Jon didn’t have the patience to ask.
“Feigran,” he said. “…or Terian. Whatever.”
“Yes, Jon?”
Jon sat on a three-legged wooden stool across from the seer, out of the range of the shackles that held Terian to the opposite wall.
“I’d like to ask you some questions,” he said.
The seer didn’t look up.
Jon watched, biting back impatience as the long, white fingers began to once again trace patterns on the stone. His movements jerked, aflame with frenetic urgency that was distracting––and, frankly, kind of annoying, although Jon couldn’t have said why, exactly.
“Tell me about the Four, Feigran,” Jon said.
“Bridge, Sword, Rook,” the seer muttered.
“Yeah,” Jon said, folding his arms. “Bridge, Sword, Rook. That’s what you told Allie.” He swallowed, his throat tightening. “What’s your role, Feigran? What is the Rook?”
“Rook… yes…” the seer muttered, still tracing with his fingers. “Yes.”
“What does it mean?” Jon said.
“Rook… yes. That is me…”
Jon bit the inside of his cheek. “Aren’t the Rooks the Dreng, who live up there?” Jon pointed vaguely up, which is how he still couldn’t help thinking of the Barrier, although he knew it wasn’t strictly accurate. “How can Rooks be up there, and also be you?”
The seer muttered more words, still tracing with jerking fingers.
“Work with them… portal… need to be here… Galaith understood…”
“Galaith understood what?”
“Need a portal. Need a way through. Not always, though. Not always. Not every day. Here and there, some go through. Just a role, though. Like clothes…”
“Like clothes.” Jon wrinkled his nose, glancing at the uncovered hole in the corner that Terian had been using as a toilet.
“Yes, yes… they must be united…”
“The Four?”
“Yes, yes, the Four. But not only them.” Terian looked up at him. “Haven’t you been listening? What have we been talking about, Jon?”
Jon frowned. “Okay. So what happens if the Four aren’t united?” he said, trying a different tack. “What happens if you’re all that’s left, Terry?”
Terian laughed loudly, making Jon jump in the small space.
The seer stared up at him with those owl-like eyes. The amber irises shifted as he watched, turning hard and predatory.
“Sick, is he?” He smirked, looking suddenly like his old self, the psychotic Terian who’d cut off Jon’s thumb and forefinger. “Not feeling too well, is he? Should have kept a tighter hold on his wife, shouldn’t he?”
Jon fought a flush of anger. “Yeah. Okay.”
“His job. Keep her safe. Not my job. Not my fault. I didn’t shoot her now, did I?”
Jon’s frown deepened. He started to wonder again, what he was doing there. He wouldn’t get anything useful out of this lunatic. Why had he wanted to visit this broken-minded serial killer in the first place? Was it something to do with Allie? Some pathetic attempt to understand her purpose here? Or maybe just the purpose of her death?
For the first time that day, Jon felt his chest close.
He struggled to breathe his way past it, but the tightness in his throat worsened. Wiping his eyes, he closed them, sitting there without moving as he tried to pull it back.
Of all people to cry in front of, it had to be this psycho.
“Sorry, Jon.”
Jon looked up, found the owl-like eyes staring at him. Real sympathy lived there, in those yellow irises. The seer clicked softly as he continued to hold Jon’s gaze.
“Sorry, Jon. Sorry. My fault, too.”
Jon shook his head, laughing bitterly, but mostly at himself.
“Yeah, Terry,” he said. “It was your fault, too.”
“My sister, too. My sister… big sister. Don’t like her being gone. Very sad.”
Jon felt his jaw harden. He forced his eyes away from the seer’s child-like expression. Kicking that vacant, falsely-sympathetic face in with his new boots might have made him feel better––for an instant. After that, it wouldn’t, though.
He combed his hair out of his face with his fingers.
“Terry,” he said. “Can we stop the war? You know, the plague or whatever the Displacement ends up being. Is it possible to stop it from happening, without her?”
“May not have been possible with her,” the creature said, matter of fact.
“But is it possible now, Terry?”
“Dunno,” the seer said, smiling at him.
He went back to his tracing. His eyes had changed again, growing sharper, almost knowing despite the odd reflections in them still. Jon found himself watching the seer’s fingers, in spite of himself.
“What are you doing?” he said finally.
“Writing it down,” the seer answered.
“Writing what down?”
“The formula,” Terian said, looking at him with surprise.
His voice shifted again, once more sounding like the version of Terian Jon had known, only a saner version. He spoke to Jon as if they were old school chums.
“I need to document it, Jon,” he explained seriously, his eyes wide in his face. “For when I need it. It is incredibly important that the knowledge not be lost. I have no idea if Xarethe survived, you see. She and I are the last of those who could accomplish such a thing, besides Vash himself, of course, and he’s not one to write things down, is he?” He clicked softy, shaking his head. “I don’t think the old man would be willing to help, in any case. Too much guilt.”
“Guilt?” Jon said, bewildered by the sanity in those eyes. “Guilt over what?”
“Nenzi, of course. Guilt for Nenzi Algathe.”
Jon mulled this over for a moment. He only understood about half.
