Her stomach turned over again as she relived the animal’s panic and desperation. She’d felt it all as if it was her own. She swallowed hard. “We had to have food. It’s no different than hunting.”
Slowly, Shorn nodded.
“I’ll gather wood for a fire while you clean it,” she said shakily. She hurried off into the trees and once she was out of his sight she fell to her knees and vomited. For a time she knelt there, grappling with what she had just done. I had no choice, she told herself, over and over, trying to force herself to believe it.
When she felt better she stood and began gathering wood. Shorn had the antelope skinned when she returned and she lowered her eyes, trying not to see the animal’s carcass glistening nakedly, trying not to think about how recently it had been a living creature. Again, doubt and weakness assailed her, but she fought it off. It was a war. In war one killed. That was the way it was. Without food she could not help the Mother. What she had done was the right thing. There was no question about it.
She had to stand upwind when Shorn put the carcass over the flames, fighting the sickness in her gut and staring out into the darkness. Whenever the wind shifted she did also and what little appetite she had was completely gone by the time he thrust a chunk of meat her way. However, she forced herself to eat some of it, fighting down each bite as it tried to come back up. She ate only a few bites before giving the rest back to Shorn.
“I guess I’m just not that hungry.” He made no reply, but she knew he did not believe her. For some reason that made her angry. “I had to do it. Can’t you see that? We don’t have time to waste. We have to move.”
Then she stomped off into the darkness, angry at Shorn, angry at herself. She sat on a rock and drew out her sonkrill, hoping for some reassurance there. But there was nothing.
Sighing, she was putting it away when she thought she heard something. It was like a distant voice, carried on the wind. She froze, straining to hear more. There it was again. It sounded like a cry for help.
Netra hurried back to their camp, where Shorn was sitting, staring into the fire. “Let’s go,” she told him. “We’re going to walk a few more hours.” Without hesitation Shorn stood and gathered his gear.
“I think I just heard her,” Netra said to him, when they had started walking. “I was holding my sonkrill and I heard a cry in the distance. It sounded like a cry for help. It has to be Xochitl. Somehow she is speaking to me through my sonkrill.”
“You are sure it was her?”
“Of course I’m sure! Who else would it be?”
Shorn shrugged but did not reply.
Over the next few days Netra heard the distant cry a number of times. Sometimes she heard it when she was holding her sonkrill. Other times she heard it when she wasn’t. Once she woke up sure that she’d just heard it in her dreams. As the days passed the cry grew louder, making her sure they were going in the right direction. It also seemed to her that it grew more desperate.
She kept them moving fast, jogging as often as she could, and only stopping for a few hours at night to rest, rising in the early morning darkness to push on south. The pace didn’t seem to bother Shorn, but Netra felt her fatigue growing and knew she could not keep up this pace much longer. She was not far from collapsing.
The solution came to her one afternoon after she fell and cut her knee on a rock. As she sat there, catching her breath and trying to staunch the flow of blood, it occurred to her that there was Song, pure energy, all around her. It pulsed within the animals and birds of the desert. What if she took some from them, to give herself the energy she needed to continue on? She remembered the burst of energy she got when she took Song to escape from the burned man, and again when she killed Bloodhound.
The idea scared her at first and she discarded it. Brelisha had taught them about the Tenders of the Empire keeping slaves for their Song and the idea of it had always horrified Netra. How could one person do that to another? It was unimaginable to her.
Wearily, she got to her feet and continued on. But as the time passed and she grew weaker and weaker, she kept thinking of it. She would not take enough to kill anything. Only enough to keep her going, and she wouldn’t be taking Song from a person, just an animal. Besides, if she didn’t do something, she was going to have to stop and rest. Who knew how long they had? Who knew what Melekath was planning?
Finally, she just stopped. “I can’t keep this up any longer. I’m exhausted.”
Shorn looked down at her. He looked elemental, indomitable. Then he said something that surprised her. “I will carry you.”
