For the moment, however, he had another uncomfortable duty. Briefly he considered sending Charese instead—as a woman, she might have been better at communicating with the girl—but he dismissed it. He had wielded the sword that fell the boy, and it would be wrong to delegate this duty to someone else. He stood at the aft rail for a few moments, allowing the sun to warm his face, then straightened his tunic and made for the companionway to the Master’s cabin.
The door was closed; Wissa was standing in the passageway outside. She saw him as soon as he entered the opposite end, and inclined her head.
“Any change?” Gallord-Smit asked skeptically.
“No, Front-Captain,” Wissa replied. “She doesn’ talk, doesn’ eat. Barely drinks.” She sighed. “I know how she feels. She come out ‘f it.”
Gallord-Smit smiled softly at the robe-clad girl. “Yes, I heard of Collector Welgray’s fate. I’m sorry,” he said.
Wissa inclined her head again silently.
“I need to speak to her,” he told her with a sigh. Wissa nodded and unlatched the door, pushing it open, and he stepped through.
The Master’s cabin was not large but reasonably comfortable, with a desk, chair, and a sleeping platform. Arad’s body was on the platform, covered to the neck with his arms folded across his chest as if sleeping.
Gallord-Smit looked around, but didn’t see Sayri. He walked over to where Arad lay.
The lad almost could have been sleeping; his colour, no doubt a healthy brown due to southern sun, hid a dead man’s fading well. It was a bit unnerving; Gallord-Smit reached to pull the blanket up and cover Arad’s face properly.
“Don’t touch him,” a small voice said.
He turned and looked across the cabin; beside the desk, under a porthole, Sayri sat on the floor against the bulkhead, her arms across her knees and chin resting upon her forearms. Her eyes were shot with red and shadowed heavily.
“I’m sorry,” Gallord-Smit said, taking his hand away.
Sayri swallowed. “I know . . . I know he’s gone, Front-Captain. I just—I like to look at him. He looks so . . . peaceful.”
Gallord-Smit walked over to her. She looked so small, curled up against the wall; his heart sank as he remembered his Mellie, the day she had found a tiny bird that had visited her window for tendays lying dead in the garden. Her eyes had looked like that. He longed to embrace her, and let her cry on his shoulder. Oh, my sweet Mellie.
“Sayri,” he started, but he had nothing else. When he reached her, he turned and stiffly sat down on the floor beside her, gritting his teeth to avoid grunting from his injuries. Then he brought his knees up to emulate her posture, and sighed quietly.
A long while passed. Gallord-Smit looked around the Master’s cabin, studying the desk with its maps, hangings on the bulkheads, and the thick, brown Somrian rug on the deck.
Finally, he looked at Arad, and he began to understand why Sayri wanted him uncovered. He did look . . . alive. The chest did not rise and fall, true. The heart, if he were to listen, would be silent. And yet, with little imagination, Gallord-Smit could almost expect him to sit up and speak. In his mind, the boy was very nearly alive.
Nearly. “Sayri,” he said finally, softly, but she interrupted him.
“Did you know that Arad was raised by two foreigners?” she asked.
Gallord-Smit shook his head. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“He didn’t know his mother, and his father was, well, useless,” she continued. “But he met a kindly old man and his wife, and they cared for him all through his childhood. That’s where he learned krakar.”
“I studied it myself, when I was younger,” he told her. “A fellow came to Benn’s Harbour from Somria. I had hoped Arad and I might practice together one day.” Thoughts of squaring off against the young Somrian brought up a surge of guilt. He had met the boy in combat, and he had killed him.
He could never tell Sayri that, not if he wished to protect her, and he had promised Arad that he would.
“I met Ooji in Somria,” Sayri was saying. “She is a wonderful woman, so kind and warm. And so wise; she is a deeply spiritual woman.” He could hear her heart lifting as she spoke of the old woman; no doubt she felt great comfort thinking of her. “And Win Wal—his surrogate father, I suppose—I only met him briefly, but he was gracious, and welcomed me without even knowing who I was. I can see how Arad turned out as he did.” She smiled, looking over at the sleeping platform. “A real gentleman, and a man of honesty, kindness, and integrity. So completely unlike his father. It came from them. All of he who is.” Though she was still smiling, a tear rolled down across her cheek and into the corner of her mouth. “Everything that is wonderful about him. That . . . was . . .” She struggled visibly, her mask beginning to slip.
