It was fear, partly—Joslyn didn't deny that to herself then or later—but mostly because she didn't know what else to do, Joslyn ran.
Chapter 13—Laying the Stones
No one said good-bye.
Ghost was the only one who forgot; he was too busy giving the equipment and provisions a final check. Kessa scanned the cliffs behind the dock for sign of Watchers, knowing full well that there weren't any. Joslyn just stood by the mooring, thinking that something should be said and equally certain that she didn't know what that might be. Then it was time to go. Ghost took Joslyn's hand as she stepped into the unsteady craft, and in that instant Joslyn felt Kessa's hand on her shoulder. When she regained her balance enough to turn around, all she saw was a glimpse of Kessa's back as she slipped up the narrow path.
"Damn."
"I may be wrong," Ghost said, "but it does seem that something passed here just now that I don't understand."
Joslyn found a wide slat in the bow and sat down. "It'd be a Miracle of the Dreamer if there wasn't."
Ghost smiled, and suddenly it was Joslyn who had the idea she'd missed something. Ghost unhitched the loop of rope holding the rudder bar and said, "Cast off the bow line, will you? There's a dear."
Joslyn fumbled at the lashing while Ghost waited patiently. When Joslyn finally got it free Ghost pushed them clear of the moorings and the boat slowly turned to face the open sea like a sluggish whale. Ghost tested the wind and began to unfurl the sail. After a moment he stopped. "Would you mind telling me what you're doing?"
They were alone on the boat, but it still took Joslyn a moment to realize he was speaking to her. She frowned. "I'm not doing anything."
Ghost nodded. "Exactly."
Joslyn's face went pink. "I thought I should stay out of the way."
"Well and good if you're in the way. But we're likely to be at sea for several days, and I'm going to need help."
Joslyn stood up, forcing herself to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach from the craft's eternal rocking. "Show me what to do."
Ghost guided her through the process of raising the sail, securing lines so they wouldn't foul, setting the trim. Ghost steered the craft through the narrow straits that shielded the bay. The empty ocean spread out before them like some vast pit, and the sky stretched blue and unbroken to the very curve of the earth. Joslyn sensed the pressure of the water on every plank of their boat, and for one terrible moment she floated on a craft of eggshell—every wave crest a hammer, every trough a plunge toward disaster.
The feeling didn't pass quickly or easily. Joslyn concentrated on Ghost's instructions. After awhile she began to anticipate the needs of the ship, shifting her weight as Ghost tacked outward, trimming the jib as the wind changed strength and direction. Ghost finally nodded. "You'll catch on."
Joslyn didn't say anything. Any resentment she felt at Ghost's demands was washed away by gratitude for the distraction. But now her slowly shaping skills were buying her longer and longer periods of rest, and they carried a high cost. There were too many things she didn't want to think about, and all those things needed was time.
"I want you to take the tiller now," Ghost said.
Joslyn shook her head. "I don't know anything about steering this thing."
"I know that," was the bland reply, "that's why you're going to learn."
The point didn't seem arguable, but Joslyn felt compelled. "Why is it so important that I learn?"
Ghost brushed her question aside like a dirty cobweb. "Joslyn, why are you stalling me? Does it have anything to do with what happened last night?"
The phantoms in Joslyn's mind vanished. He doesn't know. He couldn't know. Joslyn looked at Ghost's impassive face and realized she was wrong; she didn't waste time with more denials. "How did you know something happened?"
Ghost shrugged. "How? I haven't the faintest. But I think I can catch a shred of why. As emotions go, I'm a drying puddle. You, Joslyn, are a thundercloud. Emotion surrounds you, always. It's like water to a thirsty man."
Joslyn stared. "You mean you can tell how I'm feeling? What I'm feeling?!"
"Usually. Right now you're angry."
She glared at him. "Care to guess why?"
He nodded. "Because how and why you feel as you do is a big part of what you are."
"Truth ringing from the hollow man, who should know better than anyone..." Joslyn shuddered. "You'll pardon me if I don't care for the notion. It's horrid. It's like—"
"—someone entered your dream?" Ghost asked softly.
