by Matt Laney
Falling.
Falling.
I can’t move, or see, or scream.
Chapter 6
The Light enters by our wounds and shines through them as well.
—Sayings of the Ancients
t first there is darkness.
Stillness.
Nothingness.
And yet I can sense the darkness and stillness and nothingness, so there must be something of me left. Otherwise, how would I be aware of them?
But I can’t feel anything. I’m floating in something like a giant inkwell under a pitch-black canopy. Am I inside Storm’s stomach, waiting to be digested? In that case I’m very grateful for the venom’s power.
Maybe this is a dream. A trick of the mind to protect me from the horror of what’s happening to my body.
Those would be the logical options, given the way the hunt ended just moments ago. Yet neither one feels right.
So where am I?
The answer comes in a burst of dazzling white light, brighter than a hundred suns. But it does not burn. The darkness is banished.
The light cradles me. I may have been held in its embrace for a few seconds, an hour, or a lifetime. The light is both now and forever.
The light pulses and swirls, caressing me with long, feathery fingers. Each movement and gesture is accompanied by sounds more rich and delicious than anything I’ve ever heard. I would call it music, but it’s nothing like that dreary stuff we have in Singara. And I don’t just hear the sounds. I feel them coursing through me like blood. Instead of being distant like the sun, I sense that this light and music are just under the surface of every leaf and rock and creature, hiding within every visible thing.
The light recedes and gathers into a star glittering in a sapphire sky. I hear the lap of waves and find myself lying in golden sand on an endless beach. I rise, noting the weightlessness of my body, as though I could float up and soar away.
I wouldn’t be the only one.
The sky is flooded with countless winged creatures arcing and playing in the soft, salty air. Most I can’t even describe, let alone name.
The desire to join them is overwhelming, but my feet stay rooted to the beach, as if they are stuck in mortar instead of sand.
Compared with the scene above, I feel banished, imprisoned.
“Please!” I beg the light. “Let me join them!”
There is a flash to my right and a being appears, the strangest and most wondrous yet. His shape shifts, ebbing and flowing between a two-legged creature and a giant firewing bird of the same height and stature. His words echo with many voices, speaking together.
“You can’t join us, Eliyah. Not yet.”
He is so bright, I can’t make out his face. “Who are you?”
“I am Daviyah. I was the Eleventh Shakyah in your world until I passed from that life in the battle you call the Great War. Now I fly on the wings of the Great Firewing along with all the Shakyahs before me.”
“Why did you call me Eliyah?”
“It is your true name.”
“Am I . . . dead?”
My companion extends a wing-arm over the sand between us. The sand billows like a curtain stirred by the wind, and I see my body at the base of the tree.
I look very dead.
If my body is there, what part of me is here? We Singas don’t believe anything goes on after death. When you die, that’s it. You’re done.
Yet this beach, Daviyah, all the winged creatures, and the light suggest we are wrong about that. Very wrong.
“What you call death is only a door. You have crossed the threshold of that door, but you cannot stay.”
“What is this place?”
“This is the Haven, the home of Alayah, the source of all life, the beginning and the end of all stories.”
“Why can’t I stay?” Who would ever want to leave here?
“Your story is just beginning and you have much to learn, Eliyah. Tomorrow, you will meet the wisest Singa in your realm. And before the setting of the next sun, you will meet Wajid, my former servant. That will put everything in motion. You must find out who you are. You must learn to trust Alayah.”
The light in the sky glows larger, getting nearer. “It is time to return. Your story, Alayah’s story, must continue.”
I’m not sure what that means, but the idea of leaving this place and returning to my world, where I am a diseased Spinner and in danger all the time, is not a happy thought.
“Will I see you again?” I ask. The light is drawing closer, and I sense my conversation with Daviyah is coming to an end. “If I speak your name, will you appear . . . like the others?”
The light enfolds me, embracing and caressing. My companion is blotted out by the brightness. The beach and the sky and the horde of winged creatures disappear as well.
