Into the Unreal

5. Firian

5

Firian

Firian looked himself in the eye, and another, and another. His mind strained to keep all the copies of himself intact in the blank mindfield. It felt like a good stretch or a fall when adrenaline cushions most of the pain.

That copy didn’t act naturally. Its chest caved in and its knees bent slightly to the side. Stand up. Slowly, the version of him straightened, the broad shoulders brought to attention. Firian looked from face to face. Light skin grazed by the sun, dark eyebrows, dark brown hair just longer than his ears…

He tried to create a sixth. The whole construction wobbled. Five for now. Not too bad. Later, he would make them move separately. He had heard of Tanyu employing a decoy in a fight, but never more than one. Dizziness swirled around him as he animated the five Firians.

Gasping, he swam back to the Real. Cool air from his office drifted across his sweat-sheened face. He drummed his fingers once over the armrest of the chair.

The door opened with a tentative stutter that could only mean Bard was coming. He’d walked in on Firian before in compromising positions. “Fir, hey,” he said, his hesitancy falling away as he saw Firian was alone. “You okay?”

“Just practicing.”

“You’re always practicing.” His friend scratched his spiky black hair. Something else was on his mind.

Firian leaned back. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” The word trailed off into a forest of unsaid things. “I was just thinking. About the war on Torith. You know, the one we’re joining now, for Brithnem.” He looked up from the floor into Firian’s eyes. “I want to help, any way I can.”

One side of Firian’s mouth lifted. Bard sounded so earnest. “How?”

“So I’ve practiced katah for years now and I’ve never used those skills. People usually tell generals to watch out for a female presence”—his ears turned red—“and I’m not. I don’t… I wouldn’t do everything, of course. But that’s not what Master Gerand taught me. She knows I’d be terrible.”

Firian burst out laughing. “You want to seduce a general?” Calling katah on someone usually included seduction to speed up the victim’s belief in the Unreal, making them easier to kill.

“No! No, obviously. Fir, I’m serious. Do you think I could? I’ve practiced on you more than anybody.” He writhed a little as his explanation didn’t take the smile from Firian’s face. “No!” he repeated. “That’s not… Okay.” He pulled up a chair and sat across from him. His eyes caught the green and brown flag Firian had taken from Raewhith when he went to visit Brett and see the new recruits there. He felt it between his fingers. “You’re in charge now,” he said thoughtfully. The statement set distance between them, but distance Bard was willing to breach. At least there was a glimmer of hope they could remain friends after all that had happened.

When Firian had murdered the Head, he felt as though he’d fallen into a place so dark that Bard wouldn’t be able to see him. He didn’t regret killing him, but he didn’t want everything else in his life to die too.

Bard fanned out his fingers on the desk. “So I want to help you end the war.”

Firian nodded. “Your family.”

“Yeah, they’re in Enderin and Jac’s on the front line. I think. Haven’t gone home in a while.” He scratched his head again. “I’m pretty sure they hate me.”

Firian scrunched his forehead skeptically. Bard’s family couldn’t hate him.

“They do,” Bard protested. “Or I think… sometimes… they would just because of what I am.” He didn’t say the word. Tanyu.

Bard’s presence at the Academy had always baffled Firian a bit. Not everyone there had extraordinary ability, but Bard’s skill set didn’t seem to match the Tanyu at all.

“The Academy isn’t at war with the Kingdom anymore.” Or its allies.

“I know. It’s just…” Bard looked down at his feet. The faint smell of cinnamon wafted off his clothes. With a deep breath, he drew his splayed hands into fists on the tabletop. “I want to do some good. I want to help you make the Academy great.”

You want to make up for what I did to the last Tanyuin Head.

Using a katah to gain information was actually a good idea, though. Bard wouldn’t attract as much suspicion as a woman or Firian himself. There wasn’t enough time to set up a full katah, a full death sentence, but Bard could still get somewhere with the general.

“I’ll get you the name,” Firian said.

Something hard eased in his chest when Bard smiled. “That’s great!” Bard jumped up from his seat. “Oh, okay, I can do this. I’ll get the information about the Torithian general or strategist or whoever you give me, and then you can finish it.” He flashed another grin, black eyes sparkling. “Wanna get an ale?”

Everything was like before. Well, not everything. But Firian had to admit he missed this easiness. These days, Jovan stiffened at his authority, Belik spoke only of strategy, Tiev was broken from his time Lost in the Unreal and rarely spoke to anyone.

Firian nodded. “I’ll meet you there. First, I’ll get the name.”

“All right,” Bard agreed, darting out of the room.

He closed his eyes again. Kiria, Kiria… She beat against the inside of his eyelids and he sent his mind toward that energy.

