“Why?” Chantri raises an eyebrow. “So when you miss, your opponent has a weapon?”
“What if I don’t miss?”
“So you wound him and piss him off?” She shrugs. “You think in the heat of a fight you can talk your enemy into moving into position and standing still for your throw? ‘Please step back a pace or two so I can hit you with the point like I’ve practiced.’ And a good throwing knife is only sharp at its tip. You can stab him I suppose, but overall it’s not very versatile. Pick out something a tad more functional. You’ll thank me.”
“Fine, I’ll thank you now and get it over with. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” She returns to inspecting crossbows hanging on the wall. Rune would have traded Angel and me for a good bow, and I want to hold one in my hands, understand how it shoots, how it kills, if it’s worth the freedom of two doves.
“This one isn’t bad.” She reaches up and unhooks the weapon, hefting it in one hand, measuring the weight. “In fact it’s made for smaller-framed hunters and that’s you. Short, about six pounds and light on the draw.” She sees my eyes narrow and laughs. “Not an insult, Rimma; you want a bow that fits you. You’ll want twenty-inch bolts if you find any in there.” She points to a barrel and tosses me a quiver with her free hand. “Pick your knives and bolts and meet me at the wall.” She slaps the stock into my hand and limps out.
The belt I find among the gear is too large for me, so I poke a fresh hole for the buckle with one of my new knives and slice off the extra length. On my right hip, I tuck my shorter, clip-point blade, not unlike the one Greeb pushed between my teeth, tip thin and sharp, the false back honed to a second edge. The longer twin-edged dagger slides through a sturdy loop at my left hip. The hilt fits easily in my hand, well balanced and clearly designed for thrusting, though it’s keen enough to inflict a savage slash.
Crossbow in one hand, quiver in the other, I join Chantri at the wall.
I’ll be one of nine manning the gate in staggered shifts. That number includes at least three Touched, capable of killing but more inclined toward scaring the shit out of any ambitious raiding party. A lone horse munches dry grass by a cluster of boulders, our transportation should we need to raise the alarm or go on the attack. The whole operation feels as pathetic as my sickle practice in Heaven’s forest, but it’s a sight better than nothing.
With an approving nod, Chantri jerks her head toward a wooden target so riddled with holes, splinters, and chips I’m surprised it doesn’t split into kindling. “Once you get the hang of this, a few hours a week will keep you sharp enough,” she says, taking the crossbow from me. Close to fifteen paces from the target, she shows me how to cock the string and load a bolt. “These are easier to learn than a standard bow, but they take a moon to cock, so you want each shot to count.” She lifts it to her shoulder. “Two things you need: steady aim and good trigger technique. Train yourself to think of aiming and shooting as one task or your accuracy is shit. If you aim first and then jerk the trigger, your head shifts from aiming to pulling the trigger and you'll drift off-target or flinch, anticipating the shot. Identify your target and begin your shot sequence by slowly squeezing the trigger.” Her bolt whispers from the bow and cracks into the target.
The bow in my hands, I cock it, load it, and settle it at my shoulder.
“For now I want ten seconds of slow triggering” she instructs. “You can speed it up later. Keep your eye on the target and focus on your aim while you squeeze.”
My finger gradually tightens on the trigger and the bolt pops from the bow, surprising me. It flies wide of the target, landing in the grassy rubble beneath the cliff wall. I puff out a little, “Huh.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Chantri says. “Remember where that landed so you can collect it later. The key is control, Rimma. Practice at this distance and step back as you improve. You should be able to place your shots accurately at thirty paces without having to think too much about the bolt’s trajectory, changes in ground elevation, or wind conditions.”
My next bolt nicks the edge of the target. The third sticks. “What’s the lethal range?” I ask.
“Fifty, seventy-five paces. But only if you hit.”
Now I understand why Rune wanted a crossbow, and would have traded me to own one.
18
~Angel~
“Come in, Angel.”
