2 - DAMAGE

Cossara stopped time.

The outward explosion of fire froze, tendrils of flame suspended in mid-air. The first barrel to have exploded had filled the air with sharp, wooden splinters, all now frozen. The woman who had smashed her lantern into the barrel was already dead. Although Cossara had put a temporary stop on the working of the universe the moment she’d realized what had been about to happen, the woman, the perpetrator of this destruction, had been destroyed by the force of the explosion so quickly that now Cossara observed her in several different pieces, skull blown apart, bones shattered and now, like everything else, immobilized.

Cossara was not spared from what she’d just done. Three seconds had passed since she’d stopped time. Her body wanted to breathe, but her body was frozen. Only her consciousness remained functional. Cossara could, on average, hold her breath for six minutes and sixteen seconds—thus, that was exactly how long she could keep all of existence held in place.

Not that she needed six minutes and sixteen seconds.

She took in the scene quickly and carefully. Mezamir was, unfortunately, far too close to the exploding barrel to be safe. The explosion would certainly set off a chain reaction that would result in all of the other barrels joining the first. She estimated that Mezamir’s chance of survival, without intervention, was low.

That wasn’t acceptable.

Fear threatened to emerge from the cold stillness inside of her, but masterfully, she suppressed it. She needed to remain analytical. Emotion could not get the best of her. Not now, when the most important thing in her life was under threat.

The chances of the others surviving were also incredibly low. Even lower, since Cossara had no intention of saving them. The loss of the traitors wasn’t ideal, since she and Mezamir had intended to arrest and then question them, but ultimately, it was no great loss to the Autarchy. There were always more traitors, more threats to put down.

Mezamir was the priority. He had to survive.

But how?

Cossara’s mind, in contradiction to the rest of reality, raced. She was physically fast—few were faster. She could make it to Mezamir in approximately four seconds. The primary blast would’ve reached him by that point but she could, perhaps, protect him from the secondary blasts, which would be very slightly staggered. She could position herself in front of him, body rotated so that her armored torso was facing the direction of the incoming explosion. The sheer force would still be incredibly dangerous, capable of snapping bone and damaging internal organs—but the two of them were Seeking Hand Operatives. Through advanced arcane science, she and Mezamir were designed to withstand greater punishment. It was difficult to calculate just how much force would be coming their way and whether or not their muscles and bones could take it. Difficult, but not impossible—though ultimately pointless.

It was, after all, her only choice, and she was about to see just how exactly things were about to play out.

I love you, she thought, taking in Mezamir’s frozen expression. His curly, golden hair, soaked by the rain, was stuck to his brow. His eyes, jade-green and more than a little mischievous, were slightly widened. His mouth was stuck in the beginning of a curse. She would’ve laughed if she’d been able to. It was an endearing, if morbid sight. It might also very well be the last good, proper look she’d ever get of him. Cossara waited out the minutes, ignoring the building discomfort inside of her. She would wait for as long as she could. If they were about to die, she would make the most of what they had.

Six minutes and two seconds.

Six minutes and ten—

Cossara unfroze time.

From a completely stationary position, she launched herself into sudden, explosive movement. Sound and motion resolved around her as the chaos of the universe resumed. The exact second after restarting time was always the most disorientating. There was simply no way to get used to the sudden breaking of absolute silence and stillness.

The explosion of the black powder was deafening.

It was thunder but amplified a thousandfold by its proximity to her. She felt it in her bones, a deep reverberation that threatened to snap her in half.

Heat. Pain.

Cossara moved without any heed for what was happening around her. She reached Mezamir. He was still standing, still alive. As planned, she grabbed him, twisted her body so that her armored torso faced the incoming blastwave. Air exploded out of her as force slammed into her chest. She and Mezamir both went down; she landed on top of him. Flame touched her, set her cloak on fire. Hissing, she rolled around, tried to put it out.

Mezamir was by her side, beating her cloak with his open palms until it was out.

“Thank you,” he said, meeting her gaze. She didn’t actually hear the words—her ears were ringing so badly that she couldn’t hear anything at all—but she easily read his lips, and read the gratitude and love in the way he looked at her then. He extended a hand, helped her back up to her feet.

The two stood there, close, and took in the scene.

Death and destruction surrounded them. Not as many of the barrels had exploded as Cossara had both feared and expected; pure luck, or perhaps a problem with the composition of the powder itself. Still, enough of them had erupted to kill just about every person in the area with the exception of the two of them—and the man now crawling across the ground just a few feet away, his legs little more than bony stumps protruding out of a gory mess. He moaned soundlessly, his expression like that out of some ghastly painting.

Mezamir steered her away. She automatically knew why; some of the corpses were smoldering or slightly aflame. More barrels could yet explode. It was not safe to remain close and, in any case, there was no point…they had come to arrest the traitors. Now the traitors were in pieces.

