Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  He needed to find a way to protect her.

  He needed to get her to the Sanctuary of the Spirit.

  “Should we . . . bury him?” the Somrian commander asked tentatively. He spoke in a hushed voice, as had they all; the horror of the man’s fate presented before them seemed to incite appropriate awe.

  Gallord-Smit shook his head. “To what avail? He is already buried as nature willed. Besides, I do not care to hack his leg off and carry it in to that,” he alluded, pointing at the nearby jungle. It was a charred wasteland of blackened tree trunks and smoking ash, except where fires still burned. “Let’s move on,” he concluded, limping away.

  Wissa glanced at Jodhrik as she moved past; she had noticed him looking at her. Could she imagine why? He tried to show her a brief, friendly smile, but only managed a grimace, faced with the gruesome corpse that lay before them.

  As he followed the others, he looked around for Bauma, and found him squatting a good twenty paces away.

  There’s one who knows enough to distance himself from horror, he mused, waving the beast-man on. After a moment Bauma followed them, though circling a respectful distance around the corpse before doing so.

  The flow ahead stretched out hundreds of paces before them, if not more. Jodhrik couldn’t see the next stretch of sand, only an unbroken expanse of the frozen fire become rock beneath their feet. Far ahead, the rugged outcropping they sought had not grown noticeably.

  The hard rock was jarring to walk on with the ill-fitting boots he had been given by Josel’s men, and his feet were already beginning to ache. Wondering how warders could hike so long in them, Jodhrik sighed and plodded on.

  ・

  Around mid-afternoon it started raining again, this time from what appeared to be more natural-looking clouds that filled the sky from horizon to horizon. Though they blocked out the sun the heat was still stifling, and Jodhrik was as glad for the rain as he was for the lack of his stole. Wissa appeared to be unaffected by fatigue or the weight of the Collector’s robes she wore; he found new respect for her endurance. The warders, of course, seemed tireless, though they both suffered from injuries.

  The rocky outcropping that indicated their destination was not far ahead. Despite earlier appearances, the flows they traversed had been broken by a number of untouched stretches of beach, but the mountain had done its job well; the majority of their passage was over the same monotonously smooth rock surface. They did not, to Jodhrik’s relief, encounter any further signs of life—or death. If liquid fire had consumed more souls as it raced for the cooling embrace of the sea—he had no doubt, there had been many—it had left no trace of their aborted flight and consequent annihilation.

  The Front-Captain let out a cry and began trotting forward best he could; after a moment, Jodhrik saw what had prompted the reaction from him. Atop the rocks was a wooden post, propped up in a crook, and a red cloth swayed from its top, dripping rain.

  Gallord-Smit reached the rocks a hundred paces before the others and climbed down among them, disappearing into one of the dark crevices concealed there. When Jodhrik was closer he saw that the flag was actually a shirt. It hung from a crooked branch cut from the nearby jungle.

  The rocks were rough and sharp, appearing to have been formed from pockets of air broken open. Before having encountered the liquid rock, and seeing it harden, Jodhrik would never have guessed its origin; now it was plain to him. He climbed carefully across the rough terrain, knowing that a fall could easily mean cuts or broken bones or worse, and they couldn’t know when medical help might arrive. A nasty cut could mean death—he wisely moved with caution, noticing the others did the same.

  They found the Front-Captain in a small grotto surrounded by rocky hills. He was standing over another man, who lay still on the sandy floor of the tiny sanctuary.

  Gallord-Smit didn’t say anything as they approached, though he noted their arrival.

  Josel dropped to a knee on the sand and examined the body. “He been dead na while,” he said quietly. “Na couple days, I would guess.”

  “About that,” Gallord-Smit agreed, his lower lip tight.

  “Na wound went septic,” Josel said, curling his nose. “Looks like he try na sea, but is too deep, the water didna fully clean it. Tough fellow, climbing out na back with that injury,” he praised.

  “He was good man. A strong Captain,” Gallord-Smit said with a sigh, his eyes closed. “We left a man with him. I wonder where he went.”

