For a long time she just lay atop him, her forehead pressed again his, her breasts touching his chest, and they inhaled each other’s breaths. The dream came back to her, then, and she wondered if inhaling what he expelled made him a part of her.
In time she began to move. At first just a gradual up and down motion; she had not done this before, not in this way. He was deep inside her, so very deep, and it should have been painful, but it wasn’t. As she increased her pace, some part of him touched her way up inside, just under her belly, and a shock ran down the backs of her legs to her toes. She stopped for a moment, staring at him in surprise; he smiled widely, and placed his hands on her hips, encouraging her.
Sayri carefully placed her hands atop the muscles of his chest and began to grind her hips in a circular motion. Each time she came around, Arad moaned—in pleasure, she hoped, not pain—and she squealed as he touched her again and again in that special place. Her head tilted forward so that her hair brushed his face and neck, his hands found her breasts, and she found her rhythm.
Around and around she came back over him, and he into her. The horrible wound in his stomach should have been inflicting terribly upon him, but he seemed at ease and even thrust up into her. Their breaths became one. She moved faster, and faster—how long had they been doing this? She wasn’t sure.
It was building to something now, she realized; as she continued with more speed and he thrust deeper into her, her body began to tense up, building to an explosion. Like the tremors that rose within the mountain before it burst, she felt a pressure increasing within her, and she needed to release it.
Arad was building to something, too. He reached it only a moment before she did, arching his back despite his injury and lifting her, and crying out, perhaps in pain or in pleasure; probably a fusion of both. She felt a blast of heat enter her, as if the volcano had exploded within her own body, and it pushed her over the edge, and she too erupted.
Her head flung back of its own accord. Above her thousands of blazing stars filled her view, and as her entire body was shocked with spasm, they seared into her and showered her with light, and she became ecstasy.
The dream became real, but it was not the forest—it was Arad. He permeated her, and she absorbed him. In turn, she embraced and flowed out of herself and into him. They unified.
The moment was an eternity, then it ended. She fell forward onto him, hearing him moan, and wondering if she had hurt him, but finding herself unable to ask. He turned his head to the side and their lips met in a long, slow kiss.
Sayri didn’t want him to ever come out of her, but she knew that it surely pained him to hold her weight, so with a final press of her lips upon his neck, she rolled carefully off. He held his arm out for her to fall on, and she crept up into it, nuzzling his ear, and he laughed.
“My beautiful Sayri, how perfect you are,” he said, his voice just a bit tight. His eyes were sagging; he had expended his every reserve.
She was exhausted too, but she sat up so that she was over him, her hair dangling to form a special, private haven that only they two could share. “I love you, Arad,” she sighed, studying the shine of his eyes in the night, and pressed her lips on his again.
“My love, Sayri, my love . . .” he muttered as she finally pulled their lips apart, but he was already drifting away. She curled up alongside him, laying a leg across his thighs, and together they fell asleep in the warm sand.
・ ・
The distant cry of sea birds woke her. The morning sun had already risen a handswidth over the layered flows of rock, and warmed her face. It dazzled her eyes when so that she was momentarily blinded and the whole world dissolved into a multicoloured array of light.
She turned head to the side, blinking until her vision cleared. A scattering of rain droplets had begun to fall, cool and fresh, from what appeared to be a blue sky.
Sayri propped herself up on one elbow and stroked Arad’s warm chest with the other.
It wasn’t moving.
“Arad?” she said in alarm. She rose to her knees and touched his face; it was also still warm—or was it from the sun?
She reached for the Link. Make him breathe, she commanded.
That person is not protected by wise means, she thought. A colony must be established.
“No!” she cried, seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him. “Arad! Wake up!”
He did not wake, and his head rolled over, limp.
In desperation, she remembered the dream. Water had passed from her to the trees. Just as air had passed from her to Arad, as they made love.
