I’m not a Talon anymore.

  They called me a traitor.

  They allowed the enemy to capture X.

  I gave my life for them.

  I don’t deserve this.

  Not until the morning of the third day did he realize how often he cycled through these thoughts, how the swiftness of his fall might have killed lesser men by now.

  Lesser, as in mortal.

  This will not be a life sentence. It can’t be.

  That was the terror he dreaded most, the fear he could not allow to consume his mind.

  He was so wrapped up in the dread of spending eternity inside this nightmare, Ryllen did not hear the splash. Only when the water rippled beneath the rack did he know something had changed.

  A bottle bobbed in the center of the pond. A shadow passed above and disappeared. He peeked out from the overhang.

  “Who’s there?”

  No response. He tried three times. Nothing.

  The bottle intrigued him. What was inside? It was filled with a dark blue liquid. He’d seen this before. Where? When?

  Was it a trick? An attempt to lure him out?

  Ryllen remained on the rack for an hour. The water settled, the cataract returning to form. He might have stayed put longer, but the mites became insufferable, attacking his genitalia.

  He rolled over into the pond and cleansed them away, the relief now motivation to push off toward the center. Ryllen didn’t know the pond’s depth, only that his feet did not touch bottom, and he had no interest in diving down.

  He grabbed the bottle, which was slender and as long as his forearm, and laid it on the rack before climbing up. He caught his left shin on a splinter and muffled a yell.

  “Cudfrucker.”

  It drew blood – no more than the last time – but did not remain embedded. He had half a mind to cry, but he wasn’t sure how. He drained all his tears years ago, standing over the body of Kai Durin, the first man he ever loved.

  The bottle’s twist-off cap did not open without a struggle. Ryllen took a long whiff, but the contents smelled like everything else here – including himself. Maybe … taste?

  At this point, what harm might come? If someone figured out how to kill an immortal for good, the poison inside would bring about finality. Was that such a horrible fate? If it wasn’t meant to kill, then surely he was meant to drink it. Yes?

  He took a swig, whirled it around his mouth.

  The liquid carried a slight medicinal flavor, which was enough for Ryllen to remember where he knew it from: The island where he and other Green Sun agents trained. Where they tested each other through endurance skills and learned the art of assassination. Sometimes, Lan Chua insisted they work out all day long without the benefit of food or rest. Each received a small bottle filled with blue liquid.

  Chroma, Lan called it. A compound to provide protein and replenish electrolytes. A swig preceded a brief bolt of energy.

  Ryllen drank the bottle dry. Instinct told him to slow down, save for later, but he couldn’t stop. The effects were quick: His energy soared; his stomach rumbled. He leaned over and vomited again.

  Did Lan toss him the bottle? The head of Green Sun met him when the Scramjet arrived on Huryo, piloted by a man Ryllen used to command and a Chancellor Ryllen used to respect. Did Lan not approve of this torture? Was he telling Ryllen to have hope?

  The surge of energy spurred Ryllen to resume the investigation of his prison, looking for any potential flaw that might herald escape. He crawled along the lattice rack, testing the retaining wall for any potential weaknesses. Though the rack seemed decades old and the wood weathered, it bore his weight without complaint. Before Ryllen was forced into the pond, his guards led him into a large open-air facility surrounded on three sides by weak-timber forests but also meters away from an inlet snaking through the neck-high marsh. There were at least two other ponds beneath the canopy roof. Did they draw their water directly from the inlet?

  There had to be a way to escape. There had to be …

  The shadow returned, but this time with sound.

  The reinforced ceiling creaked as someone stood upon it. Ryllen saw the visitor clearly but wasn’t sure what to make of him.

  A bald fat man in a loose, one-piece wrap stood along the edge, his tired eyes piercing through deep folds. A reptilian tattoo coursed from his left jaw then swirled up and over the ear. He dangled a woven basket in one hand and something indiscernible in a closed fist. He wore nothing on his feet.

  “Hey,” Ryllen said. “Who are you?”

