The Godstone

by Violette Malan

  It took a minute for my slow brain to know what Elva was talking about. I wondered how he had guessed that an idea had come to me. Then I remembered that we had been standing with our arms tight around one another. Apparently I was not as impassive as I thought.

  “Arlyn is low,” I said. The look on his face invited me to explain. “Not just low in energy like the men in the hotel. That’s not what causes it. In fact, it’s the other way around. The lowness drains him of energy. It’s not unhappiness,” I explained. “That’s temporary, it passes. If not treated, the lowness is permanent. It develops into a despair that deepens and deepens. In the early phases, Arlyn might fly into a rage, or begin to cry—either or both for little or no reason. Eventually he becomes unable to summon the energy to do the simplest things. Nothing seems worth the effort. Suicide begins to seem reasonable, death welcome.”

  “How is it he didn’t kill himself before now?” Elva rose to his feet and paced in the small space between my stool and the window.

  “He tried,” I said. “Apparently suicide is not an option for practitioners. Then I came to his village, and I have kept him level ever since.” Elva stood still and I watched his face as he sorted through what I had told him. I could almost tell what ideas occurred to him as they passed through his mind.

  “Does this mean that the Godstone is low as well?” He sat down on the bed again.

  “I do not know, but I believe I can find out.”

  I described to Elva how I leveled Arlyn. “I’ve never done it without touching him, but I have treated him so many times it may have created the right kind of bond between us. I should be able to reach him. In any case it’s worth a try. If he is low, and I can find him in the fog, we might be able to communicate without the Godstone knowing.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “Would we be in any worse position than we are right now?”

  “Are you joking? He’ll know we’re alive. That pretty much ensures he’ll come after us, don’t you think?”

  “I see it as a chance I—we—have to take.”

  He studied my face, his brows drawn together and his lips parted as though he meant to speak. Finally he nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Watch over me. Make sure I wake up again. Call my name if I sleep too long.”

  I wondered how Elva would react to the idea of such a passive role, but I did him an injustice. He had been a guard for years in his first life. Then a soldier and sheriff in his second. Young as he appeared, he was no boy who needed action to prove himself. He left me the bed, and took the room’s small stool for himself, sitting with his knees almost touching the rough wool blanket. He set one of his pistols on the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress, near to hand, and made sure the other was loose and ready in its holster.

  “Just wake me up, do not shoot me.” I was rewarded by a slight quirk to his lips. I lay down in the center of the bed. “A good thing we were not planning to sleep here,” I said. “The bed is just barely wide enough for two of us.”

  “We called it a wedding bed when I was young,” he said. “Perfect for those first few months when a married couple find it easy to sleep closely together. Before children and the rest of life’s interruptions change their sleeping habits. As a practitioner you probably called it something different.”

  “I would have called it too small,” I said. Smiling, I closed my eyes and began to breathe deeply, tying my breathing to the rhythm of the forran I chanted to myself.

  It took me so long to find Arlyn that I began to doubt whether my idea would work. When finally I arrived at the beach, I found that instead of the familiar white sand, the beach was now pebbled with small black, cream, and brown stones, rounded smooth by time, water, and each other. They compacted well, and made for comfortable walking, more comfortable, in a way, than dry sand. As much as I looked around me, however, I could not see any fog. To my right lay the sea; the view to my left was blocked by cliffs I had never seen before. A salt line on the rock face showed where the water would be when the tide came in. I would be swimming if I stayed here long enough.

  There were no clouds, and yet I could not see the sun. The sky was a dull, even silver-gray as though I stood under a huge pewter bowl.

  I followed the cliff around a jumble of black and jagged rocks. In the distance, I saw Arlyn sitting on an upthrust rock, his feet flat on the pebbled beach in front of him, his hands palm down on his thighs. Though we were still some way apart, I could not be wrong in my identification. The leveling forran connected me only to him. For the longest time my walking did not bring Arlyn any closer, and I began to worry. Some quality of sea, light, rock, or beach combined to distort my perspective. I had never spent so long a time in this place, and I wondered how much time was passing for Elva.

  It grew harder to walk, my feet slipping back slightly with each step I took. Finally I stopped and crouched down, placing my palms flat on the pebbles. They were damp and cool, and for a moment I felt I should lie down. I sang a forran of greeting and unity until that feeling passed. A wind arose, blowing my hair to one side and then the other as I straightened to my feet, arms spread wide to the salty air. When I set off once again, my feet moved swiftly, the pebbles no longer shifting under them, until I finally stood next to Arlyn.

  He looked older than I had ever seen him, drawn as if he had lost more weight than was healthy. His eyes were closed, but I could see them moving behind the lids, as though I had come upon him dreaming.

  “Arlyn, can you hear me?”

  At first I thought he could not, or that perhaps he had chosen not to answer me. Or feared to. “You may speak to me,” I assured him. “It is Fenra.”

  “I’m dreaming,” he said without opening his eyes. “He’s asleep, but I’m dreaming. He doesn’t dream, so he can’t follow me here.”

