Between Worlds

by Melissa Mead

  Myringa leaned over the edge like a girl gazing at her own reflection, her lips parted, and her eyes bright.

  "Thanli,” she breathed. She leaned forward.

  Miska froze.

  "Lady Myringa, stop!"

  The woman turned toward her, her eyes feverish with triumph. “I don't need you! He's right here.” Myringa bent over the chasm, reaching. “I'm here, Thanli. Take my hand..."

  Miska gathered herself to spring even before she saw Myringa's foot slip. She clutched double handfuls of slippery pink fabric, holding tight, but Myringa was falling, and she was sliding, scrabbling and kicking on glassy obsidian. Myringa's skirt tore from her hands ... and then she was falling too, endlessly, breathlessly, dissolving into a roaring sea of warm honeyed light.

  * * * *

  A hand reached through the white-gold light. Abri, Miska thought. She reached out and grasped the outstretched hand. Strong fingers closed around her wrist, and she felt herself being pulled up through the worlds as though through deep water. The light fell behind, leaving everything colder, darker. Sound ceased, then touch. Then there was nothing at all.

  Sensation returned: a gentle hand tentatively brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead. Still with her eyes closed, Miska smiled. “Abri."

  "No ... It's ... it's just me.” Juliar's voice, soft, sad, and echoing. She opened her eyes, and saw only swirls of light and dark. “I'm sorry, Miska. It's only me."

  "Juliar...” Miska pulled away from him, struggling to sit upright. “How can you still be in the Second World? Where are the others?” She blinked and rubbed her eyes. Now there were shapes against the swirling light. “Where are we?"

  "Careful. This isn't the Second World, Miska.” Juliar's voice shifted, coming from in front of her. “Are you all right? You look ... not quite solid. Can you see?"

  "I can see.” She blinked again, trying to focus. The largest bright spot resolved itself into Juliar, sitting back on his heels and regarding her with a worried frown. He looked exhausted, his face drained white. All beyond him was still dark, though. “You have blood on your face."

  "I know.” He brushed at the spot—with his left hand. The right was bound in a scrap of cloth.

  "What's wrong with your other hand, Juliar? And where's Abri?"

  "Abri? I haven't seen him since I went back to the Temple—when you headed for—Myringa's house."

  "But he must be nearby. He pulled me into the Solid World. He caught my hand."

  Juliar shook his head, not meeting her eyes. “That was ... me."

  "But you can't have! You'd be ... Oh!"

  Juliar unwrapped his right arm. All from elbow to fingertips was transparent. Miska could just barely make out the shape of a hand, fingers, withering into a useless claw.

  "Your hand ... Juliar, what did you do?” Miska dropped down beside him and took the fading hand in hers. “I'm sorry. Does that hurt?"

  "No.” Then, more softly, as she tried, gently, to uncurl his bent fingers: “Actually, I can't feel anything in that hand. At all."

  "What happened?"

  "After Lady Myringa ... jumped, those little lights—Motes?—went up like a fountain, and showered down...” He stopped, looking puzzled. “The Motes acted almost like they wanted to get into that golden light.” He shook his head. “Silly. Anyway, you had hold of Lady Myringa's skirt, and you were slipping, so I grabbed, but ... I touched the gold light."

  "You ... Oh, Juliar..."

  "It would have to be my writing hand,” he snorted. “Getting worse, too. Never mind. It doesn't hurt. How do we get you back to looking solid again? I mean, it helped that you weighed next to nothing back at that pit, but I'd rather look at your face than through it."

  Miska smiled at him, but he didn't smile back. It wasn't quite the “thinking look” he turned on her, but it still made her shiver inside.

  "Where is the pit? Aren't we still in the Deepest Cavern?” She looked around. Everything was still indistinct—whether because of her own unreliable vision, or because the air itself was dark and heavy, she wasn't sure. It did smell musty.

  "No.” He shook his head, carefully, as though he still had a headache. “I wasn't thinking too clearly, but there was a silvery path, like starlight. I ... well, I dragged us both up it.” He looked abashed. “Not very dignified, but it was the best I could do. Sorry about your dress."

  "I hadn't noticed.” Now Miska could see that the fabric was scuffed and worn, as were the knees of Juliar's uniform. “But the path was supposed to go to the Temple. Why is it so dark?"

