Free Nemecene: The Epoch of Redress by Kaz Lefave Page A

coiling around the center one like a wide-based double-helix cylindrical pair, each thread piercing an enormous stepladder of twenty-seven distinct crystal disk-shaped floors, greets dawn with a mosaic of textures. The third shaft follows a straight axis up from the ground, tunneling every third tier of the middle sinusoid structure of twenty-seven smaller overlapping pods, and fuses seamlessly into the other two, an open mouth swallowing the sun.
    Sliding her eyes south past the citrus grove and then west towards the brim of the city, she sees a flicker inside the J branch of Van Billund Hall. There is activity. Elize is frantically gathering her materials for the day. She springs from the building predictably flustered, disappears quickly under the floral covered walk, and reemerges, half-dressed, short-winded and still grappling with her trailing jacket. This morning, however, from the clarity of her rooftop perch, Nathruyu notices a slight change in Elize's daily routine, for she delays a little longer than expected in front of the Victory Bridge. She knows. Swiftly retreating behind the terrace stairwell, Nathruyu cautiously peeks one eye around the corner, as the mitered edge of her coattail flutters in the converging draft. It is too early to reveal herself.
    The pulse through her veins distracts her and incites a gust of flailing silk which lures Elize's unease up to her. The evanescent impression of a presence sends Elize scurrying into the oncoming fog. As the powdery wall rolls across the maze of pathways and channels, cloaking the objects en route in a dense white cloud, Nathruyu resumes her watchful stance and releases her fears to the drifting mist. Elize has clearly changed her agenda and the habitual jaunt to the Snack Shack, prior to her lectures, is forfeit. Urgency commands her to the task. If she and he are to be as one, this evening will unfold as foreseen, regardless of this late indiscretion, or even a certain trepidation penetrating her thoughts. She has long coveted him from afar, forbidden to thrust him onto her aching breast until her obligations have been met. She must constantly weigh her loyalties against a relentless desire.
    A solitary tear struggles to make its way to the decorative tiles of the roof, but her quivering lips divert its stream, leaving it broken and vulnerable, as her tongue seizes it to quench her drying thirst. Only the tripartite spire of the twisted towers remains visible above the thickening brume and casts a pointy finger in the direction of their abandoned home, as if reminding Nathruyu of her priorities. As the foggy film interferes with her spying, the gruesome incidents preceding the twins' voyage replay in her mind and taint the atmosphere with the blood of the innocent. She calls out to the shadows, but the dead have no ears, and as much as she would welcome absolution, her part in the whole binds the guilt to her soul. Nathruyu is whisked back to the eve of their arrival in Eadonberg, twenty-five days ago.

    Some students have arrived, but most are at home, collecting the bits of nostalgia they will be relying on for comfort during the demanding training ahead. The twins are no exception. Keeto has planned their departure for tomorrow night, but their lives are fated to a different schedule, one which Nathruyu is skillfully able to accelerate by virtue of her fortunate discovery.
    She has managed to impair the sensors at the east wing entrance of Osler Hall and infiltrate the access tube, unbeknownst to the blinded sentinels. She has also deactivated the movement mechanism to ensure a private escapade up the spiral chute. The inner surface has no protrusions nor depressions of any kind, not even a single crack in the polished concave lining to slide a razor along, forcing her to manually de-tune the entry panels at each pod as she breaches them, and then to leverage the transient thin apertures they present in order to transmit her momentum up the levels. After a