by Monte Cook
“I know.” She reached out and took his free hand. He knew from the strength of her fingers that it wasn’t because she was falling or failing, but because she wanted to.
She misstepped and landed deep, water up to her knee, filling her boot. “Ugh. I have had enough of water to last a lifetime. I hope to never touch, smell, drink, or even see water ever again in my whole life.”
“That could make spending time with you tricky,” he said.
“Because I’ll be dead?”
“I was thinking that you’d be stinky,” he said.
“Did you see him?” she said, a moment later.
“Who?”
“Rillent. His face. He wasn’t expecting us. Didn’t even know we existed. I know he thought I was dead. But I think he thought you were too.”
Kyre had noticed the same. “I’m pretty sure he had a moment there where he thought he was seeing both of our ghosts, come out of the forest to get him. His face…”
She mimicked Rillent for a second, made a face that was somehow both all anger and all shock. It made him laugh, even though he shouldn’t, even though he knew that the very fact that Rillent had seen them, that he knew they were not just alive, but coming for him, put them both – put their whole clave – in grave danger. It felt good to laugh, even if the fear came after.
“Skist,” she said. “Did we make a mistake?”
“We saved a boy’s life,” he said.
“To what end, for all of those others in Rillent’s trenches? In the Stere? Did we sacrifice their lives for his? Was he worth it?”
They passed a grey synth tube sticking up out of the swamp. If you didn’t look at it closely, it looked like just another small, broken-off stick amid a field of broken-off sticks. But the tiny, almost invisible, wiring up its side gave it away as one of Delgha’s monitoring devices.
“I guess we’ll find out soon,” he said. “Since we’re almost there.”
And this time they really were.
The swamp brought them around the back of the base, almost right up to its southern wall. They splashed themselves onto dry land and followed the curve of the building around to the entrance. The third time he’d been through this tunnel since dawn, and every time it had been a completely different experience. He hoped this was the last time. He didn’t think he could handle another.
“I am going to sleep so hard,” Aviend said as they made their way through the tunnel, a yawn delaying the start of her next sentence. “The boost is crashing my system.”
Delgha must have seen them in her scanner. She’d already sent the lift down. They rode it up, weary, silent. Touching by leaving space between them. Together through the door that felt like home, finally. On the other side, the smell of something cooking, the cool tang of reddlin spice and the warmer, sweeter scent of Thorme’s special quick bread.
“Oh, but there’s food,” she said. “Food, then sleep?” She didn’t say, “And then we wake up and figure out what the hell we’re going to do now that our plan to save the world from a tyrant has broken open and we have no backup.” She didn’t have to. They were both thinking it. They were all thinking it.
The base’s main room was big and square, four times as tall as Kyre. Broken apart only by the seemingly randomly placed strips of pellucid material that rose from the floor halfway to the ceiling. The walls were a pale grey, shined and nearly reflective, although the reflection was always distorted. More so the closer you got.
They called it the pennon, after the rows and rows of banner-like materials that floated from the high ceiling. Each bore a different creature – some vaguely familiar to Kyre, others creatures he’d never seen, and honestly never hoped to see. The colors and shapes were a mishmash, all of them clashing so wildly that they somehow melded together into something that was beautiful. He didn’t know if they were the makings of whoever – whatever – might have built this structure originally, or if it was a later addition from the Gavanites, some part of their worship that he’d never heard about. Not that he knew that much about them. Bits of old stories and rumors told by nonbelievers, mostly. He’d have to ask Quenn about it. If he was still here. Part of Kyre was sure he’d gone at the first chance. The other fully expected to see him helping Thorme cook.
Off this main room, there were three doors, located mid-point on three of the five walls. One that led back out the way they’d come. One that led to a room they’d turned into a combination storage space and med room. And the last one that led to their – well, Delgha’s truly – tech and planning room.