Priest stands in a cramped windowless chamber, the wide bookcase on one wall stacked with ancient books, his back to me as he reads. He enhances the light with a wave of his stunted arm, the gesture a matter of habit rather than necessity. The filaments on the ceiling glow but often too dimly for his taste. When he first showed me this room, I was unimpressed, its contents meager compared to Heaven’s library. But where in Heaven we took our books for granted, in the Colony they are treasures, collected from wanderers and refugees one at a time, traded like precious artifacts. He’s read every book, understands most of the bizarre vocabulary and contraptions of a long dead world, their meanings passed down from readers before him. He’s spent hours reading to me this long winter, explaining details, eyes bright at my disbelief and laughter.
“How do you know it’s me?” I ask, admiring his lean frame from the doorway.
“Your energy is unique.” He bookmarks the page and turns toward me. “Each life-force bears a unique signature, a defining energy. With people, it’s easy to see and feel because we project emotions outward in waves of light.” A ball of violet light appears in his hand, expands, and winks out.
“You see feelings?” A blush heats my face, wondering if he observed my admiring appraisal of his backside. “That’s not far from reading thoughts.”
“I don’t pry,” he says with a smile, setting the book down on a small table. “But yes. If I focus, I perceive feelings as colors, I hear them as sound, and feel their vibrations. If I wanted to, I’m sure I could smell and taste them, though I’d rather not.”
“Isn’t it distracting?” I ask as I enter the room. “I can’t imagine.”
“Most of us born with the Touch learn to filter it naturally. Not so different than everyone else filters out sounds and sights. There’s sound all around us now, but you hear only me, unless you choose to filter me out and listen for the rest.”
Closing my eyes, I listen for those peripheral sounds, muffled conversation in the above chamber, the clattering in the kitchen down a long corridor, laughter of children like the cooing of birds, the wind’s hollow whooshing under the alcove’s arched dome. “Is that how you make music?” I ask. “With all these sounds?”
“Sound moves far more slowly than light. I pluck those that suit my taste, then bend, stagger, and enhance them.”
“I can’t imagine.” My eyes remain closed as music weaves across my skin. “It seems impossibly complex.”
“Not for Kia.” He chuckles. “But for me, yes. It took years of practice to become second nature.”
I feel Priest nearing me. Do I sense his energy, feel his heat, hear the minute rustle of his clothes, his shoes toeing the floorboards? When I open my eyes, he’s not there. My hand reaches tentatively toward the phantom before me, fingers brushing his chest, searching for his face, touching his lips. Then he emerges as the light slowly straightens and reflects off his body into my eyes.
As the months pass, I become more comfortable with the constant presence of magic, with the gentle power the Touched wield here in the Colony, especially Priest. At the beginning of our friendship, his ability to overhear, oversee, and over-sense me felt invasive, made me feel as though I was secretly spied upon, unknowingly observed. As a light-bender, he could be anywhere. He could bend sound around me and leave me deaf, unable to detect his presence at all. He said to judge him by his actions, and I’ve done as he requested, only to discover his
touch
on me deepening and strengthening, even as I grow roots in the canyon floor. I trust him, accept what I can’t possibly know and lift my face as he bends forward for a kiss.
“What color am I now?” My question whispers against his lips and he laughs, stepping back to scan me with his dark eyes.
“The ancients believed the body has energy centers from the root of the spine to the crown of the head, each represented by a different color of light and connected to specific physical, mental, and spiritual states. They believed that the openness and flow of energy through the centers determined the level of health and balance. They aren’t wrong, but it’s never as simple as that. I’m not comfortable interpreting what I see.”
“Why?” I ask, worried that I’m a tangled web of dull-colored flaws.
“Because I’m an imperfect filter,” he replies. “I experience you as more than a color or sound or feeling. All of who you are sifts through who I am, my fears and desires, my biases.”
“You’re hedging,” I complain as I crouch by the bookcase, perusing the titles.
“I’m careful,” he replies. “The Touch comes with responsibility.”
