by Victor Poole
Ajalia was determined that she would not faint. She did not want to wake up alone in an alley somewhere, or out on the edge of the woods. She fought to keep aware of herself. After a mighty struggle, she opened her eyes. A cavernous hole of black was in front of her face. She gasped in fear; a deadly energy, like some absorbing monster of the night, emanated from the hole.
"No!" Ajalia said. She spoke clearly, in Slavithe. Her vision was blurry; she gripped Delmar's arm. "Don't take me in there," she pleaded. "It's evil."
The deep shade passed over her face, and a kind of deadness came into her ribs. Everything seemed to be over; she looked within herself, and saw nothing but night and despair. The echoes of her family were coming back, reaching out from the pit she had buried the memories in long ago. She no longer tried to breathe; a trickle of air tickled irritatingly at the very back of her throat; the tingling lights cleared away from her eyes, and she saw that she was inside a narrow passage. Ahead was a long, low rim of light. She could hear the sound of Delmar's shoes, and the drag of her own feet. She put a hand to her robe, and felt for the outline of the leather book, the book that Bakroth had written. The outlines of the book were still there, concealed beneath her robe. When Delmar drew near the rim of light, she saw a splash of dark blood staining the edge of her long cream sleeve.
"Delmar, where are you taking me?" Ajalia asked. She heard herself with a curious echo; water seemed to have filled up the chambers of her ears, and when Delmar replied, his voice sounded flat and distant.
"I'm going to pick you up now," he said. She heard him grunt gently, but she could not feel his arms around her. "There's a drop. Go back now, Leed. Get the bag I told you about. Leave it right here, in the wall. I'll get it later."
Ajalia heard the quick patter of feet. A grinding noise accompanied a flood of fresh air, and a cacophony of birdsong, and chattering insects. There was sunlight, but it was dampened by a mass of warm shadow. Delmar settled Ajalia tightly against his side, and slid down from a great height. Ajalia felt the jar when they landed; he let out an expulsion of air. He put her down in earth. She watched him climb up the white wall of Slavithe, and close up a gaping shadow with a thick slab of stone. The same red shadows were there, and the cracks. The wall here had many fractures; the stone seemed to be bruised with red, and there were myriad cracks that led up to an opening that Delmar was closing up with a great stone.
"There's a hole in the wall," she said. She thought there had been something about a hole from before, but she couldn't remember. Delmar dropped down the wall to her side, and looked into her eyes.
"You look better," he said. "Do you think you can walk?"
"Probably," she said. "Help me take this off," she added, struggling to rise. "My shirt," she said, when Delmar stared at her. "There's blood on my sleeve," she said impatiently. "I don't like washing blood out. It's hard."
"You can throw it away," Delmar said. "You work for a cloth merchant."
"He's a silk trader," Ajalia said, trying to pull off her robe. Her elbows felt like mush. She sighed. "Never mind," she said. "I can't get it off."
"Come on," Delmar said. He glanced down the wall, at the place far down the white stones where the gate lay.
"Well," Ajalia said grimly, "I don't feel so good anymore." She was sitting up, but a horrible buzzing was climbing up her back. She didn't think standing was going to work out very well.
"They come down here sometimes," Delmar said urgently. "To check."
"Then help me," Ajalia said. Delmar put her arm around his neck, and pulled her to her feet.
Ajalia contained the stream of colorful language that threatened to spill out of her mouth with difficulty.
"Why don't you leave me here," she said quietly, "and I will curl up into a ball and die."
"This way," Delmar said, supporting her into the trees. He had changed somehow; he looked guilty and ashamed. When they had gone a little distance into the undergrowth, and the trees blocked out all but fragments of the great white wall, Ajalia stopped moving her feet.
"Stop," she said. An ugly stitch was growing in her side; she thought she might black out again. She pulled her arm away from Delmar's neck, and leaned full against a tree.
"I'm going to sit here," she announced, blinking slowly, "and I'm going to have a chat with you."
"We should keep going," Delmar said nervously.
