I glanced towards the bed, and over the headboard saw another painting, this time of a round-eyed god riding a lion. He spat fire below an elaborate headdress of looping tongues of flame. Next to the god, I saw an image of what might be a buddha, only with a stack of heads rising like a cone from his torso.
“She likes the paintings, Revi’,” Ullysa said. “Especially the thankahs.”
I glanced down, and saw him watching me from the bed. The sweatshirt was gone, but he didn’t look like he’d been doing the big sex, like Kat had said. He was pale, sweating, and looked at me with an almost transparent relief.
He gestured delicately to the woman who sat next to him in a chair, stitching up his shoulder.
As soon as he had, she pressed a palm to his forehead.
When she took her fingers away, his eyes were closed. Seeing him lying there so still and pale, I stepped closer to the bed, my hands shoved deep in my pockets.
“He will sleep now.” The woman stitching his shoulder––girl, really, now that I stood closer––smiled. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Her bleached, platinum blonde hair stuck up in curled tufts around an elfin face. “I let him stay awake until he saw you. But he must sleep now. His light is very depleted.”
I hesitated, not sure I was ready for more bad news.
“Is he all right?” I said.
“The shot was clean,” she assured me, tugging the thread up by the needle, pulling his skin taut. “Physically, he will recover well. He has lost a lot in structure, though,” she said more somberly. “That will take longer.” The elfin face turned to mine. “Will you hold for him?”
My mind puzzled over that for a few beats. I glanced at Ullysa.
“We will all provide light,” Ullysa explained to me. “But one person serves as a conduit. Ivy is asking if you will take that role.”
I still didn’t get it. I nodded anyway. “Okay. Sure.”
Ullysa’s smile warmed. “As in many things, the best way to learn is by doing.”
My jaw tightened. “I’d rather not use a dying guy as my test case. You’re his friends. Why don’t one of you do it?”
Ivy glanced up at me in surprise. “He asked for you.”
My cheeks warmed. “Fine. But I’m not exactly qualified. And I’m pretty damned tired myself, if you want the truth.”
Ullysa took my arm, guiding me gently towards the bed. “You must be very, very tired, Esteemed Sister,” she said, her voice a low purr. “This requires no strength or effort, I assure you. Merely structure, and you have that in abundance. We will do the rest.”
I stared at Revik’s body sprawled on the dark orange comforter.
Ivy was knotting the stitching on his shoulder. I watched until she glanced up, smiling as she bit off the excess thread with her back molars. A pulse of warmth reached me from the girl’s light as she did it, like what Revik had done to me in the other room. It seemed to be a form of affection––or reassurance maybe?––like a hand on the arm at hello.
The simple gesture brought emotion surging back to my throat, however.
“Is my family all right?” I blurted. “Has there been anything on the feeds about them?”
The warmth from Ivy increased.
She nodded. “Interviews were released by SCARB. They have all said you are innocent, that you would not hurt anyone.” Ivy clicked softly. “No avatars, of course, but we will protect them. We believe the Rooks were behind that, the showing of their real faces.”
“No avatars?” I said. “What did they look like?”
Ivy rolled her eyes up in thought. “A very sad and worried woman with dark curly hair and large eyes who they say is your mother. A handsome man with streaked hair, Chinese writing on his arms, and broad shoulders who is your brother. A Thai girl with hair like Ullysa’s and who wears dark lipstick…” Ivy held her hands out to approximate Cass’s generous chest, and I laughed, in spite of myself. Ivy smiled. “They seemed very nice.”
I felt myself take a breath. “Then they’re okay.”
Ivy smiled. “They are fine, Esteemed Bridge.”
I hesitated, staring at her.
Esteemed Bridge.
I shook it off. I wasn’t ready to know what those words meant to these people. Did they see me as the person come to end the world, like Revik said? In any case, I couldn’t handle any more dreams about falling bombs right then, or about me murdering innocent people.
