Only the Open

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  This… this was crying.

  And now he knew.

  Now he knew.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Jahir woke, it was to the ache of a body forced to conform against a very cold, very hard floor… and to the worst headache he’d ever had, so intense he feared to move or open his eyes. So he didn’t. Listening, he could hear the rustle of other people, the slow breathing of unconscious bodies and the quickened of frightened, wakeful people. And beside him… he stretched his palm, felt the paw under it.

  “You’re awake,” Vasiht’h murmured.

  “With no recollection of how I came not to be, I fear.” He licked his lips, found them too dry. “Did I…”

  “You tried to fight them.” The Glaseah’s voice was slurred—fatigue? “But you used up everything you had fighting off the pirates. And then you used up everything in me as a last effort.”

  Jahir winced. “I am guessing you have my headache as well.”

  “Pretty close, if not exactly.” Vasiht’h rested his cheek on Jahir’s back. “There was nothing we could do. They got us all. And now… Goddess only knows what they’re going to do with us.”

  “The Chatcaava,” Jahir repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “Not the pirates.”

  “No.”

  This was significant. Why? “Lisinthir.”

  “Not here,” Vasiht’h muttered.

  No, he wasn’t. But: “They’re looking for him.”

  Vasiht’h’s chin turned on his back, and from the direction of his partner’s voice, the Glaseah was now looking at him. “And?”

  “And… I can look like him.”

  The Glaseah’s sigh ruffled the hair on the back of his head. “You don’t look like him now. Don’t you think they’d notice?”

  “One of us looks very like the other.” That seemed important. Vague memories from school then, learning about the importance of differentiating features in each Alliance species so that the individuals would stand out more clearly. “Especially we Eldritch. Coloring, height…”

  “Assuming they didn’t get any imagery of us before you made this switch.”

  That was a risk. A terrible one; if they knew he’d changed his appearance, they could find the roquelaure.

  “Besides,” Vasiht’h said, tired. “What would looking like him accomplish?”

  A good question. It was hard to think past the pounding in his temples, but he assumed that would recede with time and rest. If time and rest were in his future. “They would not seek him if they did not fear him.”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe they just want him. Because he’s decorative. Or a celebrity. The Eldritch who captured an Emperor’s heart, or something.”

  “Maybe,” Jahir murmured, but that didn’t seem in character with the people who could use the language he’d been stroking off Lisinthir’s skin, gasping in with his kisses. No, there was something there… some thread that tied into the skein of the fate being woven for them. “I can look like him. And that means they will stop looking for him.”

  Vasiht’h grew still against him.

  “That would leave him freer to do what he must.”

  “And what about us?” Vasiht’h asked.

  “Freedom is not in our immediate future, unless something extraordinary happens,” Jahir said. “We are captured and bound for servitude somewhere.” He tried to evaluate his partner’s emotions through the mindline, but could not—he could feel the mindline but touching it felt like twinging a raw nerve. “You are… very calm?”

  “I’m exhausted,” Vasiht’h said. “There’s only so much you can panic before you cross over some line and then… you have nothing left to be terrified with.” He sighed again. “We’re in Aksivaht’h’s hands now. Maybe when I’m less exhausted I’ll be able to be scared again. But right now? I guess we’re alive, and that’s all I have.”

  For some time, Jahir lay thus, with his friend folded over him, experiencing the throbbing ache in his head, the utter debilitation of his body. Ignoring the moans and stifled sobs of the fellow prisoners. Observing that the chill communicated to his body by the floor made his joints stiffer but seemed to be helping with his head.

  Then, he said, “It is likely we’ll be separated.”

  Vasiht’h did not reply immediately. Then, low, “That would be awful.”

  “Yes.”

  Another long silence. Tentative, Vasiht’h said, “Maybe we’ll still be able to hear each other through the mindline?”

  “Possibly.”

