Unbound (32 page)

Need clawed him, insistent, domineering. The splashing waters only magnified the clamor to return to his prison—no, to his body. But to abandon Asrial when she was at her most vulnerable . . .

He could not do it. Could not give in. Would not give in. Not while he had the strength to resist.

But still the carnal temptation called to him, his djinn mark singing its song of submission, promising a false ecstasy to sate his senses and release from the hunger besetting him. The coils spread through his being, multiplying and propagating the longer Asrial held the flask to herself and caressed it.

“Nothing’s happening.” The panic leaking into Asrial’s voice rent the net of seduction on his senses. “Nothing’s happening.” She turned frantic eyes to him. “Shouldn’t there be something already?”

Fighting to throw off the snare of his prison, Romir shook his head. She was correct. The antipode should be putting great stresses on the unnatural weave. If it were to unravel, the effect would have been immediate, like the snapping of an overly tight string—that explosive release of energies was what he was supposed to control. But no matter how he looked, there was no change to the weave of his imprisonment. “Nothing has changed. The weave is as strong as ever.”

Asrial burst into tears. She who had faced kidnapping and deadly attacks without flinching shed tears over this one failure. Over him.

Romir cradled her to himself, her distress hurting more than the disappointment. “No, do not cry,
biba
.” The endearment fell from his lips with unthinking—unthinkable—ease. “It was not meant to be.”

“I thought we had it. I was so sure.” Scalding tears dripped off her chin to land on his chest. He felt each one, a painful sweetness searing his heart.

The grav sled’s
cabin loomed around Asrial, strangely large and hollow as she huddled in the front seat. Unlike the other times, she hadn’t packed any equipment or supplies. All it had now was Romir’s prison, tucked away in the rear compartment. Just like her heart, echoing in emptiness, barren of hope.

What now?

She’d pinned her hopes on this one desperate attempt. With this failure, she was left adrift, unable to plot a course forward. She’d been so sure it would work that she hadn’t given a thought to the alternative. Now she couldn’t think. Her head throbbed. Her eyes were hot, swollen from crying.

She was drained. Since Romir somehow got her dressed and back to the grav sled, she hadn’t been able to muster the will to move. What did it matter? She had nowhere to go, no idea what to do. Hollow. Brittle. Fragile.

Romir pulled her onto his lap, his tight embrace unexpected—and an unexpected comfort. For the longest time, he did nothing but hold her—and she was content with that, floating in a world of silence. No demands that might shatter her. Then with a finger under her chin, he tipped her head back and kissed her, sharing heat and tongues, soft and slow, a curiously innocent exchange despite the intimacy of the contact. Not carnal hunger but the need to express sympathy.

Guilt hit her—hard. He was the one trapped, yet he was consoling her. She couldn’t believe she’d cried in front of him.

“It is for the best.” The sad smile on his lips conveyed no blame, only brave acceptance of his continued imprisonment.

Asrial couldn’t accept it, refused to accept it. She pulled away, shaking her head. “No, it isn’t. I must have done something wrong. The technique works. You said so yourself: no equivocation, no hedging nor shaving of meaning. They must’ve tested it successfully to have phrased it so. The problem is in the execution. I didn’t do it properly.”

She rubbed her forehead, trying to jump-start her brain. That was right. The technique to free djinn had to have worked. She shouldn’t give up so quickly. There was still hope, still a chance they could free Romir.

He stared at her, his smoky gaze fathomless, as though weighing something in her she couldn’t see. “Then we need to know what was wrong.”

“Let’s start from the translation.” She took out her comp from her jacket pocket, linked it to the grav sled’s board, and pulled up the vid of the light text. “Umm ...”

Romir drew her back under his arm, sharing his heat and strength with her as he checked off sections in the vid. “The antipode had been correctly applied and the life energy focused. Balancing the energies only comes into play with the unraveling of the weave, to return the djinn’s life energy to its proper skein. That leaves only one condition under contention.”

Fount versus primordial waters.

