Ciarrah's Light

by Lou Hoffmann

  Lucky said nothing as Han shook it out and then draped it on, fastened a beaded belt around his waist, and pinned back the right side with a sun-metal pin worked not in the dragon symbol, but in the twelve-rayed sun, its amber core surrounded by shining flakes of night-black obsidian.

  “I had the pin made for you a long time ago. I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but that was the day you ended up lost in Earth. It wasn’t meant to work with this kapa, but I think it does, don’t you?”

  The answer to that question was obvious, so Lucky didn’t bother. “Kapa—that’s what this is called?” He barely heard Han’s affirmative answer as he gazed in wonder at his reflection. It was almost as though he saw himself for the first time. Or rather, he stopped seeing what he wasn’t. He wasn’t, never had been, just another homeless brown boy in Valley City—which he realized was something that didn’t even exist. No one was “just another” brown boy, or “just another” street person. But he also wasn’t just an orphan with a badass uncle and some magical toys. He wasn’t even just the Suth Chiell.

  He had become—at least according to this mirror and for the moment—a man.

  He wore the ordinary clothing common in the Sunlands—khalta and shirt and sandals—quite well, he thought, and that surprised him. But the kapa and beaded belt took things to a different level. The suede had been dyed a forest brown that somehow managed to suggest other colors depending on where the light hit the folds, and the beadwork—though the pattern matched Han’s—had dark green, copper, deep red, and white. Lucky never would have imagined himself in this clothing, but somehow, now that he wore it, he knew it was exactly right. It brought all his parts together somehow, in harmony. The man in the mirror was Mannatha.

  Finally he sighed and turned to smile at Han. “So, you want the Droghona to know that I’m Drakha?” He tried to pronounce the word like Han did, with the R snapping off the tip of his tongue and K and H making a single sound way in the back.

  “Yes,” Han said, “But more than that, Luccan, I want you to know you’re Drakha.”

  Lucky smiled. “I see it, Han. I… feel it somehow. Thank you.”

  For the next half hour, Han ran down the basics of Droghona courtesies. “They’re the same as the Drakha, Luccan. For all that the two cultures pride themselves on difference, these traditions, which are all about the proper degree of respect, have remained unchanged. For the most part, the only finesse required is about age. Elders are highly respected in both cultures. So when I greet them, I will do this.” He demonstrated the peculiar side-leaning bow and open hand gesture. “They will return the gesture, but bow a little lower, because the older you are, the more respect you get.”

  Lucky almost asked for clarification but caught himself at the last minute. “Oh, that’s right you’re older. That’s hard to remember.”

  “Because I don’t look a day over ninety?”

  Lucky laughed. “Forty, Uncle. You don’t look a day over forty.”

  “Really? I must be showing my age, then. I’ll have to get more beauty sleep.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Echo and the Prime

  PART OF the lineup for Lucky was to do the Suth Chiell’s blessing on children before the formal reception. He’d had enough practice at it the previous fall to remember the words without Thurlock’s prompting, but the old man stood with him anyway, having taken Han’s place at his side while Han went in to assure things were properly arranged to honor the foreign visitors.

  “You’ll have a guard too,” Han had said as they walked across the green. “We can’t chance another attack against you like the last one.”

  Lucky had stopped walking and waited for Han to face him. “Han, I don’t want a guard standing by me. It’s going to be hard enough for everybody, what with everything that’s happened recently. They bring me their babies to bless them—maybe they think it helps keep their kids safe, and there I stand with an armed guard hovering around, like Hitler or the president of North Korea. I don’t want my people—I mean the people I’ll serve, I guess? I don’t want them to see me that way.”

  “Luccan, I do think the atmosphere at the Hold is calmer now, and Thurlock’s words at the meeting will have gotten around. That will discourage any attack, but let’s face it. Some people have shown they’re willing to harm you. We can’t be sure they won’t just do it and damn the consequences.”

