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Covalent City
THE ANTEROOM OUTSIDE the Nexus echoed with the footsteps of Covalent who walked through the Keep. As Barakiel waited for the high commanders to call him inside, he imagined the footsteps were paired with furtive tales of how Barakiel let Kemuel die and nearly killed the Realm’s greatest adept with his failure.
During the last blissful week with Zan, I could almost forget. Almost.
He had not seen or heard from Pellus since he left him with the Sylvan Three. He had not asked about Pellus as Roan escorted him through the rift. He was thinking he would rather hear it from the commanders when Remiel opened the door.
“Barakiel, please come in.”
After he entered and bowed, he took his seat on Remiel’s right hand at the enormous black table. The commanders regarded him solemnly. All except Galizur, who smirked.
“We are here to discuss your duties going forward,” Remiel said.
“Yes, commander.”
“Although your tours of duty will remain random they will be more frequent. You will continue to fight for Osmadiel’s battalion as well as mine.”
It was as he’d suspected. Remiel’s punishment was not a punishment at all.
They will see what I can do when I am graced with Balance.
“I fail to see why we want this warrior to fight even more,” Galizur said. “Are you still blinded by his reputation, now revealed to be undeserved? Not only did he fail to kill a single Corrupted in his last battle, his lack of skill caused the death of a valuable warrior. I, for one, will never submit to his presence in my battalion.” Galizur glanced smugly at Barakiel. “The mighty Barakiel ends his battle curled in a ball, and needs his traveler to save him.”
Barakiel lowered his eyes to the table. Galizur’s words were a reminder of his shame, but they did not make it any worse.
I will burn this ridicule away.
Osmadiel expelled a disdainful noise. “I seem to remember Abraxos hauling you and your severed limb from the battlefield, Galizur,” she said. “And you were not confronted by twenty Corrupted single-mindedly trying to kill you.”
The smugness disappeared from Galizur’s face, replaced by a mute fury. Barakiel raised his head to address Osmadiel. He dared not let himself smile.
“Your understanding is more than I deserve, high commander. Please give me the chance to redeem myself.”
“By all means,” Osmadiel said. “I expected more from you, but you should throw off this shame. If you did not fight well, you fought bravely. The Corrupted were so intent on your slaughter they left themselves with no escape. My warriors surrounded them and took their heads. We emerged from that battle with much to show for the price we paid.”
Her lucent green eyes focused on Camael. “We did not watch our comrades fall merely holding a line,” she continued. “We watched them fall with their swords held high, blackened with the blood of our enemies.”
“Yes, Barakiel,” Camael said. “If I remember correctly, such strategic use of your presence was one reason the Council allowed you to fight from exile in the first place. I see no reason to question your value to us. What we question, or should I say what the Council questions, is the value to the Realm of your relationship with the adept, Pellus. He shows more devotion to you than he does to Covalent Law or his own safety.”
“Pellus only sought to do his duty by preserving me, high commander.”
“No adept has such a duty,” Camael said with a scowl. “Pellus appeared before the Council last turn. He was stripped of his rank and he will serve as your traveler no more. The Council has left his further punishment to the Travelers’ Guild.”
Barakiel wanted to pound his fists on the table. “Thank you for informing me, high commander.”
“Roan can continue to shuttle you,” Remiel said. “When the equinox approaches, we will revisit your situation. You may take your leave now. Return to the Earthly Realm and complete your recovery. You will fight for Osmadiel at the next phase of the Stream.”
“Yes, commander. Thank you.” Barakiel rose and bowed low before his exit.
The Wasteland
When the three Covalent emerged onto the barren plain behind the city, Pellus was reminded of the service Warriors of the Rising performed for the Realm besides wielding their swords. Here in the Wasteland, outside the protective barrier formed with the warriors’ pounding energy, travelers would struggle to survive. The oxygen-poor air made it hard to breathe. Pellus and Roan had to concentrate to gather the life-giving molecules into their lungs. They could not withstand the bitter cold for long and they felt the crushing gravity in their bones.
Tariel seemed completely impervious, of course. She told Pellus that Remiel used this plain to train her battalion, to turn their muscles to steel as they worked against the great forces that weighed upon them. Tariel was used to being there, but Roan seemed to be in even more discomfort than Pellus.
When they had reached the far edge of the rust-colored plain, Barakiel bounded down from the foothills to meet them. He barreled toward them so quickly that the travelers nearly jumped out of the way, but then he pulled up and stared at Pellus with troubled eyes. Tariel and Roan moved away so Pellus and Barakiel could speak privately.
Go ahead, warrior. Tell me how you are not worthy of my sacrifice, as if my love for you would allow me to do anything less.