  "We're not in the Temple. I'm not sure where this is. I didn't want to leave you and look around until I was sure you weren't ... that you'd wake up. And my night sight's nothing like yours."

  Miska remembered the feel of satin slipping through her fingers, of falling...

  "Let's find out where we are.” She took a few hasty steps away from Juliar, and stopped. He sat in the same place, watching her with a mixture of amusement and bitter frustration.

  "Excuse me if I don't follow,” he said with a wry smile. “Go on."

  She came back to him. “Kankenni never explore alone.” She stopped, and grinned. “Well, we aren't supposed to, anyway. Give me your hand. No, the visible one, silly! There's something over there you can lean on. Just a few steps. Ready?"

  "Ready.” Juliar braced himself, lurched to his feet, and they crossed the empty floor in hobbling tandem. By the time they stopped, they were both exhausted and laughing.

  "It would be easier to do this if you weren't so tall!” Miska teased.

  "I'm not all that tall!” Juliar retorted. “If anyone should talk...” He stopped.

  "What? Is something wrong?"

  "Marble.” He thumped the surface under their hands. “This is a marble table. And look at all this junk! I think ... Miska, can you stir up some of those Motes? We need more light."

  "Yes ... No. There aren't any! Or at least, I can't see them. But..."

  "...there's only one place I know of with a big black stone table in it,” Juliar finished. “Watch out; I'll bet there are piles of broken glass. Can you check out that ... puddle over there, just to be sure?"

  She knew he was right, even before she reached the congealed pool of blue and white wax and petrified wicks. Among the fallen bookcases lay the shattered fragments of Thanli's glass coffin.

  "Juliar,” she called, her voice hushed, “the bones are gone."

  "Could Gerun's gang have taken them?"

  "Why would they? No, I think ... I think Elder Myringa could have pulled herself out of the Last World, but she pulled Thanli's body to her instead."

  She hoped so. That would mean that it wasn't her fault that another Human had fallen to death in the Caverns. That she wasn't—what was the word—a “cursed Imp.” That she hadn't failed.

  She hadn't meant to, but suddenly she was sitting on the floor next to Juliar, crying like a child, while he patted her awkwardly with his good hand.

  "Oh, Stars ... What's the matter? Are you hurt? Don't you go vanishing on me!"

  "I'm all right.” She sniffled, and then squeezed his good hand. “See? I'm still here. I'm just ... tired. Tired of living in the dark.” She choked on a laugh. “I think I need sunlight."

  He looked doubtful. “Well, we won't get any of that down here. Give me a hand? The stairs are this way.” He sighed. “Two hundred and forty-seven very hard, very slippery steps. I counted. And no handrail.” He half-bowed, still leaning against the table. “Shall we get started?"

  They only made it up fifteen steps. Miska had just enough time to say “Listen!” before torchlight flared in their faces. Half blinded, she saw dark shapes bearing down on her and Juliar, and moved between him and the torchbearers. He shouted something, but all the others were bigger and louder. A hand grabbed her arm. She backed away, slipped, felt sudden pain in the back of her head, then ... nothing.

  * * * *

  Miska felt the throbbing pain in the back of her head and k
ept her eyes closed, knowing that if she opened them, the headache would be unbearable. It even hurt to think. She couldn't remember why she should have such a headache—she hadn't run headlong into a stalactite since she'd stopped growing, years ago. But from the scents, she was in the Healing Cavern, so it must be bad.

  "Ow. Elder Midyora?"

  "Yes, Miska?” The Elder Healer sounded so surprised, Miska opened her eyes just to be sure she still could.

  Flat white ceiling. What? She turned her head.

  Midyora was there. But so were Nurse Dannae, and Lindi, and a very relieved-looking Juliar, with his arm in a sling.

  "Miska, when friends show up to rescue you, you don't dive headfirst down the stairs!” he scolded, grinning.

  "I didn't dive. I slipped."

  "Juliar, don't tease her,” Lindi scolded him in return. “It was her path that got us home, after all."

  "Miska understands.” His smile softened. “Don't you?"

  "Yes.” Miska pulled herself upright. “What I don't understand is what happened to everyone."

  "Oh, we were so worried!” Lindi exclaimed. “I got Kimo up your path—he's in the barn—and Vedi Sharanis sent the Acolytes looking, and all the Thorns ran away, and the Kankenni are hiding, except Lady Midyora, and Myringa's laboratory..."

