This must be part of Echo's plan. Silas took a shaky breath to ground himself. She told me they were preparing something—something that would force humans out of their territory for good. Perhaps this is the first stage of her counterattack?
If it was, Silas needed to put on a persuasive performance. His gaze flicked to Ilyra, who was unfastening her harness. He had to convince everyone that he was still deaf. Any little slip would alert Ilyra and risk exposing the Unspoken's plan.
Ilyra and Corin left the vehicle. Silas remained where he was. He arranged his face into an expression he hoped conveyed confusion. When Ilyra opened the door to let Silas out, he tested the look on her.
"Can you hear me, wretch?" she asked.
Silas tilted his head in response.
Ilyra clicked her tongue. "As you suspected, Corin, he still can't hear," she said over her shoulder.
Silas frowned. Ilyra had called Corin by his first name instead of his rank.
Ilyra stooped to collect Silas's chains. She narrowed her eyes at his frown. Silas immediately dropped the expression. Already, this was proving more difficult than actually being deaf.
As Silas climbed out of the boiler—tripping over his own chains—his stomach dropped. How was he supposed to lead the soldiers to the Unspoken's location if they were not here?
Slipping and sliding over loose sand, Silas focused inward. Maybe Echo, at least, would hear him and answer his questions.
Silas waited a moment, concentrating. All he heard was the roar of blood against his eardrums.
No response. Silas was on his own.
This time, Ilyra did not address the soldiers in Silas's presence. Instead, she handed him off to Corin, who guided Silas to the command tent. Silas kept his head still but swiveled his eyes, noting the soldiers around him. They sat atop wooden crates of supplies and slumped against tent poles, dark shadows of exhaustion below their eyes. They spoke little—fatigue tying their tongues.
As Silas was settling into a rickety chair, he listened hard to hear Ilyra, struggling to understand her over the bubbly hum of the tent's compost radiator.
"Status update, Colonel," Ilyra said.
Someone sighed. "The aberrations continue to evade us." The Colonel's low voice rumbled through the air, so quiet Silas could hardly discern his words.
"Specifics, Colonel," said Ilyra, her voice clipped, strained.
"There's nothing new to report. They hide in their subterranean tunnels, picking us off one by one. Our supplies run low, our men are exhausted and hungry. The Emperor grows increasingly impatient with our lack of results. At this rate, our forces will fall before theirs do." The Colonel paused. Or maybe he whispered something to Ilyra that only she could hear. The next time Silas heard his voice, he said, "General, how long do you intend to wage this war of attrition? That puppet boy of yours is proving less effective than you thought."
Ilyra's response was obscured by Corin, who wrote something in his notepad and showed it to Silas. "Today you will guide us to their hiding spot the first time," he wrote, underlining for emphasis. "No aimless wandering, got it?"
Silas clenched his teeth but nodded curtly to show he understood. I wasn't wandering aimlessly last time! he wished to say. The Unspoken were pulling me every which way!
Corin regarded Silas, studying his face. Silas stared back, blinking innocently. He tried to hide the fear threatening to fracture his composure. Ilyra and her men were desperate for results, and they were depending on him to provide them. For how long could he keep up this act before Ilyra sniffed out his deception?
Ilyra entered the tent. Silas's back faced the entrance; he startled at the sound of the tarp whipping open. Corin narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Silas clenched his hands into fists—minus his splinted finger. Then, he squeezed his eyes shut.
It wasn't Ilyra I heard; it was the Unspoken. The timing just happened to be convenient. If he could convince himself of this, maybe the lie would become the truth.
Silas resisted the urge to turn around and address Ilyra. Not being able to see her made his skin break out in gooseflesh.
"Well?" Ilyra said to Corin.
"I… believe he's listening to them, trying to find their location," the young soldier responded.
"He's acting a bit peculiar, wouldn't you say?" Suddenly, Ilyra clapped, her hands inches from Silas's ear. His nails bit into his palms to keep from crying out in surprise.
"Maybe they sound different this time?" Corin suggested. "But I agree with you. He's trying to hide something. Don't worry; I've got my eye on him."
Silas kept his eyes squeezed shut as someone—probably Ilyra—snuck around his chair. He felt their breath shift the hair lying against his cheek. He decided to open his eyes. Deaf Silas would still notice his own hair tickling his skin.
