He submits to her ministering, calm now. “Nothing happened, Linnith.”
“No fault of yours!”
“It is just a scratch. Or two.”
She huffs as she winds the bandage around the toes of one of his feet.
He stares over at me, almost asking for help. I turn away. He doesn’t deserve Linnith. He deserves Ammeline. He will get no help from me.
Karith comes across with her eyes completely shut. She hangs from the trapeze like a sack of tubers. We all shout at her to let go. She waits too long, even so, and nearly gives her daughter heart-failure as she teeters on the brink before falling heavily backward on the ledge, just missing the sheer drop. Only Furian’s quickly placed hand prevents her head from whiplashing back onto the hard surface. She lies for some time, completely winded, before we can help her up.
As we are ushering her to safety, we become aware of shouts from the other side of the gorge. We peer across at them. A few of the figures are pushing at each other. Vannis and Koban seem to be struggling.
Zivan leaps between them and there is a brief altercation before they stop.
Furian looks at me. “Whether to leave the fox in the chicken coop or bring him over here, I presume.” He gives a wink.
Ammeline’s high voice reaches us. We can’t hear what she is saying, but she sounds persuasive.
Zivan seems to be arguing back, but then Azrial pulls herself to her feet from where she has been resting, and puts herself between them. We can’t hear what is being said, but we do see Zivan give a reluctant nod. She pulls the trapeze back from our side and descends on us in one graceful bound, almost making the trapeze seem redundant.
She lands lightly, flexing her knees to absorb the forward motion. I am impressed. She is cat-like in her movements, fluid and sure.
She brushes away my outstretched hand.
Furian looks into her face. “What was all that about?”
She lets out air. “Whether Koban is to stay there or come with us.”
“And ...?”
Her teeth flash. She is pleased. She has won the argument. “He will come with us. Better to have a chasm between him and the rest of the Scoriats. Less opportunity for him to betray us.”
“So Ammeline will come too?”
Zivan nods. “And Vannis. He refuses to be left with Azrial and Fimbrian. Says he won’t stay to pick up after the old ones.”
He would.
Karith has heard this. She moves onto the platform. “Jethran?”
Zivan shakes her head. “He cannot leave Azrial without support. He asked me to tell you both—” she looks first at Karith and then at Linnith, “—that he loves you. And to tell you to take care of yourselves.”
Karith is not a person I would call emotional, but her eyes are suspiciously damp. She gives a curt nod and turns to stomp away. Linnith looks across at her father. She blows him a kiss. He nods, then turns and walks away, too.
The next to come is Vannis. He howls as the trapeze swings him over, and his cry really does echo from the surrounding chasm. “Wawowww! Wawowwww! Wawowwwww! Wawowwwwww!”
We all glare at him. He shrugs. “What?” Then he moves past us and begins to climb up the six lengths or so up to the summit. He doesn’t care what any of us think. As he reaches the top, he turns his head slightly. “Coming, Linnith?”
Linnith sees that Ammeline will be the next to cross. She scrambles up the rock after Vannis. She seems to have forgotten all about Doven’s hurt toes. Doven watches her in a jaundiced sort of way. It serves him right.
Ammeline is ungainly as she comes across. I am surprised. I expect her to be more gracile. But she is heavy on the trapeze, and heavy on her feet as she falls to ground. She nearly knocks Furian over. He staggers, and would have fallen if I had not been on hand to steady him.
She pulls and pushes at her clothes until she is satisfied with them. Then she walks over to sit beside Doven. Doven has that silly expression on his face. The one where he can’t remember who Linnith or anybody except Ammeline is. His ears have gone pink again. It must be terrible to be a man.
My eyes turn to the last person to use the trapeze. The Scoriat.
He comes over as if he is gliding through the air. None of us help him. None of us tell him when to let go. He doesn’t need us. He releases his hands at exactly the perfect moment, landing beside Furian with a light thump. He is completely balanced. His Scoriat markings, those of Istak, glisten in the shadowy light of the protruding rock shelf. For some reason I shiver. I wonder whose side this sleek Scoriat is on.
