Endgame by Kristine Smith Page B

figures. The accursed hybrids whose existence pained nìRau Cèel so.
    Click—click—click. Her finger twitched on the discharge mech—with each faint whirr of the mechs, she imagined bodies falling, souls destroyed, lives extinguished. She scanned other areas of the enclave—
    Click.
    Walkways. Verandas. Open spaces.
    Click.
    Killing, killing. Taking life that had no right to exist.
    Click. Click. Click.
    A small balcony.
    Rilas stilled. Eased the pressure on the discharge mech. Watched.
    Jani Kilian. The Kièrshia. The cursed thing. Standing, alone on the balcony. She wore a wrapshirt and trousers in grey, plain and free of adornment save for a thick cording of silver woven into the shirt cuffs.
    Rilas released the charge-through and looked away from the scope. Her heart beat strongly—she could feel it pound. Her hands were as dry, her mind, as clear. Such was as they were during the best of times, when Caith blessed her and bade her act as her talents demanded.
    She set aside the rifle, then knelt upon the rubble-strewn floor and rummaged through her bag. Small stones dug into her knees; she used the pain as a spur, a sign of favor from Caith that it was right for her to act. She removed the frosty flat container. Opened it. Took out one of the chilled projectiles, inserted it into the rifle magazine, clicked the chamber closed. Heard the cylinder slide into place, the rifle hum in activation.
    The payload is typed to Tsecha. Even as the technician’s words echoed in her head, Rilas lifted the rifle to her shoulder and sighted down, capturing the dark head. Edged the weapon one way, then the other, until the scope signaled TARGET CENTERED with a single yellow flash, and she fixed on the face. Skin dark as Pathen, eyes green as Sìah, combined with weak human bones. The face of an overgrown youngish, a mutant, a made thing.
    The payload is typed to Tsecha.
    â€œBut it might work with her. The idomeni part of her is of Vynshàrau. There could be enough—”
    The payload is typed to Tsecha.
    Rilas forced herself to breathe. The Kièrshia stood, unmoving as stone, eyes fixed. A target as she had never had, still and quiet and alone. If this one fell, no one would know for hours.
    Then Kièrshia shifted her stare until it seemed to Rilas as though she saw her and studied her in turn.
    You should die. Rilas’s finger tightened on the charge-through. You must—
    Tsecha.
    Rilas stilled. Cursed the name that filled her head even as she knew it had been sent by her goddess. Relaxed, drawing in one slow inhalation of stagnant air, followed by another. Another.
    â€œFool.” Rilas stood still until she calmed, until she could no longer see the strange green eyes in her mind. Then she broke down the rifle and repacked the components.
    I will return to Karistos. I will make sacrifice, and pray, and prepare. Then tomorrow she would return to the ruin and kill the one for whom the weapon had been designed. Avrèl nìRau Nema. A name that had once been and was now no more. Ní Tsecha Egri. A life that was now, and would soon not be.
    Rilas shouldered her bag and, with careful steps, departed the ruin. No humanish males lurked in wait outside. No tourists. No movement but branches and leaves in the wind, no sound but animals.

CHAPTER 5
    Jani heard the French doors open, but didn’t turn to see who her visitor was. She already knew. “It’s so nice and quiet out here.”
    Footsteps from behind, soft on the tile. “Ní Tsecha’s over at the never-ending project that is the new meeting house.” Dieter Brondt, her secular suborn and resident spy, drew up next to her. “He’s arguing with ní Dathim about the tilework.”
    â€œAgain? And what does he want me to do about that?”
    â€œMake ní Dathim see things his way.” Dieter grinned, the expression lighting his round face. “Because we all know how well ní Dathim