Rystani Warrior 02 - The Dare (25 page)

DORA FLEW OVER the city and looked for a place to set down the skimmer. In the dark, the pink buildings all looked as if they’d been cast from the same mold, and their backlit windows reminded her that despite the riots in the streets, people ate and slept, made love, took care of their children, and argued with their mates. In the morning they would rise, bathe, and go to work in a comforting pattern of stability among family and friends and coworkers.

But Kirek would be alone. He’d left his parents and his world behind, and now he was with strangers—strangers who, according to Deckar, might treat him badly. She’d hoped to find the boy quickly, but with no idea of who had taken him, a random search seemed unlikely to reunite them.

Her fear for Kirek’s safety made her less cautious. Instead of setting down on the outskirts of the city where they would be apt to land unnoticed, she’d opted to save time by heading straight into the heart of Baniken. When she spied a wide-open park, she steered toward a wide clearing.

The skimmer suddenly jerked, and the stick slammed into her hand. Her pulse sped, and her mouth went dry. “Did I hit something?”

Zical peered out his window, his tone as casual as a tour guide’s. “They’re shooting at us.”

Smoke spiraled behind them, and the pedals beneath her feet turned to mush. “We’re going down.”

The skimmer spun, the engine sputtered, and she fought to turn into the spin. Gaining only a minimum of control, she veered toward the park but they weren’t going to make the clearing. She spied a pond and had to ditch that idea, too. Spinning crazily, she fought the controls, tried to keep the skimmer from plunging into a straight dive.

“There.” Zical pointed. “Land on the roof.”

“If we miss, we’re dead.”

“If we land at ground level, we’re dead,” he argued. “They’ve mobilized an army down there. They’ve been tracking us.”

Dora barely heard his words. One life-threatening problem at a time was all she could handle. More shots fired, and most of them missed, but several ricocheted against the skimmer’s belly. Any moment she expected a projectile to slice through. But the bottom must have been armored. No shots entered the cab.

But one cracked the windshield, shattering it, the fragments torn aside to leave a gaping hole. Hot wind roared through the tiny craft, and as she tried to set down on the roof, it felt as though a giant fist lifted them up, then slammed them into a wall. She must have blacked out for a few seconds. When she opened her eyes, smoke poured through the skimmer. She hung by her shoulder harness with the craft tipped onto its side, all the blood in her head pounding.

Next to her, below her, Zical sat so still that she feared for his life. With a shaking hand, she felt for a pulse, and relief washed through her at the strong steady thumps. Praying he didn’t have an injury she couldn’t see in the dark, she shook him.

“Zical. Come on. Wake up. We have to get out of here. Before the skimmer explodes. Or we burn alive.” All the while she talked, she was unbuckling her belt, thrusting open the door over her head, wondering how in hell she could pull him up and out if he didn’t recover consciousness.

Zical grunted, groaned. Even in the dim light, she could see his eyes open, and then smoke swept through the skimmer—just breathing filled her mouth, burned her eyes, and choked her lungs. She coughed. “You hurt?”

“Don’t think so.” His voice was groggy, and he began coughing, too.

Flames burst, reddish-orange sparks and fire. In the light of the hellish hot blaze, she grabbed the edge of the open doorway and pulled herself upward. From below, Zical boosted her feet with a strength that shot her out of the top and tumbling free; she banged her shoulder and scraped her knee on the way down. Pain dazed her. Her knee hurt like stabbing knives, and she blinked back tears of frustration. She had intended to turn around on the top, reach in, and help pull out Zical, but now she couldn’t help him. However, a moment later he climbed out by himself and landed beside her, his face streaked with smoke.

“We have to go. Now,” Zical ordered.

He helped her limp toward a rooftop door and lifted his weapon to pound, but when she tugged on the knob, it opened. They’d just stepped onto a stairwell when the skimmer exploded in a fiery roar that deafened. Too late she clamped her hands over her ears.

