Schisms

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James Wolanyk. Schisms

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Three long years have passed since Anna, First of Tomas, survived the purge in Malijad after being forced to use her scribe sigils to create an army of immortals. Safely ensconced in the shelter of the Nest, a sanctuary woven by one of her young allies, Anna spends her days tutoring the gifted yet traumatized scribe, Ramyi—and coming to terms with her growing attachment to an expatriate soldier in her company.

Away from her refuge, war drums continue to beat. Thwarted in her efforts to locate the elusive tracker and bring him to justice, Anna turns to the state of Nahora and its network of spies for help. But Nahoran assistance comes with a price: Anna must agree to weaponize her magic for the all-out military confrontation to come.

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“Focus on the essence,” Anna said. Ramyi’s blade lingered over Yatrin’s throat with a wavering edge. Two volleys clipped the edge of Baqir’s cover, showering them with plumes of pulverized clay and mud, filling the shadows with the odor of scorched dust. “Nothing but the essence, Ramyi. Become it.” While counseling the girl, Anna slid her own pack off her shoulders and withdrew the two ruj halves from their webbing. One trigger mechanism, locked in place for sixteen clicks of a cog’s teeth, and one barrel, heat-tempered with webweave. “Don’t be afraid.” She slotted the barrel in its housing, threaded the components together, and slid the sixteen-pouch cartridge into the central chamber. An explosive burst near the door as Anna disengaged the bolt lock and shouldered the weapon, training her eyes on the blast zone and its gray wisps. “We’ll make it out of here.”

Ramyi’s first cut was uncertain, yet manageable. Anna could feel it in the hayat’s bleed-off, the way Yatrin’s crescent configuration swarmed toward the open wound with hungry curiosity. In her periphery she watched the girl’s hands sweep with increasing confidence, arcing over the windpipe and past the major arteries, sweeping up to join the lines at their apex. Beyond the doorway, shadows flitted past her ruj’s barrel and Anna fired once, twice, three times, raking a still-smoldering brick oven and patches of blackened sand with her shots but failing to connect.

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