Averting her gaze, Asrial bit her lip in consternation. She’d been quick to opt for the
fount
reading because it was simpler, easier to interpret, the meaning seemingly obvious. Her nails dug into her palms when she clenched her hands. The pain helped to focus her thoughts. “If the fount isn’t the spring, then maybe it wasn’t
fount
in the first place? If the correct reading is
primordial waters
, then it’s no wonder it didn’t work.”

“Primordial waters are generally believed to be seas, not springs,” Romir pointed out with scholarly dispassion. “But there are no seas near Salima, so your interpretation is valid.”

“But that’s the main difference between the comp’s translation and yours.” She thumped the board in frustration; maybe the impact would knock some inspiration loose.

He took a fist into his hands and pried her fingers open. “Take more care. Injuring yourself will not help anyone.”

The nails had broken the skin, cutting bloody crescents into her palms. She licked the blood away, making a face at the salty metallic taste. Her heart stumbled.
Salty metallic taste.

“What makes seawater different from lake water or any other water—like fresh water, distilled water? The dissolved salts, right?” It felt like she was on the proper course there. “If it’s the salts, then wouldn’t the composition and proportions of the ions matter?”

Romir’s response was a thoughtful, noncommittal hum.

She rubbed the marks on her palm, wondering if the excitement she felt was premature. “The seawater of Maj is probably significantly different from the water in Salima.”

“Perhaps there is something in what you say. We sought a world that could support us. But it was not—and could not—be identical to our home world.”

Maj was the planet where Romir’s people—her father’s people—had evolved . . .
been given life
. “Could—somehow—could the primordial waters used to free djinn be from a Majian sea? Or at least Majian seawater?”

Couldn’t it? Romir’s people hadn’t simply escaped; they had planned an evacuation. Romir had expected to see scrolls and tapestries taken from the Academe of Daraya. Who knew what else weavers might have considered important enough to pack?

“I do not know what was brought over. Could someone have brought over seawater from our home world? Perhaps. It is not beyond the realm of possibility. I only knew a small fraction of the people who escaped and less about what they had.”

Asrial could imagine the chaos at that time, her experiences at various Rim World star ports and jump rings filling in the details: the shouted orders, the frantic search for connections, the jockeying for position, the rush to transit, the dust, the fear, the exhaustion.

“It would explain why the cipher for
primordial waters
was used for
fount
when that is a less common phrasing. If the seawater was brought over, then it was likely contained in a fount. Both meanings would apply.” Romir’s eyes glittered, enthusiasm and enjoyment of the scholarly discussion bringing out the silver amid the gray. She recognized the signs; Nasri had been much the same when her interest took flight.

Asrial smiled, her spirits buoyed by fresh hope. They still had a chance—one that didn’t require them to remain on Lomida.

It was time to return to the
Castel
.

 

 

A rumble from
the distant hot pads shook the early morning as a ship took off, flaring thrusters a blinding glare against the dark horizon—nothing unusual for a starport. Lomidar authorities had no block-off periods for landings and liftoffs.

Asrial ignored the noise, more concerned about what didn’t belong. No one had followed them from Salima, but that was no guarantee of safety. The Dareh would know to search for her at the starport. It wouldn’t take a genius to plan an ambush.

The first thing that caught her eye when she banked the grav sled into the lane of her ship was a nondescript aircar sitting beside the
Castel
’s right front skid. Her gut tightened, her recent failure putting an edge to her paranoia. But she didn’t see anything else in the surrounding shadows that shouldn’t be there: the ships in neighboring slots had their hatches sealed; no one loitered about; no suspicious objects had piled up since their departure for Salima that evening. Besides the aircar, there was nothing within stunner range that might hide attackers.

Her nerves still twinged. The Dareh had professionals and military hardware. Their definition of stunner range might be much farther than hers.

