The Sundered

by Ruthanne Reid

  There's a broken place in me, crunchy, that I feel every time I move. Crunchy since I saw Tenisia destroyed. Crunchy since my childhood, when I realized I was a disappointment. Seeing Parnum reminds me how I used to feel before that broken place happened.

  Aakesh watches me with wide orange eyes. Gorish peeks at me over the side of my boat, and his big bulbous eyes are huge, too. “Happy master?”

  “Yes, Gorish. Very happy.”

  “Who was that?” Demos calls from behind me.

  I give him the simple answer. “He was my Sundered teacher.”

  “Oh!” That makes sense to him. Everybody's Sundered teacher is important. You have to have a bond with them—they're teaching you how to jump into somebody's head, after all.

  He was so much more than that to me, though.

  The line into Tauri takes forever. I still can't stop smiling.

  Parnum will help me rebuild myself.

  He always does.

  An hour later, we've stowed our boats and shouldered our goods, and I'm still in happy-idiot-land when a Sundered One grabs me by the throat and throws me against the wall.

  Air slams out of me. I fall flat on the ground, surrounded by my salvage, to find the clawed feet of a great big lizard. Bakura. It's Bakura, and he's even bigger than I remembered.

  How the hell did Bakura get here?

  His black pupils widen slightly in his big yellow eyes, and his cherry-red tongue whips the air. “Issssskinder!”

  Again? Really? Why, for the love of hell, why? Why the hell is he even here?

  He lunges at me.

  Aakesh steps between us.

  Kaia screams, somebody else shouts, and then Aakesh throws Bakura against the other wall hard enough to crack stone, scattering everybody, his own hair whipping briefly around his shoulders.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” Demos explodes.

  “Bakura! No! Bad boy, stop that, no!” shouts a little round guy, running into the fray and looking utterly confused.

  “You own this Sundered One?” Demos says grimly.

  I stand slowly—my wind hasn't come back to me yet. I have the horrible feeling I'd have been smashed if Aakesh didn’t still have me wrapped in his power. Smashed like a bug. Smashed like a coffeecup.

  “Master!” Gorish whispers, yanking on my arm. “Master! The general is here!”

  The general?

  He's staring at the lizard.

  General? General of what? I don't know what he's talking about, but I do know whoever his owner is owes me, and I am going to collect. “Tell me later, Gorish,” I order quietly. “Not while there are people listening, okay? Just me.”

  “Okay, Smart master,” Gorish whispers back, all pleased with his understanding of secrecy.

  “That is Iskinder!” hisses the lizard, and points one claw in my direction.

  Um. Hi.

  “That is one of them,” Aakesh agrees, and doesn't move.

  What the hell is going on?

  “Harry, this is Chuck,” says Demos, dragging the miserable-looking little guy toward me. “He holds the claim on Bakura, who just attacked you.”

  “I didn't order him to do that, I swear,” babbles Chuck, wringing his hands. He's sweating heavily. He barely comes up to Demos' shoulder, and could really use a shower. This guy has a second-tier on his leash? Seriously?

  No. I bet he doesn't. And I bet Bakura is going to kill him.

  Demos looks furious. “I'll get reparations,” he warns, turning back to the guy. “You have caused damage to a human by failing to control your Sundered One. We're going to the lawmen, right now.”

  I let them go and turn my attention back to Aakesh. I don't want to miss this exchange for anything.

  Bakura scowls. He glares at the wall, the floor, me, anywhere but Aakesh.

  I wouldn't want to meet this guy when I was alone. “I didn't do anything to you,” I say.

  He hisses and flips his tongue at me.

  Aakesh catches it and tugs once. “No,” he says, letting the tongue go.

  Bakura jerks his head, claws over his mouth as though that stung. “This is your lord now? This?”

  “Yes,” says Aakesh, and I have no idea why, but that surprises the lizard.

  Bakura stares at him. His cherry-red tongue flickers once.

  Lawmen show up then with several second-tiers on their leashes, and escort Bakura away.