Of the various rooms in the base, this was by far his favorite, partly because of its enormity – the other rooms were clearly not made by or for humans, and they were too small or too short or oddly angled. But also because it was the place that reminded him a bit of home. Of Ovinale before Rillent. There were sleeping areas tucked between the makeshift rooms that the strips created. And a respite space filled with soft bits of furniture and the constant stream of an eternal liquidlight.
The only real decor came from the various kindnesses given by those they’d rescued from Rillent’s hold over the years. Handmade blankets or wall hangings, usually spun from yol wool or crafted of local woods. Most people gave them useful things. Handmade pilgrim packs for carrying supplies. Carefully crafted clothing. Most of the furniture, too, came from those who’d stayed here a few days and then moved on. Mostly people had nothing to give, and so they gave thanks and a promise to return with something in the future. That was more than enough for Kyre, for all of them. A person alive and free was worth hundreds, thousands, of gifts.
There was a kitchen space in one corner, tucked between two of the strips. It wasn’t much, but it finished the home feel for him. A portable cookstove that he and Aviend had bricked into something that resembled permanence. A couple of storage boxes topped with a makeshift counter, a table and chairs. The centerpiece was a chiller that Thorme had picked up from one of her various suppliers throughout the Stere.
This was the room where they found Thorme, already dishing up food for them. Delgha was sitting down just as they entered. The table was far bigger than the four of them needed. Once there had been more of them. This, he thought, looking at their quiet, solemn faces, was all that was left of the resistance. It wasn’t much. He had to hope it was enough.
“Sit.” It was a command, not an invitation. Thorme’s face didn’t look angry, but her stance did. She was dressed, as she always was, in the long flow of reds and greens, a toss of purple, a strand of yellow. Nearly as mismatched as the banners above them. Her long dark hair, patterned through with purple that matched her clothing, fell down her back, pulled into a loose fishbone braid that nearly swept along the floor.
The wooden bracelets, each carved by Thorme’s own hand, each for some occasion or memory, most of which Kyre did not know, clickclacked as she served them wordlessly. Healer. Mother. Feeder of lost birds. That was how Thorme had once described herself to Kyre. Although that had been eons ago, it seemed. Did she still think of herself as a mother now that her children were ghostfallen? Healer, still, yes. If Quenn and the others were lost birds, then she was still that too.
“We’re happy we’re alive too, Thorme,” Aviend said as she sat beside him. She lifted her brow at Kyre, but already had a utensil in her hand. He was starving. Famished. He would eat whatever Thorme put in front of him and happily so. Not that her food was ever bad, but it did sometimes come with a side of love so sharp and pure that it cloyed the taste.
“Hmph.” Snorted through her nose, and still she set down the bread between them, followed by two bowls of stew. Tap. Tap. Wood to wood. Careful, precise.
Thorme showed her love in ire and precision, and there was nothing to be done for it, except unweave the barbed threads to remind oneself of the soft insides of her. Of which there were many.
He glanced at Aviend. She still wore the black crust that covered the edges of her face along her hairline. He
r clothes were dusted with charcoal. Both things she hadn’t even seemed to notice until he pointed them out to her.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her so beaten down. Looking at her here, half asleep over her food, her skin torn and broken, the back of her hair crimped with electricity, made all of his own sense of defeat come rushing back. They’d failed so deeply. But then she smiled at him and said his name, and he couldn’t do anything but be grateful they were alive.
He knew they should talk about Rillent. About the plan gone wrong. So very, very wrong. But he wasn’t ready yet. The mix of guilt and relief was still swirling, trying to settle into its place. He didn’t know where it would land.
“How’s Quenn?” he asked, mostly to stave off any incoming questions. The bowl’s heat felt good against the palms of his hands. The stew was too hot to eat. He could tell by the steam that moistened his face, but his hunger got the best of his caution and he tried anyway. That was a mistake.
Thorme was already pulling cool water from the chiller, pouring it into a glass. Kyre lifted it quickly but gratefully, steam still rolling from his mouth.
“Nice,” Aviend said. She and Thorme had joined sides against him now, laughing at his misfortune. Good. Laughter was good. Laughter meant some small part of them was still alive inside.
