House of Falling Rain: Eyes of Odyssium, #1

By C.A. Bryers

Something is killing Salla Saar. Ever since using the power of the Eyes of the One locked within him to locate Tempusalist and put an end to the 13th Paragon, the attacks have come, powerful and acute. Sometimes it's as minor as a blackout. Other times, it's as if he's being broken to pieces from the inside out, and the next episode could be his last. He suspects it has something to do with the Eyes of the One, but why has their power turned on him now?

 

Once in the custody of the Majdi Order, the peace-keeping sect that has been hunting him since Tempusalist, his fate is decided: Salla Saar is too dangerous to walk free.

 

That declaration grants him a sentence to the House of Falling Rain—a retraining facility for wayward Majdi. Yet among the misfits of the Order housed in these decrepit corridors, there is another presence lurking, something filled with a dark and terrible purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.A. Bryers
• Release date: Jan 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386005384

C.A. Bryers

C.A. Bryers is the author of the Odyssium series, which began with THE 13th PARAGON duology comprised of SCRAPPER and FROM ASHES OF EMPIRES. When not writing, C.A. Bryers enjoys sculpting, spending time with his family, and experimenting to find the magical number of minutes chocolate chip cookie bits should sit in applesauce before they are appropriately mushy and ready for consumption. He currently resides in frostbitten Minnesota--the exact opposite of the tropical paradise that is his ideal (at least part-time) place to park his flip-flops. Until then, he is moderately content writing about such locales.

Book preview

1

There were so many words to describe her at this moment, and none of them seemed adequate. As the sunset splayed out across the distant clouds and turned the seas into a vast, swaying pool of molten gold, she reclined beside him on a long chair with ankles crossed. Her hair, cut short for the trip to the resort village of Kijikalae, made the strong yet soft features of her face more visible, and all the more breathtaking. Those dark eyes noticed him taking notice of her, and despite the reflexive laugh she gave, she nevertheless absently placed a hand over her collarbone. It was the latest in her growing collection of scars—a reminder of their recent sojourn to the primordial jungles of the Kanejungdara.

Gotta say, over the past months, I’ve been finding it hard to blame the gnawlashike that gave you those. He leaned in for a kiss despite her bemused expression and, with a delicate touch, pulled her hand away from the tears in her shoulder and neck, still pink and healing. Poor thing, stuck in a cave with all those other ugly, toothy critters, and then you come sauntering in. And me? I’m no better. Always looking to get a nibble.

I’ll give you points for reminding me of those slimy buggers as a way to cozy up to me. Bold of you. Natke Orino said through the gentle curves of her Miriotic accent, denying him the kiss with a sly smile until the last moment. Ah, look at that. Another beautiful day. Not entirely certain I can stand much more of this. Really, Salla, it’s been wonderful.

Even paradise gets old, though, doesn’t it? Salla Saar swished the taste of purovian nectar cocktail about in his mouth, both sweet and tart. I know you’re getting restless. Suppose we do have to get back to the real world at some point.

I’ve never been one to sit idle for too long. She opened her mouth to speak, but faltered for a moment. Honestly, I figured I’d be back home by now, sifting through my backlog of expedition prospects. Yet here you are every morning, to both my shock and delight.

The subject of his leaving had always been there on the fringes of their conversations, just never spoken. After the events of Tempusalist, even he was certain their time together would be fleeting. The power of the Eyes of the One residing within him practically guaranteed that. The Eyes had been hidden centuries ago by ancestors of the Majdi Order, secreted away because they held the power to find anything one’s heart could desire, and that was a dangerous thing. No man imbued with that could be allowed to walk free, so far as the Majdi were concerned.

And yet he was still here at Natke’s side. Perhaps the remoteness of this far-off sanctuary had given him a sense of security, a feeling that even the vaunted Majdi Order with their mysterious powers of tephic could not seek him out here. But more likely was the chance that the reason he had not fled to the life of a nomad was due to the woman beside him. To a young man like he was when they’d first met almost ten years ago, Natke had been—and still was—a force unlike any he had ever known. She was smart, determined, and captivating, and although she was only a handful of years older than he, Natke already had seemed a veteran of a world he was only just beginning to understand. The infatuation he’d felt was an inevitability. Here and now, with that infatuation fulfilled and growing steadily into something more, letting go of Natke Orino was easier said than done.