She was strangely touched by his offer and she felt tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said simply. “That is very kind of you. But I think there is a better way.” Shorn raised one eyebrow, but said nothing.
“I’m going to take Song from an animal and use it to strengthen myself. It’s similar to what I did when the burned man’s minions caught me.” Now that she had decided to do it, she found herself strangely excited by the idea. The rush of energy she’d felt had been unbelievable.
Shorn thought on this for a minute. Then he said, “Are you sure? You said Tenders do not kill animals.”
“Listen to you. What happened to the man who just wanted to kill everything?”
Shorn’s heavy brows drew together, but he did not reply.
“I’m not going to take enough to kill anything anyway,” she added. “Just enough to keep myself going.”
He stared at her with his amber eyes. His scars were dark lines across his face. Then he looked at the sun. It was less than an hour until sunset. “We could stop now. Make camp. In the morning you may feel different.”
“We can’t do that, Shorn,” Netra replied irritably. “When did you decide to start questioning me? Didn’t you make a vow or something to follow me, no matter what?”
Shorn lowered his head in acknowledgement of her rebuke.
“We can’t stop. We can’t afford to waste the time.”
Shorn stared into her eyes once more, as if trying to find something there. “Your god tells you this?”
“Not in so many words. But she’s afraid. I can feel it. She wants us to hurry.”
Slowly, Shorn nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“You don’t need to do anything. Just stay back and be quiet. I have to concentrate.”
Netra moved to a flat rock and sat down. It felt good to sit. She was so tired. She closed her eyes and had to fight to keep from falling asleep. Lying down on a stone, even a bunch of broken stones, would feel as good as a bed right now. When had she last slept in a bed, a real bed?
Netra shook herself. She had to stay focused. She deepened her breathing and let her inner senses flow outward, taking it all in. The cold emptiness of the stone underfoot. The soil with its tiny inhabitants squirming and crawling through darkness. Birds flying overhead. A rabbit crouched behind a bush. Then, further out, what she sought. A coyote curled up in the shade, waiting for night.
Slipping beyond, she looked outward and there it was, its akirma brown and gold. The flow of Song sustaining it shimmered in the darkness. For the first time in ages she thought of something Brelisha had tried to teach her: that distance didn’t really exist beyond. It was not a physical place at all, but rather a construct built by the mind to make sense of something that was beyond sense.
It was true. The flow of Song sustaining the coyote seemed far away at first, but then she changed her mind about it, gave up the idea of it being distant—
And all at once it was right there, next to her.
Focusing Selfsong in her hand, she reached out and took hold of the coyote’s flow.
She heard it yelping in the distance and felt it struggle. She began to pull it to her. It came unwillingly, its ears flattened against its head, its lips peeled back in a snarl. Its legs scrabbled at the ground as it fought to free itself from the invisible hand that held it.
“It’s okay,” Netra told the animal softly. “I won�
��t hurt you.”
When she reached out with her other hand to touch it, it snapped at her and she barely pulled her hand back in time to avoid being bitten. Frowning, Netra clamped down harder on its flow and the coyote crumpled to the ground, whining.
Trembling slightly, Netra laid her hand on the coyote’s back. She concentrated and a tendril of pure will flowed out from her akirma. With it she easily pierced the animal’s akirma. Immediately, its Song began to rush into her.
The effect was immediate, electric. Every nerve ending, every fiber of her being, was instantly aflame. It felt like her hair was standing on end. The pain and exhaustion were flushed away, replaced by a tingling feeling of alertness and possibility. She wanted to sing and laugh out loud. It was amazing and invigorating. She couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t done this before. For a time she lost herself in the feeling, all the fears and worries of her life slipping away into the distance.
But then there was a hand pulling on her shoulder. She tried to shrug it away. The interference became stronger and now a voice was saying something. Finally, it resolved into a single word:
“Stop.”