“You are both horrible monsters,” he tried to say, but it came out jumbled with hot stew and cool water. Only making the two of them laugh all the more.
He swallowed everything down, relieved to discover that he didn’t seem to have done permanent damage to the inside of his mouth, and narrowed his eyes at Aviend.
“Later,” he mock-whispered.
“You…” she started.
Quenn was standing in the doorway. Or in the space between the two panels that worked as a doorway anyway. It was clear he’d been asleep, probably in one of the spaces they’d just passed. He rubbed at his face, caught the side of the dressing on his hand, and dropped it with a wince.
“What’s funny?” he asked. He looked, and sounded, more like a boy than he had at any point previously. It reminded Kyre that even though he wasn’t young, he was young. Or had been until Rillent got a hold of him.
“Kyre doesn’t know how to eat properly,” Aviend said.
“Quenn, this is the mean-faced lady,” Kyre said. “You can just call her Aviend.”
Aviend side-eyed Kyre, one brow arcing slightly, but it was a sign of how exhausted she was that she didn’t have a quick and slicing response. “Thorme closed up your leg?”
When Quenn nodded and lifted the pantleg to show a seam of tiny glowing stitches, Aviend nodded. “She did a good job.”
From across the small space, Thorme closed the chiller with a click of the door and of her tongue.
“And your hand?” Aviend asked.
He held it up and wiggled a few fingers inside a simple black bandage. “I’m grateful,” Quenn said. “To all of you.”
“We hope you can answer some–” Kyre started.
“Sit,” Thorme interrupted, pointing her spoon at Quenn.
Already clearly well trained by Thorme in just a short amount of time, Quenn quickly took a place across the table from Kyre. He didn’t reject the food Thorme put in front of him, although Kyre was pretty sure he’d probably already eaten at least once. Good. It meant he was feeling hungry, which was always a good sign. Coming out of Rillent’s grip was… confusing, to say the least. And hunger was one of the first signs that you were coming back to yourself.
Aviend hadn’t said anything about Rillent being in her head. Not yet. He wondered how she was processing that, if she needed time the way that he needed time.
“I thought this might be Gavani’s temple,” Quenn was saying, between bites. “I thought it was, because of the design on the door.”
“And now?” Kyre asked. Grateful to have something to talk about that didn’t involve death and failure and pain.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Unless the stories are wrong. Or unless there’s another room in here that I didn’t find. This doesn’t look anything like what the stories say.”
“What do they say?” Aviend asked. “The stories?”
Quenn lowered his head and closed his eyes. For a moment, Kyre thought he’d gone to sleep suddenly. Well, who could blame him? They’d all had a rough night.
But then Quenn started speaking. It was hushed, singsong, and in it, Quenn lost his dialect completely. Every word, every syllable was clearly enunciated, almost overly so. He was reciting something from spoken memory.
Begin and the stars shall find you.
Breathe and the stars shall know you.
Know and the stars shall enter you.
Enter and the stars shall touch you.
“My grandmother always said that before she talked about the building. I never understood what it meant, but she said it was the essence of Gavani. She always described the temple as being the shape of the sixfold star.”
From beneath his shirt, he pulled the necklace that Kyre had noticed earlier to reveal a pendant. Its angles caught the light, the gold blazing bright. “Like this. But I haven’t seen any rooms that look like this. So, rather, I guess what I mean to say is that I think this probably is the temple, by the marks on the door. But that the stories, as I know them, as I guess I’ve believed them, are not real.”
Kyre shook his head. “When we came here, we were expecting a temple like that too. Old stories, rumors. The main room didn’t seem very temple-like, so we thought there might be secret doors or rooms. We never found them.”
“I didn’t either. I looked.” So maybe his disheveled expression wasn’t sleep after all, but something else. Sadness. Exhaustion. Maybe a little embarrassment that he’d been searching for something in their home and hadn’t found it.
“I was looking forward to seeing the starroom, most of all,” Quenn said, his voice quiet.