He nodded finally. You’re right. I thought I’d be gone by now too.

Where would you go? Her hand touched his arm, fingers brushing over the many tattoos he’d acquired in his six years aboard the Mayla Rose as a scrapper.

My next move…that’s sort of gotten shuffled to the back of my head. Too much nibbling on the mind, I guess. He let his fingertips scarcely touch the top of her sun-bronzed thigh. Part of your evil plan to keep me here, I’m sure.

Here I thought I was being fairly obvious about it, and you’ve just now figured that out? The long, rustic wooden chair creaked as she shifted to face him. Well, since you’ve been distracted by my evil ways, I’ve been giving your predicament some thought.

He felt his brows involuntarily rise.

"This…doesn’t have to end, Salla. I mean, of course we have to leave Kijikalae and all, but what we’ve started here doesn’t have to simply disappear. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I have a rather lavish little bunker to go home to. If there’s a better place for someone trying to keep out of sight, I don’t know of it. I get some work done, and in my spare time I keep your mind on…other things than the Majdi who might be looking for you. Smoke clears, and you come back as my second."

I imagine your current second would have something to say about that part of the plan.

Jandel’s been talking about heading off on her own and starting her own team. I don’t think she’d mind. She pressed her lips to his, a soft and brief touch before settling back into her seat. Keep in mind that my situation when coming to the islands wasn’t all that different from yours. I had bounties out on my head for years when I built my team and started our expeditions. There are still people out there who want me dead for my immersion work. But you make yourself as safe as you can, and then get out and live your life. Otherwise, what’s the point of it?

Salla couldn’t argue that. He’d hidden from his past by disappearing into the life of a scrapper, but time and circumstances only brought him right back to where he’d started—working with Natke, if for a different and more dangerous cause. How much more of his life would he waste if he listened to his initial impulse to run again, only this time from the Majdi? Nervous anticipation bubbled within him, and Salla dared to hope that Natke’s proposal wasn’t one that sounded too good to be true.

So how would it work?

I still have connections who can give you a convincing new identity to use anytime we leave the bunker—for expeditions or whatever. But when we’re back home and inside, you’re you. Integrating you into the team…

Home, she’d said. It was a word so alien to his life, something he hadn’t experienced since leaving his mother all those years ago, that he couldn’t even imagine what it might feel like to have such a place once more.

Salla brought his attention back to the details of Natke’s proposition, but although he saw her lips moving, a shrill ringing sound was rising up to smother her words. At the same time, a heightening pressure was building with frightening speed inside his head, like a balloon filling with air until it was ready to pop. He held his breath, trapping the pain away so none of it would show on his face. He could feel the corners of his eyes grow wet as tears formed, and his lungs were already screaming for mercy.

Not again…not now. Calm down. Mother’s bones, a few deep breaths is usually all I need, but—

The pain intensified tenfold in a sudden spike, and it felt as though his skull was cracking, and those fractures were getting longer and wider with each interminable second that passed. His eyes began to throb, as if fingers were squeezing them slowly, testing to see just how much pressure it would take for them to burst.

As he drew in a breath to scream, it all vanished. No phantom remnants of the pain lingered; it was as though the episode hadn’t occurred at all. That was the most worrying aspect of whatever this was that was happening to him. The fact there were no resonating aftereffects convinced Salla that these sudden bouts of acute agony were no mere physical affliction. They were something else, and he had suspected for some time what the cause might be.

In the three months since Tempusalist, the power of the Eyes of the One had fallen silent. He’d tested the power to see if it was still there, but no visions came to answer whatever mystery he’d wished solved. In their stead, terrible attacks of blinding pain had arrived. They began in wide intervals, the first pair separated by almost two weeks’ time.

Today’s episode marked the fourteenth occurrence. They were coming faster, and hitting harder.

Salla, what is it? Natke was staring at him, concern resonating from the depth of her dark eyes. Another headache?

He nodded. It’s fine. But your idea, I think it sounds like a good place to start.

I’ll comm Jandel and see if we have any prospects waiting for us when we get back. I was thinking we’d head home tomorrow, give us one last night in paradise? Natke was already on her feet, bending low to kiss him one more time. This time Salla made certain their kiss was not soft, nor was it brief. When they parted, her smile was hungry. "Oh, have it your way. Day after tomorrow, then."

