Tallah

Quistis could still hear the revelling as she slunk back into their cell’s office. It’d been… what? She counted seven days since the Night of Descent but probably longer. She’d had precious little time to relax between then and now, and the days had a way of blending together if one slept too little.

A half-empty mug of cold coffee perched on the edge of her desk. She hadn’t even tasted it before being called out to look at whatever Rumi had found in the Angledeer home.

Not much of interest at a glance. Books in a myriad of languages miraculously saved from destruction by sheer bulk. Schematics for rather odd implements. Some boxes of foul-smelling tea.

Odd, that one.

Everything had been dug out, written down, and painstakingly carted back to the Citadel. A lifetime of refuse gathered in a hovel in Valen by a man with an edict on his head. Wonders never ceased.

Falor slumped in a chair by the fire, gripping a cup of coffee. It looked to have gone cold. For a moment, as she hung her cloak up to dry, she thought he slept.

“Welcome back.” He opened his eyes, staring into the fire. “Anything of interest?”

On his other hand he wore his white gauntlet. Fine black cracks spread across the fingers, clear even in dim firelight. He formed a fist and the whole thing creaked, shards flaking off.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” She took note of the dark circles pooling beneath his eyes. “Put down the coffee and go rest. You’ve done more than enough.”

And he had. After Cinder’s escape and throughout the following days, he’d helped with clearing the rubble, putting out the fires, and quieting the unrest. And after that he’d supervised the Illum Ascendi, hammer in hand, in case the sorceress tried sneaking back in the same way she’d left.

Valen’s people hailed him as a hero and toasted to his health everywhere now. “For the Lord Commander’s health, may long and strong be the arm of his law!” was a toast in taverns. Much to Diogron’s displeasure, but that was a worry she put away for whenever she’d miss a headache.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned as he raised the cup to his lips. “Sleep. Or the next time you spar I’ll let you bleed into unconsciousness.”

He listened and let out a slow breath, setting the mug down on the floor by the chair.

“You know…” He turned a black gaze upon her. His hand went to his neck and massaged slowly, like feeling around for an invisible cut. “She could have killed me. Did anyone report that? She could have taken my head clean off and there was nothing I could’ve done to prevent it.” His tongue licked across his upper teeth. “Nothing at all.”

“You can’t know that.” It was an effort not to flinch and look over her shoulder at the spot he was staring at.

He smiled grimly and rolled his shoulders. She heard every pop.

“I assumed she had hidden strength or else she wouldn’t have come out of hiding like that. I was braced for it. But that burst?” He shook his head slowly, sucking in breath between his teeth. “Even mother can’t do it that cleanly. I was utterly unprepared for it. And this…”

He raised his gauntlet, and it crumbled like porcelain, parts of it dropping to shatter on the floor. A pity to see it in such state. It was a work of art, constructed and enchanted by some of the finest artisans of Aztroa Magnor. A gift from the empress herself, back when their cell had been sent as peacekeepers to Valen.

The enchantment, as Quistis had seen it working countless times, was made to break weaves. Granted, it had a limit as any enchantment did, but she’d never seen anyone save for Falor himself even strain the piece.

“You finally broke it?”

“She broke the enchantment. Overloaded it. It was…” He licked cracked lips while studying the damage. “Some lances and a few fireballs? Not even a devourer. Can you imagine how powerful her output is? If she had stood her ground for a head-on, the night might have ended quite differently.”

So that’s what preyed on him. She’d read the reports. Everyone declared the Commander besting Cinder’s assassination attempt—that’s what they were calling it anyway—and how wildly outclassed the sorceress had been throughout the engagement. Nobody seemed to understand how close they’d been to disaster.

“Maybe she’s not as good as you give her credit.”

“You’re wrong.”

“And you’re dead on your feet. Go rest.”

No answer for long enough that she had a chance to consider her coffee. The mountain of paperwork on her desk loomed and it was definitely much too late in the night to deal with. As Quistis lifted the mug, she considered her own advice.