“Starroom?” Kyre and Aviend said together, in voice and in glance. Kyre had never heard the word.
Quenn nodded. “That’s the room the prayer is about. Or that’s what my mom always told me. She said it…” He dug around for the words. “…made you feel connected to the stars. It must have collapsed or…” He seemed unwilling to admit that it might never have been. Kyre could understand that.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That must be disappointing.”
“I’m surprised at how disappointing it is,” Quenn mused. For a second, Kyre saw him as he’d be in the future. Considerate. Compassionate. Fierce. Knowing what kind of man he was going to become should have made it even easier to know they’d done the right thing. But it didn’t. Not entirely.
“It’s one of those things that you didn’t know you wanted until you almost had it,” Quenn said. “Do you know those things?”
Aviend was nodding next to him. She’d stopped eating, and he could see she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. “All the time,” she said. “All the time.”
They had a lot to talk about, all of them, but Aviend was right. First sleep. And maybe one of Thorme’s painkiller devices. Anodyne pinches, she called them. They tasted like scrub and hurt badly enough that you flinched just thinking of putting them on your tongue. But after that, you were out. For hours. No pain. No nothing. He didn’t like it, but a thing didn’t need to be likable to be necessary.
As if hearing his thoughts, Aviend yawned next to him, her jaw popping. A bit of moss fell out of her hair and landed on the table. She didn’t bother to pick it up. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your…” A sleepy, deferent wave toward the boy.
“Quenn.”
“Quenn. Right. Sorry. It’s been a long… something. I want to talk to you more, but I am going to drown in this fantastic food if I don’t sleep soon. I get the sense that you want to go…?” She paused, let him fill the silence.
“To my…” he seemed to search around for the word he wanted, and then came up with one that did
n’t quite seem to be right. “Family.”
“To your family. But could you stay for just a bit more? Until I catch up on some sleep and then we can talk? Just a little bit. I promise.”
Quenn stirred his spoon without looking at any of them. There was still something there he hadn’t said, or didn’t want to say. If Aviend was less asleep at the table, she’d probably try to pull it out of him. But Kyre was patient.
Finally, Quenn nodded. “For a little bit.”
She wakes up, sure she’s drowned. Something’s in her lungs. Black and graveled creatures. Slippery and somehow dry as stone. They dig in, a thousand spiked feet piercing her lungs. And then she’s coughing. Dry and hacked air. The kind that shakes her chest with each upheaval.
So not drowned. Just dreaming of drowning. Of dying.
Hello, little one.
Those damned purple eyes. And of Rillent. She hopes only dreaming. Could he have found them, found her, already? She doesn’t know. Shakes away the memory of his face.
Her lungs do hurt, though. Not as bad as before Thorme forcefed her some pill that tasted of…
“Burps and swampmuck.” She realizes she’s said it out loud, and is grateful that she’s the only one in the room. Well, Kyre too, but he’s sound asleep. One arm thrown across his face. She hopes dreaming of better things than her. Rillent’s purple eyes, of course, but that’s nothing new. The destriatch. Shatter and pain. And running. Always running. She hates running. More than anything. Has done enough of it for her whole lifetime.
She pushes herself from bed, careful not to jostle it too much and wake Kyre. Although by the looks of him, she could spar with the pillows while jumping on him and screaming and not have to worry about him so much as opening his eyes. That’s good. He needs the rest.
She does too. So why’s she up? That’s the question. Thorme’s pill should have knocked her out for days. Maybe it has been days. How long has she slept? A minute? A year? Something in between.
Everything aches. Pulls. Twangs, if not audibly, then visibly. She smells of scorched hair and skin, of bogs and blood. Maybe that’s what woke her. Her own stench. She needs a wash, but the thought of water – any water, even the sweet cool water that comes in from the riverpipes – makes her want to retch. No washing, then. Not yet at least. She’ll have to deal with her own stink. She wants to touch her hair, her no-hair, but resists. There is so much wrong. That’s just the one thing that’s wrong that she can actually touch. But it doesn’t mean she should.