The war still rages, soldiers cutting each other down with fiery swords, shooting each other with laser guns. Shells are disintegrating left and right, the sight devastating.
"I'm staying," I croak. Running away is cowardly. I am the cause of the battle. I will ensure it ends.
"What do you think you can do, Ten?" Deacon's grip tightens. "You're riding an emotional roller coaster right now."
"How do you--"
"I've been where you are. I know the Grid is exposing aspects of yourself you may not like. I also know you cannot help anyone but yourself right now. No speech, no matter how inspired, is going to penetrate the bloodlust currently plaguing these soldiers." He wrenches me to the side, startling and tripping me.
An arrow soars past me as I flail.
"See!" he shouts. "You're in danger."
"Go, Ten. Now!" Killian spins and swings the spear, stabbing a Troikan in the process of sneaking up behind him. "If you're killed, everything we've done to help you will be in vain."
I should be thrilled he's avoided injury, but his actions only feed the fury Sloan unearthed. I step toward him, intending to...what? I don't want to hurt him, but I can't allow him to kill another Troikan, either. These people...they're my brothers and sisters now.
Whoa. Such affinity for individuals I've never met?
Deacon tightens his hold. "I can't escort you to Troika without your permission. Say yes."
Free will matters, even in a war zone?
I struggle with duty and desire as more and more Troikans gather around Killian, attacking him en masse. He's strong and skilled, but is he skilled enough to survive this?
Fear for him--for everyone he's fighting--leaves me ice-cold.
A group of his comrades rush over to aid him, and I'm as relieved as I am ashamed. The group could harm my people.
More arrows zoom in my direction. Deacon uses a sword to deflect them, saving me from injury. Or worse.
Zero! If I throw myself into the fray, I can help Troika or I can help Killian, but not both.
No need to ponder. I have to help Killian. I recently lost my mom and brother. Earlier today I watched as my dad was gunned down. I lost Archer. I can't lose Killian, too.
Already lost him...
No. Absolutely not! And yet, hot tears blur my vision and streak down my cheeks. The Grid, whatever it is, has turned me into an emotional wreck.
Forget emotion. I need to act. Now or never.
Now! With a roar, I plow into the chaos. Grunts and groans. Limbs fly, some with purpose, a target in sight, others because they've been severed. The scent of blood saturates the air and zings with tension. Determined, I swipe up a sword.
The weapon is ten times heavier than I expected, and my arm shakes as I assume a battle stance.
"Stop," I shout. "Troikans love, forgive. Let's walk away and save lives. No one else has to die today."
I'm ignored. Deacon was right. A speech will never penetrate this blood-haze.
One of the Troikans notches an arrow and aims at Killian. I scream, diving at him, intending to shield him. As weak as I am, I fail to go the distance and hit the ground, useless. Killian doesn't need my help, anyway. Lightning fast, he uses the spear to block. The arrow pings, falls.
No time for relief. Other soldiers rush at him, trampling me in the process. Combat boots--
Miss me? Yes! I'm in spirit form while the soldiers are in Shells. We're intangible to each other.
Reeling, I climb to my feet. At warp speed, two other arrows hurl at Killian; he's fast enough to block both.
Behind him, a Troikan is coming in hot, a Stag aimed.
For a Shell, a Stag is the worst of the worst. A single dart traps a spirit inside its Shell, preventing any sort of mobility and rendering both defenseless.
I have no idea what a Stag will do to a spirit without a Shell, and I don't care. I put more pep in my step and jump. This go-round, my timing and efforts pay off. The dart flies through me and slows, giving Killian a chance to duck.
Agony sears me, and I scream. Seizing, I drop. Bolts of lightning set all of my organs ablaze.
The girl who pulled the trigger stares at me in horror. She just shot one of her own, and I just saved the enemy.
Her distraction puts her at a disadvantage, allowing a Myriadian to race in and swing a sword. Target: her head.
"Nooo!" Another Troikan shoves her out of the way. The sword slices through his shoulder, removing the arm of his Shell. Lifeblood spurts from the wound.