  Lucky insisted—he felt almost like he was putting his foot down. He wasn’t sure he had the clout to do that about anything at all, never mind something like his safety in public, but he chose his ground and made his stand, and honestly it felt a little bit like a potent wish. “I know—some people don’t like me. Thurlock made sure to tell me that right after I got to Ethra, and what happened the other day made it real. But you know what? They don’t have to like me. People are free to hate my guts no matter what. Of course I don’t want to get hurt, but I also don’t want to have it look like I care more about me than I do about them. Or like I’m threatening people, like if they disagree with me I’ll call wrath down on them. So keep me safe, please, if you can, but not by having armed guards hovering over me.”

  Maybe it did have some of the power of a wish, maybe not. One way or another, Lucky won that argument. Tennehk and some of his cohort hung around, mostly out of sight. Thurlock was by Lucky’s side, but that was only normal (right, Lucky, normal). Henry was outside too, perched high on a nearby peak on the roof of the manor house. The only people anywhere near wearing their uniforms were Sergeant Koehl and the Guard soldiers who had brought the Droghona north. They wore their dress grays, as they were to be honored during the reception, and their swords were part of that uniform. They stayed watchful, but at Han’s request they acted as though Lucky was the last thing on their minds. As a final touch, Han had asked Maizie to stay by Lucky’s side, and she didn’t seem to mind the duty at all, seeing as all the children wanted to pet her. Lucky had never realized how much Maizie loved children! Also, maybe she was a bit of an attention hog.

  In a way, Lucky still thought it was too much—except for Maizie—but he didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to be knocked into the dark world of his mother’s shade again, so he accepted the compromise.

  By the time the announcement was made that the proceedings would soon commence, Lucky’s blessing hand felt on fire, and he’d touched so many baby heads he’d lost count. Interestingly, it was really the first time he realized all babies didn’t look alike. They didn’t act alike, either—some cried when he blessed them, some laughed, some of the older ones just stared. One said a word that sounded a lot like “Chiell” and grabbed Lucky’s nose, reminding him that predictions about how he would grow into the overlarge feature really hadn’t proven true. But their parents all seemed comforted, they all smiled at him, and they all seemed sincere.

  That kindled a little extra hope in his heart. Maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.

  Having come out to release Maizie from duty, Han led Lucky inside, both of them a step behind Thurlock, and they found their places at the front of the hall. Lucky stood on Thurlock’s right side and greeted ordinary people as they came in—all had been invited. Han stood straight and silent on the wizard’s left, while a stream of people passed him by to greet Thurlock. Apparently these were the luminaries and dignitaries of the Sisterhold and its surrounding communities. Thurlock looked polite but rather bored with it. Lucky didn’t blame him. For his own part, he was having trouble keeping the yawns on hold.

  At last the crowd was seated, and the necessary ceremonies began. First, Sergeant Koehl and the Guard Escort came forward up the center aisle and Han stepped toward them, said a few words of appreciation—not fancy, but sounding sincere—and pinned a medal on each one’s shoulder.

  When the three Droghona elders came forth, the onlookers in the hall were cued to stand in respect. Han greeted them first, but no fine speeches were exchanged; Lucky had been told Han had formally welcomed them earlier. All that happene
d now was the exchange of the customary lopsided bows. Olana smiled very sweetly at Luccan, and then said something to Han. Lucky didn’t understand the words, but he thought he heard “Drakha” and “kapa.”

  Han smiled back at the old woman—breaking his formality for an instant—and then reached across behind Thurlock to touch Lucky’s shoulder. He spoke in Drakha, but let Lucky hear the thought too. “Thank you, Olana. I am indeed proud of him.”

  Thurlock then spoke formally to the visitors, his voice carrying to the entire crowd. In so many words, he thanked them for coming, for providing the chance for the Sunlands and Droghona to work together for the common good, and also for their patience while he’d been occupied. Somewhat less formally, and keeping it in general terms, he also thanked Olana for “lending her blessed and special light to aid the people of the Sunlands.”

  He then asked all to take their seats for a moment before briefly addressing the Sisterhold’s people. His manner was such that Lucky, as tired as he was, watched him intently and didn’t yawn once.