He turned to watch Natke go, tracing the movement of the lithe, agile body that had served her well in keeping her alive. Running his fingers over his head, Salla noted yet again the feel of short stubble instead of the ragged knotlock style he’d worn for the past several years. He felt like a different man from those days aboard the Mayla Rose, as though the scrapper he had been was slowly fading from the pages of his own history.

This new change was for the best, he thought. It wasn’t as though he yearned to return to those wilder days not so long ago, but neither did he entirely regret them. After all, amid the adrenaline-fueled scrapping jobs and the unpredictable whirlwind that was his relationship with Kitayne, it all led him right back here, to this moment in paradise with the first woman he’d ever fallen in love with.

He looked back at the open doorway of their cozy beachside bungalow through which Natke had disappeared. For the first time since discovering what it meant to house the powers of the Eyes of the One, Salla allowed himself to become hopeful for the days ahead. But with the future seemingly laid out before him, perhaps it was time to take hold of the present. Draining what remained of the yellow purovian nectar, Salla got to his feet and followed Natke inside.

He’d made it two steps toward his destination before a second blast of pain struck him, a force so powerful this time it seemed intent on grinding his skull into a pulp. His vision went blurry, legs buckling, and Salla felt his knees dig into the sand. Nausea swept through him like fire through a field of deadwood. He gagged against what felt like the urge to expel everything he’d ever eaten, and within seconds, a merciful blanket of darkness fell over everything.

When he woke, there was an ethereal quality to the world about him. His body and movements felt weightless, and trying to see the bungalow’s interior about him was like looking through a thin, fibrous veil of cotton.

Natke? he heard himself ask, but like everything else he sensed, it was as though he was experiencing it secondhand. Natke, I…I think I need to tell you something.

The quiet and emptiness of the indistinct room about him surrounded Salla like a tomb. The resort village of Kijikalae had become a ghost town. Perhaps it was the Eyes or just his intuition, but he was sure nothing living remained within its borders. Somehow, he could sense this eerie void about him where life could not exist, and then a notion occurred to him, one that made all too much sense.

He was dead.

Something—whether it was some undiagnosed illness or something tied to the Eyes of the One—whatever had been at the root of the excruciating assaults against his body and mind had killed him at last. Salla’s life was over, and he was taking his first steps into the hereafter—the Great Darkness.

He had always imagined a great sense of sorrow upon the realization of his own death, but instead there was a strong undercurrent of acceptance in his state of mind. Had he chosen the easier path and simply walked away after waking on the shores near Costa Ojo after Kitayne and Loc Soto’s mutiny of the Mayla Rose, he might be feeling differently at the moment. But he hadn’t walked away. With Natke’s help, he had sought out the Eyes of the One—mystical, dangerous talismans that told him the precise location of the lost Majdi city of Tempusalist. Once there, he stopped a fallen tyrant from usurping the powers hidden in its safehold. His actions had averted the reigniting of a new, dark era of global imperialistic domination. It was the best he could do to set right the wrongs in which he had taken part during his time as a scrapper.

It was enough.

The only negative feeling he could detect swimming about in his consciousness was regret. He’d been standing at the threshold, ready to embark on the rest of his life with a beautiful, incomparable woman who, on the very day he died, had rescued him from the prospect of a future rife with hopelessness. Now, the life they were preparing to begin together was over.

Thinking of her, he started moving toward the bedroom they’d shared since coming to Kijikalae. The two of them had become so close, intimate in a way he’d never thought possible. Even in death, the thought of being without her conjured up an ache inside of his being, one he wasn’t sure would ever diminish.

Entering the room, Salla blinked. Natke was there, lying on the bed. In the overwhelming sense of hollowness and isolation that seemed to permeate every surface in this strange pallid afterlife, he was not alone after all. He touched her leg in hopes of rousing her from sleep, but something was wrong. He could feel her skin, as tangible as it had been in life, and it was cold. He shook it, panic beginning to infect his every thought.

Wake up, Natke. Wake up.

She did not stir. As he brushed the dark hair back from her face, her expression underneath was serene. A stain began to spread across the linens underneath her, originating at her neck. It looked black in the whitish haze draped over everything in this strange world.

