It sounded like the best suggestion Cordelia had ever heard.
* * *
Horace had never felt as if he’d had so much to do. The drushkan shawnessi had Pool well in hand, but Horace had to tend to the captured Galeans. They were injured, angry, and frightened and wanted nothing to do with the drushka even though Pool was their ticket home.
Not that Horace could blame them. He soothed them as they huddled in a mass near the heart of Pool’s tree. Even surrounded by paladins, they hugged each other in worry; most were shaking. Some were staring at nothing, traumatized, and they would need more than soothing. But he didn’t have time at the moment for any deep telepathic sessions that could help them process their trauma faster. Some dealt with the fear by shouting, demanding they go home immediately; a few even shrieked at the paladins to stop standing there and kill all the drushka.
Horace smiled gratefully at the Galeans who tried to help their injured brethren. He saw through their calm façade, but he appreciated the offer. All of them had seen some of their fellow captives be dragged away and not return, and no doubt the paladins had told them that those captives had been hanged. Another bad memory they’d have to deal with.
Horace healed the major physical injuries—large lacerations, broken bones, internal bleeding, one punctured lung—and kept exuding calm, but any soothing vibes he sent wore off almost immediately. He eased many of the captives into sleep, keeping up a steady telepathic litany assuring them that they were safe. They could rest. The presence of the paladins seemed to help with that, as well as the reassurances that Gale was fine, that everyone there had been healed. These captives hadn’t succumbed to the sickness, perhaps because they hadn’t ingested both parts of the poison, but they’d seen people dying in Gale. He reassured them that everyone there was all right and waiting for their return.
As he got a moment to rest, he sighed, trying to shake off the panicky feelings floating around. He took a long sip of water and wondered where Cordelia was, but he couldn’t summon the energy to find her. He could only sit and stare at nothing, wishing Simon was beside him.
It hadn’t been an easy fight in the swamp once Cordelia left. The paladins and Pool’s drushka had fought as best they could, the paladins leaping into the water to lead the drushka away. They’d also carried some of their enemies to a watery grave, but some paladins hadn’t returned either. Horace rubbed his belly as he remembered running to heal one when an enemy drushka came out of nowhere and buried a spear in his gut.
His core had burned in agony while the rest went numb. He’d curled around the pain, which made it worse, but he hadn’t been able to focus. He remembered an arm catching him as he began to topple. He’d heard yelling, and then a drushka had tackled his savior, sending all of them into the water.
The cool feeling of the liquid had soothed him, and he’d wanted nothing more than to sink into oblivion, but he’d had a vision of Simon’s face. He could still see Simon’s lips curled into a smile, his blue eyes bright and welcoming as the sun turned his hair into gold.
Then, agony again. Hands had lifted Horace from the water, making the pain worse, but it had brought him back to himself. A female voice had told him something was going to hurt. He’d tried to laugh, to say he was already hurt, then the agony tripled, and he’d screamed as the spear left his flesh.
The woman had told him to heal himself. He’d thought it was Cordelia or maybe his old friend Natalya. But one wasn’t there, and the other was dead. Maybe he was dead, too and hearing voices from beyond. He tried to tell Natalya he was sorry she’d died, but someone had smacked him in the face and shouted at him to heal himself.
It had to be Cordelia. He’d focused, catching the edge of his power. He remembered being on the plains with Mamet, trying to heal Simon and then getting shot. Maybe he’d never left there. Maybe this was the same battle.
But as the pain receded, he was able to draw on more power, heal more damage. He was in the swamp with the drushka, and one of the paladins was glaring at him, not Cordelia. One of the others. Several of them crowded round, watching the swamp. He’d healed himself and then felt someone else below him in the water, dying. Jon Lea. He wasn’t breathing; he’d run out of air. But he wasn’t dead, not yet. Horace had rolled over on the branch, staring into the water and reaching with is power. He’d squeezed Jon’s heart and filled his lungs.
“Get him out,” Horace had choked out. “Jon Lea.” He couldn’t let him die, had gotten used to his barking orders, his stoic face. He’d been a rock for all of them.
