Page 52 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
Maybe if he’d married, he would want to go home. In a society that prided itself in marrying young, he was an oddity. At thirty years of age, he had yet to have any interest in that aspect of life. Carleton hadn’t drawn up a customary betrothal contract when he’d become of age on account of his military career; he’d always said Harlan would have his pick later.
Harlan didn’t feel inclined to pick at all. He was a good soldier, a good medic. Why add any distractions when he could make a name for himself without feeling like he needed to hold back for the sake of a wife and kids? Why would he willingly sign up for the burden Ezekiel carried every day?
Harlan was free.
So why didn’t he feel better about that?
He smoothed the mustache he’d begun to grow the last week. The whiskers were rough under his fingers. His real father had always worn a long, full beard—a commonality in Ravenhelm. Life was too short for miners, so why waste the time on shaving?
His heart twinged. The Cerls had taken that all away.
Shocks, he shouldn’t have drunk any of that blasted whiskey. It made him feel things.
If only he could be out on the battlefield fighting, he could find a way to get rid of the guilt plaguing him once and for all—whether that be in death or in victory. Through the buzz, he felt a headache coming on, a reminder of his time in the mines. The Fogs could force him out of service early if the condition progressed too rapidly. It might mean an early death like it had for so many of those he’d known.
But even if it struck in full force tomorrow, how could he leave Ezekiel behind?
Harlan shut his eyes and pushed out a sigh. Ezekiel was the greatest friend any man could have, yet for some reason he’d chosen Harlan to follow around the last few years, but that’s not what bothered him.
Harlan had no family, and the family he’d had way back when had been the kind where no one really loved each other at all. Michael had been the only one he’d truly cared about.
Harlan’s chest ached again. Michael. He tried his best not to think of his brother, of his last few moments here on Yalvara. He’d been ten. Ten years old. A child.
Stars, what kind of man would he have been today? Who would Harlan have been? Completely mad from the Fogs? Or…or…
He forced himself to rise and finish cleaning the uniform before moving to the weapons. The monotony kept his handsbusy. If he concentrated enough on the task at hand, he could will away the alcohol and the feelings that accompanied it. His headache never grew worse, only waited at the edges. A small mercy.
After he finished his chores, he fell heavily onto his cot and turned off the gas lantern.
As the darkness grew, the only light coming from nearby tents or an odd cookfire painting the side of the canvas wall, he forced himself to relax and focus on anything but his past.
Chapter 10
LEFT BEHIND
Jove
THE TUNNELS BENEATH THE CITY were one of the many secrets Jove had kept once he’d been appointed High Guardsman. He’d never imagined he would have to use them. How naive he’d been, looking through the lens of someone too young to have that much power.
The main reason the High Council kept such things need-to-know was because policing the tunnels would have taken up too much funding. They were the perfect hideout for seedier characters with less-than-savory intentions.
They were also a health hazard. The nearby sewers gave the damp air a sour odor. If people were hiding down here, they’d have to figure out the Cerl problem quickly if they were to avoid a plague. He knew the last completed project in the Catacombs had been digging wells, but that wasn’t a guaranteeagainst disease when the tunnels would be overrun with refugees.
The Catacombs didn’t house the dead, but one of the architects had nicknamed them that when they’d been designed at the end of the Great War. Ironic. Jaydians burned their dead, sending the departed spirits to journey among the stars; yet if Cerulene had their way, all the Kyvena survivors would die beneath the ground.
Regardless, the Catacombs resembled the city streets above with their square grid; the architects had even included a small bay for hoverships, though its entrance was hidden out in the hills a mile or two away. It would be useless if they didn’t figure out how to reinstate the electricity, and Jove didn’t know if that was possible. He didn’t understand what Loffler had done.
How anyone could neutralize the electricity of an entire city, he didn’t understand. It was terrifying. No wonder Jove’s Jaydian ancestors had forced a treaty to keep the Yalven Essence powers under control.
And Anderson. Who knew what was happening to him now. Jove couldn’t waste time guessing; he could do nothing but wander aimlessly under a ruined city, searching for his wife and child, agonizingly aware that he’d run off to drown himself in alcohol while they fought for their lives.
Jove trailed behind his father and Saldr as the tunnel widened, the voices of those now trapped below the surface of Yalvara echoing off the stone. The fingers of Jove’s right hand twitched. Out of habit, he felt around in his pocket, but it was empty. He’d lost his cigarettes somewhere along the way.
Blast.
As they entered the throng of people setting up camp and trying to find family and friends, Jove searched each face for Clara’s. Every minute that passed without finding her and Samuel, his hand twitched for cigarettes, even when he knewthere were none. He didn’t think he’d easily find a pint of ale, either.
His racing thoughts grew louder and more insistent the further they walked. His eyes darted from person to person without really seeing anything. His feet kept trudging along without questioning his path.