  Josel stood, brushing sand off his knee. “I help ya bury him, Front-Captain. Here? Or the jungle?”

  Gallord-Smit shook his head. “Thank you, Captain-General. It is kind for you to offer. But we will wait and see if a ship comes. He was a fine officer, and deserves a proper burial at sea.”

  Josel nodded and, after a moment’s consideration, began climbing the rocks toward the signal flag and the sea.

  Jodhrik came up to stand beside the Front-Captain. “A friend?” he asked.

  “A fellow officer. A fellow soldier. And yes,” he added after a pause, “a friend. His name was Hellamer. I called him Hellrack. I thought he was tough enough to live forever,” he laughed.

  “All return to the Great Link, Front-Captain,” Jodhrik advised.

  “True,” Gallord-Smit agreed. “None more worthy.” He sighed, then turned and climbed the rocks after the Somrian commander, albeit more deliberately.

  Wissa had not come down into the grotto, nor had Bauma, who continued his show of respect—or dread—for the deceased. Jodhrik, alone with the dead man, kneeled before him and placed his hand on the Captain’s forehead. He swung his head upward.

  Take this man to the beyond, he commanded the Great Link. Let him live in all of us. Save his essence, and rebirth him.

  He stood, wiped his hand off on his pant leg, and followed the others.

  ・ ・

  Time passed with no sign of a sail. Gallord-Smit voiced his concern when dusk came; in the dark both they and the flag would be invisible from the sea. They discussed searching the jungle for unburnt wood to build a signal fire, but ultimately decided against it. How far or deep the molten rock had flowed into the sea they couldn’t know, and it would be best not to ask a ship to brave the shoreline without the visibility afforded by daylight.

  The rain continued, but there was no cover save the ledge where the dead man lay, and no one was inclined to join him or move him. Thus, they huddled beneath the signal flag and tried to rest sitting up on the sharp rocks. After a few thousand heartbeats Bauma grunted and climbed across the rocks to the smoother rock flow. The others frowned at the beast-man’s superior wisdom and followed him. Despite the unyielding rock beneath, it made for a much more comfortable bed and Jodhrik managed to seize short bouts of sleep. He felt a touch of pride that he could sleep in such conditions; that the others seemed to do so as well humbled him slightly. Josel in particular seemed content on the hard surface, waking himself several times with his own loud snoring.

  Sometime in the night the clouds must have blown over, because Jodhrik woke to a roof of stars. The Spiral presented itself in its fully glory, as bright as he had ever seen it, and he meditating for while before dozing again.

  When he next woke, the sun was in his eyes.

  He was alone; the others had arisen already. The tide had also come in, and he was immersed to his thighs in the sea. Looking around and standing carefully in the shallow water, he saw that Bauma was squatted higher on the flow, watching him. None of the others were anywhere to be seen.

  “Where are they, Bauma?” he asked the beast-man, knowing full well that he might have been talking to a horse, but the other surprised him by letting out two short guffaws, then pointing out past him to his right.

  There, perhaps a thousand paces from shore, a ship sat flying a white flag.

  53 SAYRI

  Heal him, she tried again, for the umpteenth time.

  That person is not protected by wise means. A colony must be established.

 
She sighed. Arad slept peacefully in her lap, but he had done so for far too long. If he was able to, he should have awoken by now.

  What could it mean, “wise means?” It was complete nonsense. Why did it repeat in her mind every time she tried to heal him?

  She had cried more that first morning than she had in her life, but finally it had worn her out, and she ran out of tears. Arad was still dying—he lay there, innocently across her thighs, slowly slipping further out of reach—but she had no energy left for tears. Only for endless, methodical commands to the Link, in the hopes that it might give her a different reply.

  Fix his injuries, she thought.

  That person is not protected by wise means. A colony must be established.