“Already being done,” someone had said.
Pool’s drushka had gone in after Jon and were hauling him, armor and all, out of the murky water, working with the paladins on land. Jon’s body jerked as Horace squeezed his heart again, forcing his lungs to work. As the paladins laid Jon on the branch and yanked his helmet off, he took a deep, shuddering breath and locked eyes with Horace, his normally taciturn expression filled with wonder and a childlike beauty.
Horace had lain back, healing all of them, trying not to remember the pain, having a wild thought that he should find the spear that had gutted him and take it as a macabre keepsake. “What happened to the enemy drushka?” he’d asked.
They’d told him the drushka had run off as if summoned elsewhere. He’d later learned that was the moment the old Shi had died. Now, as he fingered the huge hole in the front of his shirt, he lamented that the call hadn’t happened ten minutes before it did. Then he wouldn’t have another awful memory to add to the rest.
And he wouldn’t be down another shirt. He wondered if Cordelia would have found the spear and kept it, if it was still floating out there somewhere.
“Need a hand?”
Horace looked up to find Jon Lea watching him. He blinked, thrown too quickly out of reverie. Jon smiled, but it looked a bit awkward, as if he was unused to smiling.
“Sure,” Horace said. “Want to help me make the rounds again?”
Jon nodded and stayed at Horace’s shoulder like a guard. Horace fought the urge to sigh. Whatever made the man happy.
“What did you think of the Shi’s tree?” Horace asked. He’d taken a moment to look when they’d first arrived. When he’d seen a tree as big as a mountain, his brain had dismissed it as impossible, especially in light of all he had to do. But the image came to him again, following him around like Simon’s dear face, and he knew that as small as his glimpse had been, he’d never forget it.
“It’s big,” Jon said.
Horace gawked at him. “That’s it?”
Jon blinked. “Really big.”
Horace chuckled, but any humor faded quickly as he scanned the freed captives again. All one hundred and sixty shaken humans would never forget the Shi either. With the fifteen dead in the swamp, that left twenty-five unaccounted for. Pool had assured him that all the captives had been returned. So the others had either died in captivity, or they’d gone missing from Gale in some other way. Now that the major damage was healed and most were sleeping, Horace healed small cuts, bruises, and sprains. He found a few dislocated limbs he’d missed. The old drushka had not been kind. He cleaned out any lingering poison, but there was a host of other ailments to worry about: infections, stomach bugs, and the like. The paladins were among some of those, and Horace healed them, too. Deep in Pool’s tree, surrounded only by humans, it seemed many of them could finally relax, too. Maybe they could finally imagine they were somewhere else entirely.
Through it all, Jon stayed silent and at his side. Horace appreciated the company, but he’d been hoping for someone to talk to. At the edge of the gathering, he spotted Cordelia, unarmored, talking to a few of the former captives and assuring them they were going home. Horace caught her eye and smiled.
When she grinned, he nearly faltered, feeling his sadness and fatigue rising up to swamp him. What was it about kindness that made him want to sink into someone else and collapse?
“I’ll be back, Jon.” Without waiting for an answe
r, Horace crossed to Cordelia swiftly and hugged her tight, taking strength from her tall, muscular form. He felt her fatigue and bruises and healed those, too.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said into her shoulder.
“Glad you’re in one piece, too,” she said as she hugged him back.
Night was falling around them, and as Cordelia stepped back, she held a lantern high, looking him up and down. She stuck a finger in the hole of his shirt, poking him lightly in the belly. “How bad?”
“Bad but over.” He tried another grin but worried it looked sickly. “How goes it with the drushka?”
“Pool and the other queens are taking care of business.” She glanced at the sleeping humans. “Let’s talk over here.” He followed her along the branches until they were among Pool’s drushka. Out in the swamp, lights moved here and there: the old drushka keeping an eye on them.
“Pool’s been healed,” Cordelia said. “Now she’s communing with some of the queens. She wants to spend more time here, but she realizes we have to take the captives back to Gale.”
