With tremulous limbs, Wing grasped at the edge of the desk and pulled himself up again. Reaching across the desk, he took Lant’s still body in his stiff hands and began to shake it. “Wake up!”
But the cold, grey body remained disconcertingly resistant to Wing’s imploration.
Releasing his grip, Wing staggered back and then, turning, stumbled outside, his hands going to his face as he weaved back and forth drunkenly, the muscles in his throat constricting, forcing a strange, guttural sound from his lips.
The storm had begun to sweep up Jhiyak Canyon, cutting at his back, turning cold enough at last to turn from sleet to heavy, wet flakes of snow. A blinding pain burst inside his head. His body succumbed and the earth reached up to take him.
Somewhere in the back of Wing’s mind a voice told him: You’re suffocating.
Forging through the inner realms of waking, Wing reached a point of translation and clarity. He was suffocating. After his collapse, the rutted ground he’d fallen into had filled with snow and melted under his breath. With a jolt, he brought his hands beneath his shoulders and forced himself up. Inhaling painfully, his lungs felt blistered. Head heavy as a timber, Wing pushed himself to his feet. He glanced around before stumbling back to Lant’s hut. The wind blew in through the hut flap behind him, nearly blowing out the candles’ fragile flame as Wing stepped inside one last time.
Taking up a couple blankets, Wing wrapped the Commander’s body in them. He then snuffed out the candle, shouldered Lant’s body, and made his way through the rain back to the sunrising tree line.
Wing bowed low. He was unable to dig a grave in the frozen, rocky mountainside. The mound of rock and evergreen boughs would protect the Commander’s body from men if not wild animals. Wing let his head drop. The water dripping from his snow-soaked head fell over the stones, leaves, and branches of Lant’s grave. Snow was slowly building upon it, making of it a green and white cocoon.
Wing was alone in the darkness.
Powerless and vaguely aware, Wing drew himself up in the fields; home stood before him. He half expected it to, also, be on fire. It wasn’t. His home sat large and gloomy but untouched beneath the stormy sky. With a pained half-breath, he started toward it.
At the door, Wing set a shaking hand to the shiny bronze handle and opened it. He listened. Quiet. He stepped inside.
“Nien?” he called out carefully. And then, with more force, “Mother!” He looked around and called louder: “Father!”
Rushing up the stairs to Joash and Reean’s room, he pushed open the door.
Empty.
Clinging to the handrail, he stumbled back down the stairs into the main room where he looked around again, as if he had somehow missed seeing his family there.
Caught somewhere between disbelief and insensibility, he went through the small opening into the back bedroom, glancing around at the three beds that were his, Nien’s, and Jake’s.
He took in the empty beds before making a decision he could barely comprehend. Taking up an armful of heavy clothes, socks, and blankets, he shoved them into a canvas duffel and went back out into the main room where he wrapped food, absently pocketed a bit of flint and spark from the small box at the side of the wood stove, and removed a long sleeved cloak off a hook near the door.
He paused then, his eyes falling once more over the emptiness of the house.
Upon the divan, he spotted his small transcription of the Ancient Writings.
Walking over, he took up the book and stared at it.
Abruptly, he shoved it into the duffel along with the rest of his brief collection of supplies.
Slowly, Wing backed his way to the door, stepped through, and closed it behind him.
Chapter 45
Buried Alive
T here was heaviness
— and
There was pain.
Something like a mountain pressed down upon him, making it virtually impossible for him to move at all.
He blinked his eyes and tried to open them, but something gummy and hard prevented even this simplest of efforts. He tried to raise a hand to wipe his eyes, but his arms were pinned at odd angles from his body.
Viciously, he rubbed his face against whatever it was that lay on top of him, trying to brush away the goo that sealed his eyes closed.
He succeeded only in part.
Blinking frantically, he managed to create a small slit through the sticky mess in one eye, but it meant little to him for all was black —
Black like the belly of a cave. And cold. His bones and joints were stiff. Frozen.
The air he breathed was thick and frozen as well. Beneath the cold crept an odour so repugnant and powerful that his stomach revolted. He gagged. The gagging caused him to need more air —
Air that he was simply unable to get.
Panic seized him.
Madly, he began to heave about, battling to free himself from the hellish weight that buried him. At last, he got one arm free and pushed. The thing he pushed against was stiff but oddly pliant…
Like flesh. Like bone.
An arm? Maybe a leg?
He felt his mind rupture.
On top of him was no mountain, but the weight of the dead. The frozen dead.
His mind came unhinged. He thrashed, crawling, howling with rage, battling against the thick, unfeeling crush of bodies. He wormed his way, heaving and shoving, wild with horror.
The battle in Jayak, the fight within the walls of the Castle Viyer, were nothing compared to the one he now waged. Giving up didn’t cross his mind simply because he was out of his mind; the drive to free himself was utterly overpowering. Sheer need drove his broken body to push, tear, grapple, and thrash as in agonizing thrusts and heaves he climbed in a direction that he’d had no mind to hope was up.
But it had been up.
Strained, reckless and raw in a way that made pointless will or desire, the bodies of the dead broke at last and he found himself within a rush of cold, sacred night air.