  Wow. He's going to be executed.

  I can't explain how I feel about that. Relief? Fear? I don't know.

  Why the hell does he care that I'm an Iskinder? I'll never find out now. “Anything you can tell me about this, Aakesh?” I say quietly.

  “No, my lord. I am forbidden,” he says.

  That just figures.

  “All right,” says Demos, returning with a bag in hand. “We got one hell of a prize.”

  It's passes to the theater.

  Okay, so the tally for the week: I was behaviorally corrected by my own Sundered One; I randomly found my most influential teacher; I was attacked (again) by a Sundered One for being an Iskinder; I was defended (again) by Aakesh; I've been informed my attacker was “the general,” and now we're all going to watch a play. Wow. “Thanks. I really appreciate your help.”

  Demos looks surprised. I guess I don't thank him much. “I'll get us rooms,” he mutters, and walks away.

  ● ●

  ● CHAPTER 18 ●

  Dr. Parnum

  The first time I cried with Parnum, it was my grandfather's fault.

  I don't think a five-year-old can understand what it is Travelers do. Nobody would take a child out on the black water, not even my grandfather, though knowing him, he considered it.

  As a kid in the city, you know not to go near the canals. But you have no concept of canals that aren't contained, of the instability of boats and the dangers of tiny tufts.

  Like all the other students, I was in travel-training. We learn balance before we can read and write, before we can even feed ourselves, as soon as we begin to wobble on our own two feet instead of crawling on all fours.

  I was really good on the practice-tufts, which were set up in the academy over a thin puddle of uncomfortably cold water. No one had better balance, which had to please my father—we were graded on every aptitude, all the time—and yet somehow, he never made the connection between “my son is learning survival skills” and “my son is learning from people other than myself.”

  My hero wasn't my father. I barely knew my father. I saw him once a month or so, when he'd come in, stare at me for an uncomfortably long time, remark on some grade or project, and leave.

  My grandfather, I knew. Grandfather lived with me—well, I lived with him—and he's the one who took me to and from school, helped me with my homework, and ignored my stupid kid-jokes.

  He didn't have much personality in my mind. He wasn’t even in his fifties yet. I knew he limped. I knew most of his left leg was made of malleum, the same light, flexible material we use for our boats. I was five. I couldn't possibly understand that he'd survived a predator attack, which just added to the glory of being an Iskinder. I had no clue my teachers were in awe of him, or that my father—who was barely older than I am now—resented him because of it. I just knew he was grandfather, and he was quiet and scary sometimes, and his leg made funny noises.

  All my teachers had Sundered Ones, of course. This was Tenisia. The Sundered that I liked best—with the stripes and the cat-face—belonged to my first teacher, Mr. Mobley. He was my painting teacher, but in reality he just occupied the whole wriggly group of us while the other teachers took a break. I loved him. I loved his Sundered. He was cool enough to have a Sundered like that, so to me, the conclusion was obvious. I wanted to be a painting teacher when I grew up.

  You could've heard the explosion all the way in Shanghai when I told my grandfather this.

  He threw my toys to the floor and broke them, hurled plates and glasses out the windows, roared epithets about me and my indulgent fa
ther, and told me the death of mankind fell squarely on my shoulders.

  I was five. I ran the hell away.

  I don’t know what time it was. Late, dark enough that the light from shops was too weak to reveal where I hid. I certainly wasn't coming out. My grandfather had turned into a monster. I couldn't run to him. I couldn't go anywhere.

  It was Parnum who found me.

  He later said he'd done something similar as a child, and knew that to a kid, the inside of the curved canal walls seemed a perfect hiding place. There were inches of space, just wide enough for a child's body. It wasn't in the water. It was safe to a child who felt immortal, as children do, and a place a child knows instinctively no adult would ever look.

  Parnum searched along the canals, peering over the walls into the dark, using his third-tier Sundered One to be sure not to miss me. He used his Sundered to get me safely away from the water. She cradled me all the way into Parnum's arms.

