Flux: The Sunless World, #2

By Rabia Gale

Actress. Businesswoman. Trend-setter.

 

Before she was all these, Sable Monarique was the timid, awkward daughter of a disgraced family. After leaving home and crossing the Divide, she reinvented herself in Oakhaven.

 

But now it's time to return.

 

Her friend Rafe is a mage newly come into his powers and in desperate need of training. Sable brings him to the domed city of Monaria, with its giant trees, massive platforms, and impressive magic. While he studies, she works to rebuild her family's fortunes.

 

But Sable's not the only one who changed in the last seven years. New families have risen to prominence. An old flame isn't the man she loved and left. And now a conspiracy threatens to tear her city apart. Sable needs answers fast—before it's too late to save Monaria.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rabia Gale
• Release date: Mar 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386681670

Book preview

Prologue

ISABELLA STOOD IN THE steaming dark of a cavern, all senses straining for the most dangerous opponent she had ever fought.

Her bare feet burned on the dirt floor. The rock walls radiated heat, giving her the uncomfortable sense of being in an oven. She’d stripped down to pants and breastband and still the sweat poured down her overheated skin. It plastered her hair to her head and trickled down her cheeks.

A minor inconvenience, she told herself, but that she had noted it as a bother was a telling sign that she was no longer in the optimal fighting state she was used to.

Isabella moved on soft feet, keeping to the walls. The suffocating black wrapped around her in a blindfold, forcing her to probe with her kyra, the life-essence inside her. She flung it out from her body in knife-shaped, short-ranged tendrils, seeking the touch of homespun cloth, the whisper of motion, a shape in the darkness.

This, too, felt wrong.

It was a practiced mental trick, one honed over so many years it had become second nature. The kyra was still that internal reservoir of cool silver, a thing that hardened to armored plates under her skin or pooled in her fist to pack more power to her punch or twisted into ductile rope to enable her to see and hear things rooms away.

But the balance was off, as if a familiar blade had lost or gained a few ounces.

The kyra no longer hovered in her core as a smooth sphere. Its shape was distorted, pulled to one side, its substance spinning into a thin thread.

A thread that led to the outside. A thread that connected her, indisputably, to a man sitting cross-legged in an open chamber several tens of feet of rock and air above her head.

Right now, this bothered her more than the inky clot against the base of her spine. That, too, was something she’d have to deal with. Later.

Isabella shook her head, thrusting aside the distraction. The movement dislodged beads of sweat and sent them spattering across the rock wall.

Mistake! Isabella threw herself to the side in a roll. A deeper shadow within the blackness missed her by inches, its swoop stirring the sludge-like air. Isabella twisted and flung an outstretched hand. Fabric brushed across the tips of her fingers. She grabbed, but came up with empty air.

A deep voice, ever-calm, spoke. You grow careless, child.

There she is. Isabella poured out her kyra in long strings, threw them in the general direction of the voice. She flung herself after them as they brushed against a presence only slightly less ephemeral than the thick air. She charged at the spot, reeling in most of her kyra.

She’d need it to finish this off.

Her daggers, Eya and Voya, were in her hands. Isabella closed in on her opponent, who danced just out of her reach, fluid and rippling.

Faster. Isabella abandoned stealth, ruthlessly stripped her defenses to almost nothing. Air scoured her heaving lungs, her breath rasped in her throat and ears. Her tongue felt thick and heavy, the inside of her mouth wicked dry.

Kyra ran like quicksilver in her muscles and veins. Isabella lunged, aiming for the torso. A touch was all she needed.

And then she was no longer in the hellish underworld beneath the Point, but elsewhere. Grass brushed her feet and the scent of crushed berries hung the air. She stood looking at the profile of a young girl with dark hair and patrician nose and full lips. The girl’s mouth moved and yearning strained in every fiber of her being. "Oh, Rafe. It’s beautiful."

The vision shimmered and was snatched away. A sound cracked the air, a hot pain exploded in Isabella’s side. The young girl, now a woman, snarled, her face twisted with rage. I always hated you!

Once again, Rafe relived his anguish. Once again, Isabella was dragged into his painful memories.

She couldn’t fight demons this way.

Scorch it, Grenfeld! Control yourself! Isabella wrenched herself out of the memory. She stumbled and landed on her knees. The shock of the impact reverberated through her bones.

