Yet she had not done it. They had spoken less than a handful of sentences since he rose with morning’s first light. Now it was as if a great gulf lay between them. They had become strangers again.
“I don’t think he wants that,” Berun eventually said. “He doesn’t see himself as a leader.”
“The good ones rarely do,” she replied, surprising herself. She had not meant to say it. It sounded too much like an endorsement. At the same time, her dissatisfaction made little sense. Had she not been the one who challenged his faith in the first place? She had read the original speech, after all, and knew it for what it was.
By all rights, she had more reason than anyone to be happy with his transformation.
But obviously
, she reminded herself,
I didn’t help him when he asked. I kept my true opinion to myself—and why? Because I feared his reaction. I didn’t want to burn a bridge.
She exhaled loudly. “He would be a good leader, I think.”
“Yes,” Berun said. “You should tell him.”
“He needs to tell himself,” she said, thus skirting the issue. “He needs to take responsibility for his words. By leaving the city, he has left a vacuum someone will soon fill. I was in the city for less than two hours, and in that time I heard rumors of half a dozen men acting in Vedas’s name. Calling men to them. Forming armies. One in particular—a quarterbreed gladiator, some are claiming—is rallying men in the Old Quarter. He has a wyrm at his command, they say.”
Berun angled his face to the sky. “Perhaps this man means to help us.” She laughed. “Whether or not it’s his intention, chances are he’ll want to keep his power once he’s got it. A man who leads others quickly gets used to calling the shots. He rarely likes it when his general comes back, quoting the regulations.”
Berun looked back at the city. She chewed her lip and hoped he would say no more. Darkness was nearly upon them. Shivering as the first of night’s breezes caressed her, she thought how awful it was that she did not want to be outside or inside. She did not want to be in Knos Min at all. To be home, where everything smelled of mildew and salt, where she did not have to always think of Vedas!
“Is your father still alive?” Berun asked.
“I don’t know,” she lied—an automatic response. Her mother had never allowed her to speak of the man, though when she was small he stopped by every now and then. He wanted to see her, but only when he drank. She had always imagined he felt remorse for leaving her, somewhere deep down where his sober mind could not find it. Yes, she knew where he lived, and a few other things about him. He probably would not recognize her if they passed one another on the street, but she would know if he died. “Why do you ask?”
“I wonder what it would be like to know for certain that Omali is dead. I fear my father will return. I fear...” He rocked from foot to foot, as though the ground were burning underneath him. “I fear father is the wrong word, but I’m used to it. I’m not a man.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Is that a bad thing?”
He nodded. “It is if you want to understand yourself. You have examples everywhere. There’s a person. There’s a person. Where do I look? I can only look inside. There are times when I feel anger building within me, violence I don’t think I can control. I wonder if it’s me or that bit of my father that I’ll never lose. If it’s not me, then I have no purpose of my own. It would mean that I am now, and always will be, someone’s puppet.”
All of a sudden he stopped moving. His eyes dimmed in a way she had never seen. She reached out automatically, afraid he would fade and never reawaken.
“Are you my friend?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said truthfully. “Whether or not you’re a puppet.”
‡
Bars of moonlight glided slowly around the interior of the monastery. For the better part of an hour, she watched one move slowly over her foot. She observed another crawl across the rough-hewn face of Adrash carved into the middle of the stone floor. No light touched Vedas where he lay on the other side of the room, but she watched two bars come within inches of his outstretched left hand.
It was perfectly comfortable in the small oval room, neither stuffy nor drafty. The temperature was just right. Shallow depressions spaced regularly along the wall fit a body well, smoothed as they had been by the backs of sleeping monks. The stone held the warmth of the day, or perhaps the memory of the generations that had rested upon it.
She could not sleep. It took all of her attention to keep the thoughts circling around the inside of her skull—and she knew they must keep moving, otherwise something out of the whirlwind might grab her, latch on, and open itself for examination.
Only, one would not be corralled. A white spark moved against the flow, shouldering its way through the other thoughts, demanding attention. Churls beat it back, sent it tumbling into the maelstrom.