“Is she coming back here afterward?”
Cordelia shook her head, and Horace felt her relief. “Not right away. She’s going to continue to be a go-between for us and the old drushka. The old ones want Shiv to come live with them with her sapling, though. They might want her to be the new Anushi and keep Pool separate.”
Horace sighed heavily, missing Shiv, too. “How do you think that’ll go over?”
“Honestly?” She shrugged. “I have no idea. No matter what they say, I bet half the reason they want Shiv is for insurance, to make sure Pool doesn’t plot against them. Or maybe they want to see if she’s become too human or to make sure she doesn’t. I feel bad for Liam.”
Horace nodded, but he bet Liam wouldn’t be alone for long. Maybe after enough lovers, his heart would heal, too. It seemed trivial next to the host of problems that faced them, but Horace supposed it was comforting to think of little things.
Chapter Fourteen
Lydia dreamed the future. It happened sometimes whether she’d been using her power or not. Freddie had once compared it to a wet dream without the happy ending. Lydia had laughed, but there was nothing really happy about dreaming the future. It was always some tragedy, some huge devastation shared in many futures. The last time she’d dreamed, she’d seen flames destroying Gale. Now she saw an inferno devouring the plains.
Why fire again? Irritation mixed with fear, nearly enough to wake her, but the future spiraled on. A blaze roared across the plains, driving humans, animals, and insects before it. The scene played in fits and starts, like a vid being sped up then slowed. A pack of ossors fled with unnatural speed into an orange-tinted night. A rare, stubby tree exploded in the heat, and acres of grass and shrubs were consumed and obliterated. She had to imagine the shrieks of terror and the snarl of the flames. She could never hear the future when she saw it.
But who was she following? She needed a point of contact, usually one person, so she could see the skein of their life as it unspooled. The vision slowed on a single blade of grass caught by the wind. Fire had eaten into the side, leaving a bite-mark of sorts, and glittering orange embers continued to devour until they’d nearly cut it in two.
Long fingers caught the blade of grass, squeezing it, killing the embers. Lydia’s vision pulled back to see Fajir’s dark hair billowing in the hellish wind. Her gray eyes narrowed against the brightness of the blaze, making her tattooed cheeks swallow the rest of her face. She drew a bone sword from her hip and marched toward the blaze. A figure lingered in front of it, man or woman, Lydia couldn’t tell, and Fajir moved to confront them as everything else fled.
Fajir held determination in her shoulders and no fear in her stance. She was going to stop the destruction, Lydia knew. It seemed certain. The future leapt forward, out of her grasp, and she saw great swaths of the plains burned to a crisp but still alive. The people, the animals, they’d found their way out of their destruction, back to their lives, and that was, in some part, thanks to Fajir.
Lydia awoke with a gasp and cried out at the crick in her neck. With bleary eyes, she stared at her surroundings, blinking in the sunshine that peeked over the horizon. Samira and Mamet had wanted to be alone in the tent, and Lydia had fallen asleep outside. Her head had fallen off her arm at one point, and she’d slept at an odd angle.
She sat up, massaging her neck, the dream future alive in her mind. “Storm Lord save us,” she muttered, a plea from long ago. The plains were destined to have a massive fire, and only Fajir could save them?
Lydia looked around at the camp, not yet awake in the dawning sun. Who would believe her? But it wouldn’t matter if they did. The future would happen, no matter what, but she pictured the fights in front of her, the arguments with Samira and Mamet. She put her head in her hands and moaned until Samira came out of the tent behind her.
“Lydia? We only wanted to be alone for a couple hours. You didn’t need to sleep out here.”
“It just happened,” Lydia said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Samira clucked her tongue and prodded the campfire back to life. “Poor thing. I’ll make you some tea.”
“Has Mamet made a decision about Fajir?” Lydia asked softly, hoping the decision was to let Fajir go. She was going to be free one way or another, and being released was far better than her killing everyone in camp in order to make her escape.
“A grim question for early in the morning, don’t you think?”
