Quintessence Sky

by David Walton

  He looked up again, and the light flooded his eyes, so beautiful it made his heart ache, so right and whole that he nearly let go. But it wasn't time yet. He had work to do.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE FIRE under Catherine was slow to spread. Her father fought to reach her, to stamp out the flames, for all the good it would have done. Torres would simply have lit it again. But the soldiers held him back, laughing, and the flames steadily grew.

  She felt the heat of the fire, but no pain, not yet. She wondered how long it would take for her to die. Hours? Could she even die from fire, or would her body burn and burn and then heal itself only to burn some more? She was trying to be brave, but she didn't feel brave, not facing this.

  Matthew was holding her gaze, and it felt like a lifeline. He wasn't leaving her alone, though there was nothing he could do to save her. Her concerns about marrying him seemed baseless now; she knew he would listen to her and respect her. It was who he was. It was why she loved him. Though now she would never get the chance to find that out.

  His mouth moved in the shape of a word. What was he saying? I love you? No, it hadn't looked like that. The crackling of the fire under her was making it hard to think. He tried again, and this time she understood the word: substitution. She knew what it meant, of course. It was the basis of the heat exchanger, and a memory of that day on the bay, when they had kissed and traded the sensations of their bodies.

  Then it hit her. The kiss. It hadn't been a tragic, last symbol of love. He had pushed his tongue into her mouth, taking enough of her saliva to make a connection. He was taking her pain on himself.

  She had only just comprehended his meaning when he clenched his teeth and turned away from her. She knew it had worked. The fire was higher now, but she felt nothing. Matthew was feeling the agony that ought to be hers, the flames that even now were licking at her feet.

  She spoke, making her voice calm and confident, loud enough that everyone could hear. "Are you done with this charade yet, Captain Torres?"

  Torres smiled at her, but there was uncertainty in his eyes. "Very bravely spoken. Perhaps the devil gives you strength. But even the devil cannot stand against hell."

  "You are mistaken," Catherine said. "We are God's elect. Have you not heard of the three friends of Daniel, who walked in the furnace and were not burned?"

  "True. But God does not rescue heretics. And the devil is not above twisting the words of holy Scripture."

  The fire was rising fast. Matthew must be suffering terribly, but he lay unmoving on the ground, not betraying his anguish. Catherine hated to do it, but she knew she must. It was what Matthew wanted. She lifted her foot and thrust it into the heart of the flames. She saw Matthew's foot jerk, but he didn't cry out.

  She turned away from him and faced the Spanish. "You cannot hurt me. We will tell you nothing. Repent of your violence and greed and release us, and perhaps God will forgive you. Perhaps he will allow you to return to your own country in peace."

  It was the best she could do. It couldn't possibly fool them for long. They would just hurt someone else, or they would wait long enough that Matthew would cry out, or the substitution would wear off, and she would burn. Torres's eyes were wide. If he were a monster like Tavera, this wouldn't work. He would keep pressing until someone suffered. If he were devout, though, doing this out of a twisted sense of godliness, then, just maybe, it would have some effect.

  Torres pulled a long branch out of the fire, its other end hot embers. He reached over the fire with the stick and pressed the embers into her cheek. It sizzled, and she smelled her own flesh burning, but she felt nothing. She forced herself not to look at Matthew. Instead, she smiled. "Stop this masquerade. Would you fight against God?"

  The conquistadors were backing away, crossing themselves, clearly terrified. Torres dropped the stick. "Stand your ground!" he shouted at them. "This is not God's work, but the work of the devil. They are witches and demon worshippers. Do not listen to them."

  Catherine could have cried. She looked at Matthew now, still curled on the ground, trying not attract attention. It was intense bravery, and she loved him for it. Loved him for taking her agony, if only for a time, and for being willing to give his life in an attempt to save hers. Even if it hadn't worked.

  It was too late now, anyway. The fire was burning too hot and too high, and there was no water; the Spanish couldn't put it out now even if they wanted to. The smoke was thick, making it hard to breathe, and she coughed violently. It occurred to her that even if the flames never harmed her, she could die from breathing the smoke. If the flames spread high enough that they burned the ropes around her wrists, she could walk out unharmed. But her wrists were tied above her head. By the time the fire reached them, Matthew would be dead, and the effect of the substitution would end. They would die together.

  She wished that, before they died, she could at least see his face one last time. Then, as if hearing her wish, Matthew stirred and raised his head, astonishment written on his face.

  THE PAIN was worse than Matthew had imagined. He moaned through gritted teeth, trying to keep silent. His legs were in searing, blistering agony. He refused to writhe, refused to scream, giving Catherine a chance to make this desperate attempt work. When she held her foot in the fire, he opened his mouth to scream, only to feel the strong, knotted hand of his father clamp firmly over his mouth.

  His father's voice whispered urgently in his ear. "Don't give up now. You can do this."

  Matthew clenched his teeth again, focusing on the pain, trying to disassociate what he was feeling from the reactions of his body. The fire consumed him. It became hard to remember who he was or what had been so important to him a moment ago; the world contained nothing but pain. It was colored lights flashing behind his eyes, a buzzing in his ears, a suffocating stench. There was rhythm to the pain, a throbbing, pulsing beat that threatened to split him open.

  Then, suddenly, it stopped.

  One moment, excruciating pain; the next, nothing, as if it had never been. Afraid for Catherine, Matthew snapped open his eyes and lifted his head to look at her. If the pain had left him, it would be back to her.

  But no. She was looking at him, still unaffected. Yet he felt nothing. What was happening?

  The fire rose quickly now, crackling loudly, filling the air with smoke. Catherine coughed violently, but she still seemed unaffected by the heat of the fire.