  “Arlyn, can you see me?” I thought he would open his eyes, but he only turned toward the sound of my voice. His face changed, however, as if he saw me.

  “Fenra. I’m so sorry.” He turned his face down and away, letting his head hang. “I should have stayed away. I thought I could fix it. I always thought I could fix it. Even the things that never needed fixing in the first place.” He looked at me again, with his closed eyes. “I meant to use you to fix it. I’m sorry.”

  “I knew, and I agreed,” I reminded him.

  “Sacrifice anything,” is what he said, as if he had not heard me. “Anyone. The destination is more important than the journey.”

  “That’s contrary to the general philosophy,” I said. I sat down cross-legged in front of him on the damp pebbles. They were surprisingly comfortable. I wondered if the tide would stay away while we were here. So much depended on whether “here” was in my mind or in Arlyn’s.

  “I knew better,” he said. “I knew better, I know better, I know best. I don’t make mistakes, I didn’t make mistakes, I never make mistakes. Others do but not me. I never do.”

  It seemed he would go on saying this forever, round and round, if I did not stop him. I took his right wrist in my practitioner’s hand and held firmly when he tried to pull away. “Arlyn. Listen to me. You know better now. You are trying to fix the damage you have done. We must go on trying. That is the important thing.”

  “But how? You’re dead. You can’t help me kill him.” He sat straighter, the different expression flashing across his face and disappearing again. I had seen that look before. He had thought of something.

  “Tell me.”

  He had slumped again. “I thought for a minute that you could kill me. I think that would kill him as well. But you’re already dead, so that won’t work.”

  “I am not dead, Arlyn. I escaped the chaos.”

  “I know that’s what I’d wish for, if I had my wish. This is only a dream. I can’t bear it and yet I don’t want to wake up.”

  “In that case I would li
ke you to wish for some drier place.” He did not react. “Does he know you are dreaming?”

  “This is too much.” The words and the tone were such that you would expect the person uttering them to bury their head in their hands, but except for the restless eyes behind their lids, Arlyn never moved.

  “Arlyn, you are low. Let me level you.”

  “No!” So little was I expecting it that he was able to pull his hands away from mine before I could stop him. “No,” he said again, more quietly. “I can bear it. It slows him down. He doesn’t know it, but it slows him down.”

  “How is it the lowness came so suddenly?” I doubted he knew the answer, but I had to ask.

  A faded version of his grin appeared on his face. “You did it,” he said. “When he was pushing you, and you were trying to save yourself. You tried to make him too weak to hold you, and you made me low instead.”

  “Arlyn, does he feel the lowness? Does he know what it is?”

  “No. I don’t know. I think—run! Fenra, run! He’s waking up.”

  * * *

  Elvanyn

  Normally Elva found cleaning his guns soothing, restful. Like a meditation. Now, however, though he’d cleaned both of them, he didn’t feel any of the calm he usually did. He thought about doing it again.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he said aloud. He’d already learned speaking wouldn’t break into Fenra’s forran. He hoped it was working, whatever it was she was doing. He hoped he’d be able to wake her up if she was in there too long. He wished she’d told him how long “too long” actually was. Maybe he should wake her now.

  Fenra gasped as if in response to his thought, eyes flying open, panting as though she’d been running. Elva re-holstered the guns he’d drawn in reflex and helped her sit up, holding the cup of water for her until she was steady enough to hold it herself.

  “Did you find him?” She nodded without speaking. “And?”

  She held up a hand, palm out, and Elva sat back on his heels, waiting as patiently as he could for her breathing to slow to normal. “He believes he is dreaming. He does not know I was really there.”

  “Where ‘there’ means a place that doesn’t exist.”

  She cuffed him and he grinned at her. “You know perfectly well what I mean,” she said.

  “How much did this tire you?” He had never seen her skin so ashy. Even her hair looked limp.

  “Does that window open? Fresh air should help.”

  No one wasted glass on an attic window. Come to think of it, Elva doubted he’d find a glazed window in the whole place. The whole block if it came to that. He turned the wooden toggle holding the shutters closed and tugged at them. Nothing moved. At first he thought the shutters had been nailed shut, but he couldn’t find any nail heads.

  “The wood’s all swollen and warped,” Fenra said from behind him. He looked over his shoulder. She sat gripping the edge of the bed with her eyes closed. “It’s the damp air coming off the sea,” she added, her eyes still shut. “We’re very close to the water here.”

  Elva glanced around the room but saw nothing he could use to pry open the swollen wood. Grimacing, he pulled free the pistol hanging on his right side. He hated to use a gun this way, but he didn’t see another option. Reversing his hold, he hammered at the shutters with the grip until he’d chipped off enough wood to force one open.

  Fenra was already standing, and he helped her position the stool under the open window so she could put her face directly into the cool breeze that blew through the narrow opening. The air smelled of salt, and fish, and faintly of rot. She held onto the edge of the windowsill with both hands, finally stretching her practitioner’s hand out into the air.

  “It’s raining.” She pulled her cupped hand back in and wiped the rain she’d collected onto her face. The air must be doing her good, he thought. She was looking better already.