But it returned, again and again.
Fyra.
Without a voice, the girl called to her mother. Churls felt it in her bones, the near-physical pull of her daughter’s need. She knew the feeling well, despite years trying to forget it. She remembered returning home from whatever campaign in whichever province, picking up Fyra from her grandmother’s. She remembered how she and the girl occupied Churls’s small seaside house, little more than strangers. The way Fyra hid behind furniture, staring with wide eyes as though she thought her mother was some sort of monster.
All the while Churls had known, had felt as solidly as a punch to the gut, the intense ache of a child who wants something she has never known.
Because Churls had wanted it too, long ago.
Cursing Berun for putting the thought of family in her mind, she finally gave up, resigning herself to the meeting. She stood, briefly considering whether or not to buckle on her sword. It seemed pointless now. If the girl could heal a broken leg and a cracked pelvis, not to mention a hundred small bruises, she could surely take care of anything that chose to attack Churls from out of the night.
Vedas did not stir as she left. She located Berun atop the hill, keeping watch, motionless as a statue, and kept her eyes upon him as she walked quietly beside the long, thin pond that stretched like a scar down the center of the valley. The water narrowed to a point at the valley’s northern end, inserting itself into a crevice, a twisted crack in the hills wide enough for a single person to walk. She felt drawn to enter here, and did not fight the urge.
A small stream of cold water flowed under her boots as she walked forward, and it occurred to her how odd this was. The verdant hills housing the valley rose from ground that saw rain less than a handful of times every year. Koosas, the only river within a hundred miles, had been redirected into Danoor many eons ago, sucking the surrounding earth of moisture.
Where did the valley’s water come from?
As if in answer, she followed a turn and came to the crevice’s end. She stepped out of the earthy shelter of the hills onto the baked crust of the salt flats. Suddenly, it was cold, dry enough to shrivel her lips against her teeth. She looked back and saw the juncture where the flats stopped and the hill territory began. It was a perfectly smooth line, as if the two regions had never been joined. She stepped back onto the black soil and stone, crouched, and put her hand to the earth. It was moist. She took another couple steps back and did the same. Between two rocks a small trickle of water ran. Cold, almost sweet on her tongue. Not a trace of salt.
Somehow she knew it would be as cold during the heat of summer as it was now.
Mama
, Fyra called.
I can’t go in there.
Churls sighed and walked back. Fyra stood on the salt flats, the tips of her slippered toes at the dividing line. Churls leaned against the crevice wall and raised her eyebrows.
“Why is that?”
There are some places the dead can’t go. Too much magic keeps us out.
She lifted her heel and grimaced, as if she were pushing at the boundary with the tip of her foot.
I don’t like being kept out.
“Then how did you know about the monastery? How did you lead Berun here?”
A grin.
I knew you’d figure it out. You’re so smart, Mama. I heard about this place from a dead man named Ulest, and then I told Berun how to find it
.
He was so tired from running, and I helped him with that, too. I made it so he won’t be so tired all the time.
Churls digested this. The act seemed markedly more impressive than healing a person, but perhaps it was just a matter of her own ignorance. Still, Fyra’s knowledge was undeniably growing—and with it, presumably, her power. If the girl became angry, all the magic in the world might not be able to hold her back.
“Does he know who you are?” she asked.
Fyra shrugged.
Maybe. He’s not as smart as you. He’s like a little boy.
She looked up until Churls met her stare.
You don’t want him to tell Vedas about me, but I don’t think he will. He hasn’t even told you about me, and he tells you everything. I think I’m his one secret. Everybody’s got at least one—except Vedas, maybe. He can’t keep a secret. You’ve got lots, though. Isn’t it funny, how everybody shares except you?
A muscle jumped in Churls’s jaw. “Is this why you wanted to talk, to tell me I don’t share?”
Yes. But there’s more. I want to help. Some of the others do, too.
“Others?” Gooseflesh rose on Churls’s arms and neck. “You mean the dead.”
