The Seven Stones: Immortal Zero

By Ashley Mussbacher

After two decades of war, a ceasefire is called as Lamora surrenders to Uvar and agrees to sign a treaty. Famous military hero, General Almadzi accompanies the Lamoran Empress into enemy territory with an expectation they may be headed for a trap.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pennquist Publishing House
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777395414

Book preview

1.png

THE SEVEN STONES

IMMORTAL ZERO

BOOK ONE

by

Ashley Mussbacher

A Pennquist Publishing House Book

Chilliwack, BC

A Pennquist Publishing House Publication

Copyright © 2020 by Ashley Mussbacher

All Rights Reserved

Cover design by

Jeff Brown Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

www.pennquist.ca

DEDICATION

Writing this series has been a quest in and of itself, and I would never have come this far without the support of my husband, Kris. He has weathered every storm and struggle on the road to this success, and I can’t be happier to share this life with him.

THE SEVEN STONES

Prologue

Inner City, Lamora

The sun makes its orange way east across the deadly valley of open sand, from the flat-roofed buildings of the border town, Saska, from which she came, to the high-pillared, white-marble palaces of Inner City, where she stands now. The curt calls of hyenas followed closely at the tail of last light. They are the night’s demons and hunters, and the city’s last defense against itself.

In the deepening darkness, Maelyn Naomi seeks refuge in a gated villa on the edge of the city, her final destination. A weeping willow casts the courtyard catwalk in shadow, and she is ushered toward a large square building by a slave woman with a tag that reads: Property of House Na’Riah. Deep lines in her face tell of the sickness of age, and a dream never achieved.

Colorful mosaics cover the outer stone walls. Their brightness dimmed by the night. The picture is of a man in pale robes, a gold circlet with amethyst embedded deep within the mold rests upon his brow. Isus of Judgment is captured in all his greatness, but even the fine pieces of tile cannot lift the image to life. A staff separates him and a kneeling man, face down in prayer.

A hundred years ago, the country of Lamora followed the doctrines of the Immortals closely. The gates of the Outer City stood tall and strong, and even the night’s shadow hunters were kept out. But the reign of the Immortals has slackened now. As attention shifts to technology, there is little faith left to place in magic.

Slave Na’Riah stares up at the depiction with moonlit eyes. Thin hands fumble with a tassel at her waist. She’s ripped the hem of her cotton robe, rubbed a hole right through the fabric. Her eyes shift over to Maelyn at her side. She admires her hands as they fold together, how she dips her head in silent prayer. Na’Riah pulls her robes tight about her shoulders against the cool night wind and shivers. She waits.

The villa garden is deserted. Shadows stretch along the perimeter wall. She wishes Maelyn would finish her prayer so they can find refuge inside. But she insists on hovering beneath the glassy eyes of Immortal Isus. Na’Riah can hear her whispering into her fingers, mentions of a daughter, small pleas of safety and security.

There is the tug of shallow guilt as Na’Riah remembers what she is waiting for. Two shadows move against the moonlight. Maelyn looks up from her hands as one of the figures comes up behind her. Silver flashes. A gasp is muffled against a gloved hand. Na’Riah holds her breath until she stops struggling and drops. Crimson looks black on the blade. The shadowy figure stands over the body, head bowed as if in prayer. There is a silence among the three of them now.

The taller figure nudges the other. Time to leave.

Na’Riah feels empty satisfaction as a coin pouch is pushed into her hand.

Chapter One

Northern region, Red Sands

Central City. General Almadzi watches as its spired stone buildings rise up from the sand in the North. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. Her finger edges along the hilt of the scimitar strung at her side, rubbing the soft leather there along the grip. Its weight, however light, gives her comfort. She has never had the privilege to gaze upon the port city. Never tasted the salty air, watched the dark waters foam up against the shore. Excitement stirs within her. She knows it is childish of her to want to pad barefoot in the sand, to strip off her silk robes and wade out against the waves. She can already feel the push and pull against her body.

Have you ever been to Uvar, General? Colonel Jas wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He stares across the hovership’s balcony. Whether he can see the outlines of the city in the distance, she doesn’t know. Maybe the buildings are a trick of the heat. Perhaps she has stood in the sun too long.

No, she replies.