“Document what?” he said finally. “What are you documenting?”
“How to make more bodies,” Feigran said.
Jon just stared at him for a moment. Then he smiled, in spite of himself.
“You want to make more bodies.” Jon exhaled, folding his arms in the thick coat. “Why, Terian? I mean, look what it’s done to you.”
Terian pondered this for a moment, still crouched over the stone.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I see your perspective, Jon. But the thing is… what will happen to me if I don’t? For I’m quite mad now, you see.”
Jon couldn’t really say much to that. Shrugging with one hand, he nodded, folding his arms tighter around the long leather coat.
“Yeah, Terry,” he said. “That you are.”
“Mad as a hatter,” Terian piped.
“Mad as a fucking hatter. That’s you.” Jon smiled.
Nodding, Terian went back to tracing on the stone. Jon just watched him work, feeling a sharp wave of compassion as he watched the seer.
These intermediary beings––they were all deeply screwed up.
Terian laughed, gesturing in agreement.
Jon began to smile again, then stopped, focusing suddenly on the collar around the seer’s neck. He frowned. “Can you hear me, Terry?” he said. “Can you hear my thoughts?”
“Sure, sure,” the seer said absently. “Feeling sorry for Terry. Poor Terry. Poor broken Terry. Just like broken Sword, and the girl was broken, too. All broken. None of us supposed to be here, Jon. None of us. Not a vacation, either. No picnic, being here.”
He clicked to himself softly, shaking his head. Then he stopped, pulling up from his crouch. He stared at Jon as if he’d reached some understanding inside himself.
“We’re here for you,” he said.
He jabbed long, white fingers at Jon. Jon noticed the bloody tips from his scratchings on stone and winced.
“For you, Jon,” he repeated seriously. “We come for you.”
Jon just looked at him for a moment. Then, refolding his arms across his chest, he sighed, exhaling a long breath of air.
“Yeah,” Jon said. “Well… thanks.” He held up his mutilated hand, showing Terian his own handiwork. “Thanks a lot, Terry.”
The seer smiled, and it lit up his whole face.
“Anytime, Jon,” he said seriously. “You know that.”
Jon let out a low laugh, snorting, in spite of himself.
God, his sense of humor had gotten dark in the past few years.
Rising to his feet, he walked back to the metal door. He was about to bang on it for Poresh to let him out, when he stopped a last time, turning.
“Is he dead yet, Terry?” he said. “Revik.”
Terian clicked softly, still drawing symbols on the stone.
“Not yet,” he said softly. “Not yet, not yet.” He smiled that open smile again, looking up at Jon. “Soon though, Jon. Very soon. Not much longer.”
He muttered something else, under his breath, and Jon stiffened.
“What?” he said, his voice sharp. “What did you say?”
“I adore you,” the seer murmured, clicking softly. “Very sad. It is very very sad. Very sad.”
Jon stared at him. Swallowing, he felt the tightness return to his chest.
He jerked his eyes off that oddly twitching face, banging on the heavy metal door with the flat of his hand for Poresh to let him out.
20
DEAD
I SWAM THROUGH darkness. Immersed in sensual warmth.
At first, it was comforting, pleasant. Like waiting to be born.
I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know… anything. My only awareness was of floating somewhere peaceful, in something not dissimilar to hot, thick water.
The aloneness bothered me.
Even so, for my first few swims inside that liquid warmth, I mostly felt pleasantly out of it. I might have been drugged. Or perhaps, I thought, this is just what death is.
Really, honestly… I figured I was dead.
I had to be dead, right?
I remembered dying. I remembered pain, a lot of it. I remembered terror as it sank in that it was over, that I couldn’t do anything to stop it.
I felt it slip away from me. I watched it go.
It fucking hurt. Dying hurt––a lot.
But here, where I was now, it didn’t hurt, not in the beginning. The discomfort that lurked at the edges of my light was subtle at first, easy to dismiss. When it grew more persistent, keeping my sleep light, my mind on edge, I told myself it was temporary, an aberration.
Some part of me was afraid to die, I told myself.
This pain I felt––it was just fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what came next.
The real pain surfaced gradually. It threaded through the tiniest of my light veins like small sparks of sharp, cold and hot light.
I barely felt it, I told myself. They were echoes. Inconsequential.
They surfaced more, moving to my bones, to the joints in my arms and legs, my lungs as I fought to take breaths. They moved up my back, delineating each rib, every organ. I told myself to ride it out. It was still an aberration, I thought. It couldn’t last.
Then, some unclear amount of time later, the gaps between sparks melted.
I could barely sleep. I started to dream badly.
I dreamed more, even when I was pretty sure I was awake. I dreamed all the time.
I started to sweat.
Then I was panting, sweating all the time, sweating buckets. I swam through that heated warmth, but it was torture now, like being suffocated, unable to breathe or see. It felt like my skin was being ripped off my flesh. Then my flesh off my bones.
I started to yell. I screamed for help, for someone to help me.
I screamed for him.
It hurt more than dying had. It hurt more than anything I’d ever felt in my life. I couldn’t remain still for how much it hurt, but moving made it hurt more. I fought to get free of the restraints. They cut into my flesh, rubbing against bone.