  "Look, in the flames!" Ferguson shouted. He pointed, and Matthew looked. There, standing in the fire with Catherine, was a man. Torres saw it, too. He fell to his knees, unable to tear his eyes away. "What have I done? Get water, quickly! Douse the fire!"

  The man in the fire raised his arms, and a giant salamander leaped out of the flames. It was twice as big as a man, and its flesh was ablaze. It fell on a conquistador, its gleaming mouth agape. The others scrambled back, but they weren't quick enough. More salamanders leaped from the fire, burning like torches but unaffected by the flames. They chased down the soldiers, fast and relentless, and where they touched skin and cloth the men were engulfed in fire. Only Torres escaped, running past his screaming men and into the forest beyond.

  The ropes holding Catherine's wrists broke, and she stumbled out, coughing and gasping for air, but otherwise unharmed. The man whom they had seen in the fire was gone.

  MAASHA KAATRA fought like one possessed. He had always been fast and strong, but today he felt invincible, his sword slicing cleanly through flesh, the manticores' pincers and tails unable to touch him. Even so, it was the salamanders, not him, who turned the tide. Rinchirith's manticores thought he had called them out to war against them, and many of Tanalabrinu's seemed to think he had as well. The enemy panicked, and once they were on the run, their advantage was lost.

  Tanalabrinu's army pursued them down the slopes, but they scattered, retreating in every direction. Maasha Kaatra didn't veer to help track them down. Antonia had sent him on a mission, and he would not be diverted. He could see the smoke pourin
g into the sky above the trees, and he headed that way. He was sure he would be too late. With that much smoke, the fire must be large, but he wouldn't give up now. He kept running.

  As he drew close, he heard screams and the grunting sounds he now associated with the salamanders. Had they reached the spot before him? If so, who were they attacking?

  His answer came quickly, as a conquistador with a captain's insignia on his helmet came running toward him through the trees, hardly looking where he was going. Maasha Kaatra didn't stop. He swung his curved sword in a familiar arc and took the man's head off his shoulders.

  When he reached the clearing and the fire, he saw that there was nothing left for him to do. The battle was over.

  The fire still burned, not a cool, white quintessence flame, but a roaring furnace of heat that made the air shimmer. The salamanders were everywhere, leaping and devouring, but Maasha Kaatra wasn't afraid of them. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the fire. It beckoned to him. He looked into its depths, mesmerized.

  The power that was in him, keeping him alive, that he had drawn from the stars, wanted to be in that fire. It was as if he was a key and the fire was a lock. He knew he would fit perfectly into it, would click and turn and spring open. Instinct took hold, the instincts of the two leviathans he had entered and overtaken. He thought he had conquered them, but that wasn't entirely true. They had entered him as well. He had overcome them for a time, but he couldn't hold back their fate forever.

  He needed that fire, and it needed him. He stepped toward it, unafraid. He heard someone calling his name, but he didn't stop. He walked into the fire.

  There was no pain. He felt, distantly, that his skin was burning. He licked his lips, but his tongue was dry. Light was leeching out of his pores. There were beams of light, far away, shining up to the sky from the ocean, and he joined them, a golden river of light springing up out of the fire, with him borne aloft on it, leaving his body behind to burn.

  He left the island behind in a moment, and then the Earth itself grew distant as he was lifted into the realm of the stars. A great flash of light seemed to incinerate everything he could see, and then it was dark. Utterly dark. The void.

  Was this it, then? Was this where it ended? A pinprick of light broke the darkness. Maasha Kaatra shielded his eyes with his hand, and was surprised to discover that he had eyes, and a hand. There was motion in the light. He walked toward it.

  In the distance, he saw two figures, young, female. The light streaming behind them made it hard to make out their features. "Girls?" he said. He whispered their names through dry lips, but they heard him anyway. He could see it in their postures, in the way they turned their heads, and then they ran to him.

  "Papa!"

  CHAPTER 28

  MATTHEW threw his arms around Catherine. They both watched in horror and amazement as the burning salamanders attacked their enemies but left the colonists unharmed. The man who had walked in the fire with Catherine was gone.

  "Maasha Kaatra!" Catherine screamed. Matthew followed her gaze and saw the big man walking toward the fire, heedless of the fighting around him.

  "What's he doing?"

  "I don't know," Catherine said. She shouted his name again, but he didn't pause. Without changing expression or stride, he walked directly into the flames. His clothes and hair caught instantly, but the intent expression on his face didn't change. Sweat poured from his body, and then, incredibly, light. The light shone out blindingly in every direction, and then became a column pointed at the sky. Maasha Kaatra's legs gave way, and he collapsed into the embers. The light blazed upwards, apparently from his body, which burned away rapidly. Finally, when there seemed to be nothing left, the light faded and disappeared.

  The salamanders, however, were burning hotter than ever. The conquistadors dead, they stood still, feet planted, flames roaring high from their skin. It didn't seem to harm them, or to burn any part of them, until Matthew noticed that the closest one seemed lighter, more insubstantial, as if . . .

  "It's burning them from the inside out," he breathed.

  The salamander nearest to them exploded in a blast of ash that floated on the wind. It was swiftly followed by each of the others, until a cloud of ash filled the clearing like snow. It swirled around, as if driven by the wind, but its eddies grew tighter, the ashes spinning closer together until they formed a shape that gradually took the appearance of a man. Then the ashes coalesced, and left in their place a real man of flesh and blood.

  The man from the fire. He was youthful, strong, his face smooth and unlined. His skin was impossibly clean, shining like a newly-forged sword. He was smiling broadly, and