  "Stop! Stop! Now I really have a headache. Where...” She paused. “Did you say Kimo's in the barn?"

  "Yes. Feeding Myringa's chevrals. Lila's showing him how. But Vedi Sharanis says..."

  "Cousin Lindi,” Midyora interrupted, “your family has been worried about you. Go see them. Let me talk to Miska for a while, and I'll show you how to make button-flies afterward."

  "But Juliar..."

  "Is also supposed to be resting, and I need to speak to him, too. Go on."

  She went, reluctantly, but not before adding “Oh, I know how to Mote-cook eggs now too! Even scrambled!” Nurse Dannae shooed her out and bustled off to check on other patients.

  Midyora rolled her eyes. “If ‘scrambled’ means ‘with shells broken,’ yes. And her button-flies are, well, buttony. Some even have holes in them, for thread. Still, I never thought Humans could even see Motes."

  "There are still Motes, then?” Miska couldn't see any, although everything else looked normal.

  "Of course. Just not many at the moment. The other Elders used most of them to seal off the Caverns.” Midyora's expression darkened.

  "They really did it?” Miska sat stunned. “They're all gone? Even Abri?"

  Juliar looked even more dismayed. “And you're only here to bring Miska and Kimo home.” In the space of three deep breaths, he almost assumed his serene Temple expression. “I understand."

  "You do not, young man. Would I have told Cousin Lindi I would teach her later, if I planned to be gone?” Midyora's lips thinned. “No—the caverns are sealed. For now, at least, my fellow Elders feel that Humans are just too threatening."

  "You and Kimo...” Miska began.

  "I made my choice, Miska. I think you're right—the only way the Kankenni will survive is if we stop hiding. The others will come to realize that too—I hope. Kimo"—Midyora laughed until the lines around her eyes hid her beauty marks—"Well, he was not pleased, but that little one, Lila, will set him straight. And he looks very fine in his little gray suit."

  "Vedi Sharanis has got hold of him?” Juliar's eyes twinkled. “Stars help her—he'll be more impossible than I ever was."

  "I'll help her. And your Temple Nurse and I have much to learn from each other."

  "But Miska,” Juliar protested. “It's her home. She...” He looked away. “She has a betrothed."

  "I know. He gave me something for you."

  Juliar bristled, but his look turned to awe when Midyora returned with a length of dark, polished wood.

  "His Pr'a ... his guardian's staff?"

  "But without the ribbons.” Miska's hand went self-consciously to her own loose hair. “It's only a P'raptoi's staff with a P'raptoi's ribbons, and Juliar can't cross to change them."

  "I saw him in the Deepest Cavern, Miska. He's a Worldwalker, and one to be proud of.” Juliar flushed. “And don't ever think of doing it again, young man. Give me your hand. No, the invisible one."

  Looking puzzled, Juliar unwrapped the limb. It seemed to stop at the elbow.

  "Not even the Eldest would have tried such a thing. Might as well go swimming in Motes ... Miska, do you have a plain handkerchief?"

  Miska delved into a pocket and handed over a linen square. Midyora tore it into three long strips and draped one where Juliar's palm should have been. “Can you feel this?” She made a motion that looked like she was folding Juliar's fingers over the end of the cloth.

  Juliar shook his head. Midyora tugged on the end of the cloth, and Juliar jumped. As Miska watched, his arm became visible.

  "I can feel the cloth but ... nope, can't use the hand,” he said. “How'd you do that?"

  "One at a time. I'll draw off as many Motes as I can.” She looked at the ribbon, now tinted faintly crimson. “Abri was right. You are a P'raptoi at heart. Next..."

  To Miska's delight, the next ribbon turned warmly brown.

  "Scribe's color, I guess,” Juliar commented, flexing his stiff fingers and grinning. Miska nodded.

  "One more, if you want to write with that hand.” Midyora handed the last ribbon to Juliar. “You need to change at least one yourself. Just keep in mind things that come naturally to you. Talents, is your word?"

  "I'm not sure I have any, but...” He drew the ribbon through his hand. Lavender. Miska smiled.

  "Do you play the zephyr-pipe, or water-harp?’ Midyora studied him curiously.

  "No.” Juliar himself went scarlet with self-consciousness. “I sing in the choir, where there are enough other voices to drown me out."