Ullysa pushed gently at my back until I sat on the edge of the bed.
She very efficiently removed the jeans I’d stolen off the clothesline earlier that day, leaving me with the long-sleeved T-shirt and nothing else. I slid my legs under the quilt, not caring. Lying down was followed by unspeakable relief as I sank between clean sheets. I watched Ivy continue to work over Revik, bandaging his shoulder. If I’d known him even a little better, I would have curled up on his other side, maybe even wrapped my arm around him.
I was tempted to do it anyway.
I turned to Ullysa, but she held up a hand.
“Shhh, Esteemed Sister. Do not talk. I apologize profoundly for the lack of warmth in your greeting here. Revi’ has already told us that you saved his life several times.”
I opened my mouth, about to argue, then decided she probably didn’t care.
“What do I do?” I said. “The holding thing, I mean?”
“Relax,” Ullysa said.
This time it was a command.
My eyelids immediately closed.
13
GERMANY, 1941
I STAND IN a field.
I recognize this place. I have painted it before.
More than recognize it––I know it. It is a part of me, somehow.
While he was in the hospital, dying, my father asked for a painting of this. I’d done it, of course, and hung it above his hospital bed, so he could see it when he was lying down.
In one of his drug-induced deliriums, he told me it was the Fields of Peace, the place of heaven in Egyptian mythology.
My father, engineer and amateur anthropologist.
After the funeral, I’d put the painting in my mother’s garage. I couldn’t bear to look at it, not even to imagine him there after he’d died.
The place lives on, though. I cannot escape it.
Grasses pool at my feet, flooding down the hill like ocean waves. A cold wind stirs them into rippling patterns, woven wildflowers creating a mosaic of dusty pinks and purples in the sharp, clean air, and I am awake, more awake than I can ever remember being. Snow-covered mountains loom above where I stand, jagged and coarse, and incredibly still.
Those mountains have their own presence, even apart from the sky and towering clouds. I feel different just from looking at them, as if my mind moves faster here.
He pulls on me, turning my head.
He stands there, alone, staring up at those same mountains.
His long form is utterly still.
He belongs here, too. Like my father did––like I do. They are his, as much as they are mine.
He doesn't seem to see me, but I feel him all around me, as if I’m looking at him through him, as if I am inside him, too.
This place, it is a part of him, somehow.
We are a part of him, too.
…I WALK A high-ceilinged corridor. The scene shifted so seamlessly, so utterly without fanfare, that I don’t question where I am at first.
I don’t wonder how I got here.
The corridor is carpeted, lined with dark wood paneling that looks antique, oiled to a lustrous shine. Lamps hang down from the ceiling at regular intervals, made of crystal and iron. They flicker as I walk past, but I am a ghost here; my hands slide through walls.
Brightly-colored paintings garnish the dark wood walls. I trace them with my eyes—white men on muscled steeds, Wagner-esque with a hint of Valhalla. The riders’ expressions mirror one another, stern but wise, unintentionally cartoonish.
Through an open doorway, a harsh, emotional voice
speaks over the crackle of an ancient radio.
Servants stand over it, listening. They don’t notice me, but I recognize the voice, even understand the words, although in the real world I don’t understand German.
“God knows that I have indeed wanted peace…”
Ahead, the muted sounds of a party beckon.
The man’s strident words pull at me, inexorable.
“…We were forced to fight. In the face of such malice, I can do nothing but protect the interests of the Reich with such means as, thank God, are at our disposal…”
Voices grow louder from the room at the end of the corridor. I hear laughter interspersed with the murmur of conversation, some of it tinny and off-kilter, drunk-sounding.
The door bangs open.
The sounds grow louder briefly, then fade as the door swings slowly shut.
A cluster of men walk towards me, wearing uniforms.
The radio is still audible to my ears.