  * * *

  Arlyn

  Phoenix Plaza looks much the same as always, eating places, private clubs, a couple of private homes in the streets immediately around the huge square. Late, but still horses and carriages, private and for hire. I think about taking one, almost raise my hand, but where would I go?

  “Here now, fellow, had a bit too much, have we?”

  A grip on my arm, holding me up. Voice friendly, half amused. I struggle to get my feet under me, stop myself from brushing him away. There’s a darkness, a blank in my memory. I don’t remember sitting down. I nod at the man who helps me, convince him I’m well enough to leave. He doesn’t want to stay, just to help.

  “What was that?” I ask as soon as the other man rejoins his friends.

  “Told you, body needs rest.”

  “And I told you I wanted to see the stars.”

  “Now you’ve seen them, can we rest?”

  I take a deep breath, look around to check my bearings, freeze.

  “It’s different,” I say.

  “It’s the City,” I said.

  “Yes, but a moment ago there were carriages for hire, and gas lamps. Look.” I point, he looks up, simultaneously. “There are cords strung across the streets, oil lanterns hanging from them.”

  “Different,” I said, craning upward to see. “I didn’t do this.”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  * * *

  Fenra

  “Elva,” I said.

  “Yes, I’m getting up, don’t worry.”

  “No, look at me.”

  He rolled over and swung his feet onto the floor. “You look fine, why?”

  I felt like an idiot. Of course I looked “fine” to him now that I was rested. “My clothing has changed again,” I told him. “The cut is very similar, but the lapels and cuffs are wider, and look, the waistcoat is single-breasted.” I held out the garment for his inspection.

  “My guns?” he asked me.

  “Unchanged.” The look of relief on his face made me touch him on the shoulder. “Your clothes also,” I added. “At least, the ones you brought from the New Zone.”

  “What happened?”

  I pulled on my waistcoat and began doing up the—single-breasted—buttons. “The Mode changed sometime in the night,” I told him.

  “His—its doing?”

  I sat down on the bed a little more heavily than I planned. This had shaken me more than I realized. “He meant to bring everything up to the same level as the City, not the other way around.” He had not destroyed the world, but things were getting worse, not better.

  * * *

  • • •

  The boy had said his name was Oleander, which I doubted very much. He neither dressed nor spoke in such a way to persuade me his parents would have chosen such a name.

  “Maybe,” he informed me when I asked him about it, “but it’s my name now.”

  As far as I could see, his clothing hadn’t changed significantly from the night before, but then, servants’ clothing lags behind changes in fashion. He had put his lamp away, now that it wasn’t needed, and stood ready to run any message or deliver any parcel—or carry it behind someone while they shopped. He was neatly enough dressed for that.

  “He were up early,” he said around a huge mouthful of the turnover stuffed with cooked egg and onion we had given him for breakfast. I made a sign that he should swallow before continuing. I did not want him choking on our account. “Wanted a horse and all. He comes out to the stable yard and stands around, but no one comes to serve him, so I goes in and he tells me to fetch him out a horse and saddle it.”

  “You should never have done that,” I said, my heart pounding. “You could have been killed.”

  “I’m here, ain’t I? So calm yourself.” The child had the nerve to smile at me. “I ask him if he needs a guide, or a lunch packed for him—see, I was trying to get him to say where he was going.”

  I shook my head.
Only the young were brave—or foolhardy—enough to take this kind of risk.

  “Get to the point, ragamuffin, or there’s no second breakfast for you.”

  Oleander shot Elvanyn a grin that showed a bit of egg caught in his teeth. “So he says never mind, he figures he can find his way to the next county by himself.” “County” is what mundanes call the Modes.

  “Did he mention any particular place?” Elva asked.

  The boy shrugged, licked his fingertip and blotted up the crumbs on his plate with it. He looked at Elva with eyebrows raised and he gave a nod to the woman behind the bar counter. Oleander waited until another egg turnover was on its way before continuing. “I figure it’s to the town, where else?”

  “How do you figure that?” I asked before Elva could.

  “No luggage, no food,” the boy said smugly. “Not going to sleep rough, is he? ‘Gentleman’ like him can’t be planning to go much further without a change of clothes, so’s likely to be heading for a place where he won’t need them, or he can buy more.”

  “Sound enough reasoning,” Elva said.

  The boy sat back, satisfaction on his face along with a smear of butter from the pastry in his hand. I hoped he was not still hungry; Elva could not have many coins left, and I had no more letters of credit. I thought with regret of the basket in Medlyn’s vault.

  “You’ve thought of something,” Elva said.

  “Someone has to,” Oleander murmured under his breath.

  “We must go.” I got to my feet.

  Oleander crammed in the last mouthful of turnover and stood up, dusting the crumbs off his hands onto his trousers.

  “We will no longer require your services,” I said while he was still trying to swallow.

  As the boy choked on his food, Elva thumped him on the back, looking at me with raised eyebrows. I shook my head minutely and touched my cravat. Elva gave the merest shrug and sat the boy down, handing him the dregs of the beer in his mug.