  “But if not…”

  Jahir thought about this, then murmured, “Sit up a moment?” When Vasiht’h raised his weight up, the Eldritch turned onto his back and held out his arms. Vasiht’h hesitated, then rested his torso against Jahir’s. It was an awkward hug until Vasiht’h also threw one of his forepaws over the Eldritch’s hips, and then they were as comfortable as they could be, given the circumstances. Jahir’s head still hurt, but the closeness helped. The smell of Vasiht’h’s fur, which was the smell of safety, and love, and hope. The way proximity allowed him to count the lashes fringing his friend’s closed eyes. They were particolored—the upper lashes dark and the lower light—how had he never noticed? He liked seeing the way breathing flared the nostrils on the leathery nose. The subtle whiskers on his friend’s muzzle tickled.

  “There is something you should know,” Jahir said.

  “What is that?”

  “Look up?”

  Vasiht’h shifted his head just enough that he could focus one eye on Jahir’s, the pupil dilating.

  “If we are separated… I will move Heaven and land until we are reunited again. Do not doubt that.”

  His friend huffed softly. “I’m not helpless, you know. Maybe it’s me who’ll move Heaven and land to find you.”

  “Promise me you’ll trust in that. We will not die apart, ariihir.”

  That tensed his friend’s body against his. “You mean that?”

  “With every fiber in me.”

  Vasiht’h shuddered and hid his face in the crook of Jahir’s neck.

  “That was intended to hearten you,” Jahir said ruefully, setting his hand on the back of Vasiht’h’s head.

  “And it does. It’s just that it also makes it real that it’s probably going to happen. And… I don’t want to go through this without you.”

  Even with the mindline too tender for use, Jahir could sense the panic rising in the Glaseah. He wrapped both arms tightly around Vasiht’h and said, “Live now. The next moment never comes. We are always here, right now.”

  “And yet, things happen,” Vasiht’h said against his neck.

  “Live now,” Jahir said.

  With a shiver, the Glaseah subsided and then there was quiet. Jahir willed his own certitudes into his friend and doubted that it was working. What did work was that the Glaseah began to breathe at his far more pacific rate, and that tamped his anxiety. They found a rhythm, even slept a little. The next time Jahir woke, the headache was much improved… which was good, because it meant he had the faculties to react to the Chatcaava entering the cargo bay. Rolling his back to them, he woke the roquelaure.

  Base shape, he commanded it. Mimic actual injury state.

  /Ariihir! They’re coming this way!/

  Because of course they would be. They had captured one of their Eldritch; they would want to know what sort of prize they’d managed. He lifted his eyes and saw himself reflected in Vasiht’h’s reaction. /It will be fine,/ he said firmly.

  /No, it’s going to be awful!/

  /It will be awful but it will be fine in the end./

  Vasiht’h’s mouth twisted. /Stop trying to make me laugh./

  /That wasn’t intended as humor—/ He winced as someone grabbed his arm. It wouldn’t matter what he looked like if he didn’t react like Lisinthir, so… he jerked the arm forward and tried to throw his assailant past him. His position on the ground gave him little leverage, and his lack of experience with unarmed combat dep
rived the motion of any chance of success, but….

  “It’s alive, at least.”

  Another voice, irritated. “We didn’t want any of them killed.”

  Jahir listened, careful. The accents were very similar to the one Lisinthir had been using, which was fortunate, because the Chatcaava were speaking so quickly that they would probably have lost him otherwise.

  Another prod at his back, cautious. Jahir shoved himself upright, summoning the memory of his fulminating anger. He threw his hair over his shoulder and shot a glare past it at the Chatcaava studying him, and as they squinted at him, he lunged for one of them. Luck alone crashed him into one of them, given how poorly he felt, but he rode that luck all the way back to the ground, reaching instinctively for the flailing wings in an attempt to pinch nerves he assumed must be plentifully supplied throughout the arms and vanes.