  "Rather well, judging by this ribbon.” Midyora gathered the strips into a cluster, and fastened them to the top of the staff. “There. Take a little walk, just to get used to it."

  He moved stiffly at first, then more smoothly as he adjusted his rhythm.

  "It fits you.” Midyora nodded. “And no, I can't fix all the damage you've done to that leg. Wondermaker, my boy, what did you jump off of?"

  "It was an oak tree,” he muttered, “and I didn't jump.” He brandished the staff at the Elder Healer in playful challenge. “But you should have seen how high I got before I fell!"

  Footsteps pattered down the hallway. Lindi rushed in, panting.

  "Miska, Vedi Sharanis is coming. Something about the Acolytes..."

  "Thank you, Miss Salera, but I'll explain.” Vedi Sharanis stepped into the Infirmary, once more calm and unruffled, though her nod to Midyora looked a bit uncertain. Miska smiled to herself at the sight of the tall, dignified priestess keeping a polite distance between herself and the Elder Healer. Midyora, on the other hand, offered her hand, as though in greeting to a colleague.

  "Elder Vedi! Have your students caught the hunters, then?"

  "Ah, no.” Vedi Sharanis shook hands, briefly. “That's why I've come to see Miska. I've been speaking with Spensie the baker. Her nephew claimed that Miska has somehow trapped Lady Myringa—'Imp-spelled her,’ were his words."

  Miska stiffened. She'd failed. It would all start again. Humans with bright swords. Red blood on green grass. Another Exile—and this one would never end.

  "She didn't!” Juliar exclaimed.

  "She wouldn't!” added Lindi.

  "She couldn't even if she wished to,” Midyora declared.

  "I did wish to, for a moment,” Miska admitted. “But only for a moment. Lady Myringa ... I tried to stop her, but she fell."

  Miska shuddered. Words were no good—Vedi Sharanis didn't understand Worldwalking. The only way to make her understand was to show her what had happened.

  "Is there a mirror in this place?"

  "Behind Nurse Dannae's bathrobe—that wooly pink thing.” Juliar pointed. “Let me get it."

  "Wait.” Miska jumped out of bed, a
nd together they dragged the full-length mirror into the open. “Now, I'll gather some Motes, and"—Miska swallowed—"you'll see."

  She tried, but the air was empty.

  "Elder Midyora? I ... there's nothing there."

  Midyora frowned. “Nothing? Are you certain?"

  Miska nodded. “I looked, but the air feels ... hollow. Am I doing something wrong?"

  Midyora looked uncertain. That alarmed Miska more than the absence of Motes had. “No ... I don't think so. There aren't many Motes here, and you're exhausted. You should be all right, with time."

  "Should?"

  "Hush—let me help."

  Midyora stepped across the Border. Although presumably the Elder Healer had gone to gather all the Motes she could find, Miska couldn't see so much as a glimmer. Midyora stepped back into the Solid World, and the mirror fogged as though a cold breath had touched it.

  "There are even fewer Motes than I thought, but it should be enough."

  The glass darkened. Breathing slowly, Miska let the memories creep back—the hot mouth of the chasm, Lady Myringa's hungry face, the pink cloth slipping away—but the Mirror only showed dark shadows.

  "Don't be afraid, Miska,” Midyora urged.

  "I'm not—I mean, I am, but that's not the problem. I can't see the Motes."

  "But I can!” Lindi looked bewildered. “Not many, but some."

  "I don't understand, Elder Midyora.” Miska struggled not to panic. Vedi Sharanis was scowling.

  "I think you touched the Last World.” Midyora looked thoughtful. “Skin that feels too much heat becomes scars that can't feel at all. You nearly drowned in Motes, child."

  "But I have to show the Vedi what happened, or..."

  "Let me help.” Lindi took Miska's hand in hers. “You make the pictures; I'll draw them."

  Now images flowed onto the glass. Vedi Sharanis watched, grim and silent. The mirror went dark, and she sighed.

  "I don't understand,” she admitted. “Not at all. But I believe that you didn't harm Lady Myringa, Miska. Besides, you are here, explaining, and there's no trace of Gerun. That alone tells me something."

  Miska fell back onto the bed, limp with relief.

  "...but no one else would believe it. You should go back to ... to your home, before this Imp nonsense gets out of hand."