She pushed the wet hair away from her face, opened his mouth and pressed hers against it, blowing air in. When it came out his nose, she pinched it shut and blew harder. His chest rose, then fell. It was working! She did it again, and again. His chest rose as she blew air in, then fell as he exhaled. She was breathing for him! She smiled with exhilaration and hope, and continued. If she breathed enough air into him, surely he would begin on his own again.
Take a breath, blow it into his mouth, then inhale again as he let it out. She found a rhythm; if she timed it just right, she was ready with the next breath just as he needed it. Time passed; a hundred heartbeats, then two hundred.
Feeling a bit dizzy, her hair dripping with rain, she allowed herself a moment’s rest, laying her head against Arad’s chest as it fell. Only a moment to catch her breath, then she would continue. So long as he was breathing, surely at some point he—
With her ear to his chest as it deflated, she heard nothing.
She sat up straight, and stared at his face. He was utterly still. She placed her ear to his chest again, holding her breath as she listening.
Nothing.
She straightened again. Air was nothing if his heart would not pound, if his blood did not surge.
A cold dread settled over her. Her eyes overflowed with tears, mixing with rivulets of cool rain that streamed down her face, as she realized that she had failed.
He was dead; gone. Her Arad was gone.
Her forehead sagged to lay against Arad’s silent breast, and her anguish fell upon it as she cried.
An ancestral barrier has been found in an adult. The barrier will be removed, and Eeya Selpie awoken.
“What?” Sayri gasped, her head snapping up. What had the Voice said? Her vision was blurred through a waterfall of tears. “Who is Eeya Selpie?” she asked.
Higher authority prevails over Eeya Selpie, the Voice said. Eeya Selpie. Rule of critical self-study.
More nonsense. Arad was gone. What did it matter?
“Leave me alone,” she gasped at the Voice between tears, throwing her arms protectively around Arad’s chest as if she could shield him from death, or pull him back from it. “You are useless. Don’t talk to me again.”
The Voice was silent. Arad was silent. The birds beyond their sanctuary were hushed, and the rain had stopped.
Sayri’s cries echoed, and there was no response.
54 GALLORD-SMIT
Standing at the rail with Charese, Gallord-Smit gazed out at the island. The blackened husk it had become was unrecognizable from when they had first seen it. The mountain had not changed much, though its previously smooth surface was marred by long stripes running down from its summit right to the sea. The tip had changed shape from a neatly flattened top to an irregular gash, with a larger opening to the east—if they had been on that coast, they would probably have died. Or would they have? With the aid of the Lower Valley girl’s strange powers, it was impossible to say.
The jungle was gone. Here and there, to be true, he could see a few patches of green, but they entirely surrounded by the grey ashes of the trees that were no more. Smoke still drifted lazily from countless sources around the island’s flat ring; perhaps by night, flames might still be seen.
So many had died on that island, both at the hand of man and of the Great Link, or whatever timeless nature spirits might dwell in such a foreboding place. Senseless deaths.
He grieved for all of them.
As no doubt did Charese. She had made it to the coast with her two dozen soldiers and wisely approached the ship flying a white flag, but like him she had left many friends behind, now entombed under smooth, hardened rock.
Hellamer among them, though his place was in a sanctuary of stone, rather than under it. He would miss the man. They both would.
Charese took a deep breath and sighed. “Do you believe in what they say about the Great Link, Front-Captain?” she asked, her mop of red hair dancing in the breeze. “That we all become part of it, and live forever?”
Gallord-Smit shook his head. “I don’t know, Charese,” he replied. “If you’d asked me yesterday, I would have told you that the world we know is the only one that matters. That what is gone, is gone, and there’s no touching it, ever again. But now,” he went on, still shaking his head but now in awe, “everything is different. She proved it.” He turned to face Charese; her chapped, sunkissed northerner’s skin and firm brow seemed somehow more innocent in the reddening late afternoon sun. “She used the Link, Charese. Used it to save us all. It was—impossible.”
