Page 212 of The Space Between Stars

Latouda had never let on that their secret lessons had proliferated.

“And what did she used to say about me?” he asked, not sure he was ready to hear the answer.

Chevek snickered again. His sweat pattered into the tall grasses beneath them as they lumbered towards a cluster of Steila’s inhabitants, stationed behind a line of Red Wing wagons beyond the city’s perimeter. “That you were too good for her and definitely too good for the rest of us. Too good for humankind. Not the haughty kind of too good. The good kind.”

Niklaus blinked back the sting behind his eyes.

“And she said you would always struggle because of it. She wasn’t ready to struggle more than she already had.”

So Latouda had betrayed him. But she had also loved him?

“She was very protective of you,” Chevek continued. “Wouldn’t let us take all the advantages Covern wanted to, considering her easy in. It made him so mad. As I understood it from him, she knew it was senseless to wait for you, but… she also never really gave up. He hated you for it. I hated you too. But I knew there was no way she would have gone all starry-eyed for a lying, money-manipulating scumbag.”

Niklaus let Chevek keep his arm for support, but his feet were a little stronger beneath him.

“C’mon. We’ve got a lot to talk about. I don’t know what stunt Thyatira’s trying to pull here, but I know my brother didn’t approve it, and I won’t stand by it. I’ve ordered my men to stay silent about what we know until we can get the truth out in Seraphinden. You’ll have a place to stand with us.”

Sense returned in bounds as Niklaus realized he already had a place to stand. He dug his heels into the ground. “Chevek, I’m not ready to go behind our lines.” He looked past the battlefield—rolling grassy dunes, sloping down a rise into the port city, blue uniformed soldiers in retreat, red in pursuit—in the direction of the warehouse at the edge of the sea. It would take him at least fifteen minutes to run there. How long had passed since he’d left Calver and the Ruxian? Five? Ten? They could be…

“We need to get into the city. I’m not the one who prevented this ambush.”

“The mute?”

Niklaus nodded. “He’s in trouble.”

CALVEROUS

Calver had nearly forgotten the unearthly speed of his once-owner. The only one who had ever been able to match him blow for blow—and defeat him without fail. But now, dipping into the void, Calver kept pace with him. He was wearing him down.

Cul’Mon made a two-stepped retreat. “I’m going to give you a chance to surrender. Stand down, and I’ll call him off.”

The fact that Cul’Mon was trying to negotiate meant he was nervous.

“You can be a part of our chance to rebuild. Or you can be eliminated.”

Beside them, a battle between Ruxians raged. Raimee screamed as more crumbled stone crashed down. She flinched as it skittered around her. A pulse of energy threw her hair back. She gasped and it dissipated. Her movements were sharp and uncertain. It was a miracle that she could distort with any control.

The boy’s hands balled into fists, and the rooftop around Raimee erupted into flame—all but the space in which she stood, hands raised, brow furrowed. Heat washed against Calver’s skin. He lost sight of her as Cul’Mon brought down a heavy swing. He’d taken Calver’s stance as resolution.

They clashed for an exhausting minute, neither gaining an advantage. Cul’Mon swung an outside blow—an attempt to escape their holding pattern—and Calver’s weapon moved to meet it, sliding through the sloppy defense and grazing his side. His moment of triumph fell short as Cul’Mon snapped his dowaga backwards, catching it into the clawed end of Calver’s. He’d used an open defense as bait. Cul’Mon wrenched and kicked. Calver grunted as pain blossomed in his fingers. Both weapons flew a body-length away and clattered to the rooftop.

Cul’Mon was a grappler, and with far more body mass, he’d found a way to take an advantage. He swerved to put Calver in a headlock; Calver slipped free and dove for his weapon. Hands clamped on his boot, dragging him back before he got there. Calver spun, fingers still burning, to come at his old master with fists. Every hit was deflected. Cul’Mon started edging Calver toward the ledge facing the sea—away from any chance of getting the dowaga back into his hands.

He was fast. This time, Cul’Mon was faster.

A fist clipped Calver in the chin, and the world flashed and spun. Splitting pain exploded behind his eyes until he was unable to do anything beyond keep his feet beneath him. A warm mass pressed behind him until he was up against the ledge, salt-wind licking his face and dread skittering through his veins. An arm pressed around his neck, another behind his head. Calver stuck his battered fingers between the arm and his neck. They were useless. His eyes bulged. His muscles strained. He had seconds.

He stole a sidelong glance at Raimee, still fending off attacks from the other Ruxian. Her whole body shook.

She’d come too fucking far for him to leave her here. He threw his hips backward, which did nothing to release the sleeper hold, but reminded him of the cool weight in his pocket. He reached down and triumphantly grasped a small glass orb.

Calver activated the lamp and thrust it under the waistband of Cul’Mon’s sirwal.

The release was instantaneous.

The lip of the roof rose up to meet Calver as Cul’Mon dropped him, ramming into his diaphragm. Vision veiled by stars, lungs desperate to expand, Calver kept the presence of mind to scramble behind Cul’Mon while the man’s hands fished for the device. He rammed into the Tera’thian commander with his shoulder, shoving him the arm’s distance to the edge. Cul’Mon scraped for purchase, but a final kick sent him tumbling towards the sealine. A few racing heartbeats later, and the sanguine sky lit with streaks of gold. The explosion thundered below them, sending spray from the sea skyward in a cloud of mist.

Calver rasped for air as blood flooded his veins. He sifted for clarity through the ringing in his ears. It was done. Not even tissue would have survived the incineration. But he felt no victory. No satisfaction. Just another death, when he’d long stopped keeping tally, and there was not time to focus on it. He dove to retrieve his dowaga.