  The fat man paid him no mind but did move his lips, as if having a conversation with himself. He set down the basket away from the edge and pointed as one might discern four directions on a compass.

  “Talk to me,” Ryllen said. “Are you here to help me?”

  Nothing.

  The fat man rested his hands over his chest and nodded. Then he walked the perimeter, opening his fist.

  He transferred small objects between his hands and flipped them into the pond. They hit the water with the force of tiny pebbles but did not sink. They were green, like pieces of hard candy shattered with a hammer. Some drifted close to Ryllen’s position.

  “What are you doing? Talk to me.”

  When the fat man circumnavigated the platform, he disappeared for a moment before returning with a stool. He took his time adjusting it. The legs appeared to wobble. Perhaps the surface was uneven? Satisfied at last, he sat and crossed his flaccid legs.

  The green floating shards melted away on the surface, creating an acidic effect. Milky bubbles popped and sizzled then died away.

  Ryllen struggled with what he saw: The water was clear.

  It still smelled of Zozo sewers, but all evidence of the surface creatures that formed the cataract were gone.

  “Now we can begin,” the fat man said, wiping his dome with a rag. “Into the water, Friend.”

  “I’m not your friend. Who are you?”

  “I called you Friend because that is your name. Into the water.”

  “My name is Ryllen Jee.”

  “Perhaps it was. Now you are Friend. This is your final chance. Into the water.”

  “If I don’t?”

  The fat man reached into his basket and removed a small item resembling a remote detonator.

  “I will disengage the rack from its moorings. Into the water.”

  Not good.

  “First, tell me what you tossed in there. Is it acidic?”

  “No. It was an organic compound. It killed the n’felfous worms. You will spend many hours in the pond. The worms can be aggressive if they enter your bloodstream. Into the water, Friend.”

  As if there was a choice …

  He slipped into the pond but kept one hand on the rack.

  “Who are you? Were you the one who gave me the Chroma?”

  The groan was long. The man seemed bored already.

  “So quickly deluded. Disappointing. They said you were made of resilient stock. Um, ho, dah. What is Chroma?”

  The man seemed genuinely flummoxed. Ryllen pushed up on the rack and reached for the bottle.

  What?

  It wasn’t there. He scanned the entire rack. No bottle.

  I drank it. I drank too much. I vomited. It was blue.

  “This is a trick. I drank a whole bottle of Chroma an hour ago.”

  The fat man groaned.

  “And perhaps I have a beautiful wife with three children who adore my career choice. Um, ho, dah. Onward. You, Friend, will call me Scroll.”

  “That’s your name?”

  “Is that not how civilized people address each other?”

  “This is not civilized.”

  “Neither are you, which is why you’re here, Friend. I am Scroll. It is my job to return your heart and mind to civilization. If I fail – or you do not pursue the regimen – you will live your last days in this filth, no greater than a n’felfous worm.”

  Scroll reached into his basket and dropped a small bag in the palm of his right hand; his left plucked purple berries which popped and cracked in his mouth. Purple juice ran from his lips.

  “What regimen?” Ryllen said, his rage growing. “Why am I here? I don’t deserve this.”

  “All men sent to the pond deserve worse and should consider themselves fortunate. You will enter the water each time I arrive. You will begin with the words, ‘I am ready, Scroll.’ You will follow my instructions with fealty. You will vomit, piss, and shit in this pond. No bucket will be provided. If you speak to me out of turn, you will address me as Scroll. Fail on any count, I will disengage the rack. Your daily meal will be reduced to every second day. Fail again, every third day. You see the math.”

  “So, I’m to be fed?”

  “The goal is rehabilitation, not starvation. However, many prisoners choose the latter. They prefer the inevitable. Um, ho, dah. What foolish men. But also mortal. This is not your luxury, Friend.”

  He knows. How much did they tell him?

  “Why a pond? Why not a cell?”

  “Good questions poorly addressed. What did I say?”

  Shit.

  “Scroll, why am I in a pond instead of a cell?”

