Between Worlds

by Melissa Mead

  Midyora bowed her head. Abri moved to take both of Miska's hands in his own.

  "Love, Naneri is dead."

  "But...” Miska pushed his hands away. She couldn't feel them. She couldn't feel anything but cold. “No ... We worked so hard. We tried everything. She can't be!” She staggered to her feet, and pitched forward into Abri's arms.

  "Sh ... shh ... Gently, love. You did your best."

  "And it did no good!” She didn't mean to shout at Abri. She didn't mean to cry, either, but she did: despairing sobs that welled up from deep inside and shook her to the bone and left her drained. When they passed she sat quietly for a moment with her head cradled on Abri's shoulder while he stroked her hair. She hadn't sat that way for a long time, not since she was a child. A child ... She sat up quickly, startling Abri and Midyora both.

  "I should go see Kimo. Now he has no one."

  "He's with some of the other P'raptoi. I've been to see him,” Abri said grimly. “I don't think you should."

  "Why not?"

  "You said your leg hurt?"

  Puzzled, Miska rolled down her stocking, and stared at the purpling bruise on her calf.

  "Kimo did this?"

  Abri nodded.

  "He was wild with grief,” Midyora explained. “He blames you. No one else does, you understand. We all saw. You gave all you had. But he only knew his mother was dead."

  "I tried to hold him,” Abri put in.

  "There was no holding him, just then. He'd have torn himself free from a Human's grip, he was so crazed. Crying and cursing—I don't know where he even got such language. He kicked you before we could stop him. It took four P'raptoi to pull him away, and Avoca had to calm him down herself.” Midyora handed her a damp rag. “This should help the bruises."

  "Poor Kimo,” said Miska quietly.

  "Love, a baby knows not to hurt another Kankenni!” Abri protested.

  "He's an orphan now, Abri. You and I both know what that's like."

  "There's not a Kankenni in the Caverns that hasn't lost a parent, or a sibling, or a child, these last few Barren Seasons,” Abri said, folding his arms across his chest. “That doesn't excuse him."

  "I couldn't save his mother, that's all he knows. And now he'll have to be Fostered.” Miska shook her head. “And we've lost another P'raptoi, too."

  "The Elders won't lose time choosing another.” Abri said. He and Miska both looked at Midyora, who was suddenly very busy rolling bandages.

  Abri asked the question first. “Do you know who it will be, Elder Midyora?"

  "It's not that simple.” Midyora jerked a kink out of a length of boiled rag. “All the Elders have to agree, and we're as well-matched as a team of cats. Don't ask."

  "But you do know something."

  "Miska, do you still have your Grandfather's journal?” Midyora asked. Miska looked puzzled, but took the tiny book from an inner pocket.

  "Can you read his language?"

  Still more puzzled, Miska turned the crackling yellow pages and read: “Four days out from the Silverbow. Raining. Got four bolts of Shalin weave for two kegs of Blister's Whitewater."

  "What in the worlds?” said Abri.

  Midyora smiled. “Miska, what's the Silverbow?"

  "The river below. He would have been coming from his home city."

  "What's Shalin weave?"

  "Fine cloth—a kind of silk."

  "And Blister's Whitewater?"

  "Fermented grain-juice. Doddi wouldn't let me try any."

  Midyora looked her up and down. “No other P'raptoi could have made sense of that. What are the Rules of Trading?"

  Miska had almost forgotten what it felt like to be quizzed by an Elder. Like being turned inside out, shaken, and drained.

  "Never let Humans see where you come from, or where you go. Give at least equal value for anything you take. Always use a Trading Name. Always..."

  "That's enough.” Midyora nodded. “My choice for the newest P'raptoi is obvious. But not everyone sees it that way."

  "Me?” Shock erased Miska's exhaustion. “I've always wanted ... But it wouldn't be right. Not this way."

  "No one could do it better, child.” Midyora held up a warning hand. “Nothing's decided yet. It would be a hard fight to convince ... some people. But I could do it."

  "We could go Trading together!” Abri's look of hope bordered on awe.

  "It's funny,” Miska choked on a laugh. Or was it a sob? “I wanted to be P'raptoi. But I can't take Naneri's place. I let her die."