It’s not a place for Lamora-kin. There is a tremor in his voice. The dull hum of the hovership’s engine drowns any other hints of nervousness, but she can see it in his brown eyes. The metallic railing burns her palms as she leans forward. She wants to reassure him that Central City poses no threat, that they will be safe. But the war is not over. A silence lingers.

Lamora versus Uvar. She cannot remember when the war first started. And if someone asked, she could not tell them what had been the initial spark. A minute detail lost in the scandal of two ancient rivals. She thinks it strange to be here at the bitter end. Both as a foreigner and as a person of honor. And yet, she has been in stranger situations. A smile pulls at her lips.

She hears the steel door behind them open, and turns to see a woman with two glasses of ice water approach. A dark stain in the shape of a crescent moon mars the left side of her face; the symbol of House Vandichi. The woman avoids General Almadzi’s gaze, stares at the metal floor and bows once she has been relieved of the glasses.

Thank you, Colonel Jas mutters, but the woman is leaving with her back to him. General Almadzi watches him sip from his cup. Though the water is icy cold the outside of the glass is dry. She tries wetting her lips again.

Don’t thank slaves. It gives them power over you, she says. Colonel Jas is not new to nobility, but she knows his upbringing leaves him conflicted. She sees sympathy in his eyes when he looks at the slaves in Lamora. Every now and again she must remind him of his superiority, of his right to it. One day you will be General. Don’t bring shame to the title by stooping to those lower than you.

Yes, sir. She knows he only agrees to please her. He will continue to discreetly push a coin or two into the next slave’s palm. It is in his nature to be kind. And yet, on her order, she has seen him slit a man’s throat without hesitation. She seeks to break him. To push his limits. If she is to ever pass the General’s Star to him, she wants to know he is ready for it. Moments like these make her question whether he has what it takes. Too soft. She thinks she can pierce his skin with a blunt knife, if she tried.

We’re finally leaving the Red Sands then. He has noticed the outlines of the city on the horizon, growing bolder and clearer as they approach. She lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and squints across the sand. A slight twinge of disappointment. She cannot make out the shoreline yet.

After five days on this ship, I can’t wait to sleep in a bed that doesn’t shudder with the torque of an engine beneath it, he says with a slight smile. His youth is only evident when his lips curl up. There is a small dimple in his right cheek.

Sleep with one eye open, General Almadzi warns. She cannot bring herself to return a smile of her own. Worry scratches at her mind. Her job is simple: protect Empress Allanis. But in a few hours the hovership will pass into Uvar, into enemy territory. A truce needs to be brokered, a treaty signed. Then the war will end. Sometimes she feels naïve to think a handful of signatures can end the suffering of thousands, hundreds of thousands. And yet, she must believe it does. Beneath her silk robes, her body sweats.

Colonel Jas stands close to her, but keeps a respectful distance. She notices when she sways closer, he inches away. Even after nearly two decades of working together, she can still feel his awkward necessity for protocol, his desire for a strict set of rules. She knows he would never call her Leona. Even if she asked.

The steel nose of another hovership edges into view alongside them. She knows there are five in total, each carrying soldiers in crimson garb. Too small to be an army. Like them, Uvar is poised to strike. But General Almadzi knows her men are tired. She would never admit it, but Uvar would crush them. It is this thought that keeps her on edge, a memory anchoring her to the last war:

There is the scent of burning flesh; musky, sweet, acrid. It rises in her memory as easily as dust from the desert, like a cloud. Heavy. Next is the tangy taste of copper; an insatiable thirst. Cracked lips and swollen tongue. Then the color orange stretching and rolling away in every direction. She feels the sun on her skin, the sand in her boots. Dark plumes of smoke rise from the remains of a Lamoran soldier. He is facedown. Skin burnt black. His fingers are curled around the grip of a pistol. He is not alone in his fate. General Almadzi sees others like him. Each in a charred crimson uniform. The sigil of Lamora stands out on each of their shoulders; a black shamshir piercing down through a golden ring, the eclipsed sun. She cannot remember their faces. Cannot see what makes them individual, separate them in her mind. They are faceless. And she hates it.

She does not know why the Red Sands remind her of Jote. Maybe it is the endless orange wasteland. Maybe it is the gritty feel of dust on her teeth. She takes a sip of water and rinses it away. Tries to swallow her guilt as well. The muddled memories of that day.