“Please forgive me, Pellus,” Barakiel said, his head bowed. “I did not mean for you to lose anything. To be stripped of your rank because of my transgression? I am ashamed.”
“I am getting sick of your shame, quite frankly,” Pellus said. Barakiel raised his head, all wide eyes. Pellus laughed.
“Barakiel, my friend. The Three informed me that without your great power they would not have been able to rescue me from my own mind. They told me they informed you of the danger and you showed not a moment’s hesitation, that you were willing to give everything you had. I would expect no less from you. Why should you expect less from me?”
“But your rank! We need your leadership, Pellus. This is not about what either of us expects.”
“The Council’s action is an empty gesture. I can imagine Ravellen hiding a smile as they voted to leave my punishment to the Guild.” Pellus shifted his weight and looked off toward the city.
“I did something no traveler has ever done. I imposed my will upon the energy of the Turning. For this, they tell me I am not an adept? It is meaningless. The Guild has taken no measure to punish me at all. The other adepts want nothing so much as to ask me what the experience was like, to study it. They surmise that with more time, I would have been able to accomplish the same thing without getting lost in complexity.”
Pellus grinned. Little did Barakiel know how the adepts cherished their secrets.
“Outside of the Guild representatives and Ravellen, who loves me fiercely, no member of the Council understands the adepts,” he said. “They will honor me, even if they have to keep it to themselves.”
“Well. I can see a few turns with Jeduthan have you ready to tell the Council to shut up and do as it is told.”
They laughed uproariously.
“Obviously, I am happy to hear this,” Barakiel said. “But I do not like you in those brown robes.” He gestured to the vestments of a navigen traveler.
Pellus raised one arm and regarded the folds of fabric. “I think I look good in brown.”
Philadelphia
Zan burned her tongue on her coffee, cursed vociferously, then grasped the edge of her desk. She took a few deep breaths to calm down. She didn’t really need the coffee, despite the early hour. She was all revved up, about to start a secure video conference with Martin Grenat, the FBI’s legal attaché in Paris to whom she’d sent one of the daggers about a month previous. Her relentless harassment of him by telephone had finally paid off.
She opened the application, clicked the link, and Grenat appeared before her. His handsome, angular face was crowned with a pompadour of thick brown hair. She was surprised. She had pictured a sour, pudgy guy. Judging from his expression, he was surprised by her appearance as well.
“Hello, Agent Grenat. Thank you for making yourself available.”
“My pleasure, Agent O'Gara. It’s nice to put a face to the voice.”
“Yes, a video conference was a good idea.” She noticed the natural light surrounding him, and the wooden window frames. “Your office is nicer than my office,” she added.
“Thank you.” Grenat nodded. “One reason I like it here. But let’s get to business. I have good news for you. The people at the auction house know who made the dagger. His name is Philippe Archibaud, a mètallier in Aix en Provence.”
“That’s fantastic. They knew right away?”
“Yes, much to my surprise. I guess his work is distinctive. High quality.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” Zan said. “So, what's next? What do I need to do?”
“Nothing but wait. We’ll send the knife to the Police Nationale down in Provence. They’ll question Archibaud. I’ll email them the photos of the body. When you sent those to me, they brought home the gravity of the situation.”
“Yes. We need to get these people off the street, wherever that street may be.”
Grenat smiled, a bit too flirtatiously for Zan’s taste.
“Your contact will be Inspecteur Général Marie Joselet,” he said. “She speaks excellent English. I’ll email you her contact info. You’ll no doubt want to give her all the details before she talks to Archibaud, but I’d wait a week or so before reaching out. And please, let me know what happens.”
“I will, Agent Grenat. I can’t even tell you how grateful I am. I hope I can return the favor someday.”
“You’re welcome, Agent O’Gara.” Grenat looked pleased. “I hope I get the chance to work with you in person. If you ever come to Paris, be sure to look me up.”
Right. For a month, he gave me a hard time. Now he likes me.
After zooming down Rainer’s driveway so fast that she skidded to a stop, Zan ran to the door. She couldn’t wait to tell him Grenat had identified the man who made the daggers. He was going to band practice with her that night, as he often did, to sit in with his electric violin. She looked forward to it, with both of them in high spirits.
He’ll be so happy he was able to help me.
Rainer was setting the table when she entered.
“I got us Indian food, my love. I know how you like it.”
“I love it. Thank you, honey.” She kissed and squeezed him for a few seconds, then grinned to split her face.
“What is it?”
“You did it.”
“Did what?”
“Led me to the man who made the daggers. Charlotte Emory’s advice to ask the auction house in Paris was dead on. They knew the artisan right way. His name is Philippe Archibaud. It might take a while, but the French police are going to question him.”