  "You weren't the only one trying to save her,” Midyora snapped.

  "I'm sorry.” Miska's head spun with exhaustion. “But I should have ... I ought to ... I don't know!"

  "You're upset, Love.” Abri laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You're not thinking clearly. You should rest."

  "I don't need to rest. I need..."

  "You need a hot drink,” Midyora interrupted. “Here.” She thrust a steaming cup into Miska's hands. caught off guard, she reflexively followed the old healer's command and gulped gown the bitter liquid.

  "Relax,” said Midyora, with a grim smile.

  Only then did the taste register in Miska's frantic mind.

  "You tricked me! You put dreamwort in the water. You should ... should know better than to put shomthin’ inna cup..."

  The cup slipped from Miska's hand. She never heard it hit the floor.

  * * * *

  "You missed the Sharing."

  Not Midyora's voice. Older. That meant only one person. Avoca. Miska sat up quickly, smoothing her untidy braid, and tried to look alert. It wasn't easy. Her eyes refused to focus, showing her two tiny, white-haired old ladies. Both looked deceptively childlike, except for the gray lines shadowing eyes and mouth.

  "Forgive me, Eldest,” she murmured. Her tongue still felt fuzzy, and her head throbbed.

  "You weren't expected.” The Eldest Elder sat perched on a low shelf of rock, watching her with her sharp, birdlike gaze. “You've had a busy day."

  "I did what I could, Eldest."

  "And more, it seems.” Her voice, as always, was soft and pleasant, but her golden gaze was sharp. Miska met her eyes levelly, trembling inside. Had Kimo told her about the baby?

  "Midyora told you to stop,” Avoca continued. “Didn't you hear her?"

  Ah. “Yes, Eldest."

  "Yet you didn't stop."

  "Naneri was ... dying, Eldest. I had to try."

  "Did you presume to think you could do more than Midyora, who is more than three times your age, and wiser?"

  "No, Eldest. I ... didn't really think at all. I had to do something."

  "That was very—human—of you, you realize. Your grandfather also was always having to do something."

  Miska had no answer to that, so she waited. Avoca half-smiled, and brought out a mossy green bundle.

  "Your cloak, Impetuous One. I'm afraid there are stains that would not come out. And your portion of the Sharing, inside.” Miska started to unroll the soft cloth, but Avoca stopped her with a gesture. “Not yet. First, come with me."

  They wobbled down the corridor, Avoca hobbled by her great age, Miska clumsy from the last wisps of Dreamwort. Even the most preoccupied Kankenni turned to stare at them. To cover her embarrassment, Miska grinned and waved. Inwardly, she was baffled. Where in the Worlds were they going? They passed the common rooms and the quarters of the P'raptoi, following the winding trails downward and inward. They were getting away from the well-used areas, even most of the curtained sleeping niches. Far past her own niche, so close to the surface. The floor, no longer smooth, bristled with stalagmites. Gold-tinged stalactites dripped from the ceiling. Miska felt like she was being strained through a comb. If things didn't open out soon, she'd start bumping her head...

  "Here we are. Go on in, Miska. Mind your head.” Avoca shooed her through a low doorway. Once inside, Miska straightened up, and stared.

  The room was nearly round, and polished perfectly smooth—a stone bubble. Wate
r trickled down the curved walls, but left no stain behind. In the exact center of the room was a broad, low pedestal of the deepest gray stone, rounded, hollowed, and pillowed with what looked like golden velvet. Up close, the gold stuff proved to be mosslike clusters of thousands of tiny flowers, incredibly soft and springy, and giving forth a minty scent.

  "Sit down.” Avoca settled herself on the golden cushion, her legs dangling half a foot above the floor, and motioned to Miska to join her. Somewhat uneasily, Miska obeyed, sitting on the far side, with her back to Avoca. “Do you know where you are?"

  "No, Eldest.” Miska planted her feet firmly on the floor. She tended to tap her left foot when she was nervous, and Avoca knew it. She looked around. She could no longer see the doorway.

  "This is the Mirror."

  "Where?” Miska looked around for anything made of glass. All Kankenni children dared each other to sneak a peak in the Elders’ legendary Mirror. Miska had never found it, and none of her friends would say exactly what it looked like.

