Page 8 of Light Locked #1

Diversions

C LEA WINCED AS the soldiers threw her onto her knees.

The worn carpet barely softened her landing against the stone beneath it.

She’d never imagined seeing this throne room again.

The ancient columns and carvings had once been beautiful and nostalgic; now, they served as grim reminders of circumstance.

The harder she fought to escape the city, the deeper it drew her in. If King Odell didn’t believe her story, if he remained under the medallion’s influence completely, then she’d certainly be sent to prison or worse.

King Odell said nothing, waiting in his throne under the shadows cast by the late afternoon. Only his armor-clad feet peeked into the light, reflecting the sun with such brilliance that the contrast made it hard to make out his figure.

When Clea had taken the medallion from him, he’d been sleeping, his labored breathing filling the darkness of the room with every rasped withdrawal.

The sound had seemed desperate as her hands trembled furiously to peel the jewelry from his neck.

She’d never stolen anything in her life, much less from a king, and had fumbled so long with the chain, it was a miracle that he hadn’t awoken.

If only she’d been quicker, his guards wouldn’t have spotted her on the way out.

Luckily, it seemed his breathing had recovered from its rasping loudness, giving her some confidence that not only had he regained his breath from the medallion’s poisoning, but perhaps a bit of his true personality as well.

Clea only regretted that she hadn’t noticed the signs of the cien infestation sooner.

Before darkening the eyes of its victims, cien fostered fear, bursts of anger, and paranoia.

They were traits she’d dismissed until they’d turned on her.

The medallion had cloaked itself under the veil of the king’s ansra like a parasite, eating away at him, spreading to the other Veilin.

It acted with a level of sophistication Clea had never seen cien use before, and only as an outsider with less time in the castle had she been able to resist being drawn in with the rest.

She expected the king to greet her, to issue a demand, or an accusation.

She lifted her eyes in the slightest to see his hands resting idly on the armrests of the throne.

She didn’t move her head higher, knowing that keeping your head bowed and allowing higher royalty to speak first were both signs of respect.

She needed him to know she hadn’t acted out of ill will.

The Deadlock Medallion had tried to kill him—tried to kill all of them, infesting the castle long before she’d arrived.

They’d succumbed to its poisons, and Clea could only hope that she wasn’t weeks away from the same fate.

Loda was the only option. It was the only city with enough Veilin to destroy the medallion outright, and after watching everyone else falter, she’d realized, to her horror, that she was the only one left. She had to be the one to steal it.

The silence continued, Clea still watching the king’s hands, eager for him to speak. She committed to waiting in the silence, knowing that it was a type of punishment. His fingers gestured forward just before she lowered her head.

In that gesture was a demand, because the soldiers hoisted her up and dragged her back.

Clea threw her head up, catching the king’s face through the shadows.

His brown hair curled over his eyes, crown and clothes perfectly in place, but his head hung to the side as if he were sleeping.

Horror flashed in cool, prickling waves under Clea’s skin as she saw the white vacancy of death in his gaze.

He was a corpse, and yet those fingers on the armrest flickered as the soldiers wrenched the medallion from her neck. The infected body beckoned the medallion, just as Clea knew death now beckoned her.

Clea slammed her elbows against the guards and felt their grip coil tighter.

Every bit of fighting strength that still remained her body surged to the surface.

“Someone, wake up!” she screamed, catching the helmeted eyes of the guards as they dragged her from the room.

“Know what you’re doing! Don’t follow the cien! ”

Her muscles burned with exhaustion as she dragged her feet and thrashed, crying out in terror and desperation as she drew marks across the carpet.

???

Ryson had gotten nothing from the soldier he’d interrogated beyond the use of his armor.

A blackness was creeping around the soldier’s irises.

Ryson had seen cien poisoning enough elsewhere to know the signs.

Determined to investigate further, he had infiltrated the castle.

He listened to passing chatter, poking into one room and then the next.

The castle was completely contaminated with cien.

Ryson sensed its presence in the walls, the air, and the wells, eager to be consumed and inhaled.

