Thomas never used to think of himself as secretive. He considered himself open and honest.

But whenever Varktezo asked for his expertise in using telepathy gas…? Thomas found himself inventing excuses. He didn’t want his chief assistant—his friend—marveling at his ridiculously complex mind. He had no desire to remind Varktezo, of all people, that he was freakishly alien and impossible to decipher. There was already a gap between him and everybody else. He wasn’t going to lever that chasm even wider.

“Not today,” he told Varktezo.

“Not today,” he told Varktezo every day.

And when Kessa asked Thomas for telepathy lessons? He’d insisted that he was too busy. He had told her to ask Garrett.

Was that rude?

Thomas found reasons within himself, beyond vanity, to avoid the mental scrutiny of his peers. He did have secrets, it turned out.

The way he felt about Cherise, for one thing.

It wouldn’t do for people to find out that he still cared for her more than casually. Flen’s huffiness might transform into ballistic rage—and that was actually a political risk. These days, without Jinishta, a lot more warriors were listening to Flen.

The Pink Screwdriver. She was a big blotch of guilt in Thomas’s mind. A hero of prophecy was not supposed to feel gentle and tingly about an enslaved Torth. He should not fraternize with the enemy. He definitely should not devote any brainpower to imagining sneaky methods of bringing her, unseen, into one of his hidden bomb shelters, where he might spend time alone in her company.

He knew better. He really did.

And yet some dumbass, hormone-driven part of his brain would not relent. That teenager part of himself internally screamed “I’m lonely!” and “She’s as hot as Cherise, and she’s available, and she secretly worships me!” and “No one important will find out!” and “So what if they do? I’m the Wisdom of prophecy! I’m the Conqueror and I live in a Dragon Tower! I can do what I want!”

That was the sort of overconfidence that could get one killed.

Ariock could attest to that. Ariock had decided to rescue a city’s worth of crucified people because he was the messiah, and no one dared tell him “No.” Now he was paying a steep price for thinking of himself as near-invincible. The rest of their forces had to pay that price right alongside him.

The Upward Governess could have attested to the blindness of Thomas’s overconfidence, too.

He felt a painful twinge whenever he remembered his utter failure to give his mentor the protection she had needed. He had been too focused on winning. He had made the mistake of underestimating a fellow super-genius, the Death Architect.

Twice, now.

That chilly-minded super-genius was sly, unreadable, and impossible to predict. Thomas understood on some instinctual level that if he underestimated the Death Architect a third time, it would mean doom for him and his whole side of the war. He could not afford mistakes. He could not afford to be carefree.

So Thomas ignored his urge to sneak in time with the Pink Screwdriver. He was staunchly holding out.

He had other inadequacies, other secret flaws and weaknesses that he needed to shore up.

Two Alashani eyed him askance. It’s the rekveh. Avoid.

 Ugh.

They crossed the street, boots crunching on the layer of frost. Their minds faded from his peripheral perceptions.

Thomas wrapped his emotions in cold logic and pretended that hatred didn’t affect him at all.

He knew that he was attempting to lie to himself, like a Torth. It was shameful. But this was the most densely populated Alashani district, full of albino pedestrians. The fear and hatred aimed towards Thomas was everywhere.

He struggled to focus on mundane things instead of the minds of passersby. Shop signs hung over doorways, painted with mushrooms, cave sheep, fish, stalactites, or loopy icons.

He glanced skyward for a moment, just to give his eyes a break. Unlike a Torth city, the sky here rarely included shuttles taking off or landing. The makeshift Freedomland spaceport was mostly used for pilot training. They only had a small collection of stolen streamships.

Thomas harbored yet another secret.

He hoped to see the contrail of a landing Torth vessel. Or maybe two vessels? Both Twins had gone rogue.

Thomas had asked his friends to keep silent about the Twins’ potential as allies. It was best not to raise everyone’s hopes out of proportion to reality. Just because the Twins had exited the Torth Empire did not necessarily mean they would join Thomas’s side.

And yet he hoped.

Thomas parked his hoverchair in a garage-like public space beneath one of the immense war fortresses. He found a spot between hoverbikes. The Alashani population could not avoid technology entirely. Not if they wanted to do business with the rest of the city.

He used his control sleeve to engage his leg braces. He stood.

It felt dangerous to leave his vehicle, especially in a place where he had no friends. Thomas wasn’t exactly swift. He could not run.

Perhaps he should have sent an emissary to arrange a private meeting with the warrior known as Daindlor?

Except Thomas knew that such a request would be rejected. What he wanted was best achieved through a face-to-face surprise meeting. Thomas did not want to give the crotchety old warrior any warning. Daindlor should not have time to invent excuses.

Thomas took purposeful, mechanized steps up a ramp.

“You ought to have zombies to guard you,” Garrett had growled at Thomas, more than once.

