Chapter 6

Sorel’s first attempted escape ended in disaster. Instead of aiding him, his transforming powers were drained the minute he spoke the ancient language and a blow to the back of his head left him unconscious for what he thought either a moment or an eternity. When he did reawaken, he was shackled to a wall—a steep degradation from his mat on the floor. Ever the blindfold kept his eyes from attaining a truer knowledge of his captors or his surroundings. It seemed a cave of sorts. The air was thick with moisture and wore on his lungs.

His second escape attempt came en route to his second visit with the being of shadow. It also ended in failure. He had called on the trees to restrain his oblivious—or so he assumed—captors. Only two oaks responded. But the Ash trees surrounding them were of a more secluded nature and only laughed at his summons. The guards, however, warded off the trees with what must have been a physical gesture, for Sorel heard no words restrain the Oaks. He did hear the trees cry out and apologize for their inaction.

And so Sorel was led back to the sunny clearing after what he had calculated to be the passing of four days to meet this ringleader. Again the sunlight disappeared in chilling shadow and again the deathly calm voice pierced his ears.

“Actions always overshadow words, Sorel. You must agree. It was words, after all, that drove you to action all those years ago in the forest, when you learned the force those words carried. Still this principle, in principle, serves you well. You attempted escape twice. Commendable, almost, from your perspective.” The voice paused. “If you had known, Sorel, the nature of your escorts, you might have thought differently. Ahh, but this is all rambling. Let my actions now speak for me.”

He felt gentle hands undo his blindfold, dropping it from his eyes without flare. Sorel blinked in the light. Before him was a sphere of impossibly bright and incredibly cold rays. As he stared at the glinting light, almost as staring into the sun’s reflection in wind-thrashed water, Sorel felt he saw outlines—the slight vertical shade of a nose, two arching brows, and the recess of a grim smile. And the longer he gazed upon this countenance of light, the more he wanted to stare. Whether from the adjustment of his newly-freed eyes or from the diminishing of the light itself, the finer lines of a face emerged from the glow: the slight rings of eyelids around the burning eyes, the creases of the forehead, the slight shadow of the cheekbones.

The light swallowed Sorel. He forgot himself for a moment in the light, teasing the features of the face from the illumination before him. He softened. He felt his bonds cut from his wrists, but he them no heed—the countenance gazing at him was too wonderful. He determined purpose, ambition, and courage in those eyes studying him.

He folded his arms and, though slightly shocked by their frigidity, spoke to the figure of light before him. “How? What? Who? Are you?” The figure smiled and Sorel’s toes went numb.

“More questions, Sorel. I will not answer. Observe, Sorel, that which I have revealed. Then you will know more.” Sorel drank in the presence, like a refreshing draught of water on a summer’s afternoon.

“You are light. I imagined shadow.”

“A dichotomy, then. One which I thought existed. But rather than ask you of your thoughts, I revealed that part of myself and drew the tension to the surface. And now you have a different perception of me. Whether for the better or for the worse I will not know until you reveal more of yourself to me—a risk I took.”

“I’m cold,” Sorel finally noted, drawing a pleased flicker from the smoldering eyes.

“Ahh, a statement worthy of attention. And here I choose to risk a bit more: you are cold due to your lacking,” the lips of light announced.

“What do I lack?” Sorel wondered, but realized his mistake. The presence understood and paused, waiting for him to rephrase the question. Sorel collected his wits and responded carefully. “You are much more powerful than I am. Therefore, my insignificance chills me.” The gleaming figure grinned.

“You see, Sorel, your mind can intuit a great many things without questions. Had you been wrong, I might have chastised you, or led you to the correct conclusion to the unasked questions. Yet, you succeeded. And with this, our meeting will end.”

“Will we meet again…” Sorel began, but the eyes feigned injury. “I mean, we will meet again soon.” The parting smile filled Sorel with a happiness he had never experienced before. He didn’t remember when the figure finally disappeared over the forest canopy, but when the blindfold was draped over his eyes again, he didn’t care. The burning gaze lingered in his vision, embossed in his eyelids now, in watery blues and metallic greens.

^*^

The estate of Dr. Wilcox, just north of Mizer, was mainly just for show, and had been weighing heavy on his mind. As a scientist, he spent most of his time at the laboratory or just in his study behind the library. The manor went largely unoccupied, save the infrequent visitations of close friends. Just a month ago, the Dr.s Burke had visited for “tea” and some of Wilcox’s famous nut bread. Stan and Laura had been married for nearly a year—both teaching now at the university. Shalre had also visited regularly—as regularly as his ship came into port: once every Black Sanyx.