He hardly had to feign a reaction; confronting Ilyra's stone cold mien was enough to issue a squeak from his throat.
"Hmmm." Ilyra crouched, sitting on her heels. Silas watched her watching him, straightening up rigidly to hide the way his arms trembled. After scrutinizing him for a painfully long moment, Ilyra procured Corin's notepad and wrote, "We leave immediately. I will not tolerate meandering."
Silas nodded, adding in an Imperial salute for good measure.
Ilyra grunted and stood, tossing Corin's notepad onto the table. "Don't let him out of your sight," she said, walking around Silas's chair. "No more running off and falling down holes. Any time he spends alone with the Unspoken is time he may be conspiring with them. I will not indulge such schemes."
"I mean, he can conspire with them without being physically near them." Corin abruptly stopped speaking. Silas could clearly picture the glare Ilyra must have sent his way.
Corin mumbled something under his breath after Ilyra left. She moved around the camp, ordering her soldiers to file into "column parade." To the swish of boots over sand, Corin gathered Silas's chains and led him outside.
Silas ignored the soldiers' glares and fatigued grumbles of dissent. But he couldn't ignore his fluttering heartbeat shooting bolts of trepidation into his core. What should he do? Set off down an arbitrary path, leading the soldiers to nowhere? Hesitate and make a big show of not understanding imaginary directions? Admit he couldn't hear any Voices?
Silas shook his head. No.The Unspoken must be concealing themselves deliberately. I just need to give them time to prepare.
Ilyra came up behind him and shoved him a few stumbling steps forward. He whirled, unable to hide his irritation. Ilyra huffed. "Go!" she spat, thrusting a pointed finger at the horizon. Silas swallowed down his indignation and, choosing a random direction, began walking. He wished it was night; he'd rather the cold than the soldiers able to see him clearly.
His projection lingered in the stillness, waiting for a reply that never came. Silas trudged onward. Over sloping dunes and shifting sands he guided his fools on their errand.
Silas noticed things he hadn't his first time in the Western Quadrant. Wildlife scampered about: scaly reptiles slithering through the sand; arachnids flashing wickedly sharp stingers and chelicerae; birds swooping overhead, squawking before diving for prey, talons extended. Silas wasn't sure if he failed to notice the animals before because he couldn't hear or because these animals were all diurnal. He steered clear of them, especially the spiders and scorpions. A venomous pinch out here would be lethal.
At least there aren't any carrion wolves, Silas thought, probing with his mind one last time, just to be safe. He remembered the Unspoken's venomous blow darts and shivered. What if they're out there somewhere, watching, waiting to ambush? Silas hoped whatever the Unspoken were planning would leave him unscathed.
A stray thought tripped him, and he sprawled to the sand. Spitting grit out of his mouth, he wondered what would happen if the Unspoken succeeded in their assault. Will I be left to fend for myself? His mood plummeted. I can't live on my own out here. Where am I going to find water? Food?
"How can someone be this clumsy?" Ilyra scoffed. "I swear the wretch does this on purpose."
"I think he's just that uncoordinated," said Corin, a laugh lightening his tone. "I find it rather comical."
Silas couldn't help but blush. Corin offered a hand, pulling him to his feet. The young soldier snickered at Silas's pink ears and cheeks. After shaking sand from his sleeves, Silas took off, hastening away. Shame quickened his pace until he could hardly hear the soldiers' jeers.
"Who has the map?" asked Ilyra from closer than Silas would have liked. "Where is he taking us?"
"About that," said a youthful, feminine voice. "He's directing us to the oasis. The Unspoken always avoid that place because it's far from any cavern entrances. Are you certain he knows where he's going?"
The soldiers deliberated amongst themselves as Silas's thoughts scrambled for a solution. Do I change direction? Would that be suspicious?
An arm shot out. Silas had to stop or he'd crash into it. He stared at it dumbly, then followed it up to its owner's face. Corin held his notepad open, ready for Silas to read its pages. "Where are you going?" was all it said.
Silas shrugged. Even when he could hear the Voices, he hadn't known where they were taking him until he was there. He saw no point in floundering for an excuse.