Cossara’s boot struck something and she nearly tripped. She glanced done, a little stunned, to see a disembodied arm reaching out for nothing in particular.

“Huh,” she said.

Arm-in-arm, they moved down the street, away from the destruction. Her hearing was improved now enough that she could hear shouts from the surrounding blocks. Soon, a small crowd would come to investigate the explosions. She reckoned half the city had likely heard it.

“Well,” Mezamir said. “That wasn’t good.”

At that moment, another barrel exploded.

“No,” Cossara agreed. “It wasn’t ideal.”

Mezamir laughed. That was one of many things Cossara loved about him—his ability to laugh no matter what. He could find humor in anything, often seemed to find everything faintly amusing.

A street patrol swept past them, led by a Justiciar. Somewhere, a bell was loudly ringing. Within a day, Cossara guessed, it would be as though nothing had even happened. Scenes of sudden violence were increasingly common not just in Sytara, but all across the Autarchy. That was what happened when a continent became infected with the worst disease of all—treachery.

“Where now?” Cossara asked.

“Now,” Mezamir said, “it’s time we got something to drink.”

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Although alcohol had been illegal all throughout the Autarchy for well over three decades now, it wasn’t difficult to find a place to drink in Sytara—if you knew the right people.

Mezamir, of course, knew all the right people. It was an abuse of their power to utilize their contacts and authority in order to procure illegal goods, but today, as on so many other days, Cossara decided to look the other way. Sometimes a person needed something to take off the edge. Cossara was all edges.

The Wellspring was an underground bar, ironically situated at one of the highest points in all of Sytara. It dominated the top floor of Black Point tower, a building owned and operated by The Lasten Company. The bar was all glass, black iron, and gold, a place for the rich and powerful who wanted to look out over the rest of the city while they drank, flaunting their privilege over the masses.

Cossara stood in front of a vast, glass window, eyeing the sprawling expanse of Sytara. A labyrinth of streets brilliantly lit up by lamplight, golden lines that ran through the darkness of the city. There was no visible end to Sytara. It was the third biggest city in the Autarchy and the heart of the empire’s manufacturing efforts. Two hundred years ago, there’d been nothing here but a small seaside town. In such a small space of time, Archon Marak had turned a town into a bustling, throbbing hive of activity. Black smoke from factories hung in the air above the city. Even inside, she could taste it, acrid and toxic, at the back of her throat, could feel the sting of it in her nose.

Mezamir appeared next to her, a class of jade-green alcohol in either hand. He passed her one, said, “Supposedly the city just hit one and a half million people. Thanks, of course, to the Archon’s breeding program.” A pause. “Did you know, they’ve now raised the reward per baby to twelve syn?”

Cossara glanced at him. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Only that it’s a better time than ever to start a family.”

Cossara sipped her drink. Sickeningly sweet with that familiar after-burn. She drank more. Often seemed like the only way to slow her thoughts down, to give her a moment to…relax. Not that she ever felt truly relaxed. Relaxed increasingly seemed like a made-up concept. Like everyone else was trying to trick her into believing such a state of being actually existed.

Mezamir cleared his throat. “Truly though, Cossara.”

He wanted an argument. That was surely the only reason he’d bring this up. “A shame,” she said, “that I was sterilized as a young girl.”

Mezamir’s eyes narrowed. “A good thing, then, that there are ways to fix that—if one had enough money. Which we do.”

Cossara downed her drink. She detected the slight elevation of her husband’s heart rate, along with the subtle shifts in his breathing pattern, that indicated he was experiencing heightened emotion. The way he was gazing distantly out across the city, eyes unfocussed, told her he was aware of his own emotional lapse and was trying to reign it in. Not that he could ever hide it from her. They were too familiar with each other for that, for better or worse.

Better, certainly, she thought. Their closeness was a weapon. It made them stronger. More dangerous and effective. That was the whole point.

Someone laughed loudly from a table behind them. The Wellspring was nearly entirely empty today. A door opened. Footsteps moving with a unique cadence announced the arrival of someone new.

“Mezamir,” she said, speaking very quietly. “We shouldn’t talk about this again. We are bound for life to the order. We are not to have children. Our love is deep and to be shared with no one else, as decided by our masters. You’re torturing both of us with your insistence on this childish dream. It has to stop. I should’ve been more stern last time but of course, this is a soft spot for me as well.” A pause. “The difference is that I’ve learned to accept what can’t be changed.”

Mezamir’s grip tightened around his glass. It audibly creaked. “My apologies. I should’ve listened to you last time.”

Cossara placed a hand on his arm. “I understand you.”

“It is…difficult. Loving you so deeply, yet being denied my urge to…”

“I know.”

“It’s not fair. This thing they do to us.”