  Dusk was falling. She had not eaten, but upset had ruined her hunger. The intensity of trying to save him, then being broken by grief at failing, had kept her awake all through the day. Now, as the light dwindled and the rain continued to soak them both, despite her discomfort she found herself nodding off. She forced herself awake several times to keep Arad in her lap, fear gripping her heart each time that he might have died while she slept, then being filled with relief to discover that he was still breathing.

  Fatigue finally overwhelmed her, and she slept.

  ・

  The forest was dark and silent. There was no moon, and no stars; the darkness was as absolute as she had ever experienced, and yet somehow she could still see the trees around her. Trees with air between them. Air with water in it. Water sinking into the dirt below, being absorbed by the roots, moving up into the branches of the trees. Being drawn into the leaves, and released into the air.

  She inhaled the cool, fresh forest air. The water in the air—marked by the trees—was absorbed into her lungs, flowed on her blood. Passed back into her lungs, exhaled into the air. Sank into the soil. Was draw up by the roots . . . passed into the branches, was released from the leaves . . .

  She shared the water with the trees. Her exhalations grew into the trees; the forest’s water grew into her, into every tiny part of her.

  They were one, the same. Connected.

  She spread her arms wide, and exploded into a cloud. A swarm, but oh, so much more fine. As a swarm, she was absorbed into the water in the air. She was condensed into the soil. She flowed up the roots . . .

  Sayri awoke with a start, her heart pounding and sweat burning her eyes. Was it a dream? It still seemed real.

  Gradually she remembered who she was, and where she was. It was night; bright stars shone overhead, except where the tall, curved wall of rock stood—the wall of her creation, of salvation for herself and the others.

  Calm, peaceful, night. She was whole. Arad lay beside her—

  Arad! Trembling, her heart racing and tears filling her eyes, she bent over gently to put her ear to his nose.

  He was still breathing. She allowed herself to exhale, relief filling her. He was still alive.

  For the moment, at least. How long?

  She gritted her teeth, readied herself to make the demand again, steeling herself for the reply.

  “Sayri?” It was barely a whisper in the night breeze, and she only heard it through hearing enhanced by the Link.

  She cried out in surprise and joy. “Arad?” she asked, desperate to be sure that she hadn’t imagined his voice.

  “I . . . “ He drew in several short breaths, gathering his strength to speak. “Are you here?”

  “Yes, Arad,” she laughed, nervous relief flooding her. “Yes, I’m here. I came all this way, Arad, for you. To be with you.” She held his head close to her breast and kissed his forehead.

  Arad was silent for a long moment, laboured breaths exhausting his concentration. Then, “Are you safe, Sayri?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I’m safe . . . we are safe, Arad. The battle is over,” she added, stroking his hair back with her free hand. “It’s over.”

  “Gallord-Smit—” he began, then he choked softly, coughing twice and wincing with pain.

  “He and the Somrian captain are looking for a ship to take us home,” she told him, speaking quickly to distract him from the pain.

  He smiled at that. “Together? How can it be?”

  She sighed. “Oh, Arad, so much has happened to me. I want to tell you everything,” she gushed. “But . . .” She paused, as the implication of his injuries can back to her and she stifled a sob. “You need to get better, Arad. You need to heal, then we can talk.”

  With obvious effort, he turned his neck to look up at her. Even in the starlight, she could see that his eyes were streaked with red, and great purple bruises had formed under his eyes. She bent over, striving to hear his weakened voice.

  “Sayri,” he began, clearly struggling to speak, but not for the pain. “Sayri, I’m sorry.”

  “Now—you calm down, Arad. There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she admonished him, her cheeks warming. “You just rest, my love.” She ran her hand down along the side of his face, and he sighed.

  They lay there for a long moment, her hand caressing his cheek and forehead, and she thought he had fallen asleep again, but then he spoke, his voice stronger.

  “I’m dying, Sayri,” he said.

  “No,” she gasped, her throat suddenly constricted by an invisible hand. “No, Arad, you will be well, you just need to—”

  “Sayri,” he repeated.