  “Ah. Good, Friend. Do you have other questions?”

  “Yes. Yes, Scroll. A thousand.”

  “Few of which will interest me. No, Friend. Your job will be to produce answers. It is the only way to rehabilitation.”

  “Answers about what, Scroll?”

  “Why you are here. Where you are going. The most important task: To account for your sins, for they are legion. You will destroy yourself in this pond, Friend. You will know pain beyond the poet’s description. You will beg me to end your immortal life and ensure your heart never beats again.” He groaned. “Um, ho, dah. For now, I’m tired. This has been a poor start, but it will do. When I return tomorrow, enter the water before I command it. If I judge tomorrow to be a success, you will be given food.”

  He rose from the stool with the grimace of a man with bad knees. He moved the stool out of Ryllen’s vision and reached for his basket.

  The Scroll walked away without a word.

  Ryllen let go of the rack and treaded water. The energy from the Chroma he never drank began to fade. And for the first time in three days, he knew how to cry.

  11

  T HE SCROLL RETURNED AN HOUR after sunrise, his hands black and his wrap stained at the knees. He pulled up the stool and groaned as he took a seat, his ass hanging by portions over the sides. He reached into his basket and retrieved a small round canister, which he raised to his nose. He nodded before dipping two fat fingers into the contents, which he rubbed over both hands until the black stain disappeared beneath a green gel. The Scroll widened his legs and rested his hands there.

  “Into the water, Friend,” he told Ryllen, who was following this odd moment from the rack.

  Ryllen was in no mood. He had his worst night yet. Though the vomiting ended – there was nothing left to spew – the hunger pangs intensified. The headache started early in the evening and never dissipated. He remembered sleeping only because he woke in pain. His knees in particular felt distressed.

  “Into the water,” the Scroll repeated. “Have you no memory?”

  “I have no desire.” He did recall one edict and added, “Scroll.”

  “Desire is beside the point. Instinct will be your guide.”

  “My instinct says you will torture me until I’m dead, Scroll.”

  “I can accomplish that aim by denying you food and water. Our sessions become moot. Into the water, Friend.”

  “Only if you tell me why your hands were black, Scroll.”

  The layers above the fat man’s eyes appeared to deepen as he moaned. Ryllen saw no brows.

  “You suffer the effects of starvation and dehydration, but you wonder about my hands. Um, ho, dah. I will explain, but then you will slide into the water. Any further insolence, and you will not be fed.”

  “Understood, Scroll.”

  “We will see.” He dragged out the sigh. “I am a Vankasroot hunter. Taught the art as a boy. I have an instinct for them. There are Iswich trees close by. Blue moss grows on their south. The Vankasroot musk rises through the soil. They are easier to detect in the early mists. I dig by hand. Vankasroot are delicate. Today I found three. In an hour, I will remove these like gloves,” he said, raising his mud-packed hands. “There. I told you. Now, into the water, Friend.”

  Ryllen had no idea what a Vankasroot was or why it was prized, but he did not want to press his luck. He did as ordered, holding onto the rack with one hand.

  “Excellent, Friend. Tomorrow, you will enter before my command, or I will leave. Hmm? Let us begin. Today, we focus on exertions. This will be physical pain. A minor inconvenience toward what is to come. Let go of the rack and swim to the center.”

  He complied.

  “Do you always tread water with your hands, Friend?”

  “I’m rarely in water.”

  “Did you learn the skill, or does instinct tell you this is the best way to stay afloat?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I was taught how to find Vankasroot, but instinct ensures my success. However, I will not drown if I’m unsuccessful. Are you kicking with your feet?”

  “A little.”

  “Kick harder. Stop using your hands. Extend each arm fully to the side. Each arm must float. They cannot assist you.”

  This made no sense, but Ryllen complied. For a short time, he thought it surprisingly therapeutic. The legs, which had lain limp for the most of the past four days, needed the physical stimulation. The Scroll watched with the occasional sigh but seemed more interested in the drying mudpack on his hands.

