The Agency, Volume II

by Sylvan, Dianne

  Sethen raised his head, and stared.

  There were five Elves gathered around him, watching him curiously. They were all dressed in ragged clothes pieced together with some sort of flaxen thread, and their bare feet were dirty, their skin tanned nut-brown. Most had shoulder-length hair or longer, but the woman out front of the group had hers cropped nearly as short as Sethen’s own, grown out a bit but still recognizable as the same uniform cut of everyone in Clan Yew.

  He gazed into her eyes, and he knew her. “Naia?”

  She said nothing, but crouched beside him and reached out to touch Kir’s face. Sethen jerked back, blocking her, and she blinked at him in surprise. The others started to move forward, but she gestured at them and they stopped where they were. Sethen noticed belatedly that two of them were armed with knives and one had a flint-headed spear.

  He felt panic rising in his throat as he realized who they were, but there was no hatred in Naia’s face when she met his eyes again.

  “They killed him,” Sethen said, his voice breaking on the words. “He found out the truth about the Council and they killed him for it. I tried…” He swallowed, fighting the howl of grief that was threatening to escape, compulsively stroking Kir’s bloodstained hand.

  He felt a palm gently cupping his face, and looked up at her. Compassion. He didn’t deserve it. It was his fault she was out here, and he had probably been responsible for most of the others, scratching out an existence and starving in the forest. He hadn’t taken their voices or destroyed their memories, but he had brought them to it. He had let it happen.

  “Kill me,” he said.

  Naia patted his face and shook her head. Then she leaned over and unfastened the ammo pouch on his belt and withdrew the crystal Kir had given him.

  “How did you know…”

  She smiled at him and let the crystal fall into her hand, staring into it, breathing slowly and deeply. A moment later she gasped and looked back up at him, her eyes wide. Again, she touched his face, but this time with something like awe.

  Naia took the crystal and placed it about his neck, where it lay against his shirt, hot and tingling slightly on his chest. Then, she stood up and motioned to the others to come forward.

  Sethen started to protest as they lay their hands on Kir’s body, but Naia patted his shoulder reassuringly, and he shifted back, letting them pick the Healer up and carry him among them. Naia helped Sethen to his feet; he nearly passed out the first attempt, but she steadied him, hugging him tightly before letting him walk on his own, sometimes taking his hand to keep him from toppling over.

  His fingers tightly interlaced with Naia’s, he followed the Silent deeper into the forest.

  *****

  They parted him from Kir and led him into a small clearing some time later. He heard movement all around him, but didn’t look up from the ground; he was having a hard time staying awake, his body so exhausted he couldn’t even think.

  There was food and clear water, the smell of a cook fire, and clean clothes to replace the blood-soaked uniform he gladly cast aside. A young woman he recognized helped him clean up, wrapped him in a warm quilt, and sat him down near the fire with a bowl of stew and a hunk of warm bread. The thought of food was revolting but he forced himself to eat a little, and it grounded him enough that he could look around and comprehend his surroundings.

  To his surprise, the Silent had created a community of their own here, and far from the gaunt specters he’d been taught to imagine, they were cheerful and well fed, taking what they needed from the bounty of the forest and growing a few vegetables on one end of the clearing. There were about fifteen of them, and apparently a few of them were skilled craftsmen and a few others were skilled thieves; they had a few basic supplies that had to have come from the Clan, and had made everything else they needed.

  There was even a pair of Bards, and somehow they’d retrieved their instruments from their old homes; Sethen supposed that if Kir had been able to easily sneak into the Temple, it probably wasn’t that hard to break into other parts of the village. That was a pretty serious breach of the perimeter; they really should double the guards at the…

  He shook his head, the bite of bread in his mouth abruptly gone tasteless.

  He wasn’t a Guardian anymore. Even if he wanted to return to the Clan the only way he could do it was with his memory obliterated, a new personality grafted onto an impressionable mind. His life, every part of it except the bare fact of its continuance, was over.

  He couldn’t think about it. The reality of what had happened in the last few hours was too monstrous to face. He focused on the basic physical comfort of the quilt around his shoulders and the warmth of the fire. He had food in his stomach for the first time since yesterday, and at least for now he was safe. He tried to narrow his attention to that and keep it there before he lost his sanity completely.

  He wasn’t aware when he drifted off to sleep, but apparently someone came and took the bowl from him and lay him down on his side on the ground, for he woke hours later to the waning light of late afternoon.

  Naia was at his side again, waiting patiently for him to rouse. She handed him a cup of water once he managed to sit up, and when he’d drained it, she pulled him carefully to his feet and tugged at his arm.

  He followed her away from the main clearing along what was barely more than a deer track, and soon they came to another, smaller clearing where the other four Elves from that morning were waiting.