"Something about your tone," Ajalia said, "is disturbing to me. What's the matter?" She hugged the trunk of the tree to help her get down to the ground, and then sat and leaned against the trunk. A gush of air ran out of her body when her butt reached the ground; her relief at sitting again was enormous. She had thought, out in the road to Talbos, that the pain and nausea Delmar had awoken in her flesh was the worst pain she had ever experienced. It was wasteful pain, needless, roiling darkness that twisted to and fro within her, and had no outlet. This pain was not like the pain of blood, or injuries, or infection, or broken bones; it was a rending of her soul. She had thought then, and she had thought after that as well, when the dizziness and the weakness had grown, that the pain was as bad as pain could be. But now, sitting in the woods, with the buzz of insects, and the exotic cries of strange birds, with the pool of darkness spilling out into her chest, and trickling relentlessly up her neck and through her face, streaming like evil starlight out of her eyes, now she knew that her pain before had been but a tremor of what was yet to come.
Ajalia could feel the past shifting within her.
"Are you afraid of me?" she asked Delmar. The Thief Lord's oldest son was glancing behind at the place where the wall was; he looked like a frightened child. He did not seem to hear her; she laughed breathlessly.
"You know," she said, leaning her head back against the tree, "when I first met you, out here in the woods, and you chased me down, I wanted to hide in the limbs of a tree until you wandered away. You didn't go away, and then I talked to you, and then you followed me home. I thought, as I got to know you better, that you were someone like me. But now I see that you are a parasite. I would like you," she said clearly, "to go away now. I will fend for myself," she said, "with my knife and my wits, and you can do with yourself as you like. Run home to your mother, and starve yourself merrily to death."
Ajalia felt enormously relieved by this speech; a flow of energy came through her arms and her neck; with a feeling of reckless abandon, she decided to try standing again. She clung to the tree, and got to her feet. Delmar was still standing with his head turned back towards the wall, his eyes full of a vague distress, his mouth unhappy and weak.
"Filthy foreigner," Ajalia muttered in the Eastern tongue, and walked away into the woods.
BLOOD AND PAIN
Her anger pulsed like lightning through her thighs; she began to feel powerful again. The drops of blood were catching in the long sleeves of her shift. Ajalia was filled with an unholy rage at the sight of the blood, as it spread gradually through the creamy fabric of her undershirt.
"I like this shirt," Ajalia said firmly in the Eastern tongue, taking the leather book from her robe and dropping it unceremoniously on the ground. "I am saving this shirt. I said I wanted to save this shirt," she said, "and I am going to save this shirt." She pulled off her outer robe, and with an effort that cost every ounce of determination, she tugged at her shift. The harness of her knife was still hooked around her ribs, and it kept the shift from moving.
"Oh," she said, and tried to laugh. Her fingers fumbled over the clasps in the leather. She was standing; she rocked gently as though in a great wind, shifting her legs to keep her balance.
"What are you doing?" Delmar asked. He had wandered over behind her, and he picked up her robe.
"What is wrong with you?" Ajalia demanded. "Sometimes I talk to you, and you don't listen at all."
"What are you saying?" Delmar asked. "Are you delirious?"
Ajalia stared at him, her knife harness hanging open around her.
"What?" she asked.
"What
are you saying?" Delmar repeated. "I can't understand you."
"I was cursing you out in your own language, you dimwit," Ajalia snapped. "What is wrong with you?" Delmar looked at the ground and shuffled his feet.
"Well, you said a bunch of things in another language after that part," he muttered. "I thought maybe it was important."
Ajalia stared at Delmar. She could think of nothing scathing enough to say to him.
"You feel better, I guess," he said lamely.
"Go away," she said irritably, pulling her harness free and thrusting it at him. "And hold that," she snapped. "I don't know why I put this back on," she went on, tearing her shift up over her head. Delmar uttered a soft cry like a wounded animal, and spun away.
"Give me your shirt, you baby," Ajalia snapped.
"I'm not a baby," Delmar retorted, his back to her. Ajalia reached around him and snatched the leather harness back. She strapped it over her bare torso.
