Did You Never Dream of Flying?
Page 4
couple of squirrels.
By the time they cleared the woodland, the sun was high enough to offer some warmth. The low, broad sweep of what Atla had grown up thinking of as the northern plains had little to break the wind, but Pevan pushed the range of her Gates until they were making what must have been a mile at a time.
Before long, they began to see occasional farmhouses with smoke rising from chimneys. Pevan forbade a stop for food on the grounds that the farmers would need everything they had at this time of year. Some of the buildings had clearly suffered from the quake, too, slates or shingles replaced by sheets, or stonework crumbling at the corners.
The first time Atla spotted red brick instead of stone, his heart jumped. The sprawling house wasn't thatched, but it was a palpable reminder of home. He was surprised to feel how much of a pang the sight brought him, but he said nothing. Maybe Chag was feeling the same way, but maybe Pevan wouldn't like to think of how far from home she was.
Eventually, they did stop at a village to get food. They left Chag in a low thicket a good half-mile from the huddle of neat little houses, Pevan treating him to a no-nonsense lecture that left the little man's ears bright red. The place was called Hullen, a name Atla vaguely recognised, and its wizened Four Knot insisted they stay for a proper lunch as well as taking a generous pack with them. It was hard to say no, but Pevan managed to hurry them away after less than an hour.
The Four Knot, Yolie, pointed them more West than South and bade them return on their way back North. Pevan matched the old woman's enthusiasm with profuse thanks, but as she dropped through their Gate out of there, Atla caught her rolling her eyes in exasperation. When Chag had the temerity to complain of the delay, she gave him short shrift, insisting he eat on the move.
They crossed the River Anyil within sight of the ford at Doverin, and soon after, the hill that marked the Gorhilt Sherim rose out of the fields ahead. Gorhilt was still a dozen miles away to the South, of course, and the pastures ended in a sturdy wall while the hill was still an unsettling lump on the horizon, but at least they were in sight of it.
Pevan brought them out of a Gateway a hundred yards or so from the foot of the hill and insisted they walk from there. When Chag griped, Atla plumbed his Gift and was surprised to find Pevan entirely justified. Though he could feel only a gentle rippling on the surface, deeper sensitivity told him there were titanic currents stirring below the surface like the wake of a leviathan. Out-voted, Van Raighan gave in.
It was not an unpleasant day for a walk. They tacked back and forth across the steep sides of the hill, scrambling where necessary, letting the sun and the wind balance their temperature. Pevan quickly built up a bit of a lead while Chag struggled. Atla hung back near the little man, worrying that maybe Pevan had been too hard on him.
Above, Pevan slipped and cursed. Atla looked up, opened his mouth and stopped. The Sherim was still up there, and speaking could be dangerous. Pevan gave him a thumbs-up and slid down to rejoin him, halfway between sitting and lying down as she scuffled over the grass. Even splayed right out flat, she managed to slide too far, and had to grab handfuls of grass to catch herself. She stopped just short of ploughing into Chag.
Grinning, she said, "It's pretty lively up there. How's the Sherim work?"
"Um... you sort of walk across the top of the hill and keep walking," Atla ventured. "If you do it right, you don't end up going down the other side." The realisation that he couldn't offer any more than that was like someone reaching a hand into his guts and twisting. He looked to Chag for support.
The little man wiped sweat from his brow and gave a more detailed explanation. Atla listened and tried not to look too relieved when Chag brought up things he'd completely forgotten about, like the precise moment to spin on the spot before starting to mindwalk.
Pevan took it all in, pausing only occasionally to ask about details. Between the three of them, they sorted out the exact process. They shared the canteen around - refilled in Hullen, they had plenty, even with Chag's apparently desperate thirst - and Pevan said, "Alright, no talking until we're in the Second Realm. Once we're there, talk to the scenery, not each other. Atla goes first."
He took a deep breath and nodded. As guide, it was his duty. Chag treated him to a long look that was almost sceptical but somehow still welcome, then nodded too.
A breath of wind ran through him, a reminder that the day was only warm because they'd been climbing. Atla took a last slug from the canteen and handed it to Pevan to tuck into the pack. That done, he began to climb. As he moved past Pevan, she whispered, "No nerves. This is who you are."
