Maria DAgent of Time

Agent of Time

Maria Dar, 2021

Waiting on standby, she checked and rechecked the shimmering Binding Bands clamped to her wrists. It would be just her luck if they had Despelled before the Match, when the Handlers were most vulnerable. Bouncing on her toes and rolling her shoulders aided in stifling any lingering emotion.

Mercifully, her opponent was a minor Lord’s son, nearly drowning in the tiny, atomic green Verd-sprite swarm— she guessed he’d been newly Appointed. She felt slightly bad for turning her centuries-honed Einrin on him, but not enough to call Match Down. As if that would have prevented his Sprite Culling.

Better it come from her.

The Caller announced Match Up and she sighed, slid the delicate Blacksatin mask over her pale face, pulled the hood over her dark hair and unlocked the Silversatin-blessed steel Bands at her wrists. She let the braided cuffs float to the grimy ground and hover just slightly in place, waiting for her return from Battle. She stepped into the screaming light, closing her sensitive Royal eyes to the Lin-fueled brightness as Power yawned awake within.

She breathed in the scent of magic, Verd-sprite, and fear, taking it deep into her soul, fueling the building behemoth rising.

Match Up in Four. She opened her eyes.

Match Up in Three. She raised her fists.

Match Up in Two and she splayed her fingers, the Einrin in her blood manifesting and building in vibrant waves, curling up her arms like violent Serpents, readying to do Battle.

Match Up in One precious second, the Verd-infested boy cowering at her unholy display, at her dead eyes in the shadow of her hood and mask. She nearly expected him to call Match Down.

But surprisingly, he held ground, even as the scent of his fear spiked violently; her Einrin writhed along the line of her body, begging to be unleashed.

She obliged her wicked friend.

She wasn’t standing in the Arena, where the shivering corpse of a Lord’s son heaped in a bloody mess on the packed earth should have been.

She, unfortunately, knew where she was.

Somewhere deep in her memory, she had been standing exactly like this, probably millenia ago.

Her Einrin had taken her back to that time.

Not her body, of course. That was still standing frozen in the Arena, drinking in the screams and cheers for her victory, arms splayed, hood off, and masked face tilted up in vicious glory.

But her mind had been taken to one

of her younger selves, stupid and reckless and just a little desperate. Back to her first official Match. This younger version didn’t have the sense and stamina to pace herself, her spayed fingers trembled as exhaustion razed her senses.

What a forgein sensation that was.

Even through the phantom physical pain and the change in mental scenery, her manifested Einrin continued to eat away at the corpse of that Verd boy. Once, when she was new to this wicked strength, she had nearly lost control—she had learned since then to never give her friend more than an inch.

It had always been unpredictable like that, teasing and mischievous and very much wild.

It enjoyed bringing her back here most; her wicked companion either loved it so very much or hated her just enough to have her relive it every time she stepped into the wonderful violence of the Arena. She still, after all this time, couldn’t decide if she hated her power or was thankful for the constant reminder of her folly.

The memory of that opponent heaped before her was dead, but it hadn’t gone down without a decent fight, that first time—her current body still had a jagged scar curving around her hip where the man had landed a lucky hit.

With a spear. Tempus would have killed her himself— if he had been Watching—for that stunt. Her master would have—at the very least—ripped her fingers apart knuckle by knuckle if he had cared enough. About what she was actually doing with her companion in order to fulfill his

wishes. And about a great many things that should have ended with her broken beyond repair. Immortality made one creative in the torture department.

As long as she brought him his Power, he couldn’t be bothered to put that expertise to use.

The victory-screams of the memory-crowd tapered off into shrieks of terror, writhing against the wave as her younger self Unleashed when the Handlers failed to tie her down quick enough. The Handlers vanished under the heat and light of her memory-Einrin, dissipating into smoke as color and fire and pain and Death washed over them.

The shredded phantom-corpse before her shuddered at the shockwave of proximity but stayed where it was.

Thankfully.