  “This isn’t the right occasion for this, but times are hard and time is short, and one must take advantage of opportunities. I want to speak to you, neighbors and friends, about recent events of which I’m sure you’ve heard. I want to tell you that I, our young Suth Chiell, the council, the Watch, and all those under Han’s command, are working hard to get to the bottom of the troubles and find a way to quell them.”

  He paused briefly, looking around the room, letting his gaze linger here and there. Lucky got the feeling that calming the populace was only half of Thurlock’s purpose—he seemed to be picking through the crowd to see if he could spot anyone touched by the darkness. After a moment, he smiled, which Lucky interpreted as a good sign, then he continued.

  “As I’ve too often seen in my long life, things could get worse for the Sunlands and our allies before they get better, but it is possible for you to help keep things steady here at home. Trust one another, talk to your neighbors, take care of those who are scared or hurt or otherwise in need. Make sure you stay clear-eyed and don’t look on the world with undue fear clouding your vision, because fear can cause us to hurt others needlessly. That said, if—clear-eyed—you see something that scares you or makes your skin crawl, get word to someone trustworthy who is in a position to safely look into it. Take heart. This trouble too shall pass.” He smiled again and bowed his head slightly toward the crowd. “I thank you for your presence in honoring our Droghona visitors and our soldiers, and for listening to me drone on. To all a safe night.”

  It was over, and Lucky—fighting the yawns again—was grateful. For a while he dutifully stood near the podium with Han, Thurlock, and the Droghona, responding to greetings as best he could. But it had been a long day—a long couple of days, and his exhaustion grew heavier by the minute. In an effort to wake up, he looked around for someone livelier to talk to, and he saw Zhevi nearby, standing by himself and looking unhappy. Lucky told Han he was just going to step over and see if he could cheer up his friend, and Han, somewhat reluctantly, agreed.

  But then, just as he stepped away, Lucky seemed to hear a strange call in his mind. Not that someone beckoned him by name, nothing that overt. But he had a strong feeling he was needed—he must go to the manor house. His brain felt numb and fuzzy, and without thinking about it, he stepped out the door and walked across the green, into the house, and up the stairs. Only then did he realize Olana walked ahead of him, going the same way.

  He ended up at the infirmary.

  He passed by the rooms where the Sisterhold community’s sick and injured were housed; he knew that wasn’t his destination. The call continued to ring in his mind. He reached the hall outside the room where the strangely paired aliens—Terrathians—were maintained in their twilight existence, and he heard what sounded like a scuffle inside. He knew Olana had gone into that room, and he knew that the small being who had spoken through him previously had called him for help.

  Without thinking about his own safety, he threw open the door to see a man backing away from Olana. The tiny Droghona woman had a hand raised, palm out toward the man, and pure white light in hard-looking waves flowed from it, pushing at the man’s chest.

  Lucky was shocked at the sight, and not at all ready for it when the man—a scruffy-looking guy with a weasel-like face—turned suddenly and plowed right into him. Acting on instinct, Lucky drew Ciarrah from her sheath, and gave chase down the hall, brandishing the Obsidian Blade.

  Tennehk stopped him. “Whoa! Go back into that room, and stay there, Luccan,” he ordered.

  Lucky might not have obeyed if Tennehk hadn’t added, “Han’s on his way, none too happy with you. I’m going to see if I can catch the guy.”

  The small Terrathian seemed in distress, the light at her core pulsing erratically, but Olana sat near and held her hand over her, feeding light—soft now, but still strong—into the strangely insubstantial being. After a short time, the heart light’s pulse steadied and grew stronger, brighter, and Olana sat back and allowed her eyes to close, apparently weary.

  Lucky faded, or that’s how it felt—as if the room and everything around him stayed as real as ever, but he dissipated into the slow, floating mind of the small Terrathian.

  He traveled with her to another place, a past he saw as through her eyes and with her heart. She felt lonely, perpetually lonely, always longing. But towering love and kindness and beauty and generosity inhabited her, nourished her. Her eternal tears erupted from Lucky’s eyes.