  They had built a pyre in the center of the clearing, and laid Kir’s body on top of it, wrapped in the traditional red cloth, the color of rebirth.

  One of the others held a torch out to him.

  Sethen nodded in thanks and took the flame, standing before the pyre with his head bowed, wondering if he should say anything, or if there were any words that could ever encompass what Kir had meant to him, what he’d given.

  Finally, he said very softly, “I will remember you.”

  The tinder caught easily and the branches roared to life, light and heat engulfing the pyre so quickly that they all took a step back where it was cooler. One by one, the others left until it was just he and Naia; tradition was that someone would stay by the pyre all night until it burned down to ash, then the ashes would be scattered into the forest.

  Sethen reached up and removed the crystal from around his neck. He knew what he had to do; his heart felt numb to any sort of fear or sadness or even desire for the truth, but Kir had died for that truth, and he had to honor it.

  He took a deep breath, tossed the crystal into the fire, and waited.

  A few minutes later he heard a pop and a shatter, and saw a flare of strange light among the flames.

  He expected something sudden and violent, like being hit with a tidal wave, but the first thing that arose in his mind was music.

  He recognized the sound immediately—he’d been dreaming it for days. Strangely, the word that identified it wasn’t a type of instrument, but a type of weather: Tempest.

  It was wildly inappropriate, but the name, and the music, filled him for just a moment with indescribable joy.

  It didn’t last long.

  The rest came quickly after that.

  Then all he could do was scream.

  Part Eleven

  “I hate helicopters,” Beck commented, tension in her voice, as the Agency transport faded from sight, taking its wind and its noise along with it. “Even more than planes.”

  “Me too.” Sara kept her eyes on the sky until the night had swallowed the helicopter—she’d read in the SA files that vampires hated to fly, and she was thankful at least that the noise and lurching rise and fall wouldn’t affect its occupant.

  Beck was actually fidgeting, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Sara had never seen her look so upset. “Do you think…”

  She didn’t need to finish the question; Sara could guess. “I hope so.”

  The rest of the crew was loading up the last of the equipment. It was about
an hour till sunrise and soon there would be enough light that Beck would have to duck into the shielded van to keep her skin from blistering. The helicopter had a forty-minute flight back to Austin ahead of it, which was cutting it close, but it was still the only means they’d had to transport Jason back to the base before dawn. It had landed in the empty field near the ruins, whipping up dust and knocking over the last of the shelters, and taken off the same way like a scene from M*A*S*H.

  Dr. Nava had arrived on board with a host of specialized monitors and equipment altered to work properly on an immortal. Her face had been bleak when she’d finished her initial examination, but she had said—several times, as if to reassure even herself—that she would know more once they were back in Austin.

  All she could say for certain was that SA-7 was in a coma, his vitals weak but stable, and that it was similar to the energetic shock that Rowan had been through more than once…except that while Rowan’s neural output had dropped off to reflect the burnout, Jason’s was through the roof. There was still something pulling on him.

  Sara had a sinking feeling she knew what was happening. If they had in fact reached across the Veil between life and death, and woken some sort of connection between Rowan’s soul and Jason’s, that connection could very well be draining the life out of Jason, drawing him slowly toward the divide himself.

  She and Frog both had cursed themselves for not thinking ahead. They had drawn without an eraser; the spell had not come with a way to close down the connection once it was opened. There was no way to stop whatever was happening to him…and even if there was, she wasn’t sure at this point that he would let them. If he had seen death, or seen where Rowan had gone, he might not want to return. He had been a walking ghost since the Elf had died. He didn't have that far to leap.

  “He wouldn’t actually leave me,” Beck muttered. “He’d never do that.”

  Sara gave her what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “Of course not.”

  Beck glared at her. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.” She stalked off toward the van, arms crossed over her chest.

  Sara pulled the elastic band from her hair and shook it out, then started to yank her hair back again more smoothly. It had gotten tugged loose throughout the night. She had no control over most of what was happening now but she could at least corral her ponytail.

  “You should not blame yourself,” she heard, and turned to see Ardeth standing only a few feet away. She managed not to squeal aloud in surprise. Elves really should double as ninjas.

  “Do you think he’ll survive?” she asked.

  The Elf shook his head. “I think it will be up to him.”

  “What do you think he saw in there?”

  Ardeth clasped his hands behind his back, staring off over the rain-slicked ruins. The sky was finally clearing. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t look at her, but said, “I was able to sense some of what was happening to him. He followed the trail left by Rowan’s connection to him to the place and time when Rowan left this life. He experienced those last hours as if he were there himself. Whatever Clan Yew did to him, Rowan died in pain…terrible pain. I suspect they may have put him through their lunatic purification process before they killed him. At the very least they would have tortured him for information. Either way, the line of energy simply…stopped. And that is where Jason…stopped. Whether he will choose to begin again, I cannot say.”