Besides, cold coffee was disgusting.

“Why do you think she hesitated?” Falor turned back to the dying fire, gauntlet set down by the cool mug. “You think she tried to scare me? Make a point of some sort?”

She couldn’t answer that. Falor knew Cinder much better than she ever would. Pupil and mentor. If he wondered at her motives, Quistis couldn’t even begin to guess.

“I wouldn’t know. But you need rest, Commander. No point on dwelling on what the mad do.”

“She’s not mad, Quis. I guarantee that. No more than you or I.”

Sounds of the city-wide celebration carried through an open window somewhere down the hall. It was winding down after all, compared to previous night, some of the revellers peeling away, their whistles and cheers dying out in the distance.

“You fought her off and everyone in Valen is celebrating,” she tried. “Wouldn’t do for their hero to sulk himself sick.”

Not even a chuckle. Just the same black, exhausted stare.

“They’re celebrating the Descent, not me. I’ve failed to bring her to heel. Hesitated on the killing blow. Do you know what my mother asked me when we were alone? Before she left?”

She hadn’t been listening in on that. Rather, she’d been busy keeping Diogron away from the gate while the empress exchanged some parting words with her son.

“What did you do to Cinder? That’s all. Didn’t even bat an eye when I described her spitting my devourer back at me.” He shook his head again, eyes unfocused. “How had she known I’d failed? She never asked if I did. Just knew it.”

Falor plunged into darker waters. Quistis recognized that black mood and decided on a change of tack. Her work wouldn’t get done on its own but it would keep for a few more bells. She set her staff on its pegs and made her way to his chair. They were alone in the entire wing of the Citadel, the rest of their cell engaged in the city or sleeping off daytime celebrations.

She put her hands on the back of his neck, thumbs pressed on his knotted muscles. A gentle upwards pressure made him shudder.

“We know she’s using shards,” she said. Her fingers began a slow massage, thumb over thumb as her mother had taught her. “She’s not coming back into the city that way. The gates are watched. Rumi and Aidan are training the guardsmen for what to watch for. Vial’s seeing to getting the plaques made for the other two unknowns. Barlo’s drilling the city guard on what to do against someone like her the next time she shows up. All is firmly in hand.”

Her fingers slid under the collar of his uniform, massaging the coiled ropes of his muscles. If Falor were any stiffer, he’d match the actual statue of him that some were wished erected.

“You are wonderfully efficient, as ever.” He looked up at her and shifted in the chair. His shoulders began to relax under her touch. “What would I do without you?”

“Overwork yourself into an early coffin, I believe.” She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “I’ll make you a deal, Commander. You go to bed, and I will join you. We could both do with a good night’s sleep. Or what may remain of it, anyway.”

After interminable silence, Quistis was almost certain he’d fallen asleep right there and then. Almost certain and more than a little disappointed.

“I’d like that,” he said with a deep inhale of breath. In one swift movement he rose from the chair and stretched. “The crises of tomorrow can wait until morning, I suppose. Let’s.”

Quistis lingered for a bit longer, emptying cups of coffee over dying embers and cracking open a window. Echoes of the night bells carried over the soft whispers of late-Winter wind. Three of them, the cusp of midnight. She set a paperweight on her mountain of work and cursed herself for the very efficiency Falor had praised. I should leave you to be blown into the night.

She shook her head, ascending the staircase into Falor’s chamber.

Echoes of the night bells chased some of the dream cobwebs as Quistis woke groggily in the dark of deep night. Five bells? Maybe six? Hard to say and harder to understand what had woken her so early. Heavy drapes covered the windows with barely a slit between them. The room was bathed in pitch. Not even a sliver of light penetrated from the outside.

She tried stretching but her legs and abdomen protested the idea. Right, that’s going to take a day and a warm bath, she thought as she withdrew from Falor’s back and cringed at the aches of her muscles.