Ammeline has no doubt at all. She runs up to him and hugs him. He tucks her under his arm and turns to us all. Almost a challenge.
Doven sighs. He stands up and makes his way to the remaining rock face, stopping at the top to receive the carricks which Furian passes up to him. I help. So do Zivan and Linnith. Vannis has disappeared and Ammeline and Koban do the same. There are nine of us left on this quest and it seems not all of us are happy to be here.
I catch Karith’s eye. “How far is left?”
“To Kelfor? A week, maybe more. Across the desert.”
I do the math. It isn’t hard. We have little more than a week of provisions, and it will take us at least a week to get there. If we are lucky. Then we have to find the Rift of the Timeworn and Kelfor itself. These sums don’t add up; however you look at them. And there is nothing I can do to change things.
But then, we were never meant to return.
As we walk away from the Great Chasm and the Karstik Pass I keep looking back. The figures on the other side of the Chasm are getting smaller and smaller. Finally, they disappear altogether.
Azrial talks to the sky. Her watery eyes struggle to pierce the dark to receive the light of the stars.
“There is a great canyon in front of me, Thurifer, but your passing has left a bigger chasm in my soul. I miss you, my friend. Something inside of me falls into nothingness when I think of you. It brings tears into these old eyes and a lump to this crinkled throat.
“I know that neither your passing nor mine will move so much as one leaf of one tree. Death can only highlight our insignificance on this land. To me, however, you were far, far from insignificant. My heart has withered since you left.
“This flesh surrounding me is slowing. I have reached the place I foresaw. It is here that my own blood will gradually still, where this now feeble body will remain through the coming centuries. What is left of it will bleach here under our twin suns, gradually whitening in the heat. I can see that, too.
“I find I am not averse to dying. If one of us had to be left alone, I must be glad that it fell to me. You would have hated this agonizing solitude. It weakens so much. Better that it be me.”
She smiles. “There is nobody to share my thoughts with, no one who can touch my withered hands with tenderness. No one to remember who I have been, who I have loved, how I once laughed.
“It is hard to be the one who remains. To those around me I fear I am nothing more than a desiccated fossil of some other time.
“My heart beats unevenly since you left. It is following some agenda of its own, and many times every day I wonder if it has done with me, if I have already taken my last breath.
“I would have gone with you, if I could. I try to believe that you are between the stars, but I cannot foresee us meeting again. Your very essence disappeared with your death, however much I try to bring you back by thinking of all that we shared.
“I wish I could find some solace in the memories I am left with. I can’t; it is almost as if they have already faded. When I die, they too will be irretrievably erased, as completely as if they had never existed. It hurts me to know them so nearly gone.
“I revert to a child when no one is left to anchor me to my adult self. I am bereft. A young girl again, scared of the dark.
“But I have not long to wait. It will pass quickly. For the moment, all I can do is watch these stars, as we did together, and listen to my own heart
beat falter.”
Quondam Azrial sits staring out at the night sky, her bones aching. The pain is nothing more than a reminder that she is still alive.
8.
The sand gets everywhere. In our eyes, inside our clothes and our shoes. It is windy and it feels as though each gust of sand battering against us is removing another layer of cells.
Coughing and blustering, we stagger on through. Our eyes stream at first and then become dry and grime-ridden as we dehydrate gradually during the day. The first night we hide under the carricks and try to drink enough to enable us to go on the following morning.
We have split into groups. Ammeline and Koban keep themselves to themselves. They rarely speak to us now. Koban usually stalks along, bringing up the rear, watching over Ammeline like a wolf might watch a sheep. Ammeline is in her element. She looks over at us from time to time with triumph in her eyes. I am beginning to change my mind about her. Now I think she is just stupid. She flirts with Koban continually. I suppose she does it just because she can. Her eyes often slide to the rest of us. She wants to know if we notice. If we care.