Netra opened her eyes. She was kneeling on the ground and the coyote was lying stretched out before her, its eyes glassy, its breathing ragged. Shocked, she pulled back from it and jumped to her feet. The coyote whined once, then pushed itself unsteadily to its feet. She started to reach out to it, to calm it, but it bolted, weaving badly. Before it had gone two steps it fell sideways, its hindquarters ceasing to work. But it did not give up and used its front legs to drag itself into some bushes and disappear.
Netra stared after it. “What have I done?” she asked. Shorn gave no reply. After a long moment, Netra turned away and started south once again.
Her concern for the coyote and her guilt over her treatment of it did not last long. She felt better than she had since she could remember, the stolen Song coursing through her veins. She felt strong and confident, rested and fit. On impulse she started running and almost laughed at the ease of it. She could run clear to the Gur al Krin if she wanted to. Nothing was too difficult. She heard Shorn’s heavy steps behind her and she increased her pace, wanting to see him tired and gasping for air.
“This is incredible!” She laughed and twirled in a circle, then ran on again.
Sometime after dark she started to tire once again. Her steps slowed, she stumbled once or twice, and then weariness began to draw its blanket over her. Each step became an effort. There were pains in her legs and a sharp stitch in her side. She tried pushing them out of her mind and continuing on, but they grew worse. Her very bones seemed to ache and her eyes tried to close of their own accord. She felt as if there were great empty spaces inside her with cold winds howling through them. Finally, she came to a stop.
“I can’t go any further,” she mumbled, then simply lay down on the spot, asleep before she hit the ground.
Forty-eight
Netra woke up the next morning horribly weak and consumed with guilt. Over and over she saw the coyote, a twisted clump of yellow-brown fur, dragging itself into the bushes. Had it survived? Was it lying dead in those same bushes? How had she done such a thing?
Did she do the right thing?
Wearily she sat up, the exertion enough that she had to close her eyes while she fought off the dizziness. Her limbs were made of stone. She didn’t think she had the strength to stand up, much less walk. She wondered how she would make it through another day.
She pulled the sonkrill out and clasped it in both hands, lowering her head and pressing the sonkrill to her forehead. Then she waited.
At first there was nothing. She heard Shorn sit up. She became acutely familiar with her own weakness, the tremor deep in her muscles that made even sitting up hard.
Still nothing.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, praying hard.
Nothing.
Sagging, she put the sonkrill away.
Help me. Hurry.
Netra raised her head, her eyes opening wide. She rolled to her knees and began struggling to her feet. Shorn hurried to her, catching her as she started to fall.
“You need rest,” he said.
“I know.” She slumped against him, her heart pounding hard. “But we have to keep moving.” She lifted her head, stared into his eyes. “She spoke to me this time.”
The lines around Shorn’s eyes deepened, but he did not move.
“I don’t have time for this,” she snapped, suddenly irritated. “We have to go, and we have to go now. Are you with me or not?” She made no effort to soften her tone and she thought he winced slightly.
“I am with you,” he rumbled. “I only…” He hesitated. “You do not seem…well.”
Netra’s anger blazed forth like a sudden fire. She pulled away from him and drew herself up to her full height. “Of course I’m not well!” she yelled, glaring at him. “Look around you. The land is not well. Nothing is well! It’s all dying. Can’t you see that?”
He held her glare for a moment, then looked away.
“I don’t matter in this,” she continued. “You don’t matter. That coyote doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting to Xochitl and setting her free. She’s the only one who can save us now.” She was standing there, her chest heaving, when blackness began to crowd her vision. She put out a hand and would have fallen if Shorn hadn’t caught her again.
She must have lost consciousness then because when next she opened her eyes she was lying on the ground and Shorn was bending over her. Concern showed in his eyes and she immediately felt sorry. After the way she’d yelled at him, it would be only fair if he turned his back on her for good.
“I’m sorry, Shorn,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m just…afraid.”