The ringing made her words seem as if they came from a distance. “Maybe they’ll think we’re dead,” she suggested, taking his hand, determined not to complain about her knee that stung and burned like fire.

She turned to look over her shoulder and saw skimmers about to land. Ignoring the pain in her knee, she descended with Zical into the building, yells of pursuit behind them.

KIREK AWAKENED AND instantly knew he was no longer with his friends. It was too quiet, too dark. Something was very wrong. His mouth was dry, his tongue swollen, but not from thirst. He suspected he’d been drugged, and by the hunger in his stomach, he guessed he’d stayed unconscious for at least a day, maybe more.

The last thing he remembered was talking to Dora and falling asleep in the cool Risorian compound. He’d felt a prick of pain in his neck. A shot? He touched the tender spot and winced. Now certain he’d been drugged, he blinked away the last of his grogginess, his alarm escalating.

Once again he was alone. He hated that tears filled his eyes. After reuniting with Dora and Zical, he’d felt as though he’d come back to his temporary home. While Miri and Etru were his family, Dora and Zical were like a dear aunt and uncle. Losing them a second time hit him hard. He wanted to shout in frustration.

He’d believed that since the Risorians believed him to be the Oracle that they would release all of them and allow them to continue the mission. Loneliness and frustration boiled in Kirek, but he forced himself to use his best asset—his brain.

Think
.

It was hot here, and he strained to see in the darkness. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and he made out walls, a sofa where he’d been sleeping, a desk. He appeared to be in an office or study with an attached bathing facility.

He stood with care, letting his system fight off the remaining sleeping drugs that had left his mouth dry and his mind groggy. But his head was clearing fast. Fear and adrenaline and a need to survive had a way of readying the weakest muscles to fight or flee.

However, there was no one to fight, even if he’d been big enough or strong enough to do so. He groped for the door handle and found it locked. Fleeing wasn’t an immediate option.

Questions burned in his mind, the foremost being, who had taken him and why? The Risorians had wanted him to call for peace. Had they separated him from the others in an attempt to force him to do as they wished? Or had another of the warring factions wanted the Oracle for a purpose of their own?

Clearly whoever had taken him wanted something or he would be dead. That thought gave him the courage to explore the desk, where he found a computer system. “Computer on,” he ordered, expecting the connection to remain dead.

When the vidscreen flickered on and the lights in the room brightened, he was pleasantly surprised. A man whose face he’d never seen before came up on the vidscreen. He possessed serious dark eyes with too many circles under them, lots of wrinkles, and a stern demeanor. With none of his body or clothing visible, Kirek couldn’t guess which faction he represented.

“I am L’Matti. You are safe, Oracle.”

Kirek folded his arms over his chest. “Why have I been taken from my people?”

“Oracle. We mean to commit no sacrilege, but our need to verify your singularity is great.”

At the man’s words, Kirek fought not to tremble. He recalled Deckar’s words and the tests the clerics wanted him to pass. Tests that Deckar had implied would be unpleasant at best, and possibly mean his death if he failed. However, Kirek knew better than to show fear. The Kwadii believed that Tirips’ Oracle would not fear death … or torture.

From his studies he knew that all religious doctrines were based on faith, and despite his distress at his circumstances, Kirek understood that a haughty attack might be his best defense among nonbelievers and believers alike. “You lack faith?”

“We seek truth.”

“I don’t listen to doublespeak.” Kirek deliberately insulted his captor and spoke in his most demanding tone, one he hoped didn’t resemble a whine. “Bring me sustenance and drink. Then we will talk further.” He turned his back on the vidscreen, hoping his tactic would work.

If he were full grown and a warrior like his father, when the door opened and someone brought food, he could attack, escape, flee. But limited by his child’s body, Kirek had to depend upon his brains. While he could consistently fool scanners into false readings, he was certain his captors were aware of his abilities and would post living guards about these quarters.