Blood.

The stain continued to creep inexorably outward, and Salla staggered away from her. His disbelieving gaze drifted down her body and fixated upon the leg he’d touched to wake her. Another black smear clung to her skin, and he reflexively brought his hands up to his face. It was everywhere, sickly black trickles of blood—her blood—dripping from his open, trembling palms to run down his forearms.

No. I…I didn’t do this. I didn’t do this. I didn’t do this… The words repeated over and over, becoming a chant that was quickly escalating into hysteria. "If I…then…then, why? Why would I?"

Salla jerked upright, chest heaving and body shaking. The whitish film that seemed to have been clinging to his eyes was gone. The room about him was dark, lit only by a broad splash of moonlight cascading through the open windows nearby. Through the windows, a cool, lazy breeze floated inside, raising bumps over every inch of exposed flesh. Natke lay there beside him, and with a shuddering hand, he softly grasped her arm.

It was warm, and he could hear the gentle rising and falling of her breaths.

The rapid, panicked thumps of his heartbeat began to steadily decrease and tensed muscles started to soften, one after another. Swallowing hard down a throat that felt as dry as a dead fish’s scales, Salla eased back onto the damp sheets of the bed.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut away the gruesome image of this beautiful woman lying dead.

What was that? A…a nightmare?

Casting his mind back to waking hours before the dream, Salla scoured his surroundings for some clue as to why he envisioned Natke’s death by his own hands. Bundles of clothes lay scattered across the floor, yet there was no recollection of rending clothes, giving way to primal lusts, or basking in a delirious afterglow.

There was nothing. No memory existed in the space of time between the attack and his waking, save for the hazy vision of her murder.

It was just a dream, Saar. He let the notion settle over his troubled mind like a blanket tossed over a fire in order to smother it. Just a dream. Let it go.

Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn’t. Lying there for the next several minutes, Salla tried to fall back to sleep, reminding himself over and over that Natke was right there beside him, warm and alive. The vision meant nothing.

If he were a normal man, convincing himself of this would have been the simplest of tasks. But normal he was not. The power of the Eyes of the One dwelled inside of him. It was a power he did not entirely understand, and worse, it was a power that seemed to have turned on him since its purpose had been fulfilled at Tempusalist.

The thought gave him pause. Perhaps that was the price of gazing into the Eyes of the One and absorbing their power. Once the objective was sought out and the task complete, the Eyes would begin to destroy its host, little by little. It was his best guess as to why these debilitating episodes were occurring, rending his mind asunder one attack at a time.

The Majdi were right. The Eyes are dangerous.

Salla’s eyes opened, and he knew they would not close to sleep for the rest of the night. All he could think was that this nightmare, this vision, whatever it was—it could be a grim foretelling of a blood-drenched future that awaited them.

That awaited her.

He chased the thought from his mind. Come on, Saar. The Eyes don’t work anymore. It was a dream.

He shook his head again as if to transform the thought into a statement of fact, a glimpse of land to a man lost at sea. But as he lay there watching the room grow brighter as the sun’s glow began to melt away the night, there was one thought he could not escape.

What if it wasn’t a dream?

2

M an, you don’t look so good.

In the bright afternoon sunlight, Dao Zhan looked him up and down as the pair stood at the intersection of two busy streets in Del Topal on the isle of Sinjon. It was Arts in the Islands Day, a holiday designed by the city’s local government to prove that Del Topal was as rich in the arts as its more famous sister city further down the cape, Del Triva. The edges of the weather-beaten streets teemed with artists displaying various works for sale, and it stretched on in all directions for as far as the eye could see.

Don’t get me wrong, you look better than I figured you’d look since I thought you were dead and all, you know? He hesitated. That bein’ said, I got questions, right? I haven’t heard a word outta you since Kit’s thug dropped you in the water. Then the Majdi show up at Tempusalist and start grillin’ us. Could’ve knocked all three-hundred pounds’a me down when they start askin’ about you, right? If I saw you in the city and all that. Now seein’ that you’re alive, it kinda makes sense. But…you weren’t there in Tempusalist, were you?

Salla nodded, drained from his harried flight from Kijikalae two days prior and the sleepless journey that had brought him here to Del Topal.