Thomas always dismissed that recommendation. But he felt a certain lack of protection now as he made his way through the fortress. He couldn’t even call on Azhdarchidae. The sky croc could not fit though doorways here, and anyway, he was huddled under a huge knitted blanket, unused to the wintery conditions outside.

Albinos gaped at Thomas in shock. He wasn’t reckless enough to attempt an albino disguise here, among albinos, so they recognized him instantly. They glared at his temerity.

Evil. A woman made a sign to ward off demons, then hurried away.

Should be killed. That thought came from a stout warrior, dressed in purple linens with white fur trim. The warrior didn’t scurry away. He sized up Thomas, as if sizing up an opponent.

Thomas met the warrior’s challenging glare. He didn’t show any emotion, but he didn’t have to. His purple-eyed gaze was enough. The stout warrior found a reason to hurry down a side hallway, away from the rekveh.

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There were more albinos. They jumped aside, or they stared as if Thomas carried a plague. He caught whiffs of their terror and disgust.

Untrustworthy.

 Like an uppity penitent.

  Hope the undergrounders succeed.

   He never should have been given so much freedom.

Their emotions oozed into Thomas’s pores. Before long, he felt grimy and disgusting, as if he needed to take a shower.

Part of him felt as if they were right. He was an unclean thing, unwanted and obscene.

He wanted to go back to places where he had friends. He wasn’t even powerful enough to fight his way free if a bunch of warriors decided to gang up against him. He wasn’t a stormbringer. What was he doing here?

Lack of power is the reason I’m here, Thomas reminded himself. He had certain weak points that he needed to work on and fix.

So instead of turning around and leaving, he extended his awareness and used his holographic projection power to bend light around himself.

It was not a perfect invisibility cloak. Thomas could not alter or dissipate his own body, like Evenjos. Instead, he distorted the environment around himself in a million ways, frame by frame. There were so many variables to manifest and keep track of—atmospheric distortion, luminosity differentials as he moved, individual variations in perceptiveness, and so forth—that he could not fully “erase” himself from view.

Alashani were used to low light conditions, so they noticed a shadow that moved oddly. Thomas looked like an indistinct blur to the locals.

And they heard him. His leg braces emitted a faint whirring sound that caused people to look around.

Thomas moved as fast as he dared, one foot in front of the other. He remained hyper-alert, aware that he was alone in a palatial fortress full of people who might potentially kill him.

At last, he arrived at the correct address.

Many warriors commissioned fancy iron grillwork to decorate their doors, or inlays of smoked glass or reflective tiles. It seemed Daindlor was not showy, despite being a retired premier. The door to his suite was relatively plain.

Thomas raised his fist, feeling like an imposter in his own skin. He had never knocked before. He had never been able to.

He rapped his knuckles on the wood.

When he heard the door latches being undone, he dove into Daindlor’s mind, along channels of expectation. The old warrior was not expecting any visitors. However, Daindlor would be pleased to see his lady friend, or perhaps a neighborly visit from his friend, Premier Boryuchal.

Thomas quickly conjured an illusion of the latter.

Daindlor opened the door. “Boryuchal? What a happy coincidence.” He stepped aside, inviting. White whiskers fuzzed his chinless face, and his ears stuck out.

Thomas was a little bit self-conscious about his own ears. He had lost part of his earlobe during a wild zoved attack. The telepathic apes had tried to eat him.

“Come in, come in,” Daindlor said. “I just acquired a fresh bottle of that mushroom brandy you recommended.”

Thomas walked into the suite. Like most rooms in the fortress, this one had slightly rounded walls, narrow windows, and a roaring fireplace. The furnishings were typical Alashani palace pieces; quartz and iron, with spears used as decor.

Daindlor seemed too distracted to shut the front door.

Thomas shut it for him.

“Wait.” Daindlor stared and squinted, because Thomas had quit paying much attention to his illusion.

It required a lot of processing, to maintain something so lifelike over his own moving body. There were colors to edit, light and shadow to redirect, perspective, dimensionality, and so many other variables. Such an illusion would be impossible for anyone with a normal mind. Even for a super-genius, it was a stretch.

Thomas let go of the effort. He could not have kept it up for more than half a minute longer, anyway.

Daindlor’s eyes flew wide open. He was stooped with age, but he took a few nimble steps backwards, until he pressed against the wall.

“I’m here to beg for your expert help.” Thomas spoke quickly and smoothly, using words he calculated to be the most likely to put the old warrior at ease. “You’re the most renowned warrior in existence aside from the Dovanacks. You’ve trained legends. You were responsible for training Shirm, who trained Jinishta, among others.” Thomas struggled out of his coat. “I would like to learn from you.”

Daindlor gaped.

“I’ll pay you for your time, of course.” Thomas’s voice broke and dropped in an adolescent way. How embarrassing. He hated puberty.

War credits derived from the military, which meant Thomas had the equivalent of unlimited funds. But Daindlor didn’t seem particularly materialistic.