It was the emptiness of the place that fled when Eva returned with him, despite the gravity of the situation. Though he held good graces with the empire at the moment, sheltering a known smuggler would not smooth his governmental relations. However, as Eva herself had pointed out, the ship was sunk and no captives taken. She no longer existed, for all practical purposes.

Dr. Wilcox had questioned the harbor monitors, but she explained that the sheer force of the explosion would have drowned out her small submersible. She had also come into harbor beneath the footprint of a larger ship. Wilcox acknowledged her arguments and decided that she would stay upstairs—the warmer, but stuffier, part of the house. Her young, sea-air-hardened lungs could handle it; he always wound up coughing when he ventured to the second floor.

And when he was choking his way through cleaning the hallway upstairs, he realized just how much of this manor went unused or even unseen. As a man of resourcefulness, he had hesitated to lay such an enormous foundation, but his since-deceased wife had encouraged him. Now he wished she had not. The years had worn on the walls and thickly dusted the furniture. How much better had he donated the money to a new orphanage for the south, or a school for the north, or an observatory in the west?

Several times he had nearly decided to sell the whole thing and move into the city. He would be closer to work, closer to friends, a bit more content, if nothing less. But it was the nature outside that stayed his hands. The orchard, the gardens, his patio in the crisp air and friendly sun: they all kept him wandering the land of the estate. The scientist in him had thought to start a school there of some sort for emerging scientists to use his library, his resources. And yet days passed and nothing of the sort happened.

But Eva acted as a catalyst on him. He cooked with more fervor, picked only the best ingredients. He scrubbed the tile, dusted the library shelves, cleaned his study. The last one gave him the most trouble. He had never been the most organized man. It was much easier to have piles: the recently-finished pile, the need-to-do pile, the will-get-to-sometimes pile, and the ancient pile. The first two garnered the most attention; if an item went into the last pile, it was forgotten.

And when he had made up his mind to clean his desk, he remembered the AI project and that it was the first day of the week. He glanced at the clock—only three hours late. Cursing his fallible memory, he fingered his earphone, weighing the options of tardiness over absence. Eva was there, but she was old enough to care for herself. Yet, due to the trauma she had just experienced, he thought his presence alone a necessary part to her recovery. Livingbree would understand. He always did.

Wilcox lobbed the earphone into the furthest drawer in his desk and abandoned his cleaning ambitions. It landed with an explosion that shook the house. He stared at the open drawer dumbly. His desk was intact. There lay his earphone. Wilcox turned. Dust and smoke billowed through the open doorway connecting the library and the main chamber of his manor. All thought left him. He ran to the doorway, holding his shirt over his mouth and nose. Still he coughed and hacked his way through the hallway, towards the stairs. Footsteps pounded the upper floor. Wilcox began his trembling ascent through the smoke, leaning heavily on the handrail for guidance.

But the muffled scream he heard from above hastened his footsteps and sent a single thought racing through his confused mind: they came for Eva. He stopped and stooped, gathering his wits. His earphone was the primary defense he had at the moment. He fumbled himself down the stairs, tripping on the second to last and landing face-first on the hardwood floor. More footsteps echoed through the stairwell. Wilcox pulled himself to his feet and scrambled for the library.

“Hey!” a voice commanded from the dust behind him. Wilcox paid the mandate no heed and sprinted for his desk. He snatched the earphone and connected to Livingbree.

“Wilcox? Where are you?” Livingbree answered.

“At home. Hunted,” he gasped, searching for a hiding place.

“What? Why?” came the expected questions from Dr. Livingbree.

“Eva Decon—they took her. I have to find out who and why.”

“Why was she…”Livingbree began, but Wilcox didn’t hear him finish. Above him, pale-eyed and sitting in the dimly-lit expanse of a bookshelf, a black bird eyed him. Wilcox met its gaze fiercely. It ruffled its feathers and chirped at him. Wilcox almost felt as if he should speak to it—to beg its help to drive out the intruders, to rescue Eva and return them to a peaceful life. Wilcox nearly spoke, but felt suddenly warm. He regained his wits deduced the situation as the footsteps came right for him. They had gamma search beams. It was impossible to hide; the radiation illuminated him better than the sun might in their masks. He looked again for the bird, but it was gone. He remembered Livingbree.

“They’re coming,” Wilcox whispered, pulling the device from his ear to amplify his voice. “Notify Olin.” Then his earphone crackled, sparked and fell from his grasp. A Directed Electro-Magnetic Pulse, Wilcox thought to himself, they thought I had a weapon. These were Imperial troops for sure. A rough hand pulled him from his refuge and a black hood slipped over his head. He wouldn’t remember the blow that knocked him from conscious thought.