The only thing he felt he understood—or at least hoped he understood—was her. “Will I—will you see me again, Sayri?” he asked, his throat tightening as he awaited her reply.
At that, her face exploded into the most illuminating, joyful smile he had ever seen. “Oh, yes, Arad,” she replied, tears filling her eyes. “You will see me, my love. Oh, much more. So much more.” Then she wrapped his hand in hers and drew him down to the sand. He felt it give way beneath him as he reclined, almost as if sensing his body and adjusting to match—as if the beach were alive. “I just need you to lie down, my love,” she whispered in his ear, pressing him gently back.
He allowed her to do so. Whatever this place was, and whatever was happening to him, he had to trust her. He would do as she wished. It was all he had wanted from life, his last few moons; to see her happy. “When this is done, take me to a sleeping platform, and let me love you,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “I want nothing more than to touch you again.”
Sayri nodded; the enigmatic smile was back, but her eyes watered over with emotion. “The first time—I remember, my love. Yes, Arad; I will do that. I promise.” Her smile faded again then, and she leaned over him. “But I need a promise from you, my Arad. This time coming will be very hard for—for me. I am going to need you, more than ever before. Please promise me that you will be gentle, and forgiving.” In her eyes Arad saw a trace of guilt, and pain.
Puzzled, he nodded his assent. “I promise, Sayri,” he answered, holding both her hands in his and against his chest.
She smiled again, and kissed his forehead. “Goodbye, my love,” she said.
And he was gone.
56 WISSA
They were widows together, now. Wissa minded Sayri where she stood at the stern rail watching the ship’s wake roll into the sea. The golden waves of the younger girl’s hair swept across her face in the breeze, but she did not attempt to pull them back, instead allowing her face to be concealed. Wissa suspected that tears were falling endlessly within that haven, but only the sea could know.
Sayri was about five quick paces from her. If anyone went to interrupt her solitude, Wissa could intercept them. She was also close enough to intercede if the sea’s embrace became too enticing to resist.
In a way, Wissa envied her; Sayri’s relationship with Arad had been unequivocal and mutual. They had expressed their love to each other, as well as their commitment to overcome any obstacle to be together. That love had been cut short, it was true, but there was no doubt that they had belonged to each other.
Her own relationship with Welgray had been less defined. She had loved him, but he had been her lord as much as her lover. Expressing her honest emotion had been impossible. His own feelings for her had been even more clouded; Wissa wasn’t sure if even he had grasped exactly what she was to him. Sometimes she was a servant, sometimes a girl under his protection; occasionally, in his most tender moments, a lover. Of course, she had deceived him for years regarding her actual role as a spy for the Chamber.
At the end, with her freedom attained and the curtain of deception finally drawn from between them, there had been a chance to discover a new future for the two of them as a couple. That chance was gone. No more of a lost future, she supposed, than that of Sayri and Arad; in that loss, the two girls were equal.
As she watched from a polite distance, Sayri’s head lowered and Wissa heard a gentle sob on the breeze. That was the other reason she envied the girl—she was free to grieve. Wissa had lost Welgray in a fiery moment of strife; there had been no time to express her sorrow. She had saved both of their lives in that instant, but when it was over her chance to mourn had passed. From that time on she had become Sayri’s protector, an ever-present guardian who could not afford to collapse in self-pity. A moment in grief could easily become the moment in which she failed her charge. She would not, could not allow herself that luxury, not after her promise to Welgray.
So she looked on as Sayri cried, and took what comfort she could from the cold embrace of determination. She would succeed in her vow. Sayri would be safe, and the Spire of Rising would fail. If that meant returning to Mount Crush and bringing the order down herself, then she would do no less than that.
In pondering that possibility a strange sense of foreboding came over her, that one day it would come to a climax, pitting her against her former overseer.
Chamber Seat Llory would not stop until it did.
Sayri’s head came up, turning slightly in her direction. Wissa didn’t know how—perhaps it came in some way from her connection to the Link—but Sayri often detected someone approaching before she did, now. Wissa turned her back to the rail so that her field of view encompassed the entire deck.