“You don’t need to,” Daviyah counsels. “I am always with you.”
• • •
My eyelids are like bricks; my limbs feel like wooden beams. Instead of the roll of waves on that beach, I hear the rush of river water and the wind stirring up leaves.
I’m back. Back in my body, lying beside the river in the Border Zone.
My eyes fly open. Where is Storm?
I rotate my head and find the beast lying next to me, his head centimeters from mine. Fear pumps life into my limbs. I roll away, ready for Storm to pop up and subdue me with another bite.
He doesn’t move.
Not even his sides rise and fall with breath.
I push up to my hands and knees and crawl to investigate Storm’s body. With each jerk of a leg or arm, my movements become smoother, easier.
The venom must be wearing off.
I force myself up, breaking through walls of resistance in each joint until I am upright over Storm’s lifeless form. I kick him.
No response.
There’s no doubt about it. He’s dead. But how?
There’s not enough blood on the ground to prove he bled to death.
What, then?
I replay everything that happened in the moments before Storm’s teeth sank into my leg: I put the bag over his head, then felt sorry for him and removed the bag. There was an exchange of blows, followed by my retreat up the tree and shooting the pellet into his mouth. That turned out to be a failed attempt to get his jaws shut so I could fall upon him with my blade. Instead, he bit me. End of hunt.
Then why do I live while he grows cold on the ground?
Did I land on his head?
No.
Slaycons have bones like stone. This tree could have fallen on his skull without giving him so much as a headache.
Was it the pellet? The little bundle that was supposed to make me smell of the forest?
I hobble like a stiff elder for a better view of the beast. A slaycon’s face is normally a grotesque sight, but Storm’s expression right now gives hideous a new definition. His eyes are rolled back. His mouth hangs open. A swollen tongue pokes the dirt.
Poison.
The pellet was poison. Powerful enough to kill a slaycon.
But it wasn’t meant for him.
It was meant for . . . me.
I gag and nearly vomit with the realization.
Tamir. He is a gifted scientist in addition to being a great warrior. He could have easily made a poison to guarantee my death. Storm would have been just as happy to eat a dead Singa instead of going through the trouble of killing me first.
And then there’s Anjali.
She gave me the poison. This makes Anjali loyal to Tamir, one of his many secret servants. She also probably told him what I am.
I can’t think about this right now. The sun is dipping below the tree line. I’ve got less than an hour to get back to the Border Zone gate with Storm’s tail. Since I will serve the tail to Grandfather and Sariah’s quadron tonight, I need to remove it quickly, before the poison infects the meat. Most slaycon meat is not worth eating, but the meat around the tail is sumptuous. My blade lies at the
base of the tree. I hack through layers of skin, muscle, and sinew. It’s a grisly job, and difficult to manage with a bad leg.
The tail removed, I kneel before the mangled stump and take a bite, washing it down with a mouthful of blood, and wait. If there is still poison in the tail, it should affect me in no time as it did Storm. Better to have one Singa die than to send Grandfather and the others to their graves, even if it means Tamir wins after all.
As I wait for death, my thoughts return to that other land, that beach, the music, the light, the winged creatures of every size and description . . . and the one who spoke to me, Daviyah, whose voice was many voices, the sound of it enlivening every cell of my body. My fingers trace the contours of my winged chest plate.
Was it a dream?
No. That place was so vivid, it makes this world look like a dream. Everything here is so dull and clunky by comparison.
Satisfied to still be alive and well a few minutes later, I limp to the riverbank and ease my damaged leg into the swift current. The water is so cold, it burns. I scrub the injured spot to remove clumps of blood and dirt. It hurts, but not nearly as much as it should. A gift of the venom still lingering in my veins.
Leaving my blade behind, I hoist the tail onto my shoulders and stagger to the Border Zone Fence, where Sariah and her quadron wait on the other side. I should feel victorious at this point, exultant at having rid the world of this evil Singa slayer. But the truth is, I didn’t really kill Storm.
