by Kyra Dune
“So what about the sphere?” she asked. “Is there any way we can take it from him?”
“Maybe.” He sighed, letting his shoulders drop. “Demos is gone for the day, he’s…well, that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that the sphere is there at his house and with him gone we have a small window of opportunity. One we shouldn’t waste.”
“Then we won’t.” She gripped the dagger more firmly. “Let’s go.”
He turned toward her slowly. “Are you sure?”
Not the least bit. “Yes.” She held her gaze steady. “Pytaki’s asleep. We should go before he wakes up.”
“Good idea.” He turned toward the door. “I bought you some clothes to replace the ones that were ruined.” He stepped into the hall and retrieved a brown wrapped package from the floor. He handed it over with barely a glance at her. “I’ll go and talk to Alansa while you change.”
Micayta looked down at her dagger. Same old reminder of the past, of the dangers of trust, of getting too close. She didn’t trust Tech, not one bit, but it was her move and she intended to make it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The street was still beneath the gray sky and there was not a breath of wind. The air was chill enough to set the teeth to rattling. Micayta stared at the house with a growing sense of unease. “You’re sure he’s gone?”
“Yes,” Tech said, “and following his usual pattern, he won’t be back until well after dark.”
His usual pattern. That meant he was…but Micayta didn’t want to think about that. Couldn’t, in fact. She needed all her focus on the here and now. She stepped up to the door and pushed it open.
The room looked exactly as it had the night before, yet somehow different. It was something more than the cold ashes in the unlit fireplace. Something that was hard to grasp but real, almost tangible.
Micayta laid a hand on her dagger. “Where does he keep it?”
“Downstairs,” Tech said, “in the basement.”
“Naturally.” She let Tech take the lead and followed close behind him while keeping a sharp eye out for a hint of movement. This whole thing felt entirely too easy.
Tech led the way down a hall lined with what seemed to Micayta to be an inordinate number of closed doors. They were spaced tightly together, with no more than two inches to separate them, and followed the hall around a curve and out of sight.
“How do you know which is the right door?” she asked.
“I don’t.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “But you will.”
She frowned at him. “How do you suppose I’ll manage that?”
“Try to stop talking and listen for once. That might be helpful.”
Micayta pressed her lips together tightly and tried to get a handle on her anger and do as he suggested. At first, there was nothing, and she was on the verge of telling him so when she felt a strange sort of pulling sensation. She stopped and stared at a door on the right.
This door looked no different from the others, was spaced no different, and yet…. She moved closer and put a hand against the door. There was a vibration, slight, but real. She pulled her hand back and glanced at Tech.
“I guess that’s the one,” he said. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Micayta reached for the knob, bracing herself for something. The knob turned in her hand and the door opened soundlessly on a dark stairwell. She took a step back. “It can’t be that easy. Nothing is that easy.”
“Demos is a highly conceited creature,” Tech said. “It’s beyond his ability to imagine that any human would dare enter his home. Dare to take the sphere.” The fact that he was looking at the wall as he spoke did nothing to boost Micayta’s confidence in his words.
“Come on.” He moved past her and headed down the stairs. “It’s not far now.”
Micayta hesitated. This was likely the stupidest thing she had ever done. But there was that vibration, a kind of hum along her nerves. Besides, she’d come too far to turn back now.
The staircase spiraled through the darkness for what seemed an eternity before a faint blue glow began to reflect off the walls. It was several more turns before they came to the source of the light.
In the midst of a large room with stone walls stood a silver pedestal on which sat a small blue sphere. Hazy, white mist flowed out from the top of the pedestal, giving the room a dreamlike quality that set Micayta’s nerves on edge.
Tech stopped at the top of the turn, staring down at the sphere with a mixture of fear and longing on his face. “This is as far as I go.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Micayta asked.
“Go on down there and get it.”
Micayta arched an eyebrow. “That easy?”
Tech smiled. It was a cold, empty kind of smile that stretched the skin tight across his cheeks. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t.” Their eyes met. “I’d say we were standing at a crossroads, but I think we’ve both already made up our minds.”
“I guess so.” She started down the stairs.
“Micayta.”
She paused, one foot poised over the final step. “What?”
“I…,” He swallowed, licked his lips. “Good luck.”
She stared back at him for a moment, reading a struggle in his eye that she didn’t understand, and then she turned and stepped into the mist.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The mist rose up to meet Micayta until she could see nothing else. She moved forward slowly, taking deep, even breaths. With each breath, she drew the mist in like air. She could feel it, cold and strange against her tongue, sliding down her throat. She staggered, feeling suddenly disoriented and confused.
Micayta shook her head to try and clear it. But it was no use, the disorientation only grew worse and now there was a sensation of lightness, as if she were floating away. She reached out for something to take hold of. There was nothing but the mist.
With a gasp, she sat up and stared in bewilderment at her surroundings. The soft bed on which she lay was blanketed with sunset pink sheets, matching the shade painted on the walls. Beside the bed was a white night table, on which sat a wicker basket filled with multicolored flowers. Everything was light and airy. Strange, yet somehow familiar.