He had three options. He could refuse to speak. He could lie and deceive. Or he could cooperate. As he waited for food, he mulled over his choices and decided he didn’t have enough data to draw a valid conclusion. Refusing to speak wouldn’t gain him much knowledge about his captors. He’d learn quickly if they’d resort to force, but not more.

If they caught him in just one lie, the deception could blow out what little faith these people seemed to have. Perhaps the truth would serve Kirek best. A slot in the wall of his room opened, and he helped himself to the tray laden with food. Unfortunately he saw no one and still had no clue to who held him here.

Sensing the impatience of his captor to question him, Kirek ate slowly, hoping agitation would lead to mistakes that would give him a clue how much to say. With his belly full, he set the tray back into the wall niche and returned to the vidscreen.

“What do you want of me?”

“You are Tirips’ Oracle?”

“Yes.”

“Why have you come to Kwadii?”

“I go where Tirips sends me.”

“For what purpose?”

“To serve Tirips.”

“How do you serve?”

“In whatever capacity Tirips deems best.”

“Oracle. Many nonbelievers doubt you are the Oracle.”

“Did I not prove myself by walking through your death fields as your legends predicted?”

“Perhaps you employed superior technology.”

Kirek turned around slowly, his arms raised in the air. “Do you see technology on my person? Do your sensors see more than flesh and bones standing before you?”

“The nonbelievers among us need more proof,” his questioner stated with a weariness that was difficult for Kirek to read.

Was the man tired of speaking in circles? Did he doubt every word Kirek spoke? Or was he irritated with his superiors for putting him in a position where he must question the Oracle? Kirek didn’t know but kept his voice authoritative, superior.

“Can you tell us why Tirips sent you now?”

“I am only the messenger. Tirips does not explain herself to me.”

“What message do you have for the Kwadii?”

“Tirips doesn’t approve of her children committing violence against one another or others. She would have the Kwadii at peace.”

“So your task is to convert the Selgrens?”

“Putting words in the mouth of your Oracle is sacrilege,” Kirek warned sternly.

“I apologize. I merely try to understand.”

“Understanding isn’t necessary. Obedience is.” Kirek wearied of the conversation. He had no idea if he was truly Tirips’ Oracle. Perhaps he was. He certainly had fulfilled the prophecy. After he and his friends visited the cleric, Kirek had dreamed what must be done. Who was he to say Tirips had not come to him in a dream?

“What would Tirips have us do?”

“The Kwadii must find Nevanna or you will never have peace.”

“Nevanna?”

“Yes.”

“Where is Nevanna?”

“Tirips did not say.”

“What does Nevanna have to do with peace on Kwadii?”

“I do not know, but I have told you all. My mission is done, and I must be free to go. Tirips has other plans for me.”

“You cannot leave Kwadii.” The man’s face turned to one of horror.

“Why not?”

“If you leave, legend says we will tear ourselves apart.”

“Only if I leave in spirit will you fall. As long as the Kwadii believe, as long as you obey Tirips’ laws, the Kwadii will survive.”

“Oracle. We need you to help convert the Selgrens.”

“Tirips has other plans for me.” Kirek kept his tone even, his face grave. “To block my path is to block Tirips’ path.”

At his threat, the man paled, but then as if remembering his job, he squared his shoulders. “What proof do you offer of your singularity?”

Kirek had no answer and so restrained a heavy sigh and countered with a question of his own. “If Tirips herself stood here before you, what would convince you to believe?”

“Please answer my question.”

Kirek closed his eyes. “Your questions tire me. Either believe or don’t. The consequences are yours to face and do not matter to me.”

What mattered was whether L’Matti would keep him here until his body grew weak, whether he could hold firm until the man released him. Kirek had no doubts that the interrogation would continue, that his every word was being recorded. Eventually the pressure and stress might cause him to make a mistake or error in judgment. One slip up of his words could undo everything.