“…They were bound to regard this action as a provocation emanating from the State that once had set the whole of Europe on fire and had been guilty of indescribable sufferings. But those days of using seers and Jews to fight the battles of men are now past. An error we regret, one we will not repeat…”
Four men approach me. Soldiers. I recognize the color and shape of their uniforms and what they mean. In my world, they symbolize an almost cartoonish evil, the worst impulses in mankind, but here, the clothing feels mundane, ordinary.
They speak German, like the radio.
“The Fuhrer’s speech is not finished,” a tow-headed boy of maybe seventeen says. He shoves a cap back on his head, rubbing his forehead. “We shouldn’t have left.”
The man next to him throws an arm over his shoulder. “Aw, read the text in the papers. I need something stronger to drink… and something prettier to look at. There are nothing but dogs in that pen.” Drunk already, he grins, eyes bleary. “…At least that I could bark at without getting shot!” He laughs, slapping the tow-headed one in the back of the head. “Dogs! Ha!”
A third looks over, a giant with dark hair and thick lips. His arm, when he raises his flask, is the size of my thigh.
“My God. You didn’t have the view I did. Did you see Rolf's wife? Holy Christ.”
“What an ass on her!” tow head says, smiling. “And those tits!”
“And she has that look—” the drunk one leers.
“—Like you want to surprise her,” the giant says. “Yes, I saw. Lucky bastard.”
The fourth one listens intently. Of them, his eyes shine clearest, a blue that looks like steel in a ferret-like face. His uniform is the least rumpled, the least sweat-stained. He also wears a slightly different insignia at his collar.
“He should not have brought her here,” he says only, into the silence.
Tow-head takes the flask from his giant friend. “He’s in love. It’s romantic, isn’t it?”
The ferret-faced man’s German remains clipped. “It is no excuse for stupidity. Blauvelt was not subtle in his attentions. I would not want the assignments Rolf pulls after this meeting.” He mutters, softer, “…Especially with his pedigree.”
“What?” the giant asks. “What did you say?”
“Aww, who cares?” the drunk one says. “He’d cut our balls off if we breathed on her. Let’s go find our own tail. Some that doesn’t have a Luger attached to it.”
They walk through me and past me down the corridor from which I’ve come, as if I were a puff of smoke. I watch them leave out another door, but my feet compel me to continue in the other direction.
The sounds of the party grow louder. I follow the clink of glasses, the low murmur of voices, but above this, the rise and fall of the emotional speech dominates. Occasionally the words are broken by wild applause, both by those in the room ahead of me and by a crowd far bigger that carries through the loudspeakers.
“…The training of our officers is excellent beyond comparison. The high standard of efficiency of our soldiers, the superiority of our equipment, the quality of our munitions and the indomitable courage of all ranks have combined to lead at such small sacrifice to a success of truly decisive historical importance. What need have we of homo fervens? Of Syrimne? Should we weaken our humanity further by dependence on foreigners and half-breeds…?”
Another swell of thunderous clapping drowns out his words.
I enter a room with ceilings two or three times the height of the corridor. A giant banner cascades down a fireplace of river-polished stones. I stare up at the black swastika riding the center of a white circle on a blood-red background.
The sight of it should shock me, but somehow that is ordinary here, too.
Away from the crowd gathered under metal speakers, men in uniform talk in small clusters, eating and drinking with women in party clothes that make them look like gaunt, long-necked birds. My attention is drawn to a group standing off by itself.
An older man in a medal-covered uniform smiles, listening to a beautiful woman with thick, dark hair and wide eyes, who looks embarrassed as she answers a question of his in a low voice. Her curved body is draped in a glittering blue dress and pressed into the side of a harder body next to hers. Her nearly-black hair is piled in elaborate curls on top of her head, studded with diamond-like pins that match her dangling earrings and the stones on her dark blue shoes.
She clutches the hand of the man next to her, who is tall, who wears a German infantry uniform that is at least a few cuts above the rank and file.
As I focus on the three of them, I hear their words.