You need to push past his pain. The Matria’s echoing voice seemed to come from all directions. Unlike you, he hasn’t learned to dam his emotions. Now that you are connected, you must learn to deal with his hurt as well. Unless you wish to sever the tie.

Isabella shook her head wordlessly. She knew the Matria would sense the denial. She’d saved Rafe’s life with her kyra when his beloved sister had shot him. Now it was tangled inextricably in with his own. Who knew what breaking the tie would do to them both?

They could not afford the risk. The world needed both the demon slayer and the fledgling mage.

Still, she didn’t need to like the way it weakened her.

Damn that Bryony. Her thought was more weary than bitter. She sensed Rafe come to himself, felt his realization of what he’d just leaked into their bond, the flush of shame and contrition, the beginning of an apology.

She cut him off before he could shape the words. Remember the Mental Disciplines I taught you. Especially the Fifth.

Then she shut the door on him and gave the Matria her full attention.

If this had been a real fight, Isabella would’ve been dead long ago. Even at her absolute best, Isabella had only won against the head of her order once—a pyrrhic victory in which her dagger point had come to rest against the other’s chest just as the Matria’s favored crescent-shaped blade pressed against the side of her neck.

Now the Matria remained silent, waiting for Isabella to find her. Had she retreated into yet another cavern in this fossilized honeycomb? Isabella got to her feet, her knees jellied, the terrible heat sapping her energy.

No, the Matria was still in here. There was the faintest trace of ozone on her lips. Isabella knew that scent anywhere.

But where?

Isabella pulled in another scalding breath, feeling light-headed. She moved her kyra to just under her skin; it absorbed the heat, but there was nowhere else to release it back into the already saturated surroundings.

Wait.

In one quick movement, Isabella shunted the heat through her kyra bond with Rafe. The transfer took but an instant. He was wrapped the warmth of the underworld, while the chill touch of his open air chamber cooled her overheated skin. The cold brought a sharp clarity, like that of ice, to Isabella’s heat-fogged mind.

Isabella, what—?

Later.

Isabella spoke a word to Eya and threw it. The dagger flamed its white light as it spun through the air. It fell with a clatter, the light dying.

But it had been enough. The light struck an answering glitter in the dark.

Isabella sprang and brought Voya up. She sensed rather than saw the Matria’s crescent blade swish at her neck. Voya met it with a sharp snick. The dark dagger screeched down its blade and hit the guard. Isabella activated Voya’s power. The blade flickered, phasing out of existence for just an instant. The Matria shifted her blade to compensate. Isabella twisted the handle, brought Voya back to this dimension, and pushed just so.

The crescent blade spun out of the Matria’s grip and thunked on the ground.

Isabella stood, panting, hardly daring to believe.

She had disarmed the Matria.

---

Several levels above the cavern she had fought the Matria in, Isabella knelt by a rock pool and splashed water on her face. It was tepid and tasted of minerals, but was still a welcome relief after the steaming darkness of below.

Bioluminescent fungi cast a dim blue glow over the water. The Matria stood in the shadows, a hooded and cloaked figure with no distinguishing feature save that of being improbably tall and narrow.

You took your weakness and turned it to strength, in the end.

Isabella shook her head, scattering water droplets. I wouldn’t have had as much trouble at the start if it weren’t for the link in the first place.

It is your new normal, said the Matria. You will grow used to it.

Isabella twitched a shoulder, not liking the turn of the conversation. Better to not have the Matria probe too closely and discover her greater secret. The ball of darkness murmured inside her; ruthlessly she quashed it. She’d starve it of everything—no emotions would touch it. Have you decided about Rafe yet, Matria?

I knew from the first hour he was at the Point, child. He is a kayan, a true heir to the mages of long ago.

Isabella let out her breath in a sigh. By bringing Rafe to the Point, the home of the Sisters’ Order, she’d broken about fifty rules. The Secunda had been displeased, but if the Matria agreed she’d done rightly…

He found the Tors Lumena, the Tower of Light, but it’s not enough, she said, thinking out loud. Ironheart acquired the quartz, but Oakhaven and Blackstone won’t stand for it. Sooner or later, they’ll make a play for it. There will be war.

It all came back to that. The states would always vie for the precious quartz to feed their people. And with the conflict would come the demons who fed on fear, pain, rage, and isolation.