Micayta slid out of the bed. Her bare feet sank into plush white carpet. For a moment, she stood still trying to reorient herself. Had she been asleep? Dreaming? It certainly seemed that way.
She ran a hand through her hair. Her brain felt foggy, confused. Things didn’t seem to be where they ought to be, but they were. Weren’t they? A plain, yellow house robe lay over a chair in the corner. She grabbed it up, slipped it on, and stepped toward the door.
Even as she reached for the knob, her other hand moved toward her hip, searching for something that wasn’t there. What was supposed to be there? She frowned. She couldn’t remember.
Beyond the door was a paneled hall. The faint scent of something cooking wafted toward her, setting her stomach to rumbling. It smelled wonderful even though she couldn’t place exactly what it was.
In the kitchen, Micayta found her mother standing over the stove, turning a piece of meat in an iron skillet. That was right, as it should be, but somehow wrong as well.
Mother turned from the stove, all smiles. “Good morning, Bluebird. I was beginning to think you’d sleep right through breakfast.”
Micayta stared past her mother at the window, where a lacy curtain was blowing in a warm breeze. Through the window, she could see a blue sky dotted with cotton clouds above a waving sea of bright green grass.
“This isn’t right,” Micayta said, frowning. Why wasn’t it right? It felt as if the answer were right there, just beyond her grasp. If she could only clear her muddled mind and focus.
Mother’s smile turned to a look of concern. “Are you all right? You don’t look well.” She came across the kitchen to lay her hand against Micayta’s forehead.
Micayta jerked away from th
at hand, feeling a sudden rush of anger and resentment that lit the room up with unnatural edges. It was there and gone again in a single beat of her heart.
“What’s the matter with you?” Mother asked. “You look exhausted, like you didn’t sleep a bit. Bad dreams?”
There was something, snow, maybe, fire? But that didn’t make sense. “I guess so.” Micayta drifted over to the table and sat down.
The back door opened and her father walked into the kitchen with an armload of firewood for the stove. “Look who finally decided to get up.” He stacked the wood in the corner, then bent over to kiss her mother on the cheek. “That sure smells good.”
Micayta had a flash of her parents standing in a much smaller, more sparsely furnished room, screaming at each other. Her mother crying. She shook her head and stared down at her hands spread out on the white tablecloth. They were cold.
Pytaki came in behind their father and planted himself in the chair opposite Micayta’s. “You should have gotten up. You missed the most amazing thing.”
“Did I?” She continued to stare at her hands. The chill was creeping up her arms now, despite the fact that it was rather warm in the kitchen. Perhaps a touch too warm.
Pytaki snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Hey, are you okay? You look sick.”
“She had a bad night, that’s all.” Mother ruffled Pytaki’s hair as she put his plate in front of him. Then she moved to Micayta’s side of the table and placed a plate in front of her as well. “Eat up. It’ll make you feel better.”
Micayta stared at the steaming meat and her stomach rolled. What was this? What were they eating? Why couldn’t she put a name to it? Why didn’t it smell right? A panicky sort of nausea rose in her throat.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Mother asked.
“I’m not hungry.” She pushed herself away from the table, fearing she might throw up if she sat there much longer.
“Are you sure you aren’t sick?” Father asked.
“Maybe a little. I think I’ll go and lie down.” The room spun as she turned, the bright sunshine going gray and cold for a split second. Micayta braced her hand against the back of the chair.
“I better help you.” Mother started to rise.
“No, please,” Micayta said, holding up a hand. “Go ahead and eat. I’ll be fine.”
“All right, if you’re sure.” She looked doubtful, but made no attempt to follow Micayta as she stumbled her way to the hall.
Walking down the hall with one hand braced against the paisley blue wallpaper, Micayta made the extreme effort to stay on her feet. Distorted images flickered briefly across her vision. Images of snow and ice and even fire. She must be sick, must have a fever, else she wouldn’t feel so strange.
Back in the bedroom, Micayta collapsed upon the bed, pressing a hand to her face. Her skin was slick and clammy, her body wracked with shivers. She couldn’t shake this sensation of everything being right and yet off somehow. Wrong.
It was everything so perfect, but not. Her parents, the way they acted toward each other, so lovingly, yet their screams echoed through Micayta’s head; it was the desire to pull on boots and a heavy cloak, despite the fact that she was sweating beneath her robe; it was the fact that her heart insisted she hadn’t seen her mother in many long years and her father was lying dead beneath the rubble of Talphan.
The room shifted from its bright, pastel beauty to something else entirely. Soft lantern light, faded drawings of unknown animals on the walls, the dust coated bed with its faintly pink sheets, the frilly dresses.
This room, this house, her family, even the weather, all dreams of a life she’d wanted but never had. Her mind rebelled at the thought and the room was once more bright and airy. Her room, her mind tried to insist. She was sitting right here in the middle of everything she ever wanted. It was real and true; it had to be. But this insistence was the voice of a lost, lonely little girl who was all too familiar with lies, betrayal, pain; a little girl seeking escape in a fantasy.