Her eyes sparkling, Charese seemed about to respond profoundly, but he was not to know her words; before she could speak her demeanour changed, her expression hardening, and she bristled with indignation.
He turned and, as expected, saw the Somrian commander approaching. Charese knew of the truce called between the two commanders, but she had been among the first defenders on the island, rising literally from the ashes of the town to entrench themselves in the nearby hills. They had seen their families slaughtered by the Somrians, and she was not about to forgive Josel anytime soon. Nor were the rest of the men; he had been forced to command them all to keep their distance from the Captain-General, on penalty of being keelhauled and spending the journey in a towboat.
Charese scowled as Josel approached, but he ignored it and came up alongside Gallord-Smit at the rail opposite her.
“A poor grave for na fallen,” he said, his words echoing Gallord-Smit’s thoughts as he looked out on the island before them.
After a moment’s consideration, the Front-Captain made his decision; he knew that Josel was a commander following orders, just as he was, and he knew that the man had honour and would not have knowingly allowed the atrocities Charese had told him of. So he turned back to the island and merely nodded in agreement to Josel’s words. Charese would choose her own path; he would not join her in hatred. “Though it saved us the trouble of gathering and sorting bodies.”
“True,” Josel agreed. “Front-Captain, I wish ta express my respects.” He turned to face Gallord-Smit. “I be departing soon,” he added.
“Good riddance,” Charese mumbled. She spun on a heel, her lower lip protruding firmly, and marched off.
“Leaving? To where?” Gallord-Smit asked, watching her go. He turned back to Josel. “You certainly cannot expect us to strand you on—”
Josel turned and pointed out past the stern; following his eyes, Gallord-Smit spotted several ships appearing around the curve of the western coastline headed their way, all flying the yellow flags of Somria. His eyes widened slightly, and he wondered if he should warn the Master, then thought better of it. Though not all of the approaching vessels would have the speed to catch the small corvette if she were under way, they were currently at anchor, and would never be under way in time to escape.
He looked back at Josel. A hostage? He considered calling Charese back.
“Not ta worry, Front-Captain. They will na threaten you,” the Somrian commander told him. “We took arm on na peace treaty, and I’ll na break it.”
Gallord-Smit exhaled. He had taken Josel on his honour, but he was relieved to hear the words. “Thank you, Captain-General.”
“Ya need na thank me for keeping my word, Front-Captain. But we have further business to discuss. In specific, Master Arad’s remains.”
“Of course,” Gallord-Smit replied. “My deepest sympathies, Captain-General. He was a fine young man, and I have come to think of him with a great deal of respect.” His lips tightened slightly. “Naturally, you will wish to take the body with you to Somria so that his father can see to the proper ceremony.”
“Ah.” Josel shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “The young Lordslander girl clearly feels a claim to him, and will not wish to have the boy’s remains removed from her. Nor will she be returning to Somria,” he added after a moment’s consideration. “She does not share every Northern Somrians . . . kinship to the Commander-General.”
“I imagine not,” Gallord-Smit agreed, perhaps a tad too emphatically. Then, after brief consideration, he said, “Captain-General. With all sympathy to the young lady, I would chance no further affront to Commander-General Sherzi.”
“Understandable,” Josel agreed, but a trace of smile curled his lip. “It is a sad affair that the young man’s body was lost with na others in na fire.”
Gallord-Smit stared at him for a moment. “So it is,” he concurred quietly. Then he bowed deeply. “Captain-General Josel, I am honoured to have faced you, and pleased to have the chance to offer my respects before departing.”
“Front-Captain Gallord-Smit,” Josel replied, dropping into a formal Somrian bow with a leg back and his right hand to heart. “It is with na utmost pleasure that I have been graced ta meet you afield. May your sails pull hard, your blade stay sharp, and your men be true.”
“I will order a boat to take you across.”
“Your honour knows no bounds.” Josel inclined his head briefly again, then went to find the boatmen amidships.