The leather-bound book I hold in my hand is gold-embossed, the pages cobweb thin, the verse a tiny scrawl. My mind elsewhere, I stare at it blankly and put it back, my fingers lingering on the soft spine. “We saw the Black Dogs incinerate the descendants of Paradise, transform them into living brands, screaming as they burned alive. Then the people of Paradise threw their own children and themselves into our shield. Hundreds, more than a thousand of them. Their bodies flashed in tongues of blue flame, showering our wall with white-hot sparks, gone except for the rubble of their scorched bones.” I feel Priest’s hand on my shoulder, offering presence. “That was the day our father died to save a child, the day Rimma and I...broke.” My voice trails off as my sorrow wells, mired in fear and guilt, the shameful legacy of Heaven branded into my skin. “Most of the River Walkers with the Touch were gentle people, kind to us, though I doubt Rimma will ever acknowledge it. But there was one woman who used her Touch to punish. I think she would’ve used it to kill us in the end.”
“What happened, Angel?”
“Rimma stabbed her. And a man. The day you saved us.” I finally utter those last remnants of truth about our past, releasing the burdensome lie of silence and resting my shame at his feet.
“We are all broken, Angel.” From behind me, his arms fold around me. I close my eyes and lean back against his chest. “The truth may be painful, but it lays a sturdy foundation. I believe the deceivers’ great flaw was a blind belief that they could ignore the fabric of the world, let it fray and not tear themselves in the process. How could they deny the interdependence, the delicate balance tipped, believe themselves outside the whole?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, facing him, wearied by the truth.
“Some of us are physically broken.” He holds up his withered arm and taps me on the forehead with the stump. “Some of us in our minds and perspectives, others morally, or spiritually, if you will. Most of us in more ways than one. The question is; are we broken beyond mending?”
**
Stark white and bitter cold, midwinter blows in with a family from the Fortress, half-frozen and desperately hungry, small children so bundled in clothes they look more like a load of wash than little beings. My sister leads them in from the wall, bow slung in a harness on her back, knives at her belt reflecting the silver-gray of glowering clouds.
My trousers commandeered by Rimma, I lift my wool skirt for the descent down the stone stairs from the second floor. With a dose of instructions, I scurry through the kitchen, run into Chantri on the way, and meet them at the door. My sister smiles at me, but she’s the only one to acknowledge my presence.
The parents enter the welcome warmth, Chantri practicing her magic as she greets them. With frightened faces, they clutch their children as if we might snatch them in our claws, run off cackling down the corridor, and cook them up for supper. I wonder what the Fortress says of us—Biters pretending at civilization, wielders of terrifying magic. Laden with weapons, Chantri’s hair in pointed spikes, my sister a pale ghost in patched leather, and me, entirely invisible, we lead them toward the kitchens and yeasty scent of fresh baked bread. Without much choice, they follow.
Food is the peace-maker, the assurance of care and respite from fear. Add to that the kitchen’s warmth, the ever-smiling eyes of Kya and the cooing of the other women. The family sheds their winter cloaks, their bundles of clothing peeled back to reveal a pool-eyed toddler and a newborn with a clubfoot turned inward at the ankle. They stuff elbow to elbow onto one bench at the table.
“That’s why we left,” the child’s father explains, a glance at the foot as he accepts a bowl of soup. “It was leave or poison him.”
With a frown for the baby, Chantri rests her recurve bow against the wall.
“He’s happy as any other infant,” the mother assures her, glancing worriedly at the father. “We don’t care about a foot.”
“I’m a brewer and not bad with a hammer and anvil,” the man says. “We’ll pull our weight.”
“Fucking Fortress,” Chantri gripes. She hoists up a leg and slams her boot on the table, her ankle bent like a scythe. “Could be me twenty years ago.” She jerks her chin at the infant.
“A brewer, did you say?” Tannis stands in the kitchen doorway grinning, long braids leather-sheathed, eyebrows twitching up. He ambles in, swats Chantri’s foot from the table with a grimace of disgust, and takes a seat opposite the family. Keyon, close on his heels, slides onto the bench beside him, mop of black curls speckled with melting snow.