It was an accident.
Fortunately, Singas who survive the hunt are not allowed to say much about it, although a few facts will certainly be requested.
Storm’s tail must weigh as much as I do. My back aches. My legs feel like twigs ready to snap. The wound throbs with every step, as though my heart has taken up residence in my ankle. I’ve drained my canteen, but my throat still feels like sandpaper. An angry stomach completes the chorus of complaining body parts.
I didn’t expect this stage of the hunt to be a battle in itself.
Meanwhile, the sun surrenders to the encroaching darkness. I press on until the Border Zone Fence appears and I hear Sariah cry, “The prince! The prince approaches!”
Sariah roars and roars again. Mavrak, Biku, and Jimo join in. I’m supposed to roar in return, but I don’t have the strength to even try.
“He is wounded!” Sariah cries, hastening to unlock the low gate built into the fence. She ducks through and sprints to my side, with Jimo and Mavrak in tow.
Sariah studies the scene below my knee. “Jimo, take the tail.”
Jimo begins to ease the tail from my shoulders as though it were only a garden snake.
I step aside. “No.”
I’ve made it this far. I can go another fifty meters to the gate in the fence.
“The Kahn has set up camp in Border Zone Eight,” Sariah says as I collapse into the carriage. She’s trying to keep a soldierly face, but her skittishness betrays her. She’s clearly overwhelmed to find me alive. I only hope she’s happy about the outcome, and not dreading the prospect of delivering the news to Tamir, if she’s loyal to him like Anjali.
“Galil is there. He’ll see to your leg.”
It’s a kilometer or so from the gate of one Border Zone to the next, and I’m content to melt into the cushions of the carriage. I don’t miss many meals, and despite the piece of Storm’s tail I swallowed, my stomach is about to claw its way out of my body in search of more food.
What will I share with Grandfather about the hunt? Should I tell him Storm died by accident? Should I reveal the attempt to murder me with the poison pellet? Should I share my vision of that beach and the light?
I conclude the answers to these questions are no, no, and definitely no.
Besides, Storm is dead and I live. Nothing else matters.
It’s nearly dark when we arrive at Border Zone Eight. Grandfather wears a stern face as he waits outside the gate with Galil at his side, yet his eyes are shining.
Sariah hurries to open the carriage door. I slide out and limp to the back of the carriage, where the slaycon tail hangs over the storage box. I hoist the tail onto my shoulders, pivot, and let it fall at Grandfather’s feet with a satisfying thud.
As instructed by Kaydan, I say the customary words for this moment: “May the meat of my kill give strength to your body and to the Singa race.”
Grandfather gives the expected reply, “Well done, youngling. Today you have begun your journey to become a Singa warrior.” Then he hastens to add, “And what happened to your leg?”
Galil crouches to inspect the wound.
Grandfather’s eyes narrow. “Just the facts, Leo.”
Galil answers for me. “This is a slaycon bite!”
The Kahn’s eyes enlarge, and my heart plummets to somewhere below my feet. No hunter has ever survived a slaycon bite. You’d think that would puff me up with pride, but no. It means I have some explaining to do about why I am not, at this very moment, being digested in Storm’s belly.
“You . . . you were bitten by the slaycon and yet you live?” Grandfather asks, dumbfounded. He turns to Galil. “Is that possible?”
“Theoretically, yes,” says the old scientist. “It is not the venom that kills, but the slaycon after the venom takes effect.”
Grandfather searches my face, and I can see the conflict on his. He wants the details, but he knows it’s safer for me to keep quiet.
Breaking the silence, he says, “We have the evidence we need. Leo lives and we will all feast on slaycon tail tonight!”
There are growls of affirmation, and the tension passes like an odor dispersing on the breeze.