“I dreamed the future.” She couldn’t help saying it. Better to get it over with.
Samira turned slowly. “By accident?”
“It happened all the time when I was a novice. Now it seems to wait for the really big events.” She tried to laugh, but frustration rose within her, and a sob escaped instead.
Samira’s arms went around her. “It’s all right now. It was just a—”
“It wasn’t just a dream! It was the future. There’s a big fire, and only Fajir can stop it!” She was crying too hard for all the words to come through, and she didn’t even know why she was so emotional. Why didn’t her stupid powers just leave her be? Why did they only show her bad things? She had a vision of the darkened streets of Gale, of the prog’s foot landing atop Freddie. She’d seen that future and hadn’t been able to stop it. Her powers never helped anything!
By the way Samira stiffened, Lydia knew her point had gotten across. It said something about Samira that she didn’t let go, only paused before her hands resumed making comforting circles across Lydia’s back. “It’s all right now. It’s all right.”
“Did she say something about Fajir?” Mamet’s voice asked.
“No,” Samira said.
Lydia pushed away. “There’s a big fire, and she saves us all.” Well, maybe that was laying it on a bit thick. She wiped her cheeks.
Mamet glanced around. “There’s a fire?”
“Not now. I dreamed the stupid, shitty future in which stupid, shitty Fajir saves people. Or stops someone. Other people run, and she stands and fights. That’s what I saw. The future isn’t always clear, but what I see happens, so there’ll be a fire, and she will work to stop it.” She took a deep breath and gulped air, trying to calm down.
Mamet looked stunned. Samira frowned. “If we let her go…”
“There is no if!” Lydia shouted. Other people were stirring now, some calling to ask what the problem was. Lydia lowered her voice. “You don’t get it. It’s not a decision you have to make anymore, Mamet. She will be loose. I’ve seen it. It’s fixed. It is going to happen.” She stood and paced in a tight circle. “Damn it!”
Samira and Mamet glanced at each other as if each wanted to call Lydia crazy but wasn’t sure they should. She took several calming breaths. Dreaming the future was bringing back memories of Gale, of the boggins and Freddie, and she fought the urge to drown in them.
“It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not,” Lydia said, swallowing tears again. �
��I shouldn’t expect anyone to understand, I know.”
Samira shot to her feet. “We can’t let her go.”
Lydia sighed, but before she could argue, Mamet asked, “Did you see what I did in the future, Lydia?”
“I just know that Fajir will get loose one way or another.”
Samira frowned hard. “Why don’t I kill her and see if the future stops me?”
Lydia stepped aside, one hand toward Fajir’s tent. “Go ahead.”
Samira stalked past her. Mamet looked between them as if wondering what she should do.
“Relax,” Lydia said. “She’s not going to kill anyone.”
Mamet seemed as if she had a question but didn’t ask. Lydia hoped she’d decide to ride far into the plains and release Fajir there so no one else got hurt. Maybe they’d let her go right before the fire started, and she’d have to deal with that rather than hunt anyone down. Lydia hadn’t seen her kill any plains dwellers, so maybe there was a way to keep her from doing so.
Like follow her. Watch her. Lydia’s stomach went cold, even as she felt a touch of hope. She’d dreamed the future. Maybe she could see it through, minimize any damage.
Freddie would have liked that.
Samira paused outside Fajir’s tent and glared as if she could flay Fajir alive through the leather with just her gaze. She looked over her shoulder at where Mamet and Lydia waited. Her hands clenched and unclenched. Lydia couldn’t help a smile. She’d always said that killing a person in battle was one thing, killing a captive was another.
Lydia pulled Mamet closer to Samira, trying to think of a way to follow Fajir once she was loose. Samira would be against it, might even go so far as to sit on Lydia if she tried to get caught in Fajir’s wake.
Samira seemed as if she might speak but looked at the side of the tent instead. Lydia followed her gaze. One of the tent pegs had been pulled from the ground. Lydia looked to the other side. Another peg was loose, and it seemed as if the tent sagged a bit in the middle.
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