Closer now, he heard music. The melody wasn’t as sad as the one he had heard her play before—still like silver, but now living instead of mourning. He waited until the last note sounded. “Kiria,” he said gently. As Head, he could finally afford to be patient.

Her image grew sharper, but not more beautiful. Still, he liked her like this—her little heart-shaped face turned to him. It felt natural. She was standing in a room of the palace Firian had never seen before. About the same size as her bedroom, this one was full of musical instruments.

When she saw him, gladness, like light, shone on her features, though she didn’t smile. She adjusted her long russet skirt, an unnecessary gesture in the Unreal. “Firian. I was going to contact you. The scouts arrived today. They seem safe and they had your terms.” She tripped almost playfully over the last few words.

“As I said.”

“You said a lot of things.” A note of caution shone now in her light brown eyes, like a lens carefully placed there.

His eyes wandered to the silver tiara she wore. “I did.” He realized he was tapping his thumb against his leg, and stopped. “I also said I wanted to end the war. Both wars. So you agree to the terms?”

“Yes. We read them and all three of us agreed they were reasonable.” She drew herself up. “We are willing to make a conditional alliance.”

He frowned. “Conditional?”

“Assuming you follow through on your end of the terms.”

“Ah. That’s actually what I came to talk about. About Torith.” He tripped over the last words, but rallied when Kiria didn’t seem to care.

Instead, she stood, coquettishly waiting at attention, eyebrows raised.

“I need the names of the top men on the Torithian side. I have somebody ready to gather better information for you.”

She tensed. The royal tattoo peeked black over her shoulder. The idea excited her too. His stomach tightened a little. “Who?” she asked.

Information for information. “Bard.”

“Your friend?” The name was like a spell to cast them back to how they used to be—the best time, between the attack and the Academy’s ultimatum that involved taking her hostage. Bard was a safe subject, an intimate subject.

Firian smiled. “Yeah. He practices katah.” He hoped she recognized the trust he had in her to share that much.

“Katah?”

Firian considered how much to tell her. “Bard will be able to… read his mind, sort of.” That wasn’t right, but it was the explanation that would probably make the most sense for now.

She dropped a bit of her royal bearing. “You’re serious? He’ll relay information to you and—”

“I’ll tell you everything.”

She gave him a searching look that reminded him of that moment outside Carradoc when they had almost kissed.

“You can’t betray us,” she said. “We have the exact location of the Academy.” She lifted her chin as she said it.

He took a step toward her. He could almost smell the citrusy musk of her hair. “Are you threatening me?” he teased.

“Yes,” she replied.

A strand of her hair fell loose across her collarbone. He could sweep it back behind her ear, a move he knew would quicken her pulse.

He smiled again, gazing down at her. “You’ll see I’m telling the truth. So”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“those names.”

Little goosebumps rose on the skin of her bare arms. He skimmed his gaze over them, just to show he noticed.

She backed up, raised her chin again. Her eyes grazed him up and down before answering. “Tibor Wat,” she said, pronouncing the name clearly. “He’s more of a captain than a general. You know, pirates.”

“Perfect.” He drew out the two syllables. Her lovely face held so much potential. In her eyes he saw all that he could be—not only the Head of the Academy but the lover of a queen. “I’ll come back with information.”

As though she were coming out of a trance, her shoulders relaxed and her attention refocused. Her lips lifted in a small smile.

Suddenly his demeanor felt like a mask, the one he wore when he was flirting with somebody else. That honest smile seemed to pierce its armor and give her the high ground. It made her more of a friend than a target—a co-conspirator.

He caught his breath and the vulnerability washing over him passed. When she didn’t speak, he said, “Look for me soon. Get your soldiers ready.” He nodded once and opened his eyes.

Silently, he prayed Bard could make good on his offer. They’d see to it, he assured himself. Bard never lied.

He shivered pleasurably and grabbed his long black coat. The guard at the door nodded at him as he passed. Everything was fine.

His encounter with Kiria hadn’t lasted any longer than five minutes but he didn’t see Bard. Must already be outside. With long strides, he hurried into the fountain courtyard. Learners made way; Masters had mixed reactions. Though no one openly defied him, he caught the edge of several dark glances. He would deal with those later. Feeling lighter than he had in a while, he swept out the massive double doors into the cool spring air.

Helping Kiria would set the world right again. Everything from the sky to the sizzling energy under his skin all felt different since he assassinated the previous Head. But all these shops and faces and roads hadn’t felt the world shift as he had. They all looked the same, but as though he were peering through a window that distorted certain details and minimized others.

The Old Pub hadn’t changed either. Wind moved its hanging sign with the wrong proprietor’s name on it. Would Hyrum ever change that?