I couldn’t find or bang against the edges of whatever confined me.
No other lights lived here. Nothing lived in this dark pit but me. I screamed, feeling nothing but loss, the space where he should be.
Grief like nothing I’ve ever felt tried to pull apart my mind.
It was worse than the pain. It was worse than anything that came before.
My yells turned to screams. Deep-throated, agonizing screams fought to rip out my spine. I called for him. I called with every ounce of my being––
He never answered.
He was gone. I knew he was dead. The thought ripped me apart all over again, crushing some part of me I hadn’t known could still be crushed. My screams turned to sobs. My light flashed around me, trying to rip me out of my body.
He’d said he couldn’t… that he couldn’t live without me.
And still, the will to live kept me there. It kept me from letting go.
I hated it. For a long, long time, what felt like an infinity of black pain, of aloneness in a void, lightless place, I existed, wishing I didn’t.
I wished for death.
I wished for anything to smash that grasping hold in me.
DORJE YANKED ON Balidor’s arm, forcing the older seer to turn. “We have to pull her. Do you hear me, ’Dori? We have to stop this… now. It’s not working, Balidor. It’s not!”
Balidor winced away from the other seer’s light, hardening his own.
“A little longer,” he muttered.
He didn’t look at the Tibetan seer as he said it. He added another layer of shielding to his light, keeping out the other’s emotions. Still, he bit his lip, shifting his weight as he looked through the organic-paned window, his gaze switching between it and the flat console.
“Why?” Dorje said. “Why are you doing this?”
At that, Balidor gave him a dark look. His voice turned warning.
“You know why.”
“It is over! It is over, Balidor!” Dorje’s voice held tears. Eyes wet, he stared at the body suspended in the organic tank, his hands shaking. “You are torturing her! You are torturing her worse than anything the Rooks could have done to her! Please, gods, Balidor… stop this! It is done! You already have your answer!”
“A little longer,” Balidor muttered again, folding his arms tighter.
He stared through the thick, transparent wall, squinting through the faint green cast of the organic pane. Fighting past his emotional reactions to seeing her that way, he studied her as objectively as he could. He studied her body, her features as they hardened inside the gel. He watched the articulation of her limbs where she hung suspended by organic restraints. The restraints confined her to the center of an also-transparent tank––a tank within a tank––and away from the walls and floor.
He’d found the healing tank in one of the laboratory rooms of the mountain complex. They’d immersed her in regenerative gel so that her wounds wouldn’t be damaged as the other condition worsened.
She looked thinner again, even in just the last half-day.
The gel, which already repaired a good section of her back where the bullet exited, should be providing her ample amounts of water and nutrients through the absorption process––but it made no difference. She absorbed the food and sweated it out, vibrating water and flesh out of her skin and aleimi faster than she could replenish it.
Faster than her body could break it down for sustenance.
It had now been thirteen days in total.
It felt like months had passed since he first stood here, watching her.
Still, each day he found himself faced with the same problem––determining how far he could let things go before he killed her for real.
THE BARRIER-CONTAINMENT TANK had been built decades ago.
Balidor stumbled upon it by accident, during one of their raids.
The tank formed the centerpiece of one of the labs Galaith had built in the mountains of eastern Asia, all of them seemingly focused on some aspect of genetic engineering. Similar labs were scattered across As
ia and Eastern Europe, most of them focused on speeding up human evolutionary processes and/or hybrid creation, but the technology in this one differed. When the Adhipan determined what the tank was designed to do, they surmised it undoubtedly formed the centerpiece of another of Galaith’s questionable “experiments” with seer physiology.
Ironically, it had been Terian who led them there. They had been following one of his bodies, a geneticist named Yongo, when they happened upon it.
The tank had the ability to cut a seer totally out of the Barrier.
Utilizing a combination of heavy organics and disruptive electronic signals, it created a field within which nothing from the greater Barrier could penetrate.
Galaith had been a firm believer in testing the bounds of the Barrier, and manipulating it via his constructs. He’d no doubt experimented on mated pairs before, using this very tank.
Of course, not all mated pairs had interdependent lifespans.
Well over half did in the first decade of marriage, however. The numbers increased as the years of marriage increased, until the vast majority of Sarhacienne mates who’d been together for over a century tended to require their mate to survive.
With Elaerian, it had long been believed that the tendency towards interdependency was stronger, and likely happened faster.
Vash warned the entire Council and Adhipan that this would likely be the case with any mate Allie chose, likely immediately following full consummation.
The records of the Rooks confirmed this supposition, as well.
In any case, Balidor had no doubt Galaith had used the chamber on mated pairs before. Interdependent mates would be the most concrete test of whether or not the shield really worked.
For months, Balidor had been thinking about this tank.
He’d hoped he might never need use it. He’d hoped she would remain outside Dehgoies’ influence enough that it wouldn’t be necessary. Since only about half of Revik’s aleimi had been intact when they’d taken one another as mates, Balidor hoped their bond would be easy to break following the full personality’s re-integration.
Seeing her with him on that dance floor in New Delhi had been the cold splash of reality to that hope.
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