"Everything I have on is basically white," Ajalia said. "You're wearing cheap brown. Give me your shirt." Delmar glanced over his shoulder at her.
"What if I say no?" he said. Ajalia was so angry at him that she wanted to cry, but when she saw the wounded, petulant look on his face, she burst into laughter. "What are you laughing about?" he demanded. "I'm really hurt."
"Keep your shirt," she said, scooping up her things. She got the leather book, and put her outer robe on again, careful to keep the fabric away from her arms. "This is going to be a nightmare to clean," she said, lifting the shift's sleeves into the light as she tramped farther into the forest.
"Do you faint a lot, or something?" Delmar demanded, following her.
"Why are you following me?" Ajalia cried, turning on him. Delmar's face crumpled; he looked genuinely crushed. The innocent wanting in his eyes overwhelmed her; she did not know how to be angry at him and make it stick.
"Show me your hiding place," she said. A rumble of twisting agony was rising up from her knees; she pushed it down again.
"Why are you better all of a sudden?" Delmar asked. "You were really sick before. I had to help you." Ajalia turned from him, and crashed through the underbrush of the forest; she thought that if she moved quickly enough, she could outrun the demons that were stealthily unfolding inside of her. "You couldn't walk," Delmar added helpfully, as if Ajalia had forgotten.
She pressed the leather book back into her robe as she walked, and put the shift around her neck like a scarf. She felt as though she were outrunning a plague of sickness; she thought that if she moved faster, she would get ahead of it, and it would not capture her.
"Hey," Delmar called, running to catch up. "Hey, Jay, talk to me."
"Don't call me that," Ajalia said.
"Why are we fighting?" Delmar asked. "We were friends this morning. You let me kiss you and everything."
Ajalia stumbled against a tree root; she put a hand against the smooth yellow bark. It was the same kind of tree that Card had been pounding a hard red fruit out of.
"What was in that hole?" Ajalia asked. The fruity smell of the tree had made her think of blood, and thinking of blood reminded her of the white, crackling scabs forming over her bruised and bloodied scarred arms. She looked at Delmar. "The hole in the wall," she said. "It felt evil, like your father." And like my father, she thought, but didn't say.
Delmar looked away from her. His eyes were skittering nervously over the ground.
"I guess you're okay now," he said hoarsely. "You said you wanted me to go."
"Stop!" Ajalia said. She moved forward and grabbed at Delmar. He was walking backwards, trying to melt back through the trees.
"Delmar!" she shouted. She got hold of him by the arm, and held his wrist tightly. "I tried to run away from you," she said quickly, "on the road to Talbos, and you didn't let me run away."
"I hurt you," Delmar said. His voice was low, and quick, and empty. "I hurt you, and now all the bad things will come."
"Delmar, you helped me, and now I'm going to help you," she said. "You can't leave me out here."
"You told me to leave, I'm going to leave," Delmar said. He sounded like a child.
"Come here," Ajalia said, pulling at him.
"No," Delmar said. He was starting to cry. "You don't want me. No one wants me." Ajalia wiped the tears from his cheeks.
"Show me your hiding place," she said. He glared at her.
"No more telling me you hate me," he said.
"I never said I hated you," Ajalia reminded him.
"Well, I felt like you said that," he amended.
"Then that's a conversation you need to have with yourself," Ajalia said, "because I never said I hated you."
Delmar looked at her suspiciously.
"Hmph," he said. "You called me stupid."
"Well," she said evenly, "that's because you are stupid."
He made a very slow face at her.
"I'm not," he said. She grimaced. They held each others' gaze for a long time. "Fine," he said. He began to walk north, following the line of the white wall.
"What was in that hole in the wall?" Ajalia asked again. She pushed up the wall of darkness that was tumbling down inside of her. She had never let that wall down; she had no idea what would happen if it fell. She imagined that she would become a creature of darkness herself, if the flood of hidden things spilled over the barriers that were strong around her heart. The walls had gone up before she could remember not having them. They had always been there, making a difference between her and her father, standing as a kind of permanent memorial to her desire to be other than him.