Joslyn's voice and anger evaporated as one. She sat, stunned.
Ghost shrugged. "I was a dreamer, Joslyn. Sometimes I remember."
Joslyn didn't answer right away. Instead, she rested her head on the gunwale and considered jumping over the side. I wonder if drowning feels any worse than this? She decided not to find out. "Ghost, I guess I deserved that. I'm sorry."
"Accepted, if you'll take the tiller now."
The old fear settled into Joslyn with a familiarity that was almost comforting. She took a deep breath, let it out, and slipped into Ghost's place in the stern. He showed her how to grip the steering bar and boomline, how to work rudder and sail together to catch and hold the wind. The craft shot forward like a plow through soft earth.
"That's it," said Ghost, "but not so tight."
Joslyn looked down, saw her knuckles white on the steering bar. She loosened her grip with an effort, only vaguely aware that Ghost was saying something.
"...strong gust will cause the craft to heel. If you feel that happen, just let off on this line and she'll right herself. Do you understand?"
She nodded. She didn't know what he was talking about. Her knuckles were white again, and so was her face. Ghost watched her closely, but he didn't say anything else. He seemed to be waiting. When the wind changed Joslyn realized what he was waiting for.
"Ghost..."
The wind had been a steady flowing stream. Now it was a waterfall. The sail cracked and popped; the mast shuddered and suddenly the small craft leaned violently. Spray shot over the side of the boat and turned to rainbows in the sun. It stung her eyes and left Joslyn half blinded.
"Ghost!"
He didn't move. "Do as I told you."
Joslyn tried. She told her hands to unclench, her fingers to let the line move between them. Such a simple thing, and it was beyond her. A wave broke over the side, then another. Joslyn felt herself sliding down toward the water. Ghost was talking again.
"It's fear now, Joslyn, in case you were wondering. The same sort of fear you tried so hard to hide this morning. Smells the same, tastes the same. I think it is the same. What do you think?"
Joslyn thought she was going to die, and the only comfort she could find was the certainty that Ghost would die, too. "We're going over!"
Ghost nodded. "Quite likely."
Even then she didn't let out on the line—exactly. She just dropped it when she lunged at Ghost. The boom skimmed the water as it suddenly whipped to the side like a weather-vane, and the boat righted itself almost violently. Joslyn managed to strike Ghost twice across the face before he caught her wrists.
"Let me go, damn you—you almost killed us!"
Ghost shook his head. "You almost killed us," he said, "and all because you panicked. You didn't panic when the outlaws attacked on the Grass Sea. Not when you stared madness in the face in Darsa. Not even when you challenged the Dream Master on his own ground. Why now, Joslyn?"
She spat in his face. "I hate you!"
"No, but I think you would," said Ghost, "if your fear left room for anything else." Ghost dropped her wrists and the argument at the same time. He retrieved the boomline, set the sail again and reclaimed his place in the stern. The wind was still strong; Joslyn braced herself against the opposite rail as the craft picked up speed again. She also braced herself for Ghost's next attack. It didn't come. It took her a while to realize that there had never been a first: an attack required anger or purpose, and Ghost had
precious little of either. He had told her the truth as he understood it—nothing more or less—and neither sparing nor inflaming her feelings had a thing to do with it.
"Damn you, Ghost," she said softly.
"Done before you spoke," Ghost replied, "Done a long time ago. Does that help?"
"No." Joslyn settled to the deck, her back against the gunwale.
"That's unfortunate," Ghost said, "because unless the Dreamer changes her mind a night will follow this day. Whatever you're afraid of will be there waiting for you."
*
As much as possible of each of Crucian's days were spent piling stone on stone. He would have used all the time he had doing that very thing, but his body and his will were of different opinions on that matter. When his arms grew tired and his fingers grew stiff and sore, he took that forced time to try and find the enemy.
He did not succeed.
Crucian did learn the placement and size of all the major ruins on the island. And, more important, he learned the lie they told.
Death.