  “Arad, you’ll be well again, you will. I just—I only need to—” She couldn’t find the words. I just need to heal you? To grasp the secrets of controlling the Link? To unlock the code, so I can overcome death itself?

  Could she do it? She had been trying to all day and had learned nothing—could she do it in time to save his life?

  “Sayri,” he said again. “My love.” His hand came up to her face, to her cheek.

  “No,” Sayri reiterated, with more resolve, but her vision was blurring from the water in her eyes. “Arad.”

  “I love you, my sweet farm girl,” he told her, placing his palm against her cheek, holding it. His hand was cold, despite the warm tropical night.

  “No, Arad, don’t,” she cried, tears racing down her cheeks and into her mouth. They ran across his hand as well, and he swept his thumb under her eye, capturing them.

  “Make love to me, Sayri,” he said suddenly.

  “What?” she asked, shocked. She wiped at her tears with her free hand, trying to clear her view of him. “Arad, you’ll be all right, I just have to—”

  “We were waiting until we were ready, but we can’t wait any more.”

  Despite herself, she laughed at him. “Arad we can’t do that until—until you are well enough. You silly man. Lying here—lying here—” She meant to tease him, but almost saying the words dying in my arms brought the grief exploding back up within her and she sagged, sobs shuddering through her, clutching him to her breast.

  “Sayri,” he said again, and she lowered him to allow him speak. “I won’t survive this, we both know it.”

  Her heart was sinking ever deeper, but his clear, calm tone forced itself upon her. Slowly, she nodded affirmation.

  “I did not expect to live to see you. But now you are here,” he continued, placing his hand over hers and squeezing it tightly, “and we must not—we must not fail. If . . . Sayri, if I can leave a part of me with you . . .”

  Despair flooding through her, his words found a home within her ears, and she understood.

  “But I’ll hurt you,” she protested, knowing full well it was too late to worry about that.

  “And heal me,” he replied, reaching for her neck. “My soul will be free to pass this world, my love, knowing that I will stay with you, in some small way.”

  Sayri stared at him for a long, silent moment, tears tumbling from her chin to wet the sand between them.

  “Make love to me,” he repeated.

  She nodded, freeing her second hand from under him, and began to open the clasps of her vest.

  He watched quietly. She removed her vest, t
hen stood and unbuckled the Somrian skirt she wore, and lowered it to the ground, then removed her boots. Though it was not Somrian fashion, she had purchased a pair of tights to wear beneath the skirt. She pulled those down and stepped out of them, and the tropical sea breeze prickled her bare skin. Arad smiled, and her grief began to fade.

  She removed her shirt and stood bare before him; he was the first man outside of her family she had revealed herself to. She reached to unfasten the leather loop tying her hair back, and it tumbled down to brush at her nipples, hardening them.

  His eyes were full of love and lust, as Sayri bent down to begin removing his clothing. It was no small task, considering the layers of armour he wore and the difficulty of removing it without injuring him further, and he could barely help. Finally she had stripped him bare on the sand, and she lay down beside him.

  His hands were on her, tracing her neck and breasts, and the curve of her hip, and between her legs. She gasped and kissed him, deeply, and he showed little sign of weakness; he pulled her to him, and held her tightly.

  “This moment will last forever,” he said. “I will be with you always.”

  Sayri cried, but he kissed her again, harder, and she was aroused despite her worry. She climbed on top of him, carefully, and took him in her hands and guided him to the place that she had kept waiting just for him.

  There was a moment of fear when they connected. The memory of that night with the reeve came rushing back then, and her heart fluttered, but she silenced it. This was Arad, her Arad, and no one more deserved to be in that place than he. She breathed deeply, and lowered herself on to him.

  Arad was patient; so very much so. He didn’t press, or thrust—or perhaps he simply couldn’t. He simply waited as she sank on to him, and took him inside her, at her own pace. As she did so, he watched her eyes, a smile curling his upper lip and dimpling his cheeks.

  Finally he was in her, and their hips met. It was not a splitting; there was no pain. She was not broken open. Rather, they were completed; joined.