But if Rafe could master the bitter magic that flowed in the crystals, the ka that his predecessors had used to shape such wonders…

As if reading her thoughts, the Matria said, He cannot stay, though. He needs to walk his own path and find other teachers. We cannot instruct him in the ways of magic.

Silence stretched between them, expectant. Isabella thought the Matria wanted her to say something, offer something, but she didn’t know what. Did the Matria expect Isabella to shadow Rafe Grenfeld and endure the itch and intrusion of his presence?

Will you not advise me, Matria?

She shrugged her shoulders in a ripple of motion.

To do what must be done, to undo the tangle left behind by the kayan so long ago… it is a path of discovery you children must undertake on your own. You are a grown woman, Isabella. What say you?

Turning it back to me again. A wry smile twisted Isabella’s lips. That had been the way of it recently, with the Matria returning question for question. She seemed to want Isabella to grasp something… but what?

It was a puzzle for another time. Isabella nibbled her lip—a nervous habit she thought she’d left behind—and pondered the problem of what to do with Rafe Grenfeld.

I think I know, she said slowly, the idea taking shape in her head. Yes, that’s the right thing to do.

It would give them both space.

Part One

THE MARQUIS OF ROCQUESPUR’S private train chugged tiredly into a small station huddled at the base of the Black Mountains. It screeched to a stop, let out one weary hoot, and sat there, gently steaming.

The past two months had not been kind to what had once been considered one of the most splendid and luxurious indulgences of any Oakhaven noble. It was down to only two battered cars, besides the engine and tender. One bore cargo, the other served as Sable Monarique’s sleeping, dining, and working compartment. All had been stripped of any ostentation or trimming. The paint was scratched and faded under a coating of fine chalk.

The train had lately been in the White Mountains, a range of gently-sloped peaks with rounded tops which began in the Clearwater area. Sable’s journey had taken her through them to where they spent themselves on the hard obsidian sides of the Black range.

Taja, one of her two ahimet, handed Sable down onto the tiny platform. Both he and Batu had spent the journey in the engine: driving, shoveling coal, and sleeping on a thin pallet in shifts. Sable gave him a brief, grateful smile and squeezed his hand.

As usual, there was no response in that bland face, no expression in those dark eyes. Ahimet obeyed without question or comment, with the same loyalty and competence of a well-run machine.

But Taja had not always been like this. Sable remembered his merry smile and dancing eyes, and her heart ached.

The station master—who was also mayor and justice of this hamlet—knew Sable on sight. She nodded to him, he touched his cap to her. He took the paper she handed him without a word and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Sable eyed his stiff back as he walked away.

So. The news of Rocquespur’s downfall had spread even this far from Oakhaven. Fortunately, the interim government of that state had more pressing matters to deal with, or who knew what pressures they might’ve brought to bear on this tiny independent township?

Sable let her gaze drift over the lamp-lit platform, its low buildings, and the few workers and loungers on site.

There. That hard-eyed man in grey. His bearing, his scrutiny, and the way he held himself aloof from the rest all bespoke a stranger to this settlement.

An Oakhavenite, probably, sent to watch and spy. The town tolerated him but gave him no authority, or else he would’ve arrested Sable by now.

Watch away, Greycoat. I won’t be here long. Sable shook out her full skirts of navy blue and approached the man, the heels of her half-boots tapping on the concrete.

Good day. She stopped in front of him and tilted her head with practiced charm. With a smart hat perched on her head, laughter in her eyes, and a wry smile on her lips, she knew exactly what a picture she made. Koorta, her house totem, only knew how many hours she had spent perfecting the pose.

The man’s eyes widened.

It’s lovely to see a familiar face on one’s travels. Sable put a graceful hand on her hip, watching him watch the gesture. Will you be staying long?

I leave tomorrow, said the man, gathering his wits. To make a report. He glared at her, as if to say I know your tricks.

Sable made a moue of disappointment. Ah, and here I am so eager for news from Oakhaven. But perhaps you’ll see me this evening at the guest house? She moved closer and touched his arm briefly. Her smile and husky voice made the moment more intimate. I’ll expect you.

He made an inarticulate noise, but she had already sashayed away. At Wither, then, she spoke over her shoulder. I’ll give you an autograph. With a wink, she left the station. Taja hefted her portmanteau onto his shoulder and followed her