  The second Chatcaavan hauled him off the first. Jahir rammed an elbow into him and managed to send him backpedaling. That left him between the two of them, panting and sweating even in the cold, dry air of the hold… and then the headache reasserted itself and he staggered, pressing a hand to his temple. He went to a knee without remembering how he got there.

  “No doubt about it,” the first Chatcaavan said warily. “That’s the one the Emperor wants.”

  “The prize money’s going to be good.”

  “So it is.” The first Chatcaavan lifted his voice. “You hear that, freak? You’re heading back to the palace. But this time a real Emperor’s waiting for you, and he’s not going to be interested in your talents in bed.”

  Lisinthir would have managed a barbed response to that. Jahir was glad enough that he didn’t vomit from the throbbing in his head.

  /Lie back down,/ Vasiht’h whispered. /You’re going to need your strength./

  /I have no notion how Lisinthir managed his bravado while half-dead./

  /I hope you don’t have to find out./

  The separation came too soon and was as traumatic as Jahir had feared. At some point the shiver through the hold indicated they’d stopped, or docked—some change—and then the Chatcaava began moving through the corridor, and his talent had returned enough to inform him that they were coming for him… to transfer him to another ship.

  And what he knew, Vasiht’h now knew through the mindline.

  /This is it,/ Jahir whispered.

  /They weren’t supposed to take you until we reached a planet, the same planet!/ Vasiht’h answered, anguish contorting the words until the mindline itself seemed to convulse. /How can we hear each other if they separate us across worlds? How will we find one another?/

  Jahir grasped the Glaseah’s shoulders, willing him to stop hyperventilating. /We will find a way. Do you hear me, ariihir?/ Aloud, soft, “Vasiht’h. We will. I vow it you.”

  “The last words I’m going to hear you say and they’re not even in your voice,” Vasiht’h whimpered, clutching at his arms. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can do this!”

  “You can, and you will.” In the mindline, where his voice was his own: /Please, beloved. Believe me. I cannot lie to you here./

  /But you don’t know everything!/

  /It is never given to any of us to do so. But still… please…/ They were almost at the door now. /Don’t let this be the sight of you I must take with me into captivity. We have work to do here, love. We must be strong to do it./

  /It was supposed to be your work! Not mine!/

  /The Goddess,/ Jahir said, staring into his eyes, /wills. Not us./

  Vasiht’h’s mouth dropped open. And then, closing his eyes: /I’m so scared./

  /Me too./ Jahir leaned forward, kissed his dearest friend’s brow. /I love you. And I will see you again, soon./

  Vasiht’h swallowed and squeezed him once, and then backed away quickly as the Chatcaava entered.

  “So, freak,” the first said, and Jahir was grimly satisfied to see they’d brought five more Chatcaava, visibly armed, as reinforcements. “Your transport to the throneworld awaits.”

  “Excellent,” Jahir said in slow but confident Chatcaavan. “I am looking forward to my appointment with the Usurper.”

  As the Chatcaava grabbed his arms, he whispered, /Remember./

  Soft and shaken, but audible: /I will./

  They bound him. Jahir fought it because he presumed Lisinthir would have, but they overpowered him and left him with his hands tied behind his back to his ankles. His cousin would have found it infuriating; for his part, Jahir found himself thinking Lisinthir had tied him more securely during their tryst. Had his cousin been preparing him for something like this? The answer was probably ‘yes,’ but also ‘but it was also for the purposes of the tryst,’ because… they were Eldritch, in the end. Why do anything for a single reason when it might serve for several?

  Concentrating on this kept him from reaching for Vasiht’h. His headache was receding, but it remained beyond him to exert his new talents, and the mindline, though much older than those abilities, still involved the same sort of effort. He would have to be cognizant of that limitation in the future: that he was capable of extraordinary feats, but his stamina was not that of the god he felt himself in those moments. And once he failed, he failed hard. He could not afford to do that in the future, since they were intending to bring him to the center of the madness.

  What would he be able to accomplish there? Something. He had to believe that.