Micayta stood and crossed the room to the mirror. The image she saw reflected there was that of a young woman dressed in heavy clothes. A woman who had lived all her life in a world of ice and snow. Who never had anything like this bright world except in dreams. Herself.
The mirror shattered and Micayta was eight years old again, standing in a small room with wooden floors and an old brick fireplace. There were no windows in this room, only a door shut tight against the endless wind that howled and whistled through the cracks in the walls.
“Please, try to understand.” Her mother knelt before her. “Your father…,” She hesitated, looking up at the tall, handsome man standing behind her. He gave her an encouraging smile. She nodded and turned back to Micayta.
“I will always love your father, but he has no vision, no dream. All he can think to do is cling to this dying land until he’s buried beneath it. And I’ve tried, I’ve tried so hard, I know you know that, but I can’t do it. I can’t stay here waiting to die. I want to live and live well. So I must go away now, with Weylan.”
Micayta looked from her mother to Weylan and back again, her eyes brimming with tears. “Why can’t I go with you?”
“Oh, my poor little bluebird.” She laid a cool hand against Micayta’s cheek. “I’d take you, but then who would look after your brother? He’s too little to make such a dangerous trip. But once we’ve found our new home, our home in the sun, I’ll come back for you both. I promise.”
Weylan knelt beside her mother, drawing his dagger. “You keep this; it will help you be brave until we can come back.”
Micayta took the dagger from him; the dagger he’d been teaching her to throw. In the two months since his wagon train had come to stay in Talphan he’d become a friend to her, and more. He listened to her, spent time with her, told her stories, taught her things. He was everything she’d ever wished her father could be.
Biting her lip to keep from crying, Micayta nodded.
“That’s my good girl,” mother said. She and Weylan stood. “I need only one more thing from you, Bluebird.”
Micayta clutched the dagger to her chest. “What?”
“Promise me that you’ll take care of your brother and that you’ll be a mother to him where I can’t. He’ll need you.”
That was the moment Micayta knew she was never going to see her mother again, though it was a truth she would be a long time acknowledging. “I promise.”
Mother nodded, tears pooling in her eyes. Weylan put a hand on her arm and she nodded again, turning away from her daughter. Then he opened the door and there was a swirl of snow and Micayta was surrounded by the mist once more.
Her throat was tight and raw, her eyes burning. But she would shed no tears for a memory, no matter how painful. Not now. The sphere was there within reach, pulsing softly. Micayta reached for it and a wall of flame burst up to block her path.
With a cry, she stumbled back. But the fire was behind her as well, it was all around, like in her dreams. Her heart pounded hollowly within her chest. Not real, she tried to tell herself.
It was only more tricks. But the heat was there against her skin and the crackle of the writhing flames was like thunder.
Through the flame, the tantalizing glow of the sphere mocked her for her terror. She stared at it and stared at it, then gritted her teeth and pushed her arm through the flames. There was a moment of excruciating pain and then the sphere was in her hand and the pain was gone and the flames retreating. Her moment of triumph was a brief one.
A roar split the air and there was the dragon, towering over her, crimson scales glittering, malevolent black eyes glaring at her. Micayta froze, such a terror overcoming her that she couldn’t breathe, much less let out the scream that echoed through her mind.
Death danced in those black eyes as the dragon reared back. And Tech was standing between her and the dragon, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her close. She could hear the rush of flames as the dragon let loose with its
fire. She could feel the heat.
She was crying without realizing it as she clung to Tech’s shirt.
“Shh, shh.” He ran a soothing hand down her back. “It’s okay. It’s all right. It’s all over.”
Micayta drew away from him, slowly becoming aware that they were standing before the pedestal in the basement room with the stone walls. “We’re alive?”
Tech smiled. “Very much so.” He lifted her hand, where a soft blue glow could be seen shining through her fingers. “You did it.” His voice filled with awe. “You really did it.”
Micayta opened her hand, stared down at the sphere and shivered. “What was all that? Some kind of illusion?”
“It came from within your own mind, but it wasn’t an illusion. It was real. You could have died.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You were very brave.”
She laughed. “You weren’t so bad yourself.” She laid her head against his chest. As she listened to the rapid beat of his heart, she felt something inside her own let loose.
“We should go,” he said. “It’s not a good idea to stay here.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” She drew away from him and moved toward the stairs.
“Micayta, can I ask you something?”
She turned. “What?”
“Did your mother ever come back?”
A lie popped easily into her mind, but she thought that after everything they’d been through, he deserved better than that. After all, the man had just saved her life. Again. “No, I never saw her again.” She hesitated, then decided why not? She’d already started; why not dump out the whole truth. “When my father came home from work that night I told him about my mother and Weylan. He didn’t look surprised or angry or even hurt, I think maybe he expected it to happen sooner or later. But he had pride, my father; he couldn’t bear to think of how people would look at him if they knew the truth.