  He sat in stillness, while she explained her world through this trance. With clear, precise vision he saw a busy room where tall, slender, narrow-faced people worked at machines like computers—studying graphs, manipulating numbers and trajectories, recording outcomes. The small Terrathian spoke a word in his mind, and he understood its meaning—“Primes.”

  Then his vision altered so that the same room blurred, and now he saw, invisibly attached to each of the Primes, a being like the one whose mind Lucky occupied. They hung like sacks of not-quite-flesh, like ghosts who could almost occupy a living body. “Echoes,” she said.

  The Primes ignored the Echoes, did not seem to notice any weight or even their presence. Their movements weren’t hindered by them in the least. The Echoes, though, never left their Prime, never thought of anything else.

  “We were one. We are not now two, though they have expelled us. We are the heart, they the mind.”

  Lucky came back to his own thoughts, though he remained present in the vision she had brought him to. He asked, “Can you be… healed… fixed… recombined?”

  “The Prime may have known. I do not. I can think and remember now only because my Prime’s mental power is gone; the least corners of his knowledge remain open to me, his most recent thoughts. These I will share with you before they fade to dust like the rest. Listen, Ethran, for I bestow my care and love on you, which before I could hold only for the Prime. I would have you live and know joy.”

  Warmth washed over Lucky, like the cherishing love of a mother’s embrace.

  “Listen,” she said again.

  But she showed him, rather than told him, the recent imaginings of the Terrathian Prime who now lay slowly decaying beside her. And this vision was horrific.

  First, Lucky stood unseen in a forest in the midst of a gory fight, soldiers and civilians alike fighting against wraiths that flickered in and out of solidity. That battle faded but sounds like gunshots and visions of terrified faces—many of them children—took its place. The stench of burning rot choked him as he ran, incorporeal, through a city slum, its central gutter running red with blood. Horror after horror engulfed him. In every time, every place, the Sunlands lay dashed upon the rocks of war, with pillars and pools of shadow bearing witness, and through it all an incongruous low hum like machinery. Then Lucky stood high on a hilltop, sword in hand, striving for breath, the cold of winter biting his sweat-drenched flesh. The bloody battle below boiled and rolled and surged through the basin
like a storm through the sky. Sunlands’ soldiers fell to swords made of darkness, wielded by mindless, bloodless wraiths. Guns sounded and sulfurous smoke rose in tendrils like fleeting monuments to fallen targets. Animals, mad with fear, snapped teeth and leapt and howled, as dull-eyed corpses of men and women calmly stalked anything that breathed.

  And on the hills across that battlefield, atop her grim mount, Liliana brandished her awful sword, called up cold magic as banner and shield, and grinned. Somehow, she saw him. Their gazes locked. Malice glittered behind her smile like ice under stars.

  The Echo let go of Lucky, and he faded back into the room in the infirmary. He felt the impact of the real, present world like a blow to the head. Blackness claimed the edges of his vision and—afraid to fall into unconsciousness again—Lucky tried to fight it.

  The door opened and Han came in. He took a single step, knelt at Lucky’s side, took him by the shoulders and called his name. “Can you hear me? Can you talk?”

  Lucky hadn’t been aware he’d fallen to the ground, but now he looked up at his uncle and latched his gaze on to Han’s, held on to it for dear life. He drew in a sharp breath—had he stopped breathing?

  Han took hold of Lucky’s hands and chafed them. “Luccan, please,” he said. “Tell me you’re all right!”

  Hearing the desperate love in Han’s words, Lucky struggled, managed a nod, and then finally words. “Yes. Okay. But there’s something… I have… to tell….” The effort of words was too much, and he went under too suddenly to even think about resistance.

  WHEN LUCKY woke up, the first thing he noticed was a strangely mingled scent that included pungent herbs and disinfecting solutions, but also, more faintly, blood and the sour sweat of the sick. He remained in the infirmary. The pale green ceiling confirmed it. At first, he assumed he still lay where he’d fallen—in the Terrathian’s room—and it took him a slow minute to realize that couldn’t be. He now lay in a bed with scratchy sheets, not on the floor, and when he turned his head—slowly and carefully to stall the spinning—he discovered it was the only bed in the room.