"Give me that." Ilyra snatched the notepad and wrote, looking up between strokes to glare at Silas.
He shuffled his feet, kicking at the sand. Ilyra was taking her sweet time penning a long-winded complaint. Silas decided he would rather not read her verbose grievance.
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Gasping, he clutched at his head and staggered. The soldiers fled out of his way as he weaved between them. Once free from their formation, Silas stopped, his arms flopping limply to his sides. He stayed still—an intermission while he waited for Ilyra and Corin to catch up before beginning the next scene.
Mouth open, eyes wide, Silas stared off into the distance. For added effect, he allowed a little saliva to collect in the corners of his mouth. Ilyra swore, snapping her fingers in front of his face. Corin shrugged.
"This is similar to what happened before he fell into that ancient vessel," said Corin. "He's honing in on something. Probably. I hope."
Vessel? Those metal corridors belonged to a vessel? Silas took a jerky step forward, followed by another. A vessel for what?
"Now he's going back to camp!" called the young woman holding the map. "Did we come all the way out here for nothing?"
Silas heard the metallic scrape of blades unsheathing. Patience was running thin. Shivering in terror, Silas sped up, practically running now.
Nothing.
Not even a whisper. Silas began to worry that the Unspoken had abandoned him after all.
Silas stopped in the middle of the camp, tossing his head from shoulder to shoulder like he was zeroing in on the Unspoken’s location. The soldiers milled around him; Ilyra had dismissed them from marching formation the moment the tents were in sight. Silas pretended he couldn't hear the way they cursed him, their glares sharper than the daggers they carried.
Ilyra and Corin were huddled in a nearby tent, absorbed in an animated dispute. The Colonel was there too, urging Ilyra to give up on Silas and search for the Unspoken without him. Ilyra refuted this—claiming they were better off following Silas, even if he constantly veered off course. Corin was acting as an intermediary, keeping things civil. Silas still didn't know what the Colonel looked like. If his voice was anything to go by, he was a tall, buff man of middling age. Silas's imagination drew a rugged scar through his right eyebrow. Or perhaps his upper lip.
Silas stilled, growing dizzy from tilting his head side to side. Involuntarily, his chin jerked toward the tent Ilyra and Corin were in. The argument had reached a worrisome fervor.
"General, be sensible." This came from the Colonel. Strain undercut his calm tone, clipping his vowels short.
"Sensible? I am always sensible," Ilyra hissed, low and threatening. "We have no time for this. I'm going back out there and organizing the troops again."
"They won't follow the boy any more," asserted Corin. "I fear if we push them any further they'll mutiny."
A pronounced pause filled the space between words. Then, Ilyra said, "Is that so? In that case, I should remind them who they answer to, and what happens if they disobey."
Silas shuddered. Icy dread surged through his veins like viscous poison at Ilyra's menacing inflection.
That's it. I'm going to admit that I can't hear any Voices. This can't go on any longer.
Silas's muscles coiled, preparing to step toward the tent. That's when Echo's Voice rang out, loud and clear.
she said.
Silas blinked.
Echo cut off his spiraling queries with a nudge of annoyance. Silas immediately stopped projecting, listening hard for Echo's response.
Silas risked an anxious glance at Ilyra's tent. It was sealed tight—the flaps in the tarp blocking him from view.
Echo didn't answer. Silas drew in a wheezy breath. Fearing he was alone once more, he began forming another question when a tug pulled him forward. It felt like a hook was skewered through his forehead and someone at the other end of it was yanking on his skin. Only stepping forward released the tension, so that's what he did.
Soon, camp was far behind him. Alone in the desolate landscape, Silas had never felt so small. He was but a single grain of sand in this sprawling expanse, drifting on a lazy gust of wind. When the air stilled, where would he fall?
Echo guided him into a shallow cave set into the rock face. The foliated rock was layered with alternating stripes of tan and ochre, much like the stone formations jutting from the ground in the Badlands. Silas ducked his head and crawled into the darkness.
Barely a few steps in, Silas's boot bumped into something. The object fell over with a metallic clang and rolled away. Silas heard it thud to a stop against the cave wall and rebound toward him. He watched it materialize, escaping the inner cave's opaque shadows.