A man in a crimson smock with the Lamoran sigil on his shoulder approaches from the hovership’s cabin. He bows to General Almadzi before saying, General, Empress Allanis wishes to speak with you.

General Almadzi waits for the guard to leave back through the door before she turns to Colonel Jas. He raises his eyebrows. Expecting trouble, sir?

Not at all, Jas. Allanis is calling me to her cabin. It’s the middle of the afternoon. I suppose she just wants to chat politely over a cup of red tea. Maybe she wants to ask me how I keep the grey out of my hair. She receives a smirk.

"How do you keep the grey out of your hair?" he asks.

Magic. She enjoys watching his smile grow until crow’s feet appear at the corners of his eyes. There is a guarded happiness in the look he gives her. She thinks it makes him nervous to laugh with a superior. Times like these remind her of her assistant, Semara Naomi, and the differences between her and Jas. There are almost no barriers between Leona and Semara. The girl, barely twenty years old, challenged Leona’s authority from day one, but in a way a daughter would challenge a mother. It comforts Leona to know Semara is safe at home in Lamora. I better go, or you’ll be asking me what my favorite color is next.

Jas chuckles as she leaves, turns to open a steel door in the hull. A wave of cool air touches her face. Her skin tingles with a pleasant chill. She waits on the threshold as her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The room is simply furnished as a lounge. She notices Allanis’ handmaiden, Belladonna. Her ironed apron fits snug around her wide waist, long brown hair braided down the center of her back and pinned away from her face. She waits at the shoulder of Empress Allanis.

General Almadzi steps into the room and bows. When she looks up she pushes the spark of irritation down. Just a spark. Allanis ignores her greeting. She holds a book with both hands, black eyes staring at the page. General Almadzi doubts she is reading at all. There is no shifting of her eyes, no gentle rhythm of breath. She is static. And General Almadzi knows better than to interrupt her. Even if she is doing nothing.

When Allanis looks up she feigns surprise. One thin eyebrow rises towards an ornate weave of gold around the crown of her head. An opal teardrop rests gently between her eyes. Even in the dim light of the cabin, its colors dance. Pale blues, pinks, purples against a milky sheen. It is the only color she wears. Her silk gown pours over her willowy frame, black or dark navy, General Almadzi cannot tell. It reminds her of midnight in the Fortress, of the deep corridors once the lights have gone out, of places even the moonlight cannot touch.

Is it true there are bandits in the Red Sands, Almadzi? she asks.

Yes, your Grace.

Have you seen any?

General Almadzi can sense Allanis’ excitement, can hear it in the slight pique of her voice. It is a curiosity she and Allanis have never shared. She thinks Allanis foolish, childish even. She knows that if the Emperor allowed it, Allanis would seek out danger for the simple thrill of it.

I have seen none today, your Grace.

Allanis flattens her skirts in her lap, and General Almadzi can tell from the slight drop of her shoulders that she is disappointed. Bandits ride on horseback, your Grace. They wouldn’t dare come close to military-marked hoverships.

She wonders if this is all Allanis called her here for. To talk of bandits. Belladonna shifts from one foot to the other behind Allanis, and General Almadzi feels an odd sort of kinship with her as they both wait on Allanis’ next words. How much longer until we reach Uvar?

Few hours at most, your Grace.

That is all. Allanis flicks her hand dismissively at General Almadzi and turns her attention back to the book in her hand. General Almadzi meets Belladonna’s gaze before she bows. She is quick to leave the cabin and its dim interior. Eager to feel the sunlight on her skin. To chase the chill away.

Colonel Jas is waiting for her on the balcony. There is a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, anticipation in his eyes. Well?

She wraps her hands around the metal railing, feeling the slow-building burn work into her palms. No tea. But we did braid each other’s hair while we gossiped about the men in the Senate.

Central City, Uvar

Leas Steele holds her breath, blinks to wet her tired eyes. Her hands hover holding a torsion wrench in one and an iron hook pick in the other. When she feels the last pin lock into place, she lets out a sigh and turns the plug. She hears the satisfying click as the lock releases and the door opens. The room is dark inside, and when she shuts the door she’s left to feel her way. There’s the musty scent of old books. She takes two steps forward and her fingertips brush lightly against a polished surface. As her eyes adjust to the darkness she can see outlines of shelves, a wide armchair, a desk, and a hearth where glowing orange coals still burn.