“I hope one day I might meet them,” Gallord-Smit said. “If things calm down, perhaps.”
“Yes,” she agreed, taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes with her arm, “I’d like to see them again too, if I could. When this is all over—when our land and Somria are at peace—would you take me there, Front-Captain?” Her eyes were wide and shiny as she gazed at him, and it was all he could do not to wrap her protectively in his arms.
“Of course, Sayri,” he assured her. “I would love to do that, truly. I have . . . my own reasons for returning to Somria, if it becomes possible.” Rena—was she still fighting for peace in the capital? Had she heard word of the Southern Islands? Of him?
“He came to the Southern Islands for me,” Sayri said abruptly, speaking down at the deck with her forehead resting upon her arms.
“You know it wasn’t your fault,” he replied, no doubt precisely as she expected, but he meant it.
“If I hadn’t been in Somria, his father would not have been able to manipulate him. He would not have come here.”
“Sherzi’s fault, then,” Gallord-Smit countered quickly. “He is to blame for this.” He was surprised how much anger came through in his voice; he actually meant it. The boy hadn’t deserved what his father had done to him, not just in this case, but all his life. Arad had gone to Benn’s Harbour to escape the man. Gallord-Smit felt a pang of guilt tighten his throat. “I sent him back to Somria. He tried so hard to get away, and I sent him back. In the name of . . . peace.” He laughed, but humourlessly.
Sayri slowly rotated her head to face him. Her face was deeply tanned from the Somrian sun, as he knew his was. The colour concealed dark circles under her eyes as well as it did the pale of death under Arad’s.
Gallord-Smit didn’t look at her; he kept his eyes on Arad. “I’m sorry, Sayri. I’m so very sorry. This all happened because I saw a way to use Arad. I didn’t expect this.” He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t expect it to kill him.”
“Front-Captain,” she said, placing her hand on his upper arm. He looked at her then, and she was smiling sadly. “All right. I’m ready,” she told him.
Gallord-Smit nodded, and stood, offering her a hand to help her up. Her knees wobbled as she did; no doubt she had not moved for a long time. He led her to the passageway, then up on deck. He left her at the rail, watching the sea race by, and went to find the corpsman to prepare Arad’s body for the funeral.
55 ARAD
There was a time that was pure bliss. The breeze was cool and fresh, and the stars were brilliant. And there was Sayri, beautiful, sweet Sayri, her soft skin pressing his, her scent on his nose; her whisper in his ear. The pain was gone, and there was only her, and he was content.
He sank into sleep, knowing it was a forever sleep, and that it would be hard for her, but for some reason he was not sad. He understood that she would be heartbroken; still, they loved each other, and that was enough. The moment was enough. The moment was absolute.
When sleep came, he welcomed it. He did not expect to dream.
But something akin to a dream came.
There was—a sensation of drifting. As if he were underwater, he glided free yet supported about by nothing, touching upon
nothing. He could not see, or hear, or smell; he had no body that he could feel. He was . . . an emptiness, surrounded by emptiness. If this was his soul, was he dead? What was he supposed to do now?
The Voice spoke to him, echoing in the recesses of his mind. Breeding manifest means. Regrowth alive. An ancestral barrier was found in an adult; the barrier has been removed. Eeya Selpie awaits.
Before he could puzzle at its meaning, a current pulled at him across a great empty expanse, and as he drifted into it he flew faster and faster. It was taking him somewhere, though to where—nor from where—he knew not. He could not detect the passage of time, yet there was a sense of progress, as if he was traveling from one place to another, and he would arrive.
Ahead of him, he sensed a destination, and awaited it.
Something went past him. It felt—the same as him, and different. It was him, but it was not. He existed, he was Arad, and yet . . .
There was a flash of light, and he arrived.