Tempusalist? Uh…yeah. Managed to find my way there.

Oof, brother. I gotta sit down. You in that place at the end of the world? That’s just straight wild. His equilibrium seemed to have rebounded, and he kept standing. But really, Sall, come on. We were tight out there, and you let me go on thinkin’ you were dead all this time. Nope, you were off runnin’ around Tempusalist, then cavortin’ around some island paradise, and not a word to your poor brother Dao. That ain’t right.

Same old Dao, Salla thought. The big Shozoan scrapper was never one to mince words through the six years they’d spent together aboard the Mayla Rose.

I’ve been…you know, keeping my head down. Salla eyed his old friend, finding it hard not to notice that, while Dao still carried a lot of bulk on his heavily tattooed body, he was a lot leaner. Better question is, what happened to you? Only been a couple of months and you look like a good chunk of you is no longer with us.

Dao shrugged the compliment off. It’s this miracle diet called findin’ a good wife. She’s got me eatin’ healthier.

"A wife? Salla gaped. I can’t remember the last time you were even seeing anyone."

I wasn’t! Met her right after the whole Gran Senji thing. She’s a chef, so figured it was meant to be, you know? What’s a scrapper like me got to lose? he said with a hearty laugh, casually flashing Salla the opela mark tattooed on his inner wrist. Well, the whole scrappin’ thing for starts. Got me a regular gig now with the lady. Now, quit changin’ the subject. What’s goin’ on with you, and why do you look like you ran all the way here from Kijika-whatever-you-called-it?

As Salla started to speak, he couldn’t help but notice a pair of men wearing the light brown uniforms of the Odyssan Watch coming toward them. The fronts of their protective vests were covered in small pockets that were stuffed with various tools of their trade, and the fixed stare behind the oblong-lensed shaders both men wore never wavered from the two former scrappers.

Dao followed his friend’s fixed gaze and let out a long sigh. "It’s okay, Sall. Majdi gave us all pardons for tryin’ to help the Gran Senji and all, but these smug local shiminakas still like to give us the business."

Language, Dao. If you’re gonna curse at them, at least do it in common Odyssan so I can follow along.

Pleasant afternoon, isn’t it, Zhan? one of the men called out as they neared.

Suppose it is. Dao’s tone had turned unfriendly. What can I do for you fine gentlemen today? Empty my pockets again? How about we try somethin’ new? Lemme drop my pants in front of all these nice shoppers so you can see if I’m hidin’ anything down there. Or, how about we do it down by the culinary quarter? Give ’em somethin’ nice and dimply to look at while they chow down, huh?

The two Odyssan Watchmen traded a glance, and the one on the right spoke. We don’t like this any more than you do, Zhan. How about—

Who’s your friend? the darker-skinned of the pair said, pulling a small device from one of the pockets on his vest.

"He’s a friend, that’s who he is. What’re you doin’?"

Checking my CCD on him, that’s what. Seems familiar. Might’ve seen his face on a briefing we had a month or so back. He laughed as he looked down at the compact criminal datalog. "So, friend, what’s your name?"

Sibo Lar. The name came out of his mouth with practiced ease, as it had been routine to cast out that alias during his scrapping days. Came to town for the art festival and bumped into Dao here.

Fingers tapped at the device, and the Watchman peered at him through the dark lenses. You didn’t happen to be a friend of this man while he was out on these fine waters stealing from the Odyssan populace, were you?

No, no, no. I mean…no. Getting nervous now as he tried to recall the history of where and when he had used the name Sibo Lar, Salla glanced at Dao. No?

Dao’s eyes were closed, hiding the slightest trace of a wince. Sibo here helped save my sister durin’ a shark attack. He knew me back then, but didn’t know what I was doin’ out on the water.

Salla expelled a heavy, regretful sigh. What a mess that day was. How is Mey, anyway?

She’s good, Sibo. Dao turned to the two Watchmen. Satisfied?

The man with the CCD was still tapping the buttons on the face of the device. Not finding much on a Sibo Lar.

Dao snorted. Maybe that’s because he ain’t a criminal in your little datalog.

The Watchman shrugged and turned the CCD around to show them the display screen. No, but something about this face here looks familiar.