“That’s wonderful. All your hard work has finally paid off.”
His face lost all expression. When Zan frowned, her brows knitted, he grabbed her and kissed her in the way he usually reserved for nights when their only plan was to stay home and tire each other out. He untucked her shirt and caressed her back.
“Uh, sorry honey, but I have band practice, remember? We don’t have much time to eat, let alone for our righteous sex.”
“Yes, of course.” He went to get silverware. Zan stared at his back. She couldn’t believe he wasn’t asking her any questions. She couldn’t believe he didn’t seem happy or excited.
He got his poker face. What the hell?
When Rainer came back with the forks and the food, he commenced serving without looking at Zan.
“Okay, Rainer. What the hell is wrong with you?’
“Nothing. What do you mean?”
“Every time we talk about the daggers you act wacky. Don’t tell me you’re still embarrassed by your mistake.”
“No.” He stopped what he was doing to face her.
“Then why aren’t you more excited? Or at least curious?”
“I’m sorry to be so blasé, but I expected this. I knew you would find him. I knew you wouldn’t stop until you found him, with or without my help.”
Zan crossed her arms and stared at him for a second or two.
“So what is it? Now you feel bad that I didn’t really need your help? I thought this would make you happy.”
Rainer uncrossed her arms. He set her hands on his hips then kissed her on the forehead.
“I don’t have it in me to be enthusiastic at the moment. I have a lot on my mind. My business trip next week is going to be challenging. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
She gently pushed at him to lean on the table so she could rub his shoulders. She kissed his neck. “It’s okay. I can’t expect you to be as excited as I am.”
“You shouldn’t be so good to me, Zan,” he said, putting his hands on hers to still their motion. “You shouldn’t be so understanding.”
His voice was so mournful it threw her back into confusion.
I hope he’s not headed for another weird depression.
The city lights faded from view as Barakiel sped on his boat into the liquid gloom towards Delaware Bay. The heavy clouds admitted no starlight, leaving the sky barely brighter than the tar-black water. As the humid air rushed past him, he could smell the river turn brackish. He could feel the mighty swell of the ocean calling the river home.
Pulling up near the bank, he took his hand off the throttle and glided to a stop. He dropped anchor, took off his clothes and dove into the bay, down and down, into the quiet cocoon. He floated in the depths, using the bay’s energy to fix himself in place, to sustain himself without air.
All this kinetic power. Hundreds of thousands of tons of fresh water pushing to the Atlantic and the humans fail to harness it. They cannot even manage to keep the bay clean.
Barakiel snickered at himself. His mood was truly foul. He’d meant what he’d said to Zan, that he knew she’d find Archibaud. That’s why he’d sent her to Charlotte Emory, a legitimate, useful contact. If she was going to find the man anyway, at least he could stop lying to her for that brief time. At least once, he could help her.
Soon, Zan might hear that a large, blue-eyed, blond man and his dark, green-eyed companion had visited Archibaud in his shop and put a fright into him. She would hear that they pursued the very same men now sought by the police. Barakiel supposed there was a chance Archibaud would tell the French police only about the false monks. He might answer only the questions put to him. If he was not asked if anyone else had been looking for these men, perhaps he wouldn’t tell them.
Somehow I doubt I will get that lucky.
Pellus didn’t have to know. Not yet. Not until Archibaud spoke to the police. Barakiel considered whether another visit to Archibaud was a good idea, to make him understand that it was in his best interest to keep his mouth shut. He tried to think like Pellus.
I know what he would say. It is too risky to make another appearance there, now that the authorities are sniffing around.
Though it made him feel cowardly, Barakiel had no plans to tell Pellus that he’d pointed Zan in the right direction. At least he was confident the police would never find them based on Archibaud’s description.
No, the only way this could come back to them was through Zan. The instant she heard “large blond man,” she would know. Barakiel could say it was impossible. He could point out that there was no record of Pellus and him ever entering France. That they were on no flight manifest. He didn’t think it would matter. Deep down, Zan knew he was hiding something. She would confront him. She would demand to know why he’d traveled to France. How he’d traveled to France.
I will tell her, but I need time. To restore my reputation as a warrior. To regain Pellus as my traveler. After the equinox, I will tell her everything. I hope she loves me enough.
The thought filled him with fear. He didn’t want to lose her. He swam powerfully toward the ocean. He caught a current and rode.
My love, if you leave me I do not know how I will live.
As he turned to swim back upstream, Barakiel thought with bitter amusement that this push against the current mirrored his usual state of existence. He relished the strength it took. What else could he do? He enjoyed the feel of his strong heart pumping blood through his body as his muscles absorbed the relentless power of the tide.