The night is quiet. She finds herself relying on her ears more than her eyes, but nothing alerts her. She feels along the top of the desk, down the edges, to the front. Her fingers hook underneath a handle and pull. The drawer slides smoothly out. Moonlight filters into the room. It catches the edges of a silver flintlock pistol inside the drawer. She gingerly lifts it out.

Her fingers wrap around the grip; two old friends reunited at last. There is a comfortable familiarity about it. She lingers, for what could possibly be a moment too long. But in this silence, in this darkness, she is comfortable.

She closes the drawer, leaves the desk as it had been. When she exits the office the bolt locks behind her and she steps into the moonlit hallway. The pistol is secure in her hands. She steals a moment to finger its ornate design, feel the warmth of its wooden stock, the slender length of the barrel. She feels completed. She grins against the shadows, and moves quietly down the hall. A door stands ajar at the end. She knows the room’s empty before she enters. It’s safe. The lock engages as soon as she pushes the door shut gently. Always gently.

There’s nothing of value here. She’s already looked. The balcony extends out over a two story drop. It’s not high, but Leas can still see all of Central City in a glance. It slopes toward the sparkling harbor, silver in the moonlight. The buildings’ flat faces stare out at the water, their windows dark. At the highest point of the city, across the foaming waters from where Leas stands watchful, the royal palace rises against the navy sky. Nervousness stirs in the pit of her stomach. Tomorrow will find her there. She tries to lie to herself. That the job is the reason her chest tightens with anxiety, but it is the memory of who she brings back:

It rains often in Uvar. It comes down in sheets of icy water. It reminds Leas why she hates the cold and the wet. When she slips through an open window in the royal palace she leaves small puddles on the sill, on the floor, everything she touches. But on this night it doesn’t matter. The room she steps into is brightly lit, a roaring fire burns in the hearth. The warmth makes her skin tingle. She pushes wet hair out of her eyes.

There’s a woman standing at the fireside. Her arms are crossed, brown hair tied back. A canvas bag sits at her feet. She looks ready for travel. When she looks up at Leas there’s a hint of surprise on her face. Leas thinks she looks broken. If not broken, then ready to break. She can sense it in the way the woman’s eyes widen, in the way her hands rub against her arms as if the fire gives her no comfort. In the way her voice trembles when she asks:

This is it, then?

The balcony railing is cold. Leas finds the end of the rope she left knotted and climbs over the edge with the thin line in hand. Heights have never bothered her. She gives the royal palace one last glance before she lets herself fall. Her hands grip the rope. It’s rough against her skin. She can only slide a foot or two before she has to stop, pinching the rope between her leather boots. The rest of the descent is slow and controlled. One hand over the other. Her forearms and shoulders start to burn. Despite her best effort her palms feel raw against the stiff fibres. One hand over the other. Down, down, down.

She’s almost a full story high when she lets herself drop. As soon as her feet touch the grass she dives forward into a roll. Years of training and practice have taught her to land softly. When she stands she shakes out the stiffness in her arms, and the burning subsides. There’s a red rash on both her palms. She leaves the rope hanging and walks toward the tall iron-wrought fence that lines the perimeter of the property. The sharp points at the top are meant to keep people out. Leas is careful to avoid them when she climbs up and over.

Once on the other side, she looks back through the iron bars. A small grin stretches across her face. Her hand digs into one of the pockets of her brown duster, pulls out a package of thin cigars. She holds one between her lips as she lights it, takes a deep drag. A job well done.

She knows it would be foolish to linger. If she is seen walking alone and in the night, a patrol will stop her. Not because they think she is a thief, but because she is a woman. Another reason to hate Uvar. She thinks that for being so technologically advanced, Uvar is more backward than any other country in Kalyn. That—because she has a set of breasts and lacks a penis—she is somehow worth less.

There’s a grouping of trees along the edge of the property, separating the fence and the road. Leas slips beneath the canopy and into the shadows. A black motorcycle leans heavily on its stand with a matching helmet and large jacket draped over the seat. She holds the cigar between her lips as she tries to twist and tuck her unruly copper hair into the helmet. Next is the jacket. The night is not cold, but it’s a necessary disguise. She will ride to the edge of the city. With the bulky jacket on she will look like a man. As long as no one gets too close.