Gallord-Smit couldn’t help but feel some sense of sadness as he watched the Somrian leave. The man had proven to be a worthy opponent, and an even better ally, showing rare decorum and wry insight. He was also clearly someone in whom Arad had placed no little respect.
He would like to have spent more time with the man. Now, he could only hope not to meet him again on the field of battle.
The boat carrying Josel drifted away from the Lady’s Challenge, the Captain-General himself sitting up straight on the front bench as the oarsman pulled. He did not look back.
The boat was well over a hundred paces away in the direction of the approaching ships when Wissa drifted up beside him, pointedly making herself visible along the rail before getting too close.
Gallord-Smit thought it strange that the girl would come up alongside him, considering the radius she had maintained from everyone since coming aboard; she was concerned only with Sayri, and went out of her way to make that point clear. Still, he wasn’t about ignore the opportunity to speak with her, since she was sworn to protect the girl, and he had taken the same vow. He needed to know how she intended to do that, and what role the robe she wore would play in the process.
“A good man,” he observed, his eyes still out on the diminishing boat. “It is good that he was their leader. It could have been a lot messier.”
Wissa was long in responding; when she did, her voice was barely audible. “Good t’ respect y’ enemy,” she said, her eyes on the sea below the rail. “Jus’ so long as y’ don’ come t’ like him.”
“Enemy no longer. This war is over,” he told her. “For the moment, at least. Hopefully,” he continued, taking a deep breath between words, “for good.”
“No, Front-Captain,” Wissa countered. “It is not over.”
Gallord-Smit frowned, then turned on her. “What do you mean? We’ve just agreed to a peace treaty. When the Overlord learns of Sherzi’s bloodbath, he will at worst reduce the man’s power—at best, execute him for treasonous acts.”
“An’ ‘f the Lords’ Council had already responded t’ Sherzi’s threat?” Wissa replied enigmatically. “What w’ the Overlord’s reaction be then?”
“Responded . . . how?” he asked, his voice a whisper. Just then, a cold breeze brushed up along his spine.
・
“She will not let anyone near him,” the Master com
plained. Since the ship was from Gallord-Smit’s home port of Promotory and her Master was a Heartlander, he seemed to feel that he could bring his concerns to the Front-Captain out of some shared kinship. Or, it might also be that Sayri would not speak to the man—she had spoken to almost no one since coming aboard, spending all her time in the Master’s cabin staring at Arad’s body—and Wissa was certainly unapproachable. That left the old soldier as the man’s only option.
Gallord-Smit’s head was still swirling from his earlier conversation with Wissa. The Lord’s Council had authorized a direct assault on Sherzi’s Northern Province? Had everyone gone mad? The Master’s concerns seemed trivial in comparison, but he attempted to focus on the task at hand.
“It has only been a day. But soon the corpse will begin to stink, and the men will complain,” the Master pointed out. “We should throw it into the sea, and quick, my lord!”
Gallord-Smit narrowed his eyes at the shorter man. He was likely a fair commander, and seemed to have the respect of his men, but obviously did not like being subordinate aboard his own ship. “A difficult situation, Master. But if the girl is not ready to toss her man into the sea, we will await her.” It was not a suggestion.
The Master sighed. “Front-Captain, will you at least allow the Corpsman to embalm the body to reduce the smell from developing?”
Gallord-Smit pursed his lips in thought. “I will speak to the girl,” he told the Master. “I will do my best to influence her. If she does not agree by the morrow, I will insist.”
“Thank you, Front-Captain.” The Master did not truly bow, but inclined his head before backing away. Gallord-Smit was not offended; though he well outranked the man, a master was his ship’s lord and every man aboard his guest. In truth, he felt a tad bit guilty for stepping on the man’s toes as had been necessary in the situation. From what he had been told, Wissa had been far less considerate of his feelings in commandeering his ship back in the North Province. Gallord-Smit made a mental note to speak with her about proper aboardship etiquette.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 68