He lay upon the edge of the pit, each breath a deep, rasping draw, ripping through his lungs in a rupture of ice and rain. Above, a scene too terrible to be real, were stars, more in number and beauty overhead than that which lie in horror beneath — reflections of spirit and consciousness that no longer belonged to the elements of flesh and bone.
But he, alone, remained, one consciousness bound with the rough material of the planet. His soul still possessed of breath. Upon him he felt some merciful hand descend, cradling his mind in suspension, allowing his body to breathe, holding thought and feeling at bay.
It let him lay just long enough to recover but not long enough for comprehension to rise; a comprehension that would have been the end of him.
To his knees, it pushed him. And then to his feet where only a few steps were taken before a fall. He lay for a moment before he began to crawl. He crawled until he managed to regain his feet, feet that of their own accord carried him around the castle and into the dark depth of the sheltering trees behind it. Moved by a knowledge and memory possessed of the body alone, he gained the opposite side of the valley. He was not aware of how many times he had fallen in the snow and slick, frozen mud, and gotten to his feet again. He’d made Jayak Canyon before finally dropping into the frozen darkness of snow-covered grass and scented needles beneath a coven of ancient pine.
Within the circle of trees the presence that had pushed him thus far coalesced, weaving a protection over him, sustaining a body broken, preserving a purpose far from fulfilled.
When Nien awoke the next morning beneath the grouping of pines, he had no idea where he was nor how he’d gotten there.
Chapter 46
Driven to Ground
R eaching the edge of the fields, Wing headed into the Mesko forest. The ground beneath the canopy was wet but free of snow, and so the forest he had moved through so often with his father and Nien rolled away under him as he ran, brushing over rocks and deadwood, moving at first with a speed and lightness t
hat alerted not even the shyest of terrestrial creatures. But as the brutal ascent continued and his mind came into his body, Wing began to falter. Soon his hands were bloody from catching himself each time he fell, legs and lungs burning from the exertion of the climb.
Impossibly, he kept up the cruel pace until Rieeve had shrunk to less than half its size far below and he’d run himself into oxygen debt.
Shaking, Wing landed on his knees and fell over to his side where he lay incoherent, his breath coming in short, harsh rasps, heart pounding fiercely in his head.
When Wing opened his eyes again he was on his back and the forest had grown dark. There was no storm, and all was quiet and very still, as if after a snowfall.
Where am I? He glanced around.
Just above the Mesko forest, yes. He’d run here after leaving the house. Relaxing, he gazed upward. The stars gleamed brightly overhead and through them stretched the milky haze of the Malor-Tuleer galaxy. He sighed heavily. It must have been another nightmare vision. It had to be. But why had he not woken up in his own bed?
And where was Nien?
Dread filled his every organ like a drowning tide —
No. Nien was not here this time.
Not this time.
Scrambling to his feet on the slope, slick with mud and wet rock, he staggered back down the slope, retreating into the forest. On the upper edge of the canopy he found a large, open root cavern in one of the ancients. Dropping to his knees, he crawled inside, curled into a ball, pulled his cloak over his head, and knew nothing more.
Wing was groggy and confused when he woke again. He was also sore, through every bone and muscle. He shoved the cold coat from his shoulders and, with a grunt, pushed himself over to his hands and knees. He panted a moment, shivering. He needed a fire. How he’d not frozen to death after passing out he could not figure.
Dawn was bleeding through the giant roots into the root cavern.
Fingers stiff and aching, he noticed that he still had his duffel with him. His mind was fuzzy but there was something in the duffel, something…
Ah! The flint and steel.
Dragging the duffel over he began to rummage through it. Of course, they were the smallest bits in the large bag and so had made it all the way to the bottom. The root cavern was strewn with the duffel’s contents by the time he finally got to them. He set the flint and steel aside and glanced out at the pale light rays worming their way into the root cavern. The root cavern was littered, not only with his own things, but with the ragged and rustic leftovers from other tenants. There was enough matter for kindling as well as sufficient sticks and dried plant roots to make at least a small fire.
It only took him a few tries and Wing had himself a pocket of warmth. Flexing his hands over the tiny flames, his attention turned to the next discomfort: thirst. The dry pain in his throat made swallowing difficult and probably accounted for his inability to think clearly.
Leaving the little fire, he crawled stiffly from the root cavern.
The sky was cloud-covered in grey. Licking frozen dew from a nearby leaf, he made it to his feet. His walk was a faltering attempt, but the need for water kept him on his feet.
Unsure how long it had taken him, Wing finally crossed paths with a stream. Falling to his stomach, he drank at its side until he felt sick. Rolling onto his back, he clutched his stomach and groaned.
Bad idea.
He thought about finding something to eat, but could not come up with either the energy nor the will to do so.
Looking around, the thought occurred to him that he may not be able to find his way back to the root cavern. There were other trees with open root structures, but he didn’t trust the chances of finding one large enough to hold him that wasn’t already occupied by another pitiful creature seeking refuge from the cold. He cursed himself for not paying more attention but the need for water had been overwhelming.