As she fires up the engine, feels the bulk of the bike between her legs, she thinks of the refuge of her airship waiting on the edge of Central City. Quixote. A copper-clad gemstone. She thinks of the warmth of her bed in the cabin; a pair of arms wrapped around her as she settles in for the night. Steady breathing. The feeling of silky brown hair between her fingers. Moist lips. Leas drops the clutch too fast, spins the tire in her haste before tearing out of the forested shelter and onto the deserted road.

There’s the feeling of being free in moments like this. The cold wind makes her eyes water. Even uphill the bike is gaining speed. She can feel the heat of the engine through her pant legs. She thinks this must be how Tainean feels when she flies Quixote. It’s addictive. The excitement makes her wish the road didn’t end.

A patrol car appears from behind a building, turns the corner in front of her. Its headlights grow brighter as they approach. She realizes she’s biting into the butt of her cigar, clenching her teeth. Her hands tighten around the grip. She’s ready to burn her way up the hill, if she needs to. She doubts the bike can go faster than the car. The patrol rolls steadily closer. Maybe she can get up the hill. Hide away in an alley before they can turn to come after her. Getting closer. If she can’t beat them with speed, then she’ll use agility. Closer. She holds her breath. The whine of the engine vibrates in her ears. A few more seconds and they will have passed her. Moonlight reflects off the windshield. She can’t see inside.

They pass her. Silently. Without trouble. Leas lets out the breath she’s holding. She’s lightheaded with relief. A grin resurfaces. Her eyes are stinging from the wind. The engine revs and pulls her to the top of the hill, where the buildings thin and the road roughens. She can see the desert in the distance. The Red Sands. A barren land. Nothing but sand for miles and miles. She thinks the word, dry. Feels it in the back of her throat.

Quixote rests at the edge of the city, a few yards away from the last building. Leas sees it as a thin shape outlined against the backdrop of rolling dunes. Its sleek copper body shines like silver in the moonlight. She wonders if Tainean can hear the roar and rumble of the motorcycle from inside the ship. Thinks perhaps she is watching from one of the wide windows. The cigar has burned down to her lips. She turns her head to the side and spits it out.

As she approaches Quixote she notices the ramp drop down from the undercarriage. Tainean has seen her. Leas rides the motorcycle up and into the cargo hold of the ship. There’s little room to maneuver with the bike. The room is lined with wooden crates, stacks of them tied down to the floor to keep them from shifting in flight. She kills the engine and pushes the bike between two large crates. She feels the floor shudder and hears the mechanical whirr of gears as the ramp folds up into the ship. A metallic stairway leads up onto a catwalk, a second floor, where she can access the cabin and the cockpit.

She peeks into the cabin, but the room is dark and empty. When Leas enters through a steel door she sees Tainean sitting in the cockpit at the controls. A windshield wraps around the front half of the room. Leas can almost make out the silhouette of Central City in the distance. Tainean brings up a translucent screen. Numbers, dials, a map of Uvar stretches across the view. Leas can see she has flagged five ships on the edge of the city. Military ships. Lamoran ships.

The Empress’ escort, no doubt, Leas says. Tainean turns to greet her with a nod. Her brown hair falls just below her shoulders. She has let it grow these last two years. It is longer than Leas has ever seen it.

That’s definitely a Lamoran fleet, Tainean replies. Not exactly low-key with that kind of hardware. Trust General Almadzi to load them with firearms before a peace treaty signing.

Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same. Leas reaches out to touch Tainean’s hair the moment she turns away from the screen to face her. She pauses. Hand hovering close to the back of the pilot seat. Tainean raises an eyebrow, and asks, What were you doing?

Your hair looks soft. Come to bed with me? Leas knows Tainean’s used to her foolishness by now. She knows she can say anything to her and she would simply shrug it away. Let Leas touch her hair, her face, the smooth skin of her neck. Leas wonders when the initial fire died. When passion was replaced with complacency.

What are you wearing?