Cossara can’t help but shift her awareness, determining exactly how close the other people in the room are and the chances that they might overhear something. Mez always picked the worst times and places to have the most dangerous conversations. It was his propensity toward impulse. Ideas and thoughts came to him and he simply just acted on them. More proof that the order deliberately paired opposites together. Likely he’d been steered toward these thoughts tonight by their proximity to death. Loss of life always did this to him, made him start thinking about creating new life. She suspected it was some kind of innate human mechanism.

Cossara opened her mouth to say something, shut it. The footsteps of the new arrival were heading in their direction, the path clear. With her right hand, she tapped two fingers against the glass in rapid succession, a message: Not alone; silence.

Mezamir didn’t react, except to shift his own glass into his left hand, freeing his right, which shifted minutely toward the inner folds of his coat, where weapons in abundance waited to be grasped and used.

Behind them, in the language known only to members of the Seeking Hand, a woman said, “At ease. Approaching dove.”

Cossara turned. She could see it now, all the signs that this newcomer was one of them. The beating of her heart, her breathing, and the way she carried herself all spoke to absolute mastery over her own body. Approaching dove, the code for I’m a friend, coming in peace, was hardly necessary, though it killed any lingering doubt.

The woman had an immediately striking face. Her eyes were large, bright, and intense. Her face was angular, her lips full and painted, as was the current trend. Straight, dark hair cascaded down around her shoulders, but really, it was her scars that demanded the most attention. They were plentiful, decorating her cheeks and brow, one cleaving through her lips, another splitting across her right eye. Some were clearly more recent than others, meaning they’d all be earned in different encounters. They were, for the most part, deep, serious scars, the sort only left by a close encounter with a killing blow. All operatives had scars, but this woman, whoever she was, wore hers with pride—and that meant she was dangerous.

“What an ugly city,” the woman said, moving closer to the glass. “So dirty. I can feel its poison in my lungs.

“Who are you?” Mezamir asked. Their private language, lockspeak, was designed to be as alien as possible so that an outsider couldn’t make sense of its sounds. It was difficult, even for operatives, but Mez spoke it better than most.

Not better than this woman, however.

“I’m a little disappointed in the question,” said the woman, still using lockspeak. “I’d hoped you would’ve figured it out by now. The clues are there. Piece it together. I assure you, the answer is within reach—grasp it, no matter how unlikely it is.”

The last part was an old Seeking Hand adage. In fact, it was commonly attributed to the Kyrios of the Seeking Hand—their founder and undying leader, who Cossara had never seen before. Not in person. But she’d seen the portrait of the Kyrios that dominated the east wall of the Crying Room. A stern woman, the Kyrios, with large, bright eyes—

Cossara gasped. Her right hand immediately flickered into motion, two hand signals that meant, I serve and obey, and, direct me, superior.

Mez watched her hand move, immediately stiffened and made the very same gestures.

The woman, their Kyrios, just smiled. “You didn’t get there as quickly as I’d hoped but you got there nonetheless. You can both be at ease. I understand you’ve had a long day. Although, I do question the choice of venue…Autarchy operatives in a place like this…”

Cossara’s cheeks burned. “Forgive us, Kyrios. A singular vice. One that will not be indulged in again.”

The Kyrios leaned in. “Between just the three of us, I never agreed with the alcohol ban. Marak has become somewhat…” she sighed. “Excessive. He has this idea in his head that the human race can be perfected. That every wasteful and undesirable aspect of us can be purged, leaving behind only the good. But who defines what’s good, hm? And in the end, human beings, we are the summation of the good and bad. That unique blend is responsible for so much beauty.”

Cossara blinked, floundering, searching for something to say. Mez, appearing perfectly at ease, said, “Forgive me for saying so, my Kyrios, but I’ve never seen the harm in a drink or two.”

“Nor have I,” she agreed. “But please. For now, while it’s just the three of us in this dirty city, use my given name. Devina. My father chose it. It means the sigh of rain. I believe it’s the singular best thought my father ever had.”

Neither of them said anything. Cossara didn’t know what to do. The Kyrios was speaking to them so casually, as though they were all old friends, meanwhile, she was the second most powerful person in the Autarchy, and thus the whole world, second only to her brother, the Archon himself. She had lived for centuries. Had founded their order. She was so far above the two of them that when Cossara tried to summon forth appropriate words, there was simply nothing there. What could she say to such a person?

Mez finally said, “Would you like something to drink?”

Devina had a soft, pleasant laugh. “I fear that’d be a rather bad look. But thank you. In truth, my children, I haven’t merely chanced across the two of you. I require your assistance. The Autarchy requires your assistance.

They exchanged a quick glance. Cossara said, “We live to serve, of course. Whatever you need.”

Devina nodded, half-turning. “Come. You’ll want to sit for this.”