I only said some.
Fyra shook her head sadly.
Some of them are angry about Vedas’s speech, but most of them don’t care. They say it doesn’t matter what happens to the living now. They tell me to shut up. But the ones who still have people they care about don’t think like that. They don’t want to see the world destroyed. It’s good to have a home, even if you leave someday and never come back.
“You would fight Adrash? What can you do?”
Fyra managed to look insulted.
We can make people stronger, like I did for you and Berun. We can see inside anything and make it better. I’m good at it. I can show others.
“Won’t Adrash see? What if that’s the thing that sets him off?”
That’s why some people tell me to shut up. They think I’ll attract too much attention and get everybody in trouble.
Fyra curled her lip.
They’re cowards. What can Adrash do to us? He never even noticed us. And we’ll do it in secret. We’ll make everybody stronger, but we won’t make it a show. Still, we can’t do anything if you won’t let us.
Churls almost laughed, but the horror of this statement stopped her cold. It all depended on her say-so? A war against Adrash, the awakening of an army of the dead, up to her alone? She could not make that decision now. She might never be able to make that decision.
She struggled to form an adequate response. She did not want Fyra to misinterpret her intentions. To her surprise, she also found she did not want to hurt her daughter’s feelings—or close off the possibility of help entirely.
“I’m not even sure I want to fight, Fyra. I’m not sure I believe in this war. Give me some time to think.”
You’re lying
. Fyra’s expression conveyed what she thought of liars.
You’ll follow Vedas wherever he goes because you love him.
Churls did not bother to deny this. Love did not solve the problem. It never had.
“I can’t tell the dead what to do, Fyra. You’ll have to decide for yourselves.”
You have to do it. The others aren’t special like me. They won’t break the rules like I do. They want a living person to tell them. They picked you. You just have to talk to Vedas first. He will help you. Promise me you’ll talk to him, and don’t lie to me like you did before.
Too tired to argue anymore, Churls nodded. She would not pretend there was any other way. Events had proceeded far beyond the realm of her understanding. Vedas needed to know. Not because he possessed any more intelligence or knowledge than she, but because she needed someone to share the burden with her.
“Is that all?” she asked.
One more thing.
Fyra held out her hand.
Churls took it. It was no more substantial than air, of course, but she could no longer claim to feel nothing at Fyra’s touch. Warmth flowed upward from her wrist, suffusing her body like smoke filling a room.
She stepped onto the flats, and the wind did not bite or suck the moisture from her skin.
I want you to look at the stars with me
, Fyra said.
They lay on the parched earth, connected at the hands.
Tell me about her. The way you did when I was little.
Churls recalled with perfect clarity. She had buried the memories, but had never truly forgotten. On clear summer nights, sometimes she and Fyra had slept on the roof of Churls’s house. Listening to the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below, she made up stories for her daughter’s amusement— stories of gods and goddesses waging war across the void, giant ships sailing the oceans of other worlds, and kingdoms spreading their fingers toward the ends of creation.
Now and then, she told the story of a little girl who jumped from star to star, trying to find her way home. Aryf. It took Fyra years to realize the girl’s name was her own spelled backwards.
Do you remember, Mama?
Fyra asked.
“Yes,” Churls answered. “Yes, sweetie, I do.”
She blinked, and the tears spilled over. She had not expected them to come, but they came nonetheless.
‡
Vedas stood in the center of the room, staring down at the graven image of Adrash. He had removed his hood, and held his left fist at the base of his neck. Slowly, he inserted a finger between suit and skin and tugged, stretching the elder-cloth ever so slightly. He did not look up when she walked in, though he could not have failed to see her.
Exhaustion loosened her tongue. “How long has it been, Vedas?” He opened his mouth, took a deep breath and exhaled before speaking. “Twenty years. More than half my life.” His eyes roved around the room, landing everywhere but on her before returning to the floor. “It’s odd, but I never used to think of it as odd. I haven’t felt sun or water on my skin for two decades. I haven’t touched anything or anyone in that time.”