Leas’ forgotten to take off the helmet and bulky jacket. Grinning, she lifts the helmet from her head, letting her copper curls fall out around her face. She thinks Tainean should know why she needs the disguise. Having come from Uvar only two years ago. But she knows a hint. She feels like Tainean had slapped her hand away. A distance wedges between them, and it bothers her deeply. She thinks if she lets the hurt show in her eyes, in her face, that it will push Tainean further away. So she grins instead.

Did you get it? Tainean asks. The flintlock pistol is heavy in her hand when she pulls it out from its holster. The wooden stock is warm in her palm. She still can’t shake the eerie familiarity about it. Like the gun was made for her. Its fit is perfect.

It looks antique. Are you going to sell it when we get back to Maldeib?

Leas nods. She’s reminded of the promise she made to Oden Sans, of the job. Yeah.

She knows if she lets Tainean believe the pistol’s not important, that it’s just another object meant to bring in pay, then she will forget about it. Tainean’s memory is good. Selective, but good. It’s this quality that Leas uses against her. Sometimes. Only when necessary. The longer she holds the pistol, the more she’s convinced she’s meant to keep it.

Are you ready for the ceremony tomorrow? Tainean asks. Leas can tell she’s nervous about it in the way her voice piques like the tips of the iron-wrought fence Leas scaled moments ago.

It’ll be fine, Taih. Tainean has never come with Leas on a heist. Never held a hook pick. Never felt the satisfaction of hearing a lock click open. It’s this knowledge that makes Leas worry she might have dragged Tainean too far into her line of work. Too much could go wrong tomorrow. It’s not a simple break in and grab. When she voiced her concerns before, Tainean insisted on helping. She said, It’s dangerous. I want to be there with you.

With you.

Funny how she says these things. With a slight twitch of the lips, touching Leas’ face gently with her fingertips. Leas doesn’t know whether or not it’s concern she sees in her eyes. And yet when she advances, Tainean shies away. Refuses to reciprocate the affection she’s given.

Leas drops the helmet and jacket onto a passenger seat next to the aisle and moves to the door of their room at the back of the bridge. She thinks her sudden silence bothers Tainean, because she hears footsteps following behind her.

The Emperor of Lamora has a sense of humor sending the Empress and General Almadzi instead of coming himself, Tainean says. I’m sure the Uvarian Council will love it.

Their room is simply furnished with a bed, dresser, and desk. Leas sits on the edge of the bed and pulls out another cigar. Lights it. Lets it hang from her lips as she undresses for the night. The rope burn on her palms rubs against the fabric of her pants. She winces.

I guess since the Emperor won’t be there, our job will be a little easier. This comment makes Leas stare up at Tainean with a deep frown. Nothing about tomorrow’s job will be easy. She knows it, but she fears Tainean’s lack of caution will get them both in trouble.

No. People don’t call General Almadzi a hero for no bloody reason. I expect the security to be the same, if not more stringent, Leas replies.

Are you really going to smoke that in here?

Leas is reluctant to give in so easily as she plucks the cigar from her mouth and taps it out in a nearby ashtray. She’s tired. Too tired to start an argument. The rest of the night is spent in silence. Leas lies awake staring at the steel wall and thinks of how things used to be. Watching light catch in a pair of hazel eyes. A nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach. Feeling the soft skin on the inside of Tainean’s thighs. One rainy night in Uvar.

Central City, Uvar

When General Almadzi steps off the hovership in Central City she is entranced by the sight of the ocean. She can taste the salt in the air. The harbor shimmers in the moonlight. The stone buildings look out at it. They seem like they are leaning toward it, being pulled in by the receding current. There is so much water. She is struck by the mystery of its depths. She lets the word slip away from her:

Beautiful.

I’ve seen it before. Allanis strides past her to reach a large motorcar that will take them to the royal palace, where the King of Uvar waits to greet them. Colonel Jas walks next to her flanked by armed soldiers. General Almadzi thinks if anyone is watching from the windows of the buildings around the port they will only see a grouping of crimson cloaks. She wraps hers tighter around her shoulders to keep out the chill. It is colder here than the desert of Lamora. Damp too. She is used to the dry. Dry does not settle on the skin, does not weigh down the lungs. She clears her throat and follows Allanis to the motorcar.

Colonel Jas shuts the passenger door once Allanis is seated and turns