He glanced at her, wondering what Chag made of the tone in her voice. Her face was impassive but not unkind, and she nodded him onward with only the faintest of motions. He complied, breathing easier despite the exertion of tackling the hill straight on.
Beneath the surface of his Gift, the leviathan thrashed. He held his peace, glancing back to see the plain laid out behind them. Lefal and Gorhilt were both in the wrong direction, obscured by the bulk of the hill, but he could count half a dozen other villages and towns that he'd probably visited on his journey North, some of them little more than smoke-plumes from this distance.
As the hill started to level out, he felt his Gift beginning to boil. The bubbles shot down his spine, squeezing into every joint until he had to stop and crouch down to work his ribs back into place. He could feel the Wild Power in the air, too, crackling through his shirt and the blanket now rolled and tied to his pack.
He stood, reeling briefly as the Sherim surged to the surface of his Gift, spraying his awareness high and wide. Shaking his head seemed to settle it back to merely turbulent. The hilltop awaited, grass straggling away from the near-perfect dome of bald stone that marked the Sherim itself. Some trick of the light showed him the ripples of distorted Realmspace he would shortly be walking up.
Pevan and Chag clambered up behind him, and he spared them a quick glance. He put a hand to the back of his neck, felt for the writhing monster hiding in the depths there. It came to him, tame but temperamental, and he welcomed it with all the warmth he could muster.
The hilltop became his world, as if a thick, gloomy mist had carpeted the plain. His own steps as he started forwards set ripples through him, up and down his arm and through his heart. A tingle running through the hairs on his arms announced contact with the Sherim's surface.
With careful steps, Atla spun on the spot, swinging his gaze across the sky. Dimmed as if through painted glass, the sun whirled around him, and he let himself stumble into the next step forward. Behind him, Pevan and Chag would be following in step, depending on his Gift for guidance. The hill seemed to be at the centre of the world, endless sea and sky on all sides.
Another step brought him closer to the very top. Already, he knew, there would be a tense gap between the grass and his boot-soles. Not anything anyone could see, but he could feel it caressing the bottom of his feet. Soon there'd be something worth noticing. Anticipation made his Gift coil loops through itself, waves crashing and reverberating through the whole structure.
The Sherim tightened, silent like a patient predator. Atla held his head high, unafraid. This was his duty, his moment. Who you are, Pevan's voice whispered. He almost faltered at the thought of her watching, but no. He held himself. The others were depending on him.
He spun again, right at the peak of the hill. The top of the world. His Gift reared up, triumphant. Somewhere below him, the ground began to fall away. Look, ma, I'm flying. He grinned, held the chuckle inside, felt its light spread out from him anyway. The Sherim's waiting presence sent a shiver through him.
Of course, there was no answer to his joy. Mother had never been terribly impressed with his antics. Tides surged, churning deeper than the bay at Vessit during the quake. He stepped forward again, knowing that the world below had no interest in the miracle he enjoyed. Ahead, the sun fixed itself in his path, light glinting through the level folds of the Sherim.
The leviath
an roared in the deep, and he spun again on cue, whirling the sun out of the way. Better to hide his Gift and keep the experience for himself if no-one else wanted it.
No, not quite no-one else. Somewhere behind him were the Gifted he'd given himself over to.
Something passed gently over him and the crashing of his Gift began to subside.
He'd given himself over. How was he left to have anything himself, then?
In defiance of physics, the water flattened still. The Second Realm, in its pure form. Unbound by human concepts.
He skimmed a stone over the surface, watching the ripples mix and clash. After five bounces, the stone turned and came back towards him. Four bounces, and it stung the inside of his finger as it leapt back into his grasp. The perfect circles of the ripples distorted as they ran over shallow patches, knots of consciousness that marked out the basic features of the landscape. Where the ripples met the walls of the Court, they ran up tiny white crests and rebounded.
That much he could do without causing any harm. Gently, he lowered himself into the water, surrendered to the weighty form of his Gift. With the same terrible calm that had menaced him from the dark forest the night before, he slid between the currents, down and down towards where two faint hummocks nestled on the sea