Chapter Thirty-Five

His first goal was to find a hiding place. A nearby stone arch, lit by occasional flashes of lightning from above, provided that. A place he could tuck himself away and listen to the rain whisper. He couldn't spare much time. They'd arrived in forty-five minutes, flying Elegy's relatively slow ship. He needed to be fast to return.

Unfortunately all he could do was wait.

It was the most excruciating of activities. The opposite of his personal mandate. Even when he was going backward, he was at least moving. But right now there was nothing else he could do, so he tried to let the rain comfort him. Envelop him. Others might hate or even fear it. But beneath its veil, he found his strength returning.

It only took two minutes. Lights appeared, bringing hope. The prospecting team who protected the Cinder King's riches. At least a dozen ships. They skimmed the area, then eventually settled down right where he'd dug himself out. They didn't seem to notice his grave for what it was, and instead had a machine start digging into the soil.

So slow. Too slow. He watched, pained.

Ember-red light seeped from the ground, granting him an unexpected sight. Many of those present, watching the process, were Charred. Indeed, wasn't that the Cinder King's ship over there, landed in the mud? He was shocked to see the tyrant himself walk across the landscape, eschewing an umbrella as he approached the dig site.

Nomad doubted the king usually went on retrievals like this. He seemed wary—indeed, as his people dug out several sunhearts, the Cinder King watched the sky, looking about expectantly.

Why is he here, though? the knight asks. Why would he come out into the rain?

"He knows I'll try something," Nomad whispered. "He's expecting a fight."

How? How would he know?

Well, perhaps "know" was the wrong word. But the Cinder King obviously anticipated the worst. In this case, that meant making sure that Nomad—the wild card from another world—wasn't coming for these sunhearts.

The presence of this many troops—and the king himself—changed Nomad's plans. He couldn't fight; he still didn't know how to lance the boil on his soul. He might never figure it out. He was too much of an outsider for their local arcana to work on him.

So he needed a way to grab those sunhearts that didn't involve confrontation. A possible plan formed as a ship landed nearby, engine scorching the ground and throwing up hissing steam that made the air smell of dried mud. It was a ponderous vehicle with a large, vault-style door on the back. A worker opened it, then trotted over toward the dig, where a fourth and fifth sunheart had been laid out. Nomad couldn't grab those, but what if he waited for them to be handed to him?

Slinking through the darkness, he snuck up to the vault. Inside were several large cabinets bolted to the walls. He found room at the back to hide between them.

So…what are the chances this plan is stupid?

"Pretty good," Nomad admitted, but in this case, what planning or preparation could he do? Sometimes you really did just need to improvise, commit, and then hope. He did a cursory check of the drawers—empty. He huddled down near the back, where he found an old sack with which to make a serviceable version of an Iriali wrap. Now somewhat clothed, he was able to form Auxiliary into a pretty good approximation of the front and top of one of the long cabinets—a prop, like a false front to a building used in films at Silverlight.

Holding this in front of himself created the illusion that he wasn't there. Anyone glancing toward the back would just see an extra-long cabinet. He hoped the extra row of drawers wouldn't be too suspicious in the darkness.

All right, the knight admits, I like this plan. It might actually work.

Nomad said nothing, waiting—again—and listening to the rain on the roof. Counting the seconds. He saw through the thin spaces in his false cabinet front when workers approached carrying bright sunhearts.

"Don't see why he's here looking over our shoulders," one of the workers hissed. "And with Charred too. Does he think we're suddenly going to start stealing from him?"

"Best not to question," another voice said. "Don't give him any reason to pay attention to you. We're going to run out of captives soon, now that Beacon is gone."

The lights vanished one by one as they were put into drawers. Storms. They'd better not try to open one of his drawers. They'd fill the ones at the front first, right?

That's what they did. Storing the sunhearts, then retreating—their voices suddenly cut off as a loud thump shook the chamber. Nomad stood up from his hiding place and dismissed Auxiliary. That thump had been the vault door closing. He rushed to the drawers, and though they were locked individually, a crowbar made quick work of that.

The sunhearts were inside. One per drawer. He collected all he could find—five in total. That would be enough for Beacon, wouldn't it? Feeling relieved, he tucked them into another sack, then went to the vault door.

Which was locked. He stared at it, feeling foolish.

Uh, I don't think a crowbar will help with that, Nomad.

"We might need something sharper," Nomad said, holding his hand to the side.

I…don't think I can do that.

"You did it before," he said. "When we were underneath the city. You severed the bolts."

You did that, Nomad. It's not my soul that is cankered, not my oaths that have been broken. You are the one who can't harm anyone. You are the one who can't form a weapon meant only for killing.

This wouldn't be only for killing. He just needed to slice through the metal of this door. He tried to recreate the mental state he'd been in when he'd cut those latches. Surely this moment was equally urgent.

But he was tired. And uncertain of himself. Beyond that, he could feel the canker on his soul growing stronger. Pushing against it was as futile as trying to break down this vault door with his fists. He struggled for a few minutes, then leaned forward, eyes squeezed closed, forehead against the door.

What was he doing? If he escaped the vault with these sunhearts, then what? Did he really think he was going to be able to steal a ship without getting into a fight? And even if he did, could he find his way back to Beacon on his own? He'd only flown ships from the city, which had the proper authentication devices. If he stole a Union ship, he'd be as blind as they were.

He…didn't know anymore. He was stuck. Not just in his running. He'd…he'd been stopped for some time. Stagnant. Always focused on the run, but never focused on the greater issues. The ones deep inside him.

He was frozen. His soul. His self. Running farther wasn't going to fix that. Regardless of what he told himself.

Click.

The vault door? For a moment, he thought his introspection had somehow influenced that. Then, with a panicked spike of alarm, he realized that someone was opening it from the outside. He scrambled back to restore his camouflage but was too late. The door swung open.

Revealing Zeal, standing alone in the mud.