At the bow the Proselyte stood facing ahead with the beast-man sprawled at his side. The monk, she saw, had found a razor somewhere and shaved his head again; his scalp gleamed white. Though the rest of him was deeply tanned, he now looked more like the man she had met those many moons before, when she was awaiting execution in Lord Perrile’s prisons. It was neither the Proselyte nor his savage companion who had drawn Sayri’s attention, however; Front-Captain Gallord-Smit had emerged from the stairway—or “ladder,” as the sailors called it, which suited its steep angle better—and was headed in her direction. He made his way carefully across the deck, which was shifting slowly to and fro as they sailed across long rollers. He reached the rail alongside Sayri, but his words were not difficult to overhear.
“The Corpsman is ready, if you are as well,” he told her, his voice gentle.
Sayri nodded, pulling the hair from her face; though Wissa had heard her crying, she was surprised to see no tears evident on her face. “Thank you, Front-Captain,” she replied. Her voice betrayed her emotions, though; it was rough and tight. “I will come below.”
“That’s not necessary, Sayri,” he said. “The Corpsman will see the . . . see Arad wrapped and brought up for burial.”
“No,” Sayri objected, sweeping her head side to side emphatically. I want to see his face, Front-Captain. I need to—” She visibly wavered; Wissa coiled to move, but Gallord-Smit steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “I have to be there, every step. I won’t let him be taken by strangers.”
The veteran officer smiled sadly and nodded. “It will be as you wish, Sayri.” Still supporting her shoulder, he held out his other hand to escort her. She took his arm and, glancing at Wissa to be certain she came along—there was no doubt in Wissa’s mind that she would, but she made a show of joining them nonetheless—they made for the Master’s cabin.
Sayri stopped at the top of the steps, looking out and up. The blue sky was beginning to fade, the sun having fallen behind the western horizon shortly before. “It’s going to be cold soon,” she said.
Wissa didn’t answer, but she looked across the sea briefly to the northeast. Sayri was right; soon they would be leaving the warmer, tropical waters for the northern seas, and winter winds would welcome them home. The words seemed to include more than just the weather, though. There would be no hero’s reception for them in Benn’s Harbour. They were returning to a nation at war, with only a tiniest remnant of the force that once held the Southern Island.
Furthermore, there would be the Spire to deal with. Cold, indeed.
Sayri had already disappeared below when Wissa turned back. She motioned to the Proselyte to make ready—he would be performing the funeral ceremony on deck—and followed the others down.
The Master, his corpsman, and two other of his men, no doubt to carry the body, were waiting in the passageway outside the cabin; apparently the Master remembered the brief moment of tension he had shared with Wissa and had no desire to offend them by entering his own quarters without permission. He opened the door as they arrived and stepped inside his cabin, holding it for them. Gallord-Smit led Sayri, and the others followed; Wissa remained at the door.
The cabin was dim without sunlight streaming in, and no lamps had been lit; it took a momen
t for Wissa’s eyes to adjust. Gradually, she began to make out the room; Arad’s body was reclined on the sleeping platform as if resting, save for the lack of breath.
Sayri strode over to stand at the foot of the platform, Gallord-Smit with her. The Master and his men solemnly lined up at the back of the room and waited for the corpsman, who had taken his place alongside Arad’s body, to perform his duty.
The man stood there for a long time, his eyes downcast, waiting for Sayri’s word. He was an older man, probably well beyond fifty years, with grey stubble upon his chin; Wissa had little doubt he was accustomed to the task and had handled many a dead man.
Finally Sayri nodded slowly, her eyes on Arad.
The corpsman stepped forward and reached to pull the blanket over Arad’s face, a thick needle and thread ready in his other hand to sew the blanket into a shroud.
As his hand reached Arad’s cheek, however, the man suddenly jerked away with a cry.
“Corpsman?” the Master asked uncertainly.
“He’s . . . he’s still warm!” the corpsman exclaimed, his eyes wide with fear.
“Impossible,” the Master muttered, though the blood drained from his face as he stepped forward. “Sailor, have you been into the—” His hand reached Arad’s face and he froze, then stumbled back.