  "We're sitting in it, Historian. I thought you'd have deduced that, from your studies.” Miska flushed. It wasn't as though Savrona, the Elder Historian, were still there to teach her. Besides, whenever Miska started to tell the stories of life Aboveground, there was always an interruption, an emergency, a distraction.

  Avoca had stepped into the Second World, and wasn't paying attention. As Miska watched, more Motes than she'd ever seen in one place flowed over the surface of the cavern. The walls shone with liquid gold. Avoca stepped back from wherever she'd gone to call the Motes. When she spoke, her voice shook in a way it hadn't before, even after the long walk.

  "Watch, young Historian, and tell me what you see."

  Miska watched. Images, larger than life on the arching walls, formed and swirled about her. That wasn't so unusual; any Kankenni could show Mote-pictures. Miska had been doing it since she was three. These even looked familiar, from her lessons with the Elder Historian. Kankenni, making their homes in the forests aboveground. They had gardens. Their clothes, bright and warm-looking, all fit. Many, many children, well-fed and laughing, played Seek-and-Find among the trees.

  Then Humans, dozens of them, in scarlet silks, stalked through the trees with blades of sharpened steel in their hands. They came upon the children; the steel flashed. Miska tried to turn away, but there was no turning away in this room. The images surrounded her. A Human with a torch ... A young mother screaming as her fine, pale hair kindled like a halo ... A child, eyes so wide in terror they were all dark pupil. Behind her, more Humans with wicked knives drawn ... Thin streams of blood, so red on the green grass...

  "Stop, stop!” Miska cried. “I know this! The Exile—it was long ago. It's over. Why make me see it again?"

  "You're right, Historian.” How could Avoca's voice be so calm? “That was before we were Driven Below, to make our home here. This is now."

  Miska caught her breath. The Mirror showed things as they were happening, things that no one had known about beforehand? Not just stories, or memories? She watched, fascinated.

  More Humans—the ragged ones in the marked cloaks. One held a young rabbit by the ears. Steel flashed again. Miska felt the creature's scream as the kicking legs went limp. Sickened, Miska watched as the man skinned and gutted the tiny animal. Others blundered about, hunting for firewood.

  "Look around, Miska. Do you realize where they are?"

  Of course she did, but she forced herself to turn slowly, noting each tree, the slope of the ground, the glint of the river beyond, before answering.

  "They're in the valley below, Eldest."

  "Yes. And look here. This is the village were the P'raptoi—and your betrothed, and Naneri—were just days ago."

  Abri had described this place. She recognized the white wooden houses with blue roofs and striped awnings, the stacked crates and barrels around the marketplace. What didn't look familiar was the tall ship, with parchment-colored sails, that lay alongside the dock.

  "Do you know what this is, granddaughter of Jakki?"

  "Grandfather used to tell me stories,” said Miska slowly, “of the ships of the Great Families from the Southlands. The Silk People, he called them. He used to watch them when he was a boy, in the grand city. He said the ships never came to the little towns, though. The oldest stories say there were once Kankenni in the Southlands, who rode on the ships. But I've never seen one before."

  "The histories say that this was how the Humans who drove us underground came. In ships like this, from the Southlands.” Avoca's voice quavered, just the tiniest bit. “The humans who wouldn't learn, who couldn't be taught. We managed to survive once before. This time I fear..."

  Miska was no longer listening. There was someone new in the picture—a young, brown-skinned girl. Like the Humans in the first picture, she was dressed in bright red silk-a fine embroidered dress. She didn't look cruel. If anything, she looked lost, and a little frightened, amid the bustling riverside crowd. Her dark eyes were wide, and she stood slightly hunched, with her arms held in close to her chest. She was just boarding the ship. Miska admired the way she kept her balance on the narrow gangplank. Almost like a Kankenni.

  Just at that instant, though, the girl froze in mid-step, as though unsure where to put her foot. The slightly frightened look changed to wild, unfocused panic. A buxom woman, laden with baskets, nudged her from behind, urging her on. The girl lurched forward a few steps, and pitched headlong into the river. Miska gasped.

  "Miska, are you listening?” The image vanished. Avoca was frowning at her.