Vannis has taken to walking next to Linnith. He glances every so often in Doven’s direction, and his black eyes also glitter. He still appears to be amused.
Doven has stopped speaking to most of us and seems absent. I can’t tell what he is feeling, though I walk alongside him most of the time. He paces with his gaze firmly on the ground. He doesn’t want to see what is happening around him. Perhaps he is regretting joining us.
Karith, our pathfinder, is leading. Zivan keeps pace with her, although she is walking a little to one side. Neither woman seeks the company of the other. They are content to walk on individually. Karith has had words with her daughter, but Linnith has taken scant notice of her mother. She is enjoying the attention Vannis is giving her. She keeps twisting her hair around her ear. She is beginning to annoy me too. I am pulled closer and closer to Zivan, even though she would probably laugh at the thought.
Furian is usually to be found next to me, though he always has an eye on Koban. He carries the last of the guns. All but three were damaged and have been abandoned. We left the other two that were still in working order with Jethran and Fimbrian, back at the Karstik Gap. When we stop, he signals to me with his head. We are to continue the kappaltu training. He takes me to one side, behind a small dune of sand, and we practice moves. Over and over again. He too, has become quiet. I mourn my mother, but I am beginning to realize that the others have lost everything, too. None of us can ever go back.
Why did they all do this for me? How could Fimbrian ever bring his granddaughter on such a journey? Kalyka is only eight years old. How can an old man like Fimbrian protect her? It seems such a huge step for all these people. Because, like it or not, they did it for me. Because I am the last orthomancer. Because it is the last chance for our people to escape from the Raths.
I breathe out slowly. From the moment my mother fell from the spar in the dome, life has become inexplicable. And cheap. I see how easy it is to die now. Even though I was a slave, working every day in a job which cripples people, my mother was protecting me, giving me the illusion of continuity. That is what mothers do, after all. Being a slave was normal for me. Leaving the pseudo-security of that life was not a decision I had to make. I don’t think I would have. All the rest of the people here did.
There is no continuity now. Each day only takes us closer to our own deaths. Furian knows it. I know it. Only stupid Ammeline and vain Vannis are too short-sighted to see it. I hear myself think and begin to laugh. I used to want to be like them. Now I can see them as mere pawns in somebody else’s game. Now I want to be different. I want to be as strong as a Rath. I want to be as comfortingly supportive as Furian. I want to question the status quo just like Fimbrian does. I want to meet life with my eyes wide open like Kalyka. And I want to find happiness in the open air, like Torch has.
I take special care to learn my kappaltu lessons well. I must. It gives me hope for the future. I must find myself. I am no longer a young slave, blind to everything else about her. I am an adult now. Able and expected to defend myself and other people. Able and expected to save a whole people from slavery. I don’t yet know what that means, but I am going to try to prepare myself for it. Because most of all I want to be like Zivan.
I practice hard, well into the night. Furian understands. He matches me step for step and I know that we are both the better for it. Tomorrow I shall be stronger. Tomorrow I shall be closer to the person I want to become. I don’t know yet who that is; I only know who it is not.
Back at the Karstik Gap, Azrial is jerked out of her contemplation of the stars by the sound of movement. Sound travels a long way out here on the Plains of Teygar. The Scoriats have come.
She manages to get to her feet, if in an undignified way. She hurries over to Jethran, pulling the gun out of his hands. He wakes instantly, ready to fight for possession of the weapon. The sight of the quondam in front of him calms him, but he is already looking around, alert.
Azrial nods. “They are out there. They have found us. Take Kalyka and run.”
Jethran frowns. He opens his mouth to protest, but she shakes her head.
“It is foreseen, Jethran. I have arrived at the end of my life, and you must leave me here if you and the others are to escape.”
Fimbrian has been awoken by their whispers. “I will stay, too,” he tells them. “Two guns are better than one.”
Azrial frowns at this. She has foreseen only her own death. She tries to recall her vision. Are the bones bleaching in the sun only hers? Do they belong to one person or to two? It is hard to tell. There are few of them and they are scattered.