Firian creaked open the door, his hand brushing against the groove in the wood worn by thousands of visitors. Raucous talk and the smell of ale swept over him as he entered. Dozens of patrons squeezed into the space, almost everyone sporting gaudy colors. Normally, citizens of Tánuil wore gray or brown, easy colors to make and maintain, but here everyone had bright red scarves or green hats or yellow streaks of paint on their faces. The planting festival. He’d forgotten that was today.

More than one person turned when Firian entered. Tanyu rarely participated in parties like this even though many Masters technically lived in town. The Academy stayed insulated. Still, one or two others in black stood out like blotches on a colorful canvas. Rian was the only one Firian recognized. Not surprising. He was going with Maya now, so she was probably nearby. The idea should have aroused more jealousy than the tiny twist of his stomach, but it was curbed by the possibility that he could soon be with Kiria. Kiria outshone Maya in every way except availability.

Bard waved to catch his attention. Firian held up a hand at him before ordering at the counter. A man in garish red face paint made way for him, colliding into a pale woman with fuzzy-edged tattoos wiping down tables. The smudgy quality of her hair and the listless awareness of her gaze announced she was a former Sentry.

Firian flicked one token onto the counter and Hyrum shoved an ale over to him.

Before going to sit, Firian spun back. Bard wouldn’t say that Firian owed him anything for helping with the war. Still, why not? “Another,” he said, holding up payment. Raewhith’s tribute coins were fresh in his pocket. “And a sticky bun.”

Hyrum’s glare darkened. “Old Danior’s got those. None here.”

“Just the extra ale, then.” Hyrum obliged and Firian brought both mugs to Bard, who beamed at the sight.

“Thanks, Fir!” he said, taking the brimming flagon. His nose stopped just above the foam as he smelled it. “I forgot all about the planting festival.”

Firian slid into the seat opposite, facing the rest of the room. “Me too.”

“Why don’t you bring the guard with you when you go out now?” Bard’s black eyes flitted to the iron crown.

Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to him. He’d always taken care of himself. He shrugged off the question just as he used to.

“Maybe you should,” Bard continued. “You’re… more important now.” A shadow fell across his face, almost his whole body, as he said the words.

Firian tipped his chin. It wasn’t a terrible idea, but losing his autonomy sounded stifling. Autonomy was one of the reasons he became the Head in the first place. But power had its cost. He couldn’t forget what he had done to get here, and that others could do the same. “Maybe,” he conceded.

“Did you get the name?”

“Yes, I did.” He leaned back luxuriously and took a deep draught while Bard waited.

Bard gestured with his ale, barely moving away from his face as though anxious to keep it close. “There was no need to do this.”

“It’s fine.”

“So, did you ask the Keeper?”

“Right. Who else?”

“So? Who is it?”

“His name is Tibor Wat.” He pronounced the odd name carefully.

Bard smacked his lips meditatively, casting his eyes to the ceiling.

Firian felt eyes on him and looked up to see Devanie, the herbalist, her hair done up in braids around her head. She touched her yellow scarf suggestively as she eyed him. He raised an eyebrow. Tánuil’s planting festival went until sunrise the next morning, with dancing and coupling and feasting and general abandon. Later, maybe.

He turned his attention back to Bard, who said, after a pause, “I’ll start right away. Tonight I’ll find him.” He gave a quick succession of nods as though agreeing with himself.

Firian grinned, something he’d done a lot lately. “That’s great. Let me know.” An odd sensation gripped him that here was something easy and good. Two people walking in the same direction.

“I will.” Bard brought his voice down. “Do you know katah?”

Kiria and their accidental connection didn’t count. Most Tanyu saw an unintentional katah as weakness. “I never took Gerand’s class.”

“I know, but can you do it?”

Could he connect to another person so completely that their lives intertwined, that he gained the ability to kill the other or be killed because of all the reality between them? Could he practically read the other’s mind and emotions? “Maybe,” he answered.

“I bet you could.” When Bard sipped again, a little foam got on his lip, sticking to the shadow of facial hair covering his jaw.

“Probably. I’m sure if I tried.” The gravity of his order struck him. “Find out if the general has more Talent than they normally do. Be careful.”

“I’ll just get information. No worries, yeah?” Bard hated war. If his ability to beat Firian at Indisfate was any indication, he could handle strategy or tactics, but he wouldn’t kill.

“Okay, good.”

“When are the soldiers from Raewhith coming?”

“Three days.”

“And then Torith?”

“I’ll organize with Kiria. A few weeks, probably.” Firian downed the rest of his ale.

“A few weeks,” Bard repeated. “Okay. I’ll get it done.” He reached out, grasping his hand in a promise.

Firian’s mouth quirked. This was just what he needed. His best friend was on his side again.