  The Sundered One died that night, unable to recover from the simple obedience of fetching me. Parnum had used her quite a lot that week, I guess. I never asked. This memory is fourteen years old, and all of a sudden I feel bad. I didn't even know her name.

  All that mattered was Parnum was there for me. He stood between me and my grandfather with quiet, strong anger that shamed my grandfather's raging into silence. He was there again when my father got back from wherever and took up where grandfather left off.

  I wasn't the darling son anymore. I had failed, and had nothing more to offer than producing the next Iskinder in line. Yeah. I was five when they told me this.

  But Parnum never treated me that way.

  He kept me talking. He comforted me when my father's raging gave me nightmares. He even told me what to do when I had my first wet dream—it's not like I could go to my father for advice. He helped me through my first Sundered claiming, talked me down when my first girlfriend broke up with me. He held me when I sobbed, helpless, because I'd just come back from my first trip with my father and finally understood what being an Iskinder meant.

  “You are extraordinary,” he whispered, rocking me as I clung to him and sobbed so hard that even his new Sundered One looked compassionate. “Extraordinary people always suffer more. I understand. We all need something to anchor us, to help us heal. Here. Take this paintbrush. You were always a brilliant art student. We are going to decorate this wall together.”

  Mundane tasks were his weapon of choice, and he was brilliant with them. Once he got me busy with those, I couldn't be miserable anymore, couldn't see the hopeless stretch of nothing that swallowed the promise of my future.

  He comforted me the next time I came back, too.

  And the next. And the next.

  The next, I didn't come back for six months, but he was still there, still teaching, and he took me out drinking and celebrating until my shaking stopped. He helped me find myself.

  That was the last time I was able to go back.

  When I was seventeen years old, my father disappeared. He'd known something was going to happen. He'd left me his maps, and his Travelers in a hotel.

  He went alone. He never returned. I took up his mantle, pulling the weight of generations of Iskinders and looking for the Hope.

  Finding Parnum again is like finding my own personal salvation.

  The Glacier is a nice hotel and intimidatingly expensive. The lobby, filled with furniture and finery designed to look like ice, makes me feel like I'm going to leave grubby prints everywhere I go, and its staff seem to think I came in by the wrong entrance.

  Parnum is here, and that makes it better.

  He welcomes me to his rooms, sits me down, and gives me tea. His third-tier Sundered, whom he calls Jambi, fusses over my clothes and my tiredness, and she makes me take off my shoes.

  Then Parnum asks me to tell him everything.

  There's a lot to tell. This is my chance for explanations.

  An hour later, I've said everything I can think to say, and gone through three cups of tea. His tea is good. As long as I've known him, he's enjoyed tea as if it was the finest of liquors. I wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “I know I sound crazy.”

  He shakes his head. “You are many things, Harry, but not crazy. This situation, however, is. “He stands to pace.

  His hotel room is clearly expensive, and it makes me wonder just what he's been doing since leaving the Academy. There are fine chairs, lamps with a gentle but powerful glow, and even a painting on the wall, although it's pretty bad. I think it's supposed to be some kind of funky purple hill. It's titled Mountain of Dreams. Looks more like a Mountain of Spleens to me.

  Parnum frowns. “And your first-tier had nothing to say regarding this Bakura's knowledge of your name?”

  “Nothing. Bakura just hissed it, used it like an insult, and Aakesh couldn't tell me why.” I finish my tea, putting my cup down. “Have you ever heard of anything like that before?”

  “Yes,” Parnum says quietly. “There have always been rumors of supreme orders, given in generations past and somehow remaining strong in spite of the long-ago death of owners or the Sundered Ones to whom they were given. It has been speculated that the Sundered Ones were ordered to pass on these rules themselves, thus perpetuating them for eternity.”

  That's kind of brilliant, but ... horrible. “That's sick.”

  “It is sick. As is the idea that the water is alive. I've never heard anything so designed to cause paranoia.”

  Well, it works. I’m paranoid. “It would explain a lot of things.”