She sighs. The Scoriats are close. They will be here soon. If Fimbrian stays with her, it is true that Jethran will have more of a chance to escape with Kalyka. Torch is far away, foraging with the skulks, and Rannyl has taken his argents a mile along the side the canyon. They dislike sleeping close to the rest of the group. They should be safe.
Her eyes meet those of Fimbrian. The old man is staring back at her, amused.
“I did not think to die with you, old woman. You are neither of my blood, nor of my choice.”
Azrial tilts her head and seems about to reply rather sharply. But their conversation has woken Kalyka. She has been listening and now there is the beginning of a cry, muffled before it is uttered as Fimbrian’s hand goes to his granddaughter’s mouth, covering it.
He manages to quiet her down. When he lets her go, she is breathing shallowly. “Don’t die, Grandfather!”
His eyes crinkle at the edges. “You are not to be sad, Kally. I will always be in your heart.”
She tries to understand, but cannot. Her forehead crinkles.
Jethran’s face is extremely worried. “I should stay and fight.”
“NO!”
“You cannot!”
Both answers come at the same time.
Azrial stretches herself up. “You will not. I am still Quondam of the Inmuri people, one of the timeworn, and I am ordering you to take this young girl away from here, to keep her safe for the future. Do you understand me?”
He drops his gaze. “I do.”
“And will you carry out my order?”
His jaw moves. He doesn’t like it at all. Finally he agrees. “I will.”
“Then go. Take the girl and as many provisions as you can in one carrick and go. May Niyafora and Kianara protect you both and guide you on your steps to the stars.”
He nods. He moves quickly to his carrick and begins to pack up as much as he can. Kalyka is staring glumly at her grandfather, big tears welling up in her expressive eyes. Fimbrian squats down before the girl, his eyes concerned but smiling.
“Grow strong, young one. Grow straight and true. I will always love you.”
She clutches his leg, trying to drag him away with her. “Grandpa! No!”
He disentangles himself from her as gently as he can. “I must. It is my
time. Your job is to carry on, little one. You go with Jethran.”
Jethran finishes packing the largest carrick. He looks directly at Quondam Azrial. “Where do I take her? Where will she be safe?”
Fimbrian also meets Azrial’s glance. They are all waiting. And they have not got long.
Alternatives sweep through Azrial’s mind. One after another they are discounted. None will work. There is only one way to avoid capture for this large man and little child. They must cross the needle.
She points behind Jethran’s back. His eyes flare for a few moments, then he nods. He knows she is right. There is no alternative.
“We will destroy the needle,” she tells him. “So that you cannot be followed.”
He bites his lip. “That means ...”
“I know. But there was never anywhere to go back to.”
Sudden hope lights his eyes. “Augur, have you perhaps foreseen a ... a favorable outcome to this quest?”
And Azrial lies to him. “I have. Success of the orthomancer is possible, but you must play your part.”
He bends lightly to one knee. “Then I must comply.” He finds a tough piece of cord and begins to lash Kalyka’s small hands together. She whimpers, but Fimbrian bends to kiss her on those hands and then on her small head. He whispers a benediction.
There is little time for more. Jethran grabs the guide cord to the trapeze and drags the wooden crossbar over to him. He scoops Kalyka up and passes her bound hands behind his own neck, so that she cannot fall.
Fimbrian puts his finger to her lip for a second as he moves close to her to bid her goodbye. “Be silent, little one. As silent as you know how.” He touches his forehead to hers.
She nods. Jethran takes his hand away from her mouth and grasps the trapeze, letting the small girl’s body dangle in front of him from his sturdy neck. Then, with a reluctant nod of obedience and deference, he pushes off.
The rope groans with the dual weight, then the trapeze pulls downward toward the floor of the canyon. It begins to pick up speed. Kalyka, still silent, closes her small eyes. So does Fimbrian.
Kelfor- the Orthomancers Page 15