The Unspoken: Book One in the Keres Trilogy (26 page)

I strip down to my underclothes, tossing the skirt and top in the hamper. Standing in front of my full-length mirror I look at my tattoos. I have four now: the Heavy, the wings, the tree, and the net. There are a hundred ways that these limited ink patterns could have stopped the scene on the Quad. I could have moved the golden pyramids, could have lifted PG3420 to safety, I could have stopped Sotter from going forward. I could have cleared Harc
’
s mind to keep her from the waging the internal war between remaining still to protect PG3456 and our plans and speaking out to protect the entire city. Instead I am forced to hide my abilities and live with the guilt that I stood there and watched people suffer, watched people be tortured. And I did nothing.

The next morning when I press my hand to the metal plate on the Warren door, an unfamiliar voice calls my name. I turn and see a short woman just stepping off the elevator. The sides of her head are shaved, with ink covering every exposed inch of skin above her shoulders. The strip of dark brown hair running down the center of her skull and halfway down her back is arranged in hundreds of tiny braids that start at the roots. Different colored beads randomly secured through her braids click together as she walks towards me. She looks like an eccentric, tiny bird.

“
Abbot tells me you are joining us on the scavenge,
”
she says, as her voice spills out of her like she
’
s a cup left under the tap too long and is rapidly overflowing.

“
He said he wanted me to go. I assumed he had to get clearance before it was official.
”

“
Clearance? From whom? Abbot
’
s your mentor,
”
she looks at me quizzically.
“
My name is Loshee.
”

“
Nice to meet you.
”

“
Same. Listen, you don
’
t know who I am do you?
”

“
Abbot doesn
’
t tell me much. He enjoys seeing the results of ignorance.
”

A grin spreads across Loshee
’
s face,
“
That
’
s Abbot alright. His greatest source of joy is watching others squirm. I
’
m the weapons builder. I design and construct everything we use.
”
She seems to search my face for some sign of awe but finds nothing. She makes a movement with her hands indicating dismissal,
“
You
’
ll be impressed when you see them. Which is now actually. I
’
ve been asked to fit you out and train you for the scavenge.
”

“
Fit me out?
”

“
Each weapon is as unique as the user. Just like our tattoos, in point of fact. Let me change and I
’
ll meet you on the weapons hall.
”
Loshee disappears in a den while I continue to press my way through to the Warren.

Loshee
’
s cocky, bubbly personality might have struck me differently if the day hadn
’
t already started out so strangely. Instead of going straight to breakfast, PG3456 ran to the consequence board in front of the north residence compound to see what Sotter
’
s confession earned PG3453. We read the notice poster four times before we realized PG3453 was not listed. They were not receiving a punishment. At least not today. Occasionally, The Mothers take some time deciding on a consequence, which delays the notice a day or two. But it
’
s rare, as in the case of PG3456
’
s Solace.

After I replace a few books on the shelves in the Magus Library, I meet Loshee just entering the weapons hall.

“
I hear you throw already. Which probably accounts for Abbot sending you to me so soon. I usually don
’
t get my weapons on newbies until the sixth or seventh year,
”
Loshee babbles as she unlocks a door,
“
You must be a beast. How many do you have?
”

“
What? Oh, um three, not including the guard.
”

“
If I don
’
t have control over it, I don
’
t include it,
”
she flings her bulging pack and armful of papers onto a table and moves towards a rack holding a number of long spears and tall bows.
“
I
’
ll start with showing you mine. Then we
’
ll test you out on some of the other types and see what fits you.
”
She grabs a long staff with twisted copper and brass plating running the length of the wooden shaft. At one end, a glass orb with blue smoke trapped inside is secured in a swirl of metal shaped like leaves, on the other end is a dingy blade. She spins the staff in her hands and several of her tattoos begin to glow and morph to their true shapes, while the smoke in the orb end churns and thickens. Loshee makes a jab with the spear while dropping to one knee, her other leg kicked out in the direction of the thrust. An audible sizzling sound accompanies the three blots of blue electricity that shoot out of the orb, hitting the target on each side and in the dead center, exploding it in a shower of sparks. Loshee flicks a piece of lint off her knee, casually throws a repairing magus from the tattoo on her ankle at the target and jumps to her feet. I can feel my bottom jaw hanging open and snap it shut with a click of my teeth.