  He sits across from me, leaning forward. “So would the fact that he is first-tier, and known for deception. Known for it, Harry. I would not have a first-tier on my leash for any reason.”

  I stare at him. “You? But ... you're good at this. Better than I am.”

  He says nothing.

  I swallow. “You don't think I should ... let him go, do you?”

  “No.” His eyes burn into mine. “He might kill you. Deception and pride are staples of his kind. Harry, whatever you do, do not let him go.”

  That puts a pause in the conversation for a bit. I clutch my teacup to still my shaking.

  Aakesh told me he'd hurt me if he could, didn't he? Sort of. Not in so many words, but —

  Parnum turns to his third-tier. “Jambi, if you please?”

  “Of course, master.” She smiles sweetly and refills our tea. She's pretty, for a Sundered One, kind of scum-green skin with delicate features and too many breasts, and if not for the insect eyes I'd think she was beautiful.

  “Thank you.”

  Parnum studies me. “So you thank Sundered Ones, now.”

  For no reason, my cheeks burn. I shrug. “You always said I should,” I say to my tea.

  “I'm pleased that you do.” Parnum glances down. Gorish, of course, is lying at my feet, making happy little trilling sounds. There's no hiding Gorish. “They often deserve better than we give them.”

  Yeah. That's Parnum. If anyone ever valued Sundered life too high, it was him. “I guess so.”

  “Harry, Tenisia is the seventh city destroyed in the past year.”

  My stomach lurches. “What?”

  “Seven, including Tenisia.”

  I swallow, and swallow again, but my throat stays tight. “How? What's happening?”

  “Bek is waging a war of terrorism,” Parnum says softly. “Even though the general populace does not know what is happening, the governments do. Eventually, they will give in to Bek's demands. Anything to avoid being demolished.”

  This is horrible. This is the most horrible thing I've ever heard. “What do we do?”

  His look is sharp, discerning. “Are you asking to be involved?”

  “Of course I am! What kind of a question is that?”

  “Shhh,” he says, putting his hand on my arm. “Be calm.”

  Right. Calm. There's war, and the Hope is missing, and maybe the water's alive. “How am I supposed to do that, exactly?” My voice cracks a little.

>   And I see the moment when he decides not to tell me what's going on.

  I hate that I saw it. I hate that the decision was made without my input, because he thinks I can't handle whatever it is. “I don't want you involved,” he says, and turns away.

  “I can handle it.” This is rejection. “Doctor, I can help!”

  “I care for you deeply, Harry. I don't want to see you dead.”

  I lean back. “You're directly involved in all this. Don't keep me out. You can't do that. I'm a grown-up, Doctor. Let me make my own decisions.”

  He sighs, leaning back, and closes his eyes for a long moment. Jambi moves around the room, tidying reflexively. I wait, watching Parnum, barely breathing.

  “Come back tomorrow,” he suddenly says, looking at me. “You've given me much to think about, and you have a play to enjoy.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I haven't decided yet what I'm going to do. I need the night. Come back tomorrow.”

  That's not the answer I wanted, but it's honest. “I will,” I vow darkly.

  He nods and sends me out the door.

  These really were decent tickets. We're seated high in the center, just close enough to hear over the rag-tag orchestra. The set is mostly just painted walls, of course—this isn't Tenisia—but the fourth-tiers designing it did fantastic things. There are even mountains, snow-capped like photos in old books, and they almost look real.

  They used forced perspective. I could do that. Once upon a time, I could have painted it even better.

  The play, a “historical romance,” begins.

  According to this, not only was the world once free of black water, but it was also full of machines. There were no Sundered Ones, no power we couldn't see or control. It was all machines, whirring and clanking in the service of humanity, and making our lives easy. According to this play, those machines were even great enough to carry us into the sky.

  To the stars. Away.

  The rest of the play is silly. There's a feisty young scientist (don't care), a dangerous love triangle with a corrupt politician (don't care), a potential child out of wedlock (still don't care), and I have a lot more fun watching the fourth-tier Sundered behind the scenes.