・
Sayri’s voice was in his head. Dil, I think this is the one where he—
Arad opened his eyes. The light was very bright, and dazzled him. For a moment he seemed to be hanging impossibly suspended, in the very centre of a massive, translucently white sphere. He thought he saw Sayri hovering before him, seemingly comfortable defying gravity as she watched him with a curious expression. Even stranger, in that moment she appeared older, perhaps as old as he, or more so. In the vision the future-her was dazzling and, if at all possible, more beautiful, immaculate—and voluptuous!—than as he knew her.
Then the intense glare faded, and he was back on the beach, lying in the deep sand.
“He’s here,” Sayri said. She looked herself again. Young and sweet; wide-eyed. And yet, there as something still odd about her.
The breeze was warmer than he recalled it being when he fell asleep, though it was still night. The sand was warm beneath him as well.
Abruptly he recalled his mortal wound, and his hand went to his belly. Bizarrely, of the horrible wound in his belly inflicted by Gallord-Smit, he felt no trace. There was more; his old injuries did not plague him. The air that passed into and out from his lungs seemed fresh and delicious. He had never felt so alive.
She was watching him, he realized. Studying him, gauging his reaction. Then smiling as she noticed that he noticed.
“Welcome back,” she said. The teeth of her smile were pure white—more so than he remembered. “How do you feel?” There was a strange inflection in her voice.
Arad frowned, still slightly dizzy from his sudden newfound vitality. “What—Sayri, why are you speaking like that?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, cocking her head to the side in the gesture that he adored so much. That, at least, was the same.
“Your accent. It’s—strange . . . how long have I been sleeping? My wound is healed?” The questions gushed from him once he began, but abruptly, he realized that he was charged with energy—more so than he had ever been—and that he couldn’t wait for the reply. He leapt from his seat in the sand to embrace her. Inexplicably, he launched himself impossibly high, flying completely over her. He landed on his chest, fortunately still on the soft beach, and came up spitting sand. Looking back, he was stunned to discover that he had flown at least ten paces through the air.
Sayri laughed—her wonderful bell-like laugh hadn’t changed, either. He rose slowly, carefully, brushing sand from his bare torso. He discovered that he was wearing a krakar loincloth, and nothing more. Where had that come from?
“You should be careful, Arad,” Sayri said, still giggling. “You’re a bit stronger than you are accustomed to. You don’t want to hurt yourself.”
Arad stared at her. “Stronger? While I’ve been unconscious? How is that possible?”
She shook her head slowly. “That’s difficult to explain, my love.”
Frowning, he trudged through the sand back to her, and slowly reached out to with his right hand to touch her neck. She was, he perceived somewhat to his surprise, solid and apparently real. The sensation of her skin, combined with the near scent of her, filled him unexpectedly with desire, and he drew her to him. Oddly, she seemed a bit uncomfortable at first, and seemed about to pull away. Then she suddenly relaxed, and kissed him.
The kiss was familiar, yet—different. She kissed him perfectly, precisely as he best liked it. When he had kissed her before, it had always been wonderful, but this was—sublime. The perfect kiss.
He studied her. The whole situation was so odd, even surreal, and everything seemed too perfect. Was he dreaming? Or was he dead, and this some sort of afterlife? If so, it was nothing like he ever would have imagined. “Sayri—what’s going on?”
She disengaged and took two steps away from him, oddly moving with no difficulty in the deep sand, then turned back. Her expression was enigmatic. “I’m sorry, Arad. I can’t explain it to you.” She pouted slightly, though it seemed deliberate, almost mocking. She gave the look of being about to offer something more, then stopped.
Behind her, the air suddenly seemed to ripple, then changed colour and shape; after a moment, to Arad’s shock, the distortion resolved into the form of a man. He was quite tall; more so than most men Arad had met. He was lean, but seemed well muscled. The man also had a strange skin tone unlike anything Arad had seen, sort of coppery, and he had brown eyes. He was quite handsome, but his face was otherwise unremarkable.