“You can ask me for favors as payment,” Thomas clarified. “I’d be happy to oblige.” He scanned the old warrior’s hidden desires. “I can, for instance, make sure your friends receive better and more fitting rewards for their heroic acts. They surely deserve it.”

Daindlor closed his mouth. Still blinking in shock, he huffed, as if to clear his sinuses of a bad smell. He seized a wooden staff and used it to stabilize himself.

“Leave!” Daindlor pointed to the door. “I don’t teach rekvehs.”

Thomas tried not to roll his eyes in exasperation. “Do you believe in the messiah?”

He already knew the answer. He had researched Daindlor. The old warrior habitually avoided the undergrounders, which meant he was likely a true believer. And Thomas confirmed that with a mind scan. This old warrior trusted in ancient prophecy. He would follow Ariock anywhere. By extension, that meant he should trust those who advised Ariock.

“I believe,” Daindlor admitted, sullen. “But that does not mean I will help you. I only train Alashani.”

Thomas offered a respectful nod. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I want to be able to fight like an Alashani.”

Daindlor made a sour face. “From what I hear, you know everything already.”

“I don’t.” Thomas tapped one of his leg braces. It made a hollow sound. “I’m still learning how to walk.”

Daindlor regarded him for a moment, looking frustrated.

He struck at Thomas with lightning speed. His face betrayed no warning. One moment he was standing within Thomas’s range of telepathy. The next instant, his staff arced towards Thomas’s ankle.

Thomas sensed the move coming. He would have avoided the blow, except Daindlor infused his rickety body with inhuman speed, faster than a decision. Thomas hopped, and one of his legs avoided the staff, but not the other foot.

The shock of his miscalculation ruined his balance, which was always delicate.

He landed hard, one-footed, and he was so unused to that, he stumbled. Only his exosuit kept him from an awkward fall.

“We are nimble.” Daindlor danced out of Thomas’s telepathy range. “You are not.”

Thomas used his remote control to shuffle his legs into their preprogrammed default stance. “I want to learn.”

Daindlor raised a hand, and five spears levitated out of the quiver resting against the wall.

Thomas forced himself to look pleasant rather than sweating with fear. Would he be able to dodge in time? No way. Not at this close distance.

He might be able to redirect the spears with heat currents. He might turn the spearheads to plasma and cause them to fall off-course. But he would have to make optimal calculations, and Daindlor might prove too fast for him.

The old warrior had purposely chosen five spears. That was the maximum number that an average Torth could subitize.

“We move objects with our minds.” Daindlor glared at Thomas without mercy. “From what I hear, you use wildfire and ice. Like the Torth.”

“Yes,” Thomas admitted. He lacked the common Alashani powers of telekinesis, lightning, and healing. He had tried to infuse his body with extra strength or speed, and it never worked for him.

“We kill Torth.” Daindlor lowered the spears with disdain. He had made his point. “I cannot teach one such as you.”

Clearly, the warrior expected Thomas to give up and go away.

“I kill Torth, too.” Thomas summoned all of his courage, as well as his focus. He bent light around his form. “And I have other talents that are not common among Torth.”

Daindlor saw Thomas become mostly invisible. His eyes widened. There were some Torth who could manipulate water vapor to create the equivalent of strange shadows or cloud-like formations, but none could form holographs or realistic illusions. None could become essentially invisible. They lacked the brain processing capacity.

“I’m not an average Torth,” Thomas said.

He let go of his illusion. It was an intense mental workout, like calculating an entry point to a temporal stream for wormhole space travel.

Still, his effect had hit its mark. Daindlor looked contemplative.

“I can manipulate thermal currents to move things, like a telekinetic.” Thomas demonstrated, causing a sheet of parchment to waft across the room. “I’m not great at it,” he admitted, letting the parchment drift onto a desk. “But I wonder if you can teach me better techniques?”

Daindlor gazed out one of the narrow windows, wintery light illuminating his creased face. Thomas did not need to be within range to guess at the man’s concerns.

Daindlor was an upstanding pillar of his community.

And Thomas was a notorious rekveh.

Two such as them were not supposed to meet, let alone talk. They were supposed to hate each other. What was this war about, if mind readers could be trusted with Alashani secrets, and vice versa?

“I understand your reluctance,” Thomas said, acknowledging the downside. “But will you at least think it over for a few days? And if you’re concerned about my skills, you’re welcome to test me in whatever ways you see fit.”

That should make the unspoken benefit obvious. Daindlor could potentially grill Thomas for information. He could learn all sorts of things about what Torth champions were capable of. Such insights could be distilled and disseminated to all of the Alashani warriors.

Daindlor growled in frustration and clenched his fists.

Thomas gathered his coat.

“All right,” Daindlor snapped, just as Thomas was about to leave. “I’ll do it. But we’re going to keep this a secret. It can’t be public knowledge. Is that all right with you?”

It was just one more secret for Thomas to add to his increasing burden of things he didn’t want his friends finding out about.

“Of course.” He grinned and tossed his coat aside, and prepared to spar.