As she brought the grav sled closer, the aircar’s front panel slid open, disgorging their nameless friend and another grounder, a much older man, one who held himself with the dignity of rank and age. She’d made a point to know the principals of the Dareh conglomerate and its allies, those who had proved themselves a danger to the now sadly diminished House Dilaryn; this man was no one she recognized.

Someone local, then.

She clenched her teeth, in no mood for another go-around about Lomidar politics.

“Asrial?” Romir’s open concern injected glassteel into her spine. After the way she’d broken down, he’d worry more if she didn’t meet their visitors—and she wouldn’t be able to face herself if she turned coward now.

Besides, while she so desperately wanted to see this planet receding on the aft display, there was one thing left to be done: a spot of petty revenge, one their nameless friend might be willing to help her with, now that she thought about it.

“I’m fine.”

The two grounders stayed in the shadow of the aircar as she landed the grav sled close to the cargo hatch. Cautious of them.

Romir held up a commanding hand while he peered around, probably using that weaver’s sight of his. “There are no other watchers that I can see. Do you wish to speak with them?”

She stared at the waiting grounders, wrestling with the urge to just take off. Go.
Go!
Her heart shivered, the need to escape, to kick the dust of this world off her boots and launch the
Castel
toward the Rim, safety, and freedom rushing through her veins on a flood of fear.

Sooner or later the chaos they’d created would clear up, and the Dareh would get their bearings. Once that happened, there was no question whom the Dareh would go after, and the obvious place to start looking for her was the
Castel
. They had to get out before it was too late. Every second they delayed on planet was one more second the Dareh could use to keep her insystem. The longer they remained in Lomidar space, the greater the risk of capture.

Yet her hands didn’t move, her fingers frozen. It would be so simple to trigger the hatch and fly straight into the hold. But something held her back. Call it pride, recklessness, stupidity, what have you—she couldn’t let the Bintanan get away with trying to control her. So long as she didn’t take a stand, the Dareh could twist her meeting with them to suit their purposes.

And if she was honest, that near capture and the threat of having her identity stolen by the very people responsible for her father’s downfall scared her to the soles of her boots. She didn’t deal well with being scared. Frankly, it pissed her off.

“I have to.” Even with that admission, she hesitated a beat longer before she released the grav sled’s canopy and left its dubious protection. Despite Romir’s presence beside her, she drew her stunner, its familiar heft additional reassurance.

Displaying empty hands, their nameless friend stepped forward. “
Sraya
Dilaryn, a senior member of my party wishes to speak with you. Is there some place we could go . . . ?”

“Here’s fine. Make it fast.” She didn’t want to leave the
Castel
now that they’d gotten back but didn’t want to let these strangers aboard, either.

The older grounder joined his companion and waved his assent. Pressing his spread hand to his chest, he gave her a formal court bow of introduction. “I am Khodi.” He looked at her expectantly as he completed his bow. Apparently she was supposed to react.

Frigging crap. If she accepted his bow properly and it was recorded, who knew how it would be twisted. No amount of sound jamming would block that communication. Worse, his use of a single name in addition to court manners implied he was the head of a high house. House Khodi?

Asrial shrugged instead. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize your name.”

“But you met with my nephew Firuz.” He gestured to the younger grounder, their nameless friend, standing beside him.

“Perhaps. He didn’t introduce himself.”

Firuz gave her a practiced bow and a long string of names denoting house, rank, birth order, and affiliation, besides his personal names. Definitely high house.

She suppressed a shudder, choosing instead to stare at Khodi. The broad welcome on his face looked genuine; she didn’t trust it. “Why the smile?”

Despite her open suspicion, there was no change to his expression. “When I last saw you, you were so small. Now, you look so very much like your mother when she was your age.”

The comment gave her pause. He’d known Nasri? And so what if he had? Did he think to manipulate her so easily? Her teeth ached at the sudden clenching of her jaw. She hated thinking this way, looking for hidden motives and suspecting every kindness.

Impatience stirring, Asrial glanced around. She was confident that Romir was on guard against another attack, but the habits of a lifetime made her check for herself. “Is that all?”