Wissa looked to Sayri; her head was coming up slowly, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open. It was not a look of horror, but of shock and confusion.
“It some sort of . . . curse,” the corpsman stammered, his back thumping against the bulkhead. “It can’t . . . it’s . . .”
“Calm down, man,” Gallord-Smit said, palms out consolingly, moving in his direction. “I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation. It isn’t a curse,” he added with a chuckle.
Wissa’s eyes flicked to the Master. His face was white, and he was shaking. He shook his head back and forth erratically, muttering as if trying to convince himself that he was dreaming, and his knuckles were white as he squeezed something on a leather strip about his neck.
She didn’t know what would happen, but alarms were going off in her head. She hastily started moving across the room toward Sayri.
The Master turned away and reached for something on the wall, came back with it in both hands. A commander’s sabre, it’s thick, curved blade glinting viciously in the dim light. Gallord-Smit stopped and carefully placed himself between the Master and the others, arms outstretched.
“Sayri!” Wissa hissed, pointing at the Master, who was advancing on the sleeping platform. She wasn’t going to leave her charge’s side, but knew that Sayri could stop him from the defilement that he clearly intended.
Sayri was lost staring at Arad; in her grief, she was oblivious to the heat that had risen so suddenly in the room. She looked up at Wissa, blinking in confusion. Too late.
“Leave this world, demon!” the Master screeched. The heavy sabre came whistling down, and struck with a dull smack.
But not into Arad’s neck. Faster than Wissa could see, a hand had shot out and caught the man’s wrist, stopping the blow.
Arad’s hand.
Slowly, as if dragging enormous weight with them, his eyelids drew open, and he groaned.
The Master fainted dead away, the sabre clattering to the deck. The rest of the room sharply inhaled and caught their breaths as one.
Wissa spun back the other way, just in time to catch Sayri as she crumpled.
・
The Front-Captain had taken immediate command of the situation, ordering the two men intended to carry Arad’s body on deck to remove the Master and his Corpsman. To his credit, the Corpsman quickly recovered his demeanour, offering to see to Arad. Though he did not understand how the boy could possibly be alive, the corpsman was trained to assist the injured, and his training took precedence over the initial horror that had seized him.
Gallord-Smit agreed and led the way out of the cabin, leaving the corpsman alone in the room with Arad, Wissa already half-carrying, half-guiding Sayri down the passageway.
They made it out on deck, Sayri mumbling to herself in shock, which Wissa determined was likely a good sign. It was not yet dark outside; she led Sayri to the rail and sat her down against it. The Proselyte had been waiting for them to emerge, probably hearing the commotion downstairs.
“What has happened?” he asked, concerned. The beast-man hung behind him, curious as well but unwilling to approach Wissa.
Wissa drew the hair out of Sayri’s eyes, and examined her; the younger girl’s face was pale and she was breathing in shallow gasps, repeatedly squeezing her eyes shut.
“I don’t understand,” Sayri whispered, her voice desperate and spellbound. “What happened to me?”
Wissa took Sayri’s face in her hands. “You fainted,” she said, her tone calm and firm. “Try to breathe deeply. You’ll be all right.”
“What happened?” the Proselyte repeated, dropping to one knee beside the girl and putting his hand supportively on her shoulder. “Was she hurt?”
“No,” Wissa replied, shaking her head. Then, in a low voice directed at him, “Arad’s alive.”
The Proselyte’s mouth came open slowly, his eyes slowly drifting over to Sayri, his eyes opening in awe.
“Arad?” Sayri mumbled, a faraway look in her eyes. “Arad!” She tried to get up, clumsily attempting to push Wissa’s hands away.
Wissa held her down on the deck. “Sayri, just stay here a while and breathe. If you try to walk, you’ll collapse.” Then, to the Proselyte she asked, “Will you see if the corpsman has anything for shock?”
The monk ignored her; he was staring at Sayri. “Did you—Sayri, did you heal him?”