Awkwardly, yet gently, he reached out with one huge hand and patted her on the shoulder.
Netra’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m going to have to do it again. There’s no other way.” She drew a deep breath. “Is there?”
Shorn opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He had no answer for her.
Netra lay there with her eyes closed for a while, then said, “Help me sit up, Shorn.” The fear and the indecision had been pushed back for a time and her tone was resolute. Still with her eyes closed, she reached out with her inner senses, probing the land around her. She found what she was looking for in a small herd of shatren grazing in the next ravine. At the same time she felt the presence of a person. She narrowed her focus and a moment later realized it was a boy, probably around ten. He must be out there to keep watch over the shatren. Which meant there was a farm house somewhere near.
This was rough country and getting rougher as they drew closer to the Gur al Krin. The canyons were getting deeper, their sides steeper. Grass and forage was intermittent at best and even the cactus seemed smaller, sapped by the struggle to survive. Life out here was harsh, between the rigors of the desert and the threat of raids by the Crodin nomads. Losing even one shatren would be tough on the boy’s family.
Netra pushed the thought away. The time for regrets and doubts had passed, ended by Melekath’s reemergence into the world. Slipping beyond, she located the shatren and chose one, a cow with a calf beside her. She erased the idea of distance and the next moment the cow’s flow was right there in front of her. The next step was to focus Selfsong in one hand, but when she did, nothing happened.
Netra opened her eyes. “I need help, Shorn. I’m too weak to do this.”
Shorn looked around, unsure what she wanted him to do.
“I need…” Her voice cracked. Why were there no easy choices anymore? “I need some of your Song.”
To his credit, Shorn barely hesitated before nodding.
“Sit down beside me, where I can put my hand on you.” Shorn sat down on her left, his head turned so that he could look into her eyes, and Netra put her left hand on his forearm. As she did, her sleeve pulled back and she saw the faint mark where the yellow
flow had touched her that night outside the Haven, when Jolene had her first vision. Was I marked then? she wondered. Was that when all this really started?
Then she felt Shorn’s Song coiled within him and all thoughts of the past disappeared before the sudden hunger that blossomed inside her. She was so empty, so drained, and he had so much. With a tendril of her will she tore a small hole in his akirma and began to drink.
Shorn’s eyes widened and his arm twitched, but he held himself still.
It took every bit of Netra’s willpower to stop herself after a few moments. The desire to widen the hole, to drain every bit of Song he held, was nearly overwhelming. She was shaking when she pulled away.
But now it was easy to take hold of the cow’s flow and draw her in. The animal made a startled sound and started walking toward her. The boy rose to his feet from where he crouched in the shade of a rock, moving to intercept the shatren. He waved his arms and shouted, then threw two stones that bounced off the animal’s side.
The cow walked over the ridge on stilted, wooden legs, followed by her calf and the boy. He shaded his eyes, not believing what he was seeing, then disappeared back over the ridge with a yelp.
Netra stood and placed a trembling hand on the cow shatren’s head, while the calf bawled nearby. The tendril of will that burst from her was larger and stronger than she meant it to be and the hole it tore in the animal’s akirma was huge. Song fountained out of the animal and some of it she lost, but most she was able to take in.
The effect was instantaneous. Weakness and pain disappeared, replaced by strength and a warm glow that spread over her entire body. It felt wonderful. It felt right.
The animal’s legs folded under it and the shatren collapsed in a heap. Netra followed it down, never losing contact. She felt Shorn’s hand on her shoulder and heard his voice as if from the bottom of a well, but she ignored him and when he persisted she shoved him away angrily.
Then there was no more. Netra knelt there, panting. She could feel every individual grain of sand under her hands. She could feel the fine hairs on the backs of her arms moving in the faint breeze, smell a thousand odors she’d never known existed, hear ants crawling in their underground vaults. It was exhilarating and agonizing at the same time. It rushed over her in a flood and she knew no feeling in the world could ever compare to this.
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