It was bizarre for a Veilin stronghold to be so heavily smothered in it, yet it gave Ryson full liberty to explore without any risk of being sensed by them.

He was certain Alina had sensed this impending crisis and was convinced that she was luring him into something, though he couldn’t determine what. His mind remained preoccupied with the possibilities until he stumbled upon a strange discovery.

He’d initially thought it was a kind of green room due to the abundance of collected plants but there was a bed, dresser and table. The plants lined the windows and walls in overwhelming amounts along with a smattering of collected rocks and books.

I bet this room is hers , his cien chided with a hint of derision.

“Veilin and their plants. Could she be any more typical?” Ryson said as he walked carefully into the room before noticing an article on the wall.

It was a framed parchment describing a program that had been developed to increase the production of crops and provide work and food for the poor in Virday.

Ryson groaned.

It’s awful. I bet she helped develop the program. She keeps the parchment here as a token to remind her every day of all the good still possible in the world .

“If Alina is trying to torture me with all this, she’s reached a new level of sadism.”

I bet Clea gives her water rations to the plants and then gives her plants to the poor.

Ryson smirked at the thought as he continued his investigation. The rest of the room was painfully neat and organized, even the tiny, decorative bottles on the wooden dresser sorted by size and color.

You should rearrange two. Or four. Oh! Wait! No. No. Smash them all!

Ryson’s dark likeness sighed dreamily and materialized on the bed, hands resting behind its head as it watched the ceiling.

I have to admit, it does kind of feel like the forest in here. I like it, it said, glancing over at the plants. Her ability to grow plants in Virday is impressive. It’s said that powerful Veilin will nurture life compulsively. They can’t help it. Their ansra drives their natures.

“That’s just a myth perpetuated by people who idolize them.

Potential Veilin are indoctrinated since birth, reminded daily of how short their lives are, and turned into vacant, altruistic prudes obsessed with dying a bloody martyr’s death.

They claim to be harbingers of life, but they’re more obsessed with death than we are.

” Ryson replied as he continued to stare at the framed parchment.

Am I sensing some old resentment?

“I can tolerate and even respect a well crafted lie, but I’ve gutted my share of unsophisticated and single minded hypocrites, utterly convinced I was doing the world a favor. And I would be shocked if she had any real power. She’s an average combatant at best.”

Not all power is expressed through force. You couldn’t do this.

“Because I lack the patience, not the skill.”

Nurturing life requires more patience than skill. Like I said, you couldn’t do this.

Ryson shrugged off the comment as he settled into a pensive silence, eyes still glued to the parchment. “I don’t understand it.”

His replica slid from the bed, and was soon standing at his side.

What?

He’d tolerated Clea’s sympathy for the trapped human mind.

That had been bothersome enough, but then he’d seen her look at the market when she was watching the play.

He’d only toyed with the thought of turning her in until he saw that look, watching the play of their history as if it had been a source of inspiration.

That had been the push he’d needed to sell her out to the guards.

There were more practical ways to figure out the truth she was hiding. The way that you’re going about this is almost playful. It’s either that or you’re punishing the girl for being hopeful, which is surprisingly petty. That’s a lot, coming from me.

“You are me,” Ryson snapped back, reaching to rub his face and instantly regretting the sound the metal glove made against the base of the helmet. “What is she getting out of all this? Does she really think she’s changing the world?”

She’s a fool. We’ve established that.

“Still.”

Ryson walked past his likeness to the end table near the bed. He examined what remained of Clea’s personal effects. Candle. Hairbrush. Picture frame.

That’s interesting. I didn’t know Loda had developed the technology to take photographs yet. His copy said from over his shoulder as Ryson picked up the frame.

“It must have been a gift from the city of Ruedom. They’ve been trying to civilize Loda for years.

I can’t tell which of them is more deserving of pity.

” He inspected the faces of Clea’s family, from her mother’s sharp eyes and long hair to her husband’s hard, sullen expression.

Ryson’s eyes drifted to six children. No one was smiling, as was the Lodain practice, thinking false smiles in some ways as deceptive as the forest’s charms.