The last time the power in her veins had brought her here, it had puppeted the corpse like a master—making it walk, blink, and speak like it was still breathing.

Her Einrin suddenly released its grip on her mind, its boredom washing over her. Her real body was still making tight rotations, bathing in the rabid praise raining down on her.

She stopped and stood with a preternatural stillness as the army of Handlers needed to tame her flooded into the Arena from the side wings. They swung Silversatin chains in the air, the links whispering secrets only she could hear. They threw the weighted ends at her, the chains following and wrapping her neck to ankle in a tight, cold embrace.

Her friend shrieked and bucked at the Silversatin, wrenching against her control and struggling harder as she stomped down on the leash. She had had one too

Stressball, Zeena Mohamed, 2020

many rampages to allow her companion any grief.

One of the Handlers slowly approached at her shallow nod and clamped the Binding Bands back on her wrists. Her Einrin went still and lazy in her blood, lulled into a stupor by the spell.

The chains around her legs loosened, allowing her to step out of the incessant murmuring. The Handlers walked her back to the wings, keeping the chains around her upper body taunt and trembling under her friend’s stifled wrath.

The dim Lin light shocked her system from the hours in the blinding open air Arena. Her friend stirred at the change but settled down as the Bands flared. The Handlers let her walk down into the belly of the Arena and into her chambers. After nearly eight millenia fighting for this gods-awful kingdom and its damned Cardinal, she had the luxury of her own private block of cells.

The Handlers unlocked the chains and tugged them back through the slit in the door, not bothering to spool them as they retreated to the roar of the wings and Arena. She ignored them and the dreadful, haunting singing in her ears from the Silversatin dragging against the stone floor.

She rubbed her wrists and rotated them in her Bands, tugging them tighter as her Einrin flared bright in response to the Satin Song.

She was most volatile before and after a Match—when her power was strongest and surging, then when it was drunk on Battle glow and the Unleashing. Three times in her eight millenia of fighting in this Era had she erupted that second

time, her control already in shreds and the temptation of warm bodies ripe for destroying too much for her battle-drunk blood.

She sat on the straw mat, pushed the hood down, then slid the Blacksatin mask higher onto her dark hair but didn’t bother to remove the light armor or heavy boots before leaning back against the grimy wall and closing her eyes. She centered herself for the dreadful conversation she knew was coming.

As if on cue, her Einrin stirred again in her blood, this time not of her own volition but of her master’s. Her companion—despite the Bands—flowed backwards in her body, against the flow of her being. The sensation, as familiar as it was, was still dreadful and disorienting.

She stilled as she felt it—a familiar shift in the fabric of Time.

Of Universe.

She opened her eyes and cased her room. Of course, her master knew she was stalling and let her scan her fill. Obviously, nothing had changed at first glance.

But—there—in the center of the room.

Tempus shimmered at the edges but was otherwise indistinguishable—his chosen form. Aside from the glowing silver eyes glittering six feet off the floor, boring down into her from the height. She nodded in greeting, the only sign of respect she was allowed to give.

Her master did something of a frown, eyes squinting before smoothing out again. His voice filled her head then, undulating and backwards—following the wrong wrong wrong flow of her Einrin.

How is my Agent? My Bearer and Bringer?

She kept her eyes on the distorted corner of her master, locking away the urge to look into his eyes to end it all. “I am well, Tempus. This Era is nearly ripe.”

A bob of those eyes—a nod in approval.

Good. What is the harvest, my Agent? Doomer and Destroyer?

Her friend writhed in her master’s grip. “The stock has nearly matured fully. Another millennium of exposure to the Ein will bring the product to four thousand percent yield.”

Another bob-nod.

Good. Bring me my power, my Agent. My Child and Cageling.

She raised her eyes finally at the veiled permission. She looked into her master’s eyes, her Einrin wailing now, screaming in her head to stop look away away away.

She stared her Creator down. “Yes, Tempus.”

Fabric snapped taunt, pristine again.

Her friend shuddered, frail and weak and heaving. gone gone gone gone gone

Tempus was gone.