“Arad, this is Dilworth Forward,” Sayri said, bowing slightly in introduction. As she did so, she giggled again. The newcomer smiled as well, as if they had shared a secret joke.
“Ah—in pleasure, grateful,” the man said, wincing slightly at his own poor use of the language, as he affected a bow himself rather awkwardly.
Arad nodded in response, ignoring the other’s bizarre name and unrecognizable accent, but the sudden nature of the man’s appearance had left him too stunned to speak. Instead, he simply looked back at Sayri with a helpless expression.
“It’s all right, Arad,” Sayri told him consolingly, holding him by the arm as if worried he might unexpectedly collapse. “Dil and I—we’ve been expecting for you to wake up.” She smiled and nodded as she said the last, as did Forward, as if it explained everything.
Arad said nothing as his mind raced. The sand was soft on his feet—softer than he recalled. It was warm, as well; how could it be warm, well into the night? Something else was different, too . . . he had a vague recollection of black stone walls, and fire . . . but the jungle beyond the beach was quiet and cool. Looking for other incongruities, he realized with a start that Sayri’s clothing was all wrong, as was Forward’s. Though they generally matched Somrian style, the fabric and cuts were all wrong, as if they had been copied from a crude drawing. He looked down at his abdomen again; the wound was fully healed, not even a scar visible. Had he been sleeping for years? How was there no scar?
He certainly didn’t feel the frailty that would come from being infirm for such a stretch. Quite the opposite; he felt brimming with energy, and he had already demonstrated . . . improbable physical strength.
Then there was the strange camaraderie between Sayri and Forward, as if they had known each other for quite a long time. She had never mentioned him before. He glanced back and forth between the two. If he had been sleeping for so long, could it be that she and this man . . ? “Sayri—” he began, not sure how to ask the question that gripped his heart painfully.
“No, Arad, it isn’t like that,” she replied again in her new, unfamiliar articulation before he could finish. “It’s only you, my love.” Though she smirked once more in that frustratingly mysterious manner, she eased his concern further by stepped close and giving him another of the delicious kisses. “I know it makes no sense, darling. But it will, one day soon. Well,” she added, after cocking her head to side in a moment’s thought, “in a while, anyway.”
“I don’t understand,” Arad sighed. He meant to define precisely what he could not comprehend, but
was unable to decide where to begin. “How . . .” he began, cutting himself off. Sayri was watching him again with that knowing look, but this countenance was also filled with pity, which made him feel foolish. “Well, here I am,” he said pointlessly. “I don’t understand how I came to be here, or how I am . . . so . . . well, what now?”
The man Forward said something suddenly in a language Arad had never heard. It had a flowing, melodic tempo to it, and he spoke very quickly.
Sayri nodded to him without a reply, then turned back to Arad. “You must be tired, my love. You should sit back down.” She guided him back toward the same spot he had awoken in, and pressed gently downward on his shoulders.
“I don’t need to sit,” Arad replied, brushing off her hands. “I’ve never felt so full of energy. I want to stay awake until the sunrise! If anything, I want to eat something.” As he spoke the words, a realization dawned in him; if he was hungry, didn’t that mean he was not dreaming? Or not dead? Would a dead man be hungry? It seemed unlikely.
Forward said something again; he turned away and vanished back into the air.
“What—How—Sayri, where did he go?” Arad asked, gawking after him. He moved toward where the man had vanished. Sayri hopped in front of him, blocking his way.
“Please, Arad. You need to sit down. It’s just about time,” she urged, her face completely serious for the first time.
Arad heard concern in her tone; it filled him with trepidation. “Time for what? What’s going on, Sayri? Is something wrong? You can tell me.”
She brought a hand up to his face, placed it on his cheek. “So young,” she murmured. “So innocent. Arad, I need you to do this for me. I can’t explain why; I’m sorry. I’m just—I’m asking you to do this, for me.” Her eyes suddenly deep and sad, she went to take her hand away.
Arad caught it, and held it to his cheek. Young? He had seen a handful more summers than she. Yet—she was acting differently, more suited to the older vision of her he had briefly seen, though now she looked young as always. He was dreaming, or dead. He had to be.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 69