The object was a small metal cylinder, thick enough that Silas needed both of his manacled hands to grasp it. Its insubstantial mass surprised him; he figured something made of metal would be heavy. Yet the metal seemed thin, and when Silas shook it, he decided the cylinder must be filled with fluid.
Immediately, he froze.
Gently, Silas set the cylinder down and scurried away, backing up until Dysol's scarlet rays peeked through the tunnel entrance and kissed his skin. He waited for several minutes. When Echo said nothing, he hesitantly returned to the object, carefully brushing his fingers over its surface.
Echo remained silent.
Silas’s patience was nearly spent. His mind flared, sending a burst of crackling irritation toward Echo. Even when she refused to say anything, Silas could still feel his mind linked to hers.
She did not overlook his outburst.
The emptiness pressed in on Silas. It made him feel anxious, claustrophobic. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the cylinder.
Silas didn't understand. Why was Echo being so vague? He wouldn't do what she asked. He thought he could trust her, but not when she was acting like this. If only she would explain! But before he could protest, Echo was once again tugging on his forehead, more forcefully than before. Silas was hardly aware of what he was doing. All he recognized was the flow of air in and out of his lungs, the swish of sand under his boots.
The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of Ilyra. Dazed, he swiveled his head, trying to get his bearings. The camp was barely visible on the horizon, so far away the tents looked like rocks protruding from the ground at Ilyra's feet. Ilyra was so livid she couldn't speak, words locked behind clenched teeth. Trembling with rage, she slowly approached Silas, her braid swinging back and forth as she stalked toward him.
Terror arrested Silas's limbs. Paralyzed, Silas did nothing when Ilyra seized him by his chains and hauled him toward the camp.
Soldiers stopped what they were doing to watch as Ilyra paraded Silas around. Satisfaction curled the corners of their lips, the boy's fear washing away their frustrations from the day. Silas wound his arms around the cylinder, wrapping it in his chains. It was all he could do to prevent his quivering fingers from letting it go.
"Look who I found," Ilyra deadpanned, pushing aside a tent's tarp and yanking Silas inside.
Corin hunched over a table, glowering at the parchments strewn about its surface. He startled, relaxing the moment his wide eyes landed on Ilyra.
"Where was he?" he asked, studying Silas's tremulous form.
"That's the strange part. He was running back here, full-tilt. At first, I thought he was being chased by something."
Corin's face paled. "General—"
Ilyra hadn't noticed Corin's sudden change in demeanor. "He barreled right past me," she continued, shaking her head at the memory. "I chased him for a spell until he suddenly stopped and—"
"Ilyra." Corin gripped the edge of the table. "Look at his hands."
Ilyra blinked, her mouth hanging open. Slowly, she turned, peering down at Silas's cowering, groveling form.
The cylinder shifted in Silas's grasp. The flat ends of the tube depressed with a shrill hiss. Silas gasped and dropped it. When it struck the ground, a thick, white vapor seeped from within.
The white fog spread quickly, blanketing the ground. Silas stepped back, fleeing from the cloud. Ilyra released his chains. The fog rose. Tendrils swirled upwards, enticed by the pull of Ilyra's breath. When she inhaled, puffs of white were sucked into her nostrils.
Corin darted out of the tent, covering his mouth and nose with his hands.
It suddenly got very loud. Shouts, screams. Brittle wood splintered as boxes were torn open. Tarp snapped in the wind, soldiers rushing in and out of tents. Corin yelled above it all, saying something about masks. Then coughing, hacking. Ilyra was on her hands and knees, heaving great, racking gasps as her lungs tried to draw in air. Bloody spittle sprayed onto the sand, staining her lips darker with each convulsive inhale.
Corin reentered the tent, a mask covering the lower half of his face. Dropping to his knees, he reached for Ilyra, who collapsed in his arms.
"A-Auntie?" he croaked, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, dripping onto Ilyra's sweat-slicked cheeks. Corin fastened a mask to Ilyra's face, tightening the straps behind her head.
This pulled Silas from his stupor. Auntie? His eyes flicked between Ilyra—limp, dangerously pale—and Corin—shaking her gently, trying to rouse her.
They're related, Silas thought lamely, staring down at where his feet should have been. Instead, ivory mist hung heavy below his knees, climbing higher and higher with each beat of his fluttering heart. Yet no sickness gripped his chest, no matter how much of the deadly haze he breathed in.