  Sara heard one of the other Agents call to them, telling them it was time to go; they had a journey ahead of them, and an uncertain journey at best.

  Ardeth reached over and squeezed her hand as they walked back toward the vans, and he smiled as he said, "Whether he wakes or not, I'm sure he will be irritated at having to miss what we are about to do."

  Sara smiled back. "I wish he was coming, too. If for no other reason than it would be a lot of fun to see him kick the Clan’s ass left, right, and center. One of these days people are going to learn not to mess with a vampire's lover."

  Beck was waiting for them, and heard the last statement; she was leaning against the van, but she straightened, and offered a feral grin that showed a lot of white teeth. Sara mentally amended her statement: a vampire's lover, or a vampire's sister.

  "Oh, don't worry," Beck said. "He's with us in spirit."

  Ardeth raised his eyebrows and asked, "How so?"

  The vampire cocked her hip sideways, swinging a large gun around her shoulder so that it fell into her hands, the black metal gleaming in the predawn light. "I brought Vera."

  *****

  The touch of gentle hands on his face. "Your name is Rowan."

  Gunshots…blood…

  Fire…

  Cruel laughter…the sickening crack of ribs breaking…the taste of blood…pain…the sound of chanting…screaming…throat burning…tearing…

  "Tell us."

  No.

  "You will tell us the location of the Shadow Agency base and of Clan Willow."

  No.

  "…will is too strong. More research is required. If we push much harder we'll fragment the memories and get nothing…finish the process and reprogram him as planned."

  Music.

  "…you think that's impressive, wait until I get you home tonight…"

  Heat…the delirious heat of lips wandering over his skin…the comforting heat of a body pressed against his back…hot coffee taste in both their mouths…nails digging into his sides…back arching…a cry…

  "Your name is Rowan."

  Tastes…strawberries…sweat…blood…

  "Talk about grandmothers or something. I can't even feel my feet."

  Screaming…hateful voices, lustful hands, groping after him, stripping him, holding him down…

  "I only know one answer to give. Yes. I will stand with you beneath the Blessing Tree, under the next Full Moon, and there I will bind my heart to yours for as long as love shall last between us."

  The weight of a gun in his hand. A gun in his hands…a woman falling, bleeding at his feet…a drug dealer falling at his feet…fear in the eyes of the others as he strode along the path toward the Temple…love in the eyes of a young woman sharing a pizza with him while they unpacked boxes…love in the eyes of…of…

  Oh, god…

  "Your name is—"

  Rowan woke.

  At first there were no names for things. He woke to flickering lamplight, the soft sound of music, and the light touch of fingers carding through his hair, but his mind couldn't describe the sensations, only see and hear and feel them. Everything was so gentle and comforting, he didn't want to move, or think, but something compelled him to try.

  His eyes opened partway and pain wrapped itself around his head, squeezing hard at his temples. He heard himself groan.

  The hand on his head pressed a little harder, and warm healing energy blossomed where it touched, toning the ache down to a tolerable level. After a moment the appropriate term arose in his thoughts: hangover.

  He tried opening his eyes again, this time with more success. The view presented to him made little sense: he was facing a doorway of some kind, and beyond it a forest in the midst of drenching rain. The rain thudded dully all around him, echoing the thudding in his head.

  Slowly…very slowly…he turned his head upward, and met a calm, feminine face with a boyish crop of hair and tapered ears. He recognized her, and the way she smiled at him kindly; he also knew that she couldn't speak, not even telepathically.

  Come to think of it, neither could he, at least not in the latter fashion—it was strange, but there were solid, flawless shields around his mind, the kind he hadn't been able to construct for himself in years. A careful probe of the barriers confirmed that it was his own energy, not imposed from an outside source. He was shielding himself. How?

  He tried to sit up, but stranger still, his entire body was weak and aching as badly as his head, as if he'd been clenching every muscle for hours and only just relaxe
d. The effort to move made him tremble, but that was all it accomplished, and he gave up.

  "Where am I?" he asked. His throat burned, and his voice was hoarse.

  The woman smiled again, but of course she didn't answer, and he felt a little foolish expecting her to…but she reached over to one side of where he lay—a bed, he realized, a mat of blankets and straw on the floor—and retrieved something.

  It was a drawing tablet and a charcoal stick, the sort favored by student artists in the Clans. She wrote something and turned the pad toward him.

  WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER?

  He frowned. "I don't…"

  He turned his thoughts inward, trying to grasp hold of them, but his mind was a whirl of images and feelings, chaotic and blurry. As long as he focused on the external and the simple, it wasn't so bad, but when he attempted to remember even the moment before, it was as if there was too much to process and none of it was in the right places.