“…We will have these English scum routed in no time, do you not agree, Rolf?” The older man takes his eyes off the dark-haired woman, staring up at the tall man at her side. “What have you to report from the front of late?”
The taller man takes a drink from a glass half-filled with ice and amber liquid.
I can’t flinch exactly, nor feel real surprise, not in this place.
Even so, I stop walking when I see Revik’s profile. Except for the clothes and haircut, subtleties in his expression and posture, he looks exactly the same as when I last saw him, minus the bruises and with a bit more weight on his long frame.
He glances at the woman, his light eyes as still as glass. He tugs her closer before he looks at the man across from them, who frowns.
Revik’s voice is low, familiar in all but its tone, which is not quite insolent, but close to bored. Although he looks the same, he sounds younger, somehow.
“With all respect, Commander Blauvelt,” he says. “These British are stubborn. It will be months yet before they fall. And if the Americans become involved––”
The man waves a hand, irritated. “They will not.”
“Fine,” Revik returns evenly in German. “But Churchill has been astute in cultivating a friendship with the American President. We would be fools to discount his charms entirely.” He smiles, shaking his glass towards the loudspeakers. “Especially when our Fuhrer does not.”
Blauvelt frowns in disbelief.
Revik’s gaze takes in the rest of the room, his light eyes narrow.
“The American taste for isolationism may run out,” he says thoughtfully. “Or the ability of their arms manufacturers to quell the outcry over the distress in Europe. If they were to feel themselves threatened by any of our incursions on the sea, or if we were to let our gaze go too far East…”
He trails as the dark-haired woman tugs sharply on his hand. Her eyes hold a warning when they meet his. Shrugging, Revik leaves off, but I see the hardness that touches his mouth.
Blauvelt notices none of this.
He waves a gloved hand, having decided to dismiss the alternate view, rather than honor it with anger.
“You are saying I must tremble in fear over a fat old man on a tiny island because of his cripple friend? Bah! They warned us about France’s mighty armies as well! And the legion of seers supposedly commanded by the English.”
Blauvelt
smiles at the dark-haired woman, who glances to Revik with worried eyes.
“Your husband would have us fear the gypsies next, Frau Schenck! What do you make of this poor display? Or are you merely wondering how he and I could be such tremendous bores in such enchanting company as yourself… and when you are wearing such a lovely gown?”
Frau Schenck smiles, still clutching Revik’s hand. There is a moment where husband and wife look at one another, and I cannot help but see the intensity that comes briefly to his light eyes, or how her expression softens.
Blauvelt, watching them look at one another, frowns.
…AND I BLINK, flinching violently against a gust of icy wind.
I clutch my body, shivering as I look out over a bleak landscape of dark and torn earth, winding, muddy ruts cut through iced-over snow.
The horizon seems to go on forever. It is broken only by heavy carts drawn by shaggy horses who stomp and paw at the icy ground, huddled with humans for warmth, their ribs sticking out through their thick winter coats.
A man lies in the snow not far from me, features blurred by a thin layer of water frozen on his face. His ice-filled hair sticks up like fine grass. Dark, rust-colored streaks stand out on his chest and one upraised hand, soaking the wool coat wrapped around his emaciated frame. His eyes are stuck in an expression of agony.
I look to the endless plain of white and black. I see more bodies, a line that stretches to where land meets a heavy, dark-gray sky. Columns of smoke hang in wind-rent patterns below the clouds. As if the sound comes back on, an explosion breaks the quiet.
It is loud, but I can tell it is still some way in the distance.
A soldier approaches, stepping around bodies.
Behind him, more wagons are stuck in the mud. Men lean against them to shield from the cold. Some are wrapped in heavy coats, rubbing hands together and blowing on fingers, faces obscured behind gray scarves, but most are not. One works over a body while I watch, trying to pry a wool coat off stiff arms, stomping and cracking ice and bone with his boot.
Rook (Bridge & Sword: Awakenings #1): Bridge & Sword World Page 13