That was the lie. The ruins were not bones, not the remnants of anything that had lived for a time and then passed into dust. He knew, because the ones who built wonders on Memnyre were there still. The old man felt their presence in every stone, in every shattered carving. But worst of all, he heard their voice.
Especially at night.
Crucian tried not to. On a good day, when the pain in his chest and the ache in his joints drowned out the island's many voices, it was easy.
This was not going to be one of those days.
The old man knew as soon as he woke; time and necessity had made him adept at reading the signs: for one, the sun was clear and bright; it woke him with gentle warmth after a restful night—another bad sign. He spread his left hand experimentally, listening for the tell-tale grating of bone on bone. Nothing. He listened to his failing heart, found the rhythm steady and strong.
This day will not be kind to me, he thought. And knowing that, he still forced himself to rise, wash his face in a cold water stream, and set out to do his day's work. It was all part of the Trial, though in truth that made little difference. The God of Endings might guide but he did not choose; that was left to old men.
Crucian smiled to himself. I will not be kind to this day.
The old man went first to the stones; it was the best time to work, in the morning before the sun was high. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at how well the altar was coming along. A few more days at this rate and it would be done.
WHAT IS IT YOU DO?
Crucian almost dropped the fine piece of polished marble that he had so carefully teased from under a fallen statue. He took a deep breath and slid it into place on the altar.
"You are an Aversa," he said aloud. It was the first time the voices had spoken to him directly; before now they had been as whispers, snatches overheard but little sense to them.
YES.
"Masters of Lesser Dream and Illusion. Created first of all races by Somna, Goddess of the Greater Dream that is the World."
Silence, but then Crucian didn't need an answer to that. "A demon, in sum," he said. "I've come to destroy you."
AN ENDER.
It was Crucian's turn to be silent for a bit, then "You know of us?"
DOES THE BODY KNOW OF THE WOUND?
"The dream is the wound. The world is the wound. It festers, it corrupts, it sickens. We would heal it."
YOU WOULD DESTROY IT.
Crucian smiled. "It's the same thing."
NO.
The old man smiled. Let the demon test his faith; he didn't mind. It would pass the time.
Crucian knew about demons, called First Born and Aversa by those with less understanding. His own instruction by Brother Tyen and others he had supplemented by more study, and, recently, first-hand knowledge. I could write a treatise, he thought, if I didn't have to die so soon.
The pride he felt at the idea had a deliciously sinful feel to it, but perhaps he could be forgiven. After all, the one contribution he would live to make was fated to pass unrecorded. No one would know except himself and the demon, and they were both doomed, each in their own fashion. That, not the dying, was the part that didn't seem fair.
Malitus will know.
That was certain, but not so very comforting to an old man nearing the end of his work.
"The altar to Malitus disturbs you," he said. "You cannot bear its presence here. The meaning it carries is like a knife in your heart."
YES.
"You are beloved of Somna. When you are gone, that is one less reason for Somna to remain in sleep."
YES.
"Good," Crucian said and he lay another stone in place.
*
Soon after the first stars appeared Joslyn and Ghost found a barrier island, little more than a strip of sand, sea-grass, and a few gnarled and twisted evergreens.
"It isn't much," Ghost said.
"It is to me," said Joslyn. "Anything's better than sleeping in the boat."
Ghost shrugged. "You say that now..."
Joslyn was too relieved to ask what that meant. Later, when they had made camp and were settling in for the night, she found out.
"Oww!" Joslyn tried to jump up, got tangled in the blankets, and fell in a spray of sand. She slapped at a spot on her hip.
"Sand fleas," said Ghost, "They bite."
"I solved that riddle by myself!" Joslyn untangled herself, muttering, and began to shake some of the sand out of her bedding. "How am I supposed to sleep with those things around?"
He looked surprised. "Do you want to sleep?"
"Why would you think—" She stopped.
Ghost barely paused. "Move closer to the fire; they don't like smoke."
Joslyn gathered up her dignity along with the blankets and found a level spot on the far side of the campfire. Ghost dropped some more dead wood on the flames, then added a bundle of still-green seagrass. It began to smolder, and the fire burned low. Ghost took a glowing splint from the flames and lit a small oil-lantern.