“Come!” Grandfather commands, gesturing toward the open gate. “Our camp is set. The fire will be lit. There is food and drink for one and all.” He glances at Galil. “See to the prince’s wound.”
Galil applies a layer of ointment and bandages my leg while Mavrak secures the karkadanns to the fence. Then our party dips through the gate into Border Zone Eight.
The terrain is similar to that of Border Zone Seven. The dark green tree line ahead stands out like an upside-down saw against a purple sky. Best of all, there are no slaycons here.
“Sire,” Galil says to Grandfather. “Lord Leo should stay off his injured leg to allow the ointment to do its work. It is a long walk to the camp.”
Before I can object, Grandfather orders me to mount Jimo’s back. In a matter of moments, I’m reduced from Leo, slayer of Storm, to a cub riding piggyback.
Using only our keen Singa eyes, we follow a worn path through the Border Zone and cross the river by a series of boulders. The camp is not far from the Great Wall. A fire burns in the center of the site. The flames make our surroundings dance with color.
Biku removes her cloak, folds it, and lays it beside a boulder by the fire. I don’t understand what she’s done until Jimo drops to his knees and lowers me to the place.
“Sit here, Lord.”
I’m reluctant to sit on a warrior’s cloak, but Biku has moved away. I settle on the fabric, and the familiar feeling begins: a rushing sound in my head, blood pulsing in my ears as a fractal of fiction rolls onto my tongue.
Terrible timing.
I bow my head and release this unwanted guest to an audience of dirt and leaves. I strain to keep my voice at a whisper to prevent the vision from expanding beyond the space between my feet.
A warrior approached a sage and asked if Alayah forgives those who cause harm to others.
The sage replied with a question of her own. “Would you throw away your cloak if it is torn or develops a hole in the fabric?”
The warrior said, “Certainly not. I would patch my cloak and continue wearing it.”
The sage nodded and said, “If you are that good to your cloak, will not Alayah also take care of you when you need mending?”
I look up and wince. The elderly sage from this little story kneels before me. She is in the phantom state, faded and wispy; present, yet not fully here. Her mou
th curves into a broken-toothed smile. “You have a tear in the fabric of your fur,” she says, meaning my injury. “Let me help you.”
Jimo squats down beside me. “Are you comfortable, Lord? Would you like some water?”
The old sage is invisible to him.
I nod, grateful for the drink and for the distraction. Jimo removes the canteen from his belt. I drink eagerly, draining the whole thing in seconds, while the sage wraps her hands around my wound and mumbles strange words. I tremble and nearly choke on the water.
Jimo smiles. “You were thirsty indeed!”
I look at the canteen, then at Jimo with remorse.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “I can easily refill it in the river. Rest now. Soon we will feed.” Jimo backs away to join the others.
“What do you want?” I hiss at the sage.
“The question is not what I want but what do you want?”
“I want to be left alone.”
“That’s exactly what he told me!”
I wince. Oreyon, the hunter, has returned, faded and phantasmal, unseen to all but me.
“We can’t blame him,” Oreyon continues. “He’s young and still catching on, yes? Give him time.”
“He has had enough time to amass an army! And today he went to the Haven. I saw him there on the beach,” the sage declares.
“Perhaps now he understands why we want to go back, yes?” Oreyon adds. “This world has its points of beauty, but everything here is so heavy!”
I try to move aside. They’re not talking to me anyway. Oreyon lays a hand on my shoulder. For a phantom, he’s incredibly strong. “You are supposed to be resting that leg, yes?”
I wiggle out from under his grip. “No!”
Conversation among the soldiers comes to an abrupt halt, and everyone stares at me. I struggle to my feet, embarrassed.
“Stay where you are and rest, Lord Leo,” Galil urges. “The meat is almost ready.”
Oreyon rolls his eyes as if to say, See what I mean?
I’m furious. These ghosts have no right to ruin my evening and keep me here like a criminal. Even though, technically, I am one.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” Oreyon asks.