  Lisinthir had left him the roquelaure.

  Such an amulet rampant, cousin, he thought, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and the hunger that was beginning to gnaw at him despite his persistent nausea. Surely there has never been such an amulet rampant in the history of our kind. Someone will have to write about it, when all of this is over.

  No answer. He suppressed his shiver at the loneliness in his own mind.

  The journey took... less time than he assumed, because they fed him only once—and not enough, by his ravenous stomach’s lights—and set him to necessities, and then bound him again. Jahir didn’t sleep, or at least, not for long. A nap, and then he was once again in motion, this time over the Chatcaavan equivalent of a Pad and onto alien ground. He inhaled sharply, finding the air strange and yet familiar, tinted with the saltwater sting of a foreign sea. And the sky above him... it yawed impossibly wide, streaked in pink and a pale mint green in clouded veils as the sun lowered behind the towers before him. Astonishing fingers of stone, those towers, rising to dizzying heights, so delicate for their arrogance. Only a flying race would think to erect such things and stud their exteriors with so many openings, none of which had rails that he could see.

  “Stop staring,” one of the Chatcaava snarled, yanking at his arm. “It hasn’t changed since you’ve been here.”

  “Except for the better,” another said with a hissing laugh.

  Jahir said nothing. The time for speech would come, but he preferred to marshal his reserves until then.

  They marched him, when they did not drag him, up a set of stairs that had no ending, as far as he could tell. His body’s complaints became more vociferous, and he was in the process of ignoring them when a chime sounded in his ear, subtly dissonant. Three tones—he could not think clearly enough to isolate them. Music theory was some hundred years in his past now. Startled, he almost stumbled, recovering before the dragons could haul him upright. The implant had not yet communicated with him in any meaningful way; he’d assumed it to require some bit of embedded Fleet hardware he didn’t have. Of course, it was probably capable of building the necessary parts in him, knowing Alliance technology—that thought made him deeply uneasy, so he chose to believe instead that it was simply deploying something it had needed time to prepare.

  He tried subvocalizing a query. Energy level?

  No response.

  Roquelaure, he said. Energy level?

  Energy level moderate, it whispered back, and he was surprised that it could startle him when he’d been expecting a response. Consider refuel
ing soon.

  He managed a wry smile. Something to discuss with his captors, he supposed.

  The stairs continued for a seeming eternity before they emptied on the top floor of the tower. There he was shoved for a final time through a door and to his knees, and the foot on his back kept him there. He looked up through his hair, and while seething was beyond him, a baleful glare he could do. He remembered Lisinthir’s eyes when they first met on the Quicklance: that look that promised even as it assessed. He only wished what he was viewing would be worthy of such a look, because at first glance the Chatcaavan male staring down at him was unprepossessing in the extreme. He had a constrained body language, twitchy and precise, almost mincing; the eyes were prone to squinting and the way the male held his head was far too tense.

  Had these observations not come from the mists of memories borrowed from someone else, Jahir would have worried he was anthropomorphizing his foe. But while Lisinthir’s experiences were more inchoate than distinct, they were still more than enough to tell him this creature didn’t belong in this tower.

  And that told Jahir, the therapist, something alarming about the probable mental stability of the male who was, nevertheless, in this tower.

  Another male hove into view, and to make the situation worse, this one did have the body language of a male who could have led Chatcaava. Yet he was standing a little behind and to one side of the first, as if subordinating himself. Why? It made no sense.

  “The Ambassador,” the first male said.

  “As I promised,” said the second. “I trust you’re pleased.”

  “It is good to have him out of play.” The first male’s eyes were intent, unblinking. “Like the Slave Queen, he represented a loose end. I don’t like loose ends, Second.”

  Second snorted, but the sound was indulgent. “No, you don’t, huntbrother. It’s one of the reasons you succeed so handily at all you do.” He tilted his head. “So, do you have plans for him, or shall I dispose of him as I did the Slave Queen?”