Joslyn coughed. "I hope they like the smoke less than I do." Sometimes it was hard to tell, but Joslyn was almost certain Ghost wasn't listening.
"We still don't know where we're going," he said.
"We will if I find the Aversa," Joslyn said, "and I think she wants to be found."
"You're still going to search tonight?"
She looked at him. "Of course."
"I thought... I thought maybe you wouldn't," he said. "You're still afraid..."
"And you're still sucking it in like a starving leech."
"Exactly like that," Ghost agreed. "because I need your emotions to keep living. And you give them, Joslyn: anger, frustration, charitable scraps of affection... all except fear. That one you horde. That one you make me steal. Why is your fear so different, Joslyn?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"Need," he explained patiently. "I think you need your fear more than I do."
*
Evening found Crucian sitting on a log by his fire; the silhouette of the altar was clearly visible on the hillside.
I'll lay the capstone on the altar tomorrow. That'll be the end of her.
'HER' HAS BEEN DEAD A LONG TIME, CRAZY MAN. SHE CAN'T DIE AGAIN.
He was almost relieved. The demon's voice was in his mind again, the odd cadences of someone—something, rather—not used to forming words. Crucian had to admit she was getting better. The words formed clearly now; he just didn't know what they meant.
"Riddles?" he asked aloud. "Is that how you will test my faith?"
I SPOKE NO RIDDLES. SHE IS DEAD. YOU WERE THERE. SHOULD KNOW.
The old man put some more wood on his fire and pushed back the darkness a little more. He didn't see anything yet, but it was a little soon for that. Perhaps she would appear, with a little coaxing. He wanted to see what he had come to destroy. It made victory something more than abstract.
"For
a dead Demon," he said, "you sound lively enough."
THIS ONE NEITHER DEAD NOR DEMON. WHO RIDDLES NOW?
Crucian frowned. "You just said—"
HER. THE ONE IN YOUR MIND WHEN YOU SAY 'DEMON.' THE ONE YOU HAVE COME TO DESTROY. IS DEMON HER NAME?
"You are the demon! There is no other!"
ONLY ONE, she agreed, BUT NOT THIS ONE.
He started to curse her but never got it out. A woman appeared just on the edge of the light; fire-shadows touched her face. She was young, young in the way that is always painful to old men, but that wasn't the source of the pain that nearly brought him to his knees—it was her eyes, and the two things he recognized there:
Knowledge was the first. She knew him, knew all the lies, postures, and self-serving delusions that came so very close to being all that he was. Fifty years, and he still hadn't escaped the cool grey certainties in her eyes. But even that cruelty wasn't the worst. That honor was reserved for a miracle.
Forgiveness.
She knew him, and the knowledge didn't matter. He'd called that love. She'd forgiven him that, too.
"Aphel..."
He blinked like a child awakened too soon. Or too late. By the Dreaming Bitch, what have I done?!
YOU SAID HER NAME.
Such a simple thing. But an old man with no past and only a single-minded determination in the present could not have known that name, could not have spoken it. It doesn't belong to me...
BELONGS TO JARETH, A FISHERMAN FROM DARSA. THAT IS YOU.
The damage was complete. It wasn't bad enough that he'd given the demon his dead wife's name.
She'd given his own back to him.
"Damn you!"
The Demon sat down on a broken pillar just within the ring of firelight. She kept the appearance of his dead wife Aphel, and as long as she did, he couldn't forget knowing her. Could not forget who he was. He fought back the fear and panic, tried not to let the demon see either. The familiar pain returned to his chest, but sharper now, less patient. He cried out, once, and one more traitor thought slipped away.
Trapped.
If the demon read Crucian's thought, she gave no sign. Crucian stared at the dying flames, tried to think, tried to make a plan. There wasn't enough wood to keep the fire going all night; he had nothing to split the log with and the small branches and twigs he found nearby were soon exhausted. The demon had not moved; the failing light cast her more and more in shadow. Soon night would close in around them both, sleep would come and this time his dreams would be different—the old man's impenetrable indifference would not be there to protect him.
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