It took more than a sunstep, but Wing finally relocated the root cavern. Crawling inside, he lit another fire and rested. Lying in the darkness, he dreamed about being with his family again and of how close he’d just come to making that happen…
But the ghostly messenger.
His instructions echoed in Wing’s mind: Go to Lant. He has something for you. Lant had given him the rolled parchments and papers and told him to take them to Master Monteray of Legran.
Slowly, Wing reached down inside his shirt. The parchments were still there, molded now by sweat and rain and snow to his body. He unrolled them; they were still slightly damp. The first in one of the rolls was a sheet of Mesko paper, the ink smeared as if it had either been rolled in with the rest before drying completely or was, like the rest, wet from his body and the storm. At the top, Wing could make out his name. The words were nearly unreadable after that. Squinting in the dim light filtering into the Mesko grotto and the tiny dancing flames from his fire, Wing tried to make out something of the letter; it was nearly impossible. There was something about messengers and he thought he recognized Pree K’s name. He also recognized the name Monteray. Near the end it was clearer and Wing read: Please take the plans and the map I have drawn up to Master Monteray of Legran. He will know what to do.
Tell my son I love him.
Wing, I do not know what lies ahead of you, but I have some idea what lies within you. Let it guide you now — it will not lead you astray.
These are my last words to you, my plea — not much for one who has lived as long as I, but they are all I can give you.
Wing brushed frustratingly at his eyes, struggling to make out the words.
I do not know what the ancients had in mind, but even though I die devastated, I take with me this last hope…
“Merehr.”
The word cut a deep groove across Wing’s mind. His hand trembled; the letter fell to the grotto floor.
Though Wing knew painfully little of their continent’s geography, a few of Nien’s words over the revolutions had actually sunk in: Legran lay to the sunrising, just on the other side of the Ti Range, and he had already traveled a fair distance in that direction — the same way he, Carly, and Nien had often gone in search of the shy’teh caves.
Closing his eyes, Wing fought a short inner battle: Die now, here, and be with his family. Or go to Legran and deliver the Plan to Master Monteray.
Opening his eyes, looking out into the deep grey of the evening, Wing made a silent vow.
So many times, Lant had asked Wing for his help, his support. And each time Wing had told him no. So, for Lant, he would do this last thing.
With a gnawing hollow in his stomach and an unfathomable vacancy in his chest, Wing wrapped an arm around his head, drew his knees into himself and slept.
In the valley of Legran, Master Monteray sat up in bed with a heart-pounding jerk. He was drenched in sweat and trembled as if chilled.
Beside him, Kate woke. “What is it?” she asked, placing her hand upon his back. It was wet and cold. “Are you sick?”
Monteray shook his head. “I…I’m not sure.”
“Bad dream?”
Certainly, it was that, Monteray thought. But was it also something more?
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m going to towel off.”
Pushing himself off the bed, Monteray left the room and went down the long stairs.
What was that about? he asked himself again, and felt a deep melancholy touch his heart.
Taking a towel, he pressed his face into it and let the breath shudder from his chest. Raising his face, he stepped to the dining-room window that faced the river and the mighty Ti Range flanking its opposite bank.
“What are you protecting me from?” he whispered to the mountain. “What are you sending my way?”
Chapter 47
Firebrand of Questions
S now in the elevation above the Mesko canopy kept Wing in his new home, the large root cavern. During the day, he’d forage about for food and water, hiking out of the Mesko forest to visit sun-soaked boulders, t
aking in what little warmth they’d gathered from the tender rays of Ime sunlight. Though not exactly warm, nights in the root cavern with a small fire spared him the sharpest edge of Ime’s cold. Blocking the entrance with large strips of bark and downfall, he managed to dissuade both wind and creatures from his life-saving den.
A turn and then two passed as Wing waited for the weather to break. He may only have a few days once it did, and he wondered if he would be able to find the Valley of Legran before dying of exposure in the high mountain elevation.
Nights within the shelter of the Mesko cavern when he could not sleep were a torture. The hard ground caused a deep aching in his joints and his muscles would cramp. At times the pain drove him out into the night where the cold set upon him with a different but equal vengeance.
On the odd nights that his body cooperated, his mind would pick up its relentless firebrand of questions, running itself around in the pursuit and denial of them so furiously that the ruts it created felt inescapable.
Resentfully, Wing wondered which condition he detested more.
Through a break in the makeshift bark door and the cover of canopy, his green gaze spotted a sliver of the night sky; a small break in the clouds.
You knew it was not in me, he said silently. Everything the Leader is supposed to be I am not — never have been. If there was someone I was supposed to be, why did you not make me equal to the task? Why do I love the feel of earth in my hands rather than the cool blade of a sword?
The sky replied unblinking and reticent, leaving the questions to haunt the back of Wing’s mind, affirming his belief that there was no answer. If it had been Eosha that had given him his nightmare visions than what good were they? They’d prevented nothing. And if those dreams had not been from Eosha than why had he not called another from the other side? Someone who could have helped prevent the annihilation of his people? Even the incomprehensible act of the Ka’ull and their motives came a distant second to this feeling of renunciation.
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