My horror mirrors the girl's. Shells and spirits are connected. Is the boy's spirit now missing an arm?
Above me, Killian whirls his spear, preventing several arrows from finding a new home in my chest. He kicks backward, nailing the Troikan sneaking up behind him.
"I told you to go, Ten."
I...can't. I can't leave him. Part of me fears I'll never see him again...and what you fear, you welcome into your life. I know it as surely as I know my name.
I try to stand, fail.
He ducks, avoiding the swing of a sword. Remaining low, he takes out his opponent at the ankles.
"If she's killed today," he says to Deacon, who is fending off a Myriadian soldier, "I'll blame you, aye. I'll retaliate by killing everyone you love." He is cold, merciless. And he's not done. He all but spits daggers at me after he clears the crowd around me and helps me stand. "Say yes to Deacon. From this moment on, every death I deliver is on your hands, not mine."
Contact is just as painful as before, but what's worse? My sense of disappointment. In his words. In my failure. In what this means for our future.
"Don't let me go." My knees are like jelly, yes, but I think the other part of me, the girl who hopes for the best, expects him to whisk me away. No more fighting, no need to choose between a home and a boy a second time.
I couldn't be more wrong. He holds me up with one arm and uses the other to quickly and brutally stop the next Troikan who challenges him.
My fault.
A contingent of MLs rushes over. Killian defends me from his own people, adding to his list of crimes.
My heart shrivels into a tiny ball of self-recrimination. By staying, I'm doing far more harm than good, aren't I?
"Yes," I shout at Deacon. "Yes, yes, yes."
The TL finishes off his newest attacker, closes the distance and drops his weapon to pull me from Killian's side and cradle me against his chest.
Killian holds on to my hand as long as possible. I cling to his.
Is this goodbye?
This can't be goodbye.
Deacon runs. He's injured, Lifeblood gushing from a wound in his shoulder and soaking his shirt. My shriveled heart aches. I'm not the one who wielded the sword, but I'm the one who placed him in its path.
Never slowing, he says something in a language I don't know but have heard him use with Archer. A special Troikan language the Myriadians can't understand.
My gaze locks on Killian. He pauses, the battle forgotten. He's so beautiful and strong, but he's haunted. A fallen angel with a thousand and one regrets.
He reaches for me. I extend my hand to him.
A beam of Light slams into me. I blink, and I'm standing atop the parapet of one of the guard towers with Deacon. TLs border us on every side, at the ready. Killian is gone. I swallow a whimper.
No future with Killian. No present with Archer.
"Stop thinking about everything you've lost," Deacon commands, "and start thinking about everything you've gained."
He's right. This isn't the time or place to break down. "Is that why you're so calm about Archer's death?"
"That, and I know there's a chance I'll see him again."
What? Surely I heard him incorrectly. Archer entered into the Rest. The end.
Questioning him isn't an option. Myriadians materialize, circling us, shadow-tipped arrows notched...and soon arching through the sky. Troikans use fiery swords to block, and the arrows burn to ash.
As the opposing forces leap
together in a vicious tangle of limbs and weapons, Deacon drops me. I crash-land, still too weak to stand on my own. Scowling, he yanks a small vial hanging from his neck and throws it at me.
"Every drop," he insists.
I uncork the top, already knowing what swirls inside. Liquefied manna, everything a spirit needs to heal and thrive. The sweet scent teases me. I drain the contents.
Deacon stabs an ML, turns, and stabs another.
I begin to strengthen.
Two MLs rush at Deacon in unison. He throws himself at the taller one. I roll to my back and kick out my legs, knocking the shorter guy's ankles together. Deacon is there to finish him off before hefting me to my feet.
"Time to go."
No way! "I'm racer-ready. Let's stay and help."
"You're that eager to die again?"
Hey! "I've got skills." Both Killian and Archer worked with me before--
My shoulders hunch as a sense of dejection pierces me.
"You have zero skills," Deacon says, merciless. "Right now you're like an infant. All you can do is cry and crap your pants. So..." He turns, stabs an incoming ML. "If Her Majesty is ready to continue her travels..."