  The therapy turned into genuine discomfort. His legs called out for an assist. Time passed – too much for a mere exercise.

  “Continue,” the Scroll said every few minutes.

  “What is the point of this, Scroll?”

  “Hmmm. Answers, Friend. Not questions.”

  Humiliation did not begin to describe the circumstance.

  At some point, his lower legs weary, Ryllen realized the Scroll was ignoring him. The man closed his legs and lifted his arms. He said a few words to himself then began prying off the first mudpack. It folded away to reveal a clean albeit corpulent hand. The other went faster. He threw what resembled plastic gloves into the basket and gathered a small tub. He admired three black blobs within.

  “Instinct,” the Scroll said. “This is how I found them. Corvaal’s Bay is new to me. No one told me of Iswich trees or blue moss. The villagers know nothing of the treasure in their midst. I am practiced in the art.” He tapped his nose. “I don’t have to see to find.”

  “This lesson is about instinct,” Ryllen said.

  “Well addressed, Friend.”

  “My instinct says I need a new exercise, Scroll.”

  “Which you will have. But I warn you now: This will be your primary position through most of our lessons.”

  “Then I was right, Scroll. It is your mission to torture me.”

  “Well addressed, Friend. Yes, you will endure great torture. However, inducing pain without purpose has no value. Best to chop off your head and be done with it. Hmm?”

  “You want to see my limits,” Ryllen said.

  “No. That will be for you to measure. Now, to your next exertion. Stock kicking. Make no movement whatsoever and keep your head above the surface.”

  “How …?”

  Ryllen caught himself. Questions were not allowed.

  Answers. No, solutions.

  He knew one way to do this without sinking. Ryllen kicked hard and contorted himself until he became a floater, limbs extended.

  “This is the only way to remain buoyant without moving.”

  “Well addressed, Friend. You prove you are not stupid. Back to your previous position.”

  Once Ryllen extended his arms on the surface and resumed kicking below, the Scroll opened his tub of Vankasroots. He smelled them like a man who could not wait to prepare them for dinner.

  “Rely on instinct, Friend. Its rewards are not measured in traditional payment. It carries inherent risks. It is dangerous and unpredictable. But it is also the sharpest arrow.” He closed the tub and returned it to the basket. “Now, to your exertion. Maintain the position for the next five hours.”

  “I don’t have the strength to tread that long, Scroll.”

  “When you require rest, stand on the bottom. It is a meter beneath your feet. Remain submerged for as long as you please.”

  Ryllen had done everything he could to keep his head above the surface of this fetid pool. But to be consumed by it …

  “I see your indignance, Friend. You believe the pond is too filthy. The solution to your pain is too harsh. Hmmm?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “I disagree, Friend. You and the pond are perfect mates. It is filth. You are filth. It carries disease and death. You are disease and death. No man who has murdered the innocent can stand in judgment of the microbes in a cesspool. Five hours. Submerge when tired. I’ll hear no more from you, Friend.”

  Ryllen wanted the power to leap from the pool, through the electrified rods, and strangle this cudfrucker.

  I only killed people who needed to die. I don’t deserve this.

  Yet he complied, for what were the options?

  Ryllen kicked with as little effort as he could expend while remaining above the surface. The Scroll did not move. At times, Ryllen thought the fat man might be sleeping, for his eyes were hard to see through the folds.

  An hour passed, or so Ryllen estimated.

  The Scroll said, “Continue,” and retreated to his silent pose. He repeated this later, as if programmed.

  Ryllen’s humiliation compounded when he realized why his soldier’s body deteriorated faster than he might have expected. For most of six years, he relied on the symbiotic relationship of the Talon body armor. It protected him from the elements, its thousands of synaptic connections regulating bodily functions and perspiration. It was his shell. And now, Ryllen understood, a false shield.

  At three hours – so he presumed when the Scroll said “Continue” once more – Ryllen gave in to the exhaustion. He dropped his arms to his side and submerged.