He stirred under the quilt as her arms slipped free. A sliver of cold air goose-pricked her skin at the loss of contact.

Had she heard something?

Clearer vision came to her dimly, along with a rough understanding that there would be some more bells tolling before dawn. These were the uneven, quiet times spanning midnight to sunrise, the no man’s land of living where bakers lit their ovens and criminals retreated into their lairs.

Falor’s armour hung on its support, undisturbed and still soot-stained by Cinder’s attack. His star-ore hammer rested next to it, a dull spot of grey in the night. Stacks of books on the floor. A pyramid of scrolls on his desk. The smell of weapon oil and sweat. All familiar and grounding to her as she resisted the temptation of sleep stinging her eyes.

Something felt off yet nothing was disturbed.

Falor’s room was small and cramped, a place of storage rather than living. His bed was almost as narrow as the one in her quarters, barely fitting two people embraced. She tried not to move too much and wake him. His even breathing was synced with hers even as her unease grew into spreading, irrational panic.

Shadows. More than there should be. Black on the deep blue of night. She masked the agitation with a yawn as she resettled herself beneath the comforting weight of the quilt.

Someone was in the room with them. She knew it with the powerful certainty of a knife in the back. And she was suddenly and terribly aware of how naked they both were. How far they lay from their weapons. Her staff hung on its pegs in the office, two floors below. Falor’s maul was two arm spans from the foot of the bed. The closest thing to a weapon was a long-tailed broom leaned against the wall by her side.

No movement. No sound. Not even an errant draft.

A tremor where her leg touched Falor’s, the barest hint of power buildup. Good. He was awake and aware. If she could feel the oddness, he would just as well.

Six people would be dead or incapacitated for anyone to gain access to this room, four of them Storm Guards, loyal beyond question. Her blood ran cold at the prospect of senseless murder.

Falor shifted position, the rustle of cloth hiding the draw and buzz of power. Any moment—

Pure black erupted from the farthest corner of the room. In a heartbeat they leapt clear of the bed, the cover thrown into the encroaching dark. Quistis made for the broom, eyes held tightly shut. A flash of lightning blasted away the night and turned the world bright red. Glass and wood crashed and splintered to the floor in a cacophony. Wind rushed in on frigid wings with a sandblast of dust.

Quistis snatched the broom and cast it in a wide arc. Nothing connected. She swung again, the wall at her back, and tried to blink away blots of colours.

Another thunder-clap and more waves of cold rushed into the shattered room. No one assailed her.

She built walls around herself and summoned a sprite above to take measure of what had happened.

A hole yawned into the cold Valen night. Falor peered out of it, one arm wreathed in pulsing, arcing lightning. The window was gone and so was nearly a quarter of the room. What survived of the curtain flapped in the breeze. In the far distance of a cloudless night, light crested over the mountain horizon.

Falor clambered from the wreckage and dug out his clothes from debris. He threw Quistis her tattered robes.

“They ran. Crepuscular. See to the guards,” he ordered, pulling on trousers.

His hair was matted down by dust but there was no blood on him. No assassin would’ve given them such an exceptional chance of survival. Quistis looked about the wreckage.

“Falor,” she called.

Her sprite rose to the ceiling to reveal a message left to them.

Falor spared the sight but a glance before turning away. “See to the guards.” He launched himself into the faltering night. Thunder followed as he blasted across the Citadel’s rooftops. His maul flew by her head a moment later, trailing its wrathful master.

Down below, in the courtyard, shouts and whistles resounded. The Citadel came alive with alarms.

Quistis stood still and read the words over again.

“The sins of the mother taint the son,” they said, written above their bed in what was certainly blood.

The cold bit into her naked skin and her wits slotted home. She drew on robes hurriedly and ran down the stairs towards the first guard post.

Their next crisis, it seemed, could not even wait for morning to break properly.