Salla felt as though his insides had taken an abrupt plunge. What he saw before him was an image of himself on the scuffed screen, his face framed by ragged knotlocks under the header of KNOWN ASSOCIATES OF DAO ZHAN, followed by PRIORITY ALERT.

The Watchman looked at the CCD again, grinning. Salla Saar…Sibo Lar. You didn’t sprain anything coming up with that name, did you?

Salla coughed, eyes darting for an escape route. I can explain.

No you can’t, Dao said through a long-winded sigh, eyes gazing up at the heavens.

The two Odyssan Watchmen just stood there and stared, waiting.

After a moment’s consideration, Salla shrugged. Dao, when you’re right, you’re right.

With that, Salla turned and ran. Unfortunately, right behind him was a painter’s makeshift display booth, and he crashed right through it. Shouts of alarm sprang up in all directions as he kept going, pounding his way through the narrow strip of land between the line of booths and the buildings behind them. Whipping his head about for a moment to catch sight of his pursuers, Salla spotted both Watchmen hounding his trail. Suddenly, the corridor of space terminated ahead at the bend of the building he sprinted alongside, leaving him no choice but to dart back into the street.

Salla tore through another artist’s little exhibit, swatting a pair of easels aside as his body careened into the artist herself, knocking them both to the ground. Rolling with the fall, he glanced to make sure the woman was unhurt as he scrambled back to his feet. The Watchmen burst through the opening after him, and ahead, now there were people in the streets putting their bodies in the way to halt the pursuit. Spotting a sliver of an opening to the right, he made a dash for it. A few patrons and artists tried snagging him by the arms, clothes, anything, but Salla had momentum on his side, and he broke through.

Another stolen glance behind, and the two Watchmen were still there, hurtling through the crowd like ravenous dogs let loose to hunt. As Salla cut away from the masses filling the streets to dart between two buildings, he found himself wishing he’d never come to find Dao, never come back to the Odyssan Archipelago. He had been safe with Natke—

But she wasn’t safe with you, he thought darkly as he charged up a staircase leading into an open doorway. His body shot inside, and a new outburst of cries rose up from the well-dressed gathering around what appeared to be a private exhibit for Del Topal’s more elite artists and art patrons. Pushing his way past a couple who simply stood and gaped at him, Salla headed for a spiral stairwell at the back of the room, hoping it might lead somewhere he could hide. The metal steps rattled as he made his harried ascent, and judging from a second round of howls below, the Odyssan Watchmen were still on his heels.

When the spiral staircase ended, Salla found himself in a dusty attic, surrounded by row upon row of paintings lining the walls. There was nowhere to hide, and no doors through which he might escape. His only option was a window, but there was no telling if there was a terrace, a switchback staircase, or nothing at all outside it. He pushed the dusty glass pane open and was greeted by a burst of fresh air and empty space before him. Looking down, a weathered brown awning lined the building just above ground level.

Don’t move! one of the Watchmen shouted, rising up fast from the staircase to confront him.

No choice, Salla thought, letting his body tumble through the opening and into the void. The awning might as well have been an illusion fabricated by his mind to convince him to jump. He felt his body tear through it as if he had fallen through a sheet of paper, and he landed hard on the ground underneath.

The world tumbled away into shadow for a moment, but when his eyes opened again, he saw a blurry vision of the ragged hole in the faded brown fabric overhead. With a groan, Salla got to his feet and loped off around the corner. Though aching, nothing felt broken, and he pushed himself to go faster.

A couple blocks further down the road, now well away from the art festival, Salla’s presence of mind was beginning to settle under a shroud of haze. He couldn’t tell if the Watchmen were still after him, or if he’d lost them with the unexpected plunge. Right now, it didn’t matter. All he knew was that he was mere seconds from collapse. Staggering into an alleyway cluttered with sacks of trash and other debris, Salla felt the world about him giving way. His surroundings made a dizzying spin and then…nothing.

The humidity had dissipated and the skies were dark by the time Salla woke. Shuffling to the opening of the alley, still sore, he peered into the streets. The sounds of the art festival had long fallen silent, the music, the excited sales pitches and questions from passersby replaced by the buzzing of insects and the idle conversation of a couple enjoying a late-evening stroll.

Regardless of the drastic change in the town’s activity, Salla still kept a wary eye out