Ajalia looked up. Delmar had been speaking to her, and she had not heard a word that he had said. A warm flush, like a fever, was spreading over her face; her jaw felt swollen and stiff with dread. Ahead of them, a yellow bird flashed up out of the foliage and screamed. Ajalia collapsed too suddenly to catch herself; she fought to stay conscious, but the edges of everything were turning rusty and dark, stained with ugly night. The sound shut out; she could hear her heart beat, and nothing more. The leather book pressed over her ribs, one corner of it jutting into her arm. She wished she could stop having physical sensations. She felt alone in a howling wilderness of dark. The sky was blotted out with a map of evil clouds. Pain, deep, like the teeth of dogs, ran jagged around her spine. She tried to stop breathing. Delmar was shouting something. Ajalia had started to shake; she could see herself, as if from some distance away, shaking like a dying thing. She told herself it was silly to convulse. She tried to stand up, and almost succeeded. With an effort, she got up onto her hands and knees; she closed her eyes, and waited for the darkness to recede. She looked within herself; the wall was yet intact. Cracks and seams, like horrible premonitions, showed jagged through the wall. She knew then, or she thought she knew, that it would fall soon, and then she would be lost.
"I'm going to change," she said, her eyes closed, her fingers clenched into the hot soil of the forest floor. She could feel Delmar nearby. When she opened her eyes, she saw his knees on the ground next to her. She looked sideways and saw him watching her with a white, terrified face.
"I'm going to change into somebody else," she told him, "and then you have to go away from me."
"No," Delmar said. "That isn't true. I'm afraid of that, too, but that isn't going to happen."
"You don't know," Ajalia said. She raised one knee until her foot was firmly on the ground. "I'm going to stand up," she said. "And I'm going to walk for a while."
"Why do you keep falling down?" Delmar asked.
"I don't want to talk about it," Ajalia said. She gradually got to her feet. Her balance was better. The darkness fell back a little.
"But you're fine right now," Delmar said.
"I'll probably die in five minutes," Ajalia told him. She stepped into the forest shadows.
"I hope not," Delmar said fervently, following her, "but I want you to be okay."
Ajalia tried very hard not to laugh. She had given up on the idea of normalcy when the
first wetland brand had burned into her skin. As a child, she had heard of the wetlands. The wetlands were the horrible place where bad children were sent; Ajalia had figured that they were a myth, right up until the day that her mother brought home the first trader. He hadn't wanted Ajalia because she was too young, and the second trader thought she was too skinny. Ajalia had made sure not to be at home when the third trader came by. She had been riding the chestnut horse away towards the north country slave markets. After two weeks, she'd been picked up by a caravan heading west, and a week after that, she'd been poached by a wetlands trader who was moving through the trade roads, trying to pick up children to take into the savage far west, to sell in the horrible wetlands slave markets.
"Did you hear what I said?" Delmar asked. Ajalia blinked several times. She had been stumbling through the undergrowth in Delmar's wake, her legs moving as if through thick water.
"What did you say?" Ajalia asked. A maw of black came up around her from behind. Ajalia knew she was going to faint; she pushed herself against the nearest tree, and scraped the bruised and scabbed scars on her left arm savagely against the bark.
Hot rods of blistering pain shot up her left arm and into her skull. She screamed. Blood began to pour freely from the largest scar, which now hung, half scabbed, from her wrist. Shaking miserably, she pulled the cream shift from around her neck. With her free hand, she pushed the fabric against the flood of blood. Hollow nausea gaped in her chest.
"Why did you do that?!" Delmar cried in alarm. Ajalia's head was spinning, and blood was soaking into her long shirt, but she had kept herself from fainting.
"There's a lot of blood," Ajalia told Delmar. She had gone partially blank; she couldn't think of why she was in the woods, or what Delmar was doing there with her.
"Can I help you?" Delmar asked. His voice was high and frantic. Ajalia shrugged. She pressed hard on the cloth, and when the desire to vomit died down a little, she pulled back the fabric, and began to tie the wound down hard with the sleeve of the shift. When she came to the end of the sleeve, she held the binding in place with her teeth, and drew her knife with her free hand.