  "Your pardon, Eldest. I was watching,” said Miska, still wondering if the girl was all right. The river was icy cold just now. “I didn't see any of the Humans with the steel thorns on the ship."

  "Did your grandfather ever tell you about them?"

  "No. He told me about Humans who left bowls of milk on the doorsteps for ... Cantrips, they called us. And about some who would hang bundles of wormwood over their doors, to keep us away. But never about Humans who would hunt us, even among the ones from the ships."

  "Hm. But he was a Human himself, and you were just a child. He may not have wanted to frighten you. Savrona may have known more, but that can't be helped."

  "I'm sure she would have taught me, if she had,” Miska offered. “I was always pestering her for tales about Humans.” The Elder Historian had died two Barren Seasons ago. It was a relief to be able to talk about her again, with only a trace of bittersweet sadness.

  "Or she may have wanted to protect you from your own curiosity. I think you forget, sometimes, that it's the duty of the Elders to protect as well as teach. The Elders and the P'raptoi. You talk about wanting to become a Trader and Guardian, but you forget that their first duty is to protect the Caverns. You could never enter a Human shop unseen, leave a trading stone, take what you need, and go. You'd want to talk with the shopkeeper. Am I correct?"

  Miska set her lips tight.

  "I brought you here for two reasons.” Avoca lowered herself to the floor and stepped around the pedestal to face Miska. “One was to find out what you, as an apprentice Historian and granddaughter of a Human, knew about these newcomers. Nothing, apparently.” Miska clenched her hands, but Avoca didn't seem to notice. “The other was to speak with you privately."

  Avoca paused. Miska felt her left foot beginning to twitch.

  "It was hard to calm Kimo down earlier,” the old Kankenni said softly. “He was almost hysterical."

  "I'm sorry, Eldest. But I promise you, I did the best I could. Naneri and I may not have been the best of friends, but I did not give less because of that. I couldn't.” Her voice cracked. “You know I couldn't."

  "I know that, Miska.” The birdlike face gentled for a moment. “Pick some of the golden flowers, and breathe slowly. They're very calming. That's better."

  Miska inhaled the clean scent, and tried to stop shaking.

  "You always mean well, child. You nearly threw yourself headlong into the Last World afte
r Naneri today. We all owe you a debt for trying. Are you calm?"

  Miska nodded.

  "As I said, Kimo was very upset. He said things in grief that I'm sure he didn't mean. He spoke about meeting you on the hillside."

  The cavern was suddenly very, very cold.

  "You're an adult now, and I can hardly confine you to your niche any more. But he said you had a baby with you."

  Had she not already been sitting, Miska would have fallen. She gripped the pedestal with both hands.

  "Do I need to show you again just how serious that is?"

  Miska, remembering those dark, terrified eyes, shook her head.

  "I should bring you before the full Council of Elders.” Avoca frowned. Miska's stomach lurched. But Avoca paused. “Still, the child is safe, and we've had more than enough tragedy today. And, as I said, we owe you a debt.” Miska held her breath, leaning hard to the left to still her treacherous foot.

  "You mean well. But you nearly killed yourself today. You need something to keep yourself occupied closer to home. Some direction for that energy your grandfather gave you."

  Miska bit her lip. What was she, an unruly goat?

  "You look as though I've struck you,” Avoca said. “I know you think me unreasonable, overprotective. After all, your Doddi Jakki was a gentle man. He always meant well. He meant well when he took Elder Braddon with him to the Human city to trade. Do you know what happened, Miska?"

  Miska swallowed. “Elder Braddon never came back. And you"—Miska couldn't keep the edge out of her voice—"you banished Doddi Jakki!"

  "We did not. It was his choice to leave.” Avoca paused. “I'll admit, I was not sorry—Jakki was an unsettling influence, and we Elders have all the Kankenni to think of. But we did not hold your grandfather personally responsible.” Avoca touched a hand to the curved wall, and suddenly the archway was back. She walked through slowly, looking back at Miska, who still sat rigid on the pedestal.

  "Understand this, Miska. The child, whose mother burned..."

  Miska waited, wondering at the sudden vulnerability in the venerable Elder's face.

  "I was that child."