Sayri’s head came up, and she looked at him, tears in her eyes. “No. I—” She swallowed once, then her words game out in a gush of emotion. “I tried, Proselyte. I tried so hard. But I couldn’t heal him. I couldn’t do it. I—” She cut off abruptly, confusion on her face. “Wait—what . . ?” She turned back to Wissa. “Wissa . . ?”
“You did it, Sayri,” Wissa said quietly. She could hardly believe what she was saying. “You healed him. He’s alive.”
Sayri’s lower lip began to tremble and her eyes filled with water, and Wissa knew what was coming, and she held her arms out. Sayri burst out with emotion, all the grief, loss, and joy pouring out from her, and she wept upon Wissa’s broad shoulder.
And Wissa cried with her, finally. Because she was happy for Sayri, and glad for Arad. But most of all, she cried for Welgray, and for herself, for she realized that if Sayri had only found her power a short time earlier, she might have saved him as well.
・
They sat there for a long while, Sayri and Wissa, with the Proselyte hovering protectively nearby. They didn’t speak very much, but mostly just held each other for a while, then simply sat together. Wissa kept waiting for her to suddenly jump to her feet and run to Arad, but Sayri seemed to have recognized the need to take this slowly. She had, like Wissa, accepted the death of her beloved; it would be a great shock to have that reversed. At least, so Wissa imagined. She would never experience it to know.
It was dark when Sayri finally took a deep breath, held it for a long moment, then released it, and said to Wissa, “I’m ready.”
Wissa stood and offered her a hand, but Sayri waved it off. She used the rail to get up, wobbling slightly, then tugged her vest straight and stood tall.
“How do I look, Wissa?” she asked, smoothing her hair.
“Terrible,” Wissa replied. She did look terrible; her eyes were rimmed in red, she had dark circles under them from not sleeping, and her hair was a tussled mess—though that, at least, was rather becoming on her.
Sayri looked alarmed, holding her hands to cradle her face. “Oh, no! Wissa—what do I do?”
Wissa smiled and shook her head slowly. “It doesn’t matter, Sayri. Just go to him.” She reached for her arm and began guiding her to the ladder to belowdecks.
The Proselyte followed
them as far he could without descending, then stopped them with a hand on Sayri’s arm. “Do you want me there?” he asked.
Sayri shook her head. “Thank you, Proselyte. But I need to do this alone.”
He shook his head in reply, more slowly, squeezing his lips together. “After this, we have much to discuss, you and I, young lady.”
Sayri smiled. “Yes, young man,” she responded formally, with the tiniest of curtseys—all she could manage without her legs buckling, weak as she was from her trauma.
“Go then,” the Proselyte said, standing erect. “Go, young lady, and may the Great Link follow you.” Then, with a wistful smile, he added, “I know it shall.”
“The Great Link permeates all,” Sayri answered. Then she motioned for Wissa to help her down the steep steps. A number of sailors clustered about the deck were eyeing them nervously; word might have spread of what happened below. They kept a careful distance.
The passageway was dark; Wissa couldn’t see anything at all. Apparently the men who usually lit the lamps had been negligent—word of the dead rising in the Master’s cabin may have unnerved them enough to forget, or perhaps they too were afraid to go below.
Wissa stopped at the base of the ladder. “I’ll fetch a lamp,” she said.
“I can see,” Sayri told her. “I can manage, Wissa. I need to do this alone. Thank you,” she added warmly, and leaned in to kiss Wissa on the cheek.
Wissa allowed her to move on alone reluctantly, losing sight of her almost immediately. How could Sayri see in the dark? Another trick of the Great Link? She shook her head in amazement. No doubt the future would bring even further wonders; she would have to adjust. She plopped down on the steps and resigned herself to wait.
57 SAYRI
Sayri eased the door open silently, peering through the gap as she did so. Front-Captain Gallord-Smit was in the room, standing tall by the edge of the sleeping platform. The cabin was dim, all of the lamps save one, by the side of the platform, having been extinguished. For some reason, her hands were shaking at the thought of going back into the room. Then she spied Arad lying on the platform, his upper torso propped up by a number of pillows, and her heart leapt.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 70