How can he stand to help me? Archer was his best friend, and I put him in the line of fire by requesting a Troikan army be sent to save Killian, who still defends Myriad despite being beaten by his bosses, and Sloan, who secretly had already made covenant with the enemy.
Archer wasn't just a Laborer, sent to the Land of the Harvest to protect his human charges. He wasn't just a negotiator of covenant terms or a guide for those who had signed with Troika. He was a man of great integrity, honor and kindness. A rarity. A hero in a time when villains are the norm.
Archer loved me when I was unlovable. Time and time again he could have disrespected me with a lie. It would have been easier for us both. Instead he told the truth, no matter how painful. He abandoned a centuries-old feud with his greatest enemy to help me. In the end, he died taking a blow meant for me.
The hunch in my shoulders deepens. "Yes," I say softly. "Let's go."
Deacon slings an arm around my waist. We dematerialize in a blaze of Light and reappear--
I inhale sharply. We're standing in the center of a crystal bridge. Before us is a crimson-colored waterfall framed by a wall of glistening ruby geodes. The layered sediment resembles feathers; those feathers stretch out on both sides, creating the illusion of wings. Framing those wings are stones of topaz, jasper and beryl.
The architecture is stunning, far too perfect to be man-made or even nature-made. Intelligent creation.
Firstking-made, then?
There are no Troikans or Myriadians here. No battles. Just me and Deacon and the cool kiss of mist on my cheeks. A scent sweeter than manna--sweeter even than Killian--permeates the air.
"Now that we're alone..." Deacon gets in my face, snapping, "Your first day in the Everlife, you aided Myriad. You protected the guy who was killing my soldiers. Soldiers who risked their lives to save you."
I look away from him, unable to meet his gaze. Shame is a deluge inside me, and my confidence crumbles like a condemned building. "Killian killed his own soldiers, too. He--"
"You're still protecting him!" Deacon bellows.
I bow my head. "I'm sorry."
"No, you're not. If you could go back, you'd do it all over again." His tone flattened, but even worse, his words were dead-on. "I told you there's a chance Archer will come back to us, and there is. A very small chance. Every year, the names of the people who die are placed in the Book of New Life. Troikan citizens vote for a slain spirit to exit the Rest. It's called the Resurrection. But we lost a Conduit this year, too. Conduits always win."
My hopes lift...and crash. "Maybe we can convince everyone to vote for Archer instead?" I love the big goof with all my heart. I want more seconds, days, weeks with him. I want years! Decades! "We can do anything if we--"
"Put our heads together? Work hard enough? Have faith?" He sneers at me. "Unsuccessful people work themselves into the grave every day. And have faith in what, Ten? Ourselves? Last time I checked, neither one of us had the ability to perform a miracle."
I wither, part of me wishing I could blame Fate for our predicament. If everything happened for a reason and our actions couldn't change what's coming, I wouldn't have to carry the blame. But every decision matters, leading down a specific road, and I know it.
"What do you want me to do?" I ask. "Tell me, and I'll do it."
"Don't bother." Still he shows me no mercy. "What you do tomorrow doesn't change what you did today."
Sorrow floods me, drowns me, and I wrap trembling arms around my middle.
At both the best and worst of times, my mind does one of two things: obsesses over numbers or drafts a poem.
Guess what I do now?
I am Ten, the completion of a cycle. Composed of two numbers. One and zero. One: solitary. Without companionship. Zero: neither a negative nor a positive, just a whole lot of nothing...like my status right now.
Ten out of ten people hate me right now.
Ten out of ten people will die during their lifetime.
The two most popular numbers in the world are three and seven. 3 + 7 = 10. Three is known as the trinity...or troika. Spirit, soul and body. Seven is often called the perfect number. Seven continents, seven layers of skin--three main layers, with four others in between--and seven colors in a rainbow. Seven notes of sound. Seven dimensions and directions--two opposite directions for each dimension, plus the center...the static...the one that never changes.
Everything has changed for me.