What have I done?
Silas looked at his hands.
They were dirty. His hands were filthy. Silas collapsed to his knees, sinking into white oblivion. But he could still see his hands. He could still feel them. They were coated, covered, drenched in blood. Ilyra's blood. The soldiers' blood. Their lives in his hands. The metal cylinder—canister—in his hands. Silas scratched at his palms, forearms—nails raking red welts into his flesh. Wash. He needed to wash them. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn't get clean. Grime coated his skin, and it stank of death.
Echo's words brought Silas to stillness. Clenched fists clutched at his chest, trying—failing—to calm his galloping heart. Echo said nothing more, and neither did he. Instead, he sent her what he felt.
Betrayal carved him up inside, slicing deep into his soul. The Unspoken lied to him. He was never meant to be their spy. The alliance Silas thought he had forged between himself and Echo crumbled, slipping like sand between his fingers. He was used, that was all. He was used to deliver the Unspoken's counterattack—a lethal delivery mechanism in the shape of a boy. He couldn't yet grasp the extent of what he had done, but he could hear Ilyra's stridor, hear her life fading as he continued to breathe easy. Corin, too, was coughing now. Around him was a dissonance of suffocation. The soldiers around camp desperately clawed for air, slowly succumbing to hypoxia. How far would the mist travel? How many innocents would die because of what he'd done?
The tent fluttered open. Corin was hauling Ilyra's unconscious body outside, her feet dragging in the sand behind her. Silas stood and followed, unsure of what he should be doing.
Soldiers sagged against boxes, lay motionless on the ground, and writhed in agony, pulling on masks in a desperate struggle against the unwavering white vapor. Still, it permeated the air, undisturbed by the wind. Silas stood amidst the carnage, observing the outcome of his deed. His mind begged him to look away, but he refused himself such mercy.
You did this, he told himself. You do not deserve to hide while others suffer.
Corin loaded Ilyra into the backseat of the boiler. Then, he staggered back to Silas. Coughing, he pushed Silas toward the vehicle, holding onto the boy's shoulders for support. Silas stepped on somebody's hand, felt their fingers crunch under his boot.
Corin shoved Silas into the passenger's seat; the door slammed shut in his face. Silas caught a brief glimpse of Ilyra, stretched across the backseat, her head propped up on a bundle of cloth. Her eyes flickered beneath her lids like she was trapped in a nightmare. Febrile chills tormented her body, her hair plastered against her sweat-soaked skin. Rapid, shallow breaths cycled in and out, interspersed with wet, bloody coughs.
She's going to die, Silas realized, turning to face forward. He didn't know how he felt about that.
Ilyra had hurt him—tormented him both mentally and physically. She was terrifying and cruel, and dedicated her life to ending others. But did she deserve such a fate? Did she deserve to die like this, drowning in her own blood?
Corin slid into the driver's seat. Shaky hands adjusted the mirrors, dipped the starter rod into igniter fluid. He tried to hide his coughs, but the more he held it in, the more his chest heaved. Eventually, the boiler bubbled to life. By the time they were back on the road, the camp had gone silent. Silas was glad a white mist still cloaked the ground, veiling the massacre.
Corin cleared his throat. He tried to speak, but was overwhelmed by a violent coughing fit. Catching his breath, he said, "What” —wheeze— "was in that” —cough— "canister?"
Silas shook his head and sank into his seat, wishing he could disappear into the leather. He had no idea what was in that metal cylinder, but whatever it was had poisoned everyone who breathed it in.
Except me, he noted. He wished it had sickened him too. How convenient it was that the person who released the poison was also the person who was immune to it. Did Echo know that when she gave it to me?
Silas decided that couldn't have been true. The Unspoken had no way of knowing what effect the poison would have on him. They most likely were absent because they suspected they would fall victim to it too. Or perhaps they had moved locations to watch from afar. After all, Echo was close enough to project in Silas's mind.
They'd go so far as to poison their lands to strike back at humanity. Echo's parting words reverberated in Silas's skull. They suspected I would fall, too, and they didn't care.
Silas buried his face in his shoulder and allowed the tears to fall.