liri.
“You heard me.” He spoke against her neck. His hand trailed down her arm, guiding the weapon back to its holster.
Lineao took advantage of this momentary truce and helped the hobbled figure to Erelah’s bedside.
Sela regarded Jon. “You can’t do this.”
“I am. I’m making this choice for her,” he said, expression hard. “My call.”