“
Now are you impressed?
”
she asks me.

“
Very.
”

“
It is pretty flashy. But then, so am I,
”
she says, tossing her hundreds of minute braids and rattling her beads.

“
How did you do that without touching your ink?
”

“
A weapon is built for a specific person. My staff, like all the weapons, is infused with a unique ink blend allowing it to interact with just me. When the owner of a weapon holds it, it responds to the intentional thought. When your mind sends a magus to the designated nerve group, the weapon pulls it away. It throws the magus like it
’
s an incredibly powerful extension of your palm. Like a lightning rod, only controllable. Intelligent. Let
’
s try some on you, see what fits.
”

We walk to the rack and she has me spin spears, thrash sickles, fire arrows from different-shaped bows, jab the air with a pair of sai, swing swords, axes, and spiked iron balls attached to sticks with iron chains. Loshee lets me wield each weapon for less than a minute before yanking it out of my hands and thrusting a new one at me. She
’
s visibly frustrated, but I can
’
t tell why. All the weapons feel the same to me, foreign but not unnatural. When she pulls a particularly menacing sickly green colored scythe from my hands almost the second I close my fingers around it, she flings it across the room in contempt. Propping her hands on her hips, she blows a huff of air at a braid that
’
s fallen across her face.

“
Is something supposed to be happening?
”
I ask her.
“
Am I doing something wrong?
”

“
No, no. I mean yes,
”
she answers waving both her hands as she walks in circles around me. She stops abruptly and pulls my wrists up to her face, inspecting them.
“
It
’
s worth a shot I guess,
”
she mumbles to herself, then to me she says,
“
Stay put. We are going to try something.
”
She leaves the room and returns with a square wooden box.
“
I
’
ve been working on these for a while now. But I wasn
’
t sure who would be able to manage them. They will pull forcefully straight from the wrists and there aren
’
t many people on the hall who could withstand that kind of continued drain in combat. These are just the prototypes, mind. So don
’
t turn up your nose. I
’
ll build your own impressively gorgeous set to your specifications,
”
she says while she opens the box and shows me two small crossbows resting on pegs inside. She takes one out and rests it on the top of my wrist and hand, buckling one of the leather straps around my thumb and wrist and another around my knuckles. The crossbow is about seven inches wide and six inches from the prod apex to the back of the stock. Loshee
’
s prototype looks like it
’
s made from discarded scrap, a mash up of bits of metal and wood that look as if only Loshee
’
s sheer willpower hold them together.

“
Well, go on, give it a try,
”
she says giving me a push toward the target.

“
There aren
’
t any arrows to shoot.
”

“
Don
’
t necessarily need them with these. But I
’
ll make you some bolts if you
’
re stuck on the idea. Try it.
”

I stretch out my arm with the crossbow attached and punch the air awkwardly. I feel the inside of my arm heat up as the bow string quivers ever so slightly.

“
Hot Hexes. That
’
s the one!
”
Loshee cries. She rips the buckles loose and tosses the tiny crossbow back in the box with its mate. She wears an expression of supreme smugness while she takes measurements of my body. She can
’
t reach the top of my head so I hold the tape for her.

“
Now, let
’
s see what kind of magus you can really throw. Target range is across the hall.
”
She leads the way, kicking open the door with her boot. I get the feeling she likes to create a lot of noise to make herself seem larger than she is in reality. She would crash through the forest to scare away dangerous predators who would interpret her smallness as a sign of easy prey. In the target range, stalls are set up across the back wall, but I don
’
t see any wooden targets. Loshee positions me in the center of the opposite wall.
“
Don
’
t think, just throw. Ready? Go!
”
she yells and stomps a green button on the floor.