Deacon scrubs a hand down his face. "At least the battle in the Land of the Harvest ended the moment you cleared the guard tower."
"I'm glad." There would be no more deaths because of decisions I made. Not today, at least.
He stares at me for a long while. "Here's what is going to happen. I'm taking you into Troika, where your family and friends are waiting to greet you. You'll spend a week exploring the realm, getting to know the land and the people, and you'll attend a welcome party for those who recently experienced Firstdeath. Then you'll begin your training."
I'm to become a General. Actually a Conduit, the highest type of General. I'm supposed to save my realm from the horrors of Myriad's darkness.
There are six main positions in Troika--General, Leader, Headhunter, Laborer, Messenger and Healer--with hundreds of sub-positions under each.
Six positions, just as there are six fundamental virtues: love, wisdom, truth, goodness, mercy and justice.
"Through it all," he adds, "you'll stay away from me. I can't stand the sight of you."
Sandpaper rubs my throat raw. "Very well." I owe him. I'll respect his wishes--even if I'm currently losing respect for him. Troikans praise the merits of forgiveness and lament the hazards of retaliation. Two reasons I picked the realm. Two reasons I forsook Killian.
Am I a fool?
And did I really just think the word Troikans rather than we? I sigh. I'm part of the family, even if I feel alone.
Not that feelings are reliable. Feelings rarely provide a realistic picture, and often lead to destruction. I have to act on my heart-knowledge: what the heart understands, even if the mind--or logic--doesn't.
Hello, spiritual law. With Sloan, I acted on my feelings. What I dished, I'm now eating. Today's chef is Deacon.
Ann-nn-nd my shoulders roll in a little more. If left unchecked, my feelings can be a weapon more dangerous than a gun or a knife. They can send me sprinting down the wrong path and put me in the wrong place at the wrong time. They can hold me in darkness, blinding me to Light. They can make me soar one moment, and send me crashing the next. I must rise above. Must do what's right even when everything around me is wrong.
I won't forget again.
Deacon waves at the waterfall. "This is the Veil of Wings. The only way into Troika. Troikans can pass through without worry. If a Myriadian tries, he will burn to ash."
The weight of my decision to stand with one realm and rise against the other...to put everything I have, everything I am, into a single cause...to abandon the boy willing to kill for me, even willing to die for me...suddenly assails me. Panic crawls from the ashes of my despair, and slays my calm.
I try to distract myself with a poem.
Happiness is not obtainable
And I will never believe that
Love and Light will lead the way
Again and again, I've been shown that
Pain and darkness always win
It is a lie that
Happiness and joy are a choice
The truth is
There's no way out of the abyss.
I will never be convinced that
"Something better this way comes."
"You just have to fight the good fight."
Actually
I will say--
"Even worse is on the way."
Because there's no way that
We can escape the abyss.
So depressing! I flip the script and repeat the poem, starting at the bottom and working my way up. A new ray of hope dawns.
I cling to it. Right now, it's all I have.
"See the mist billowing from the waterfall?" Deacon asks. "It's part of the Veil and wraps around the entire realm. There's nowhere a Myriadian can safely enter." He marches across the bridge, never once glancing back to ensure I follow.
Resigned, I trail after him. Time to see my eternal home. Time to meet the people I'll be sharing an Everlife with. My new family. The ones I'll be fighting to protect.
But a single question haunts me as I step underneath the spray of water.
I picked them...but what if they don't pick me?
MYRIAD
* * *
From: K_F_5/23.53.6
To: R_O_3/2.17.12
Subject: I'll go ahead and pat myself on the back Consider Tenley Lockwood bagged and tagged. She trusts me implicitly, and she wants to be with me. Maybe she already regrets her covenant with Troika. The problem is, she's going to spend the next year holed up inside Troika, training. That is twelve months--or fifty-two weeks--before she's sent to the Land of the Harvest on assignment. Twelve months I won't get to see her or talk to her. Fifty-two weeks I won't get to "work my magic," as you like to say.
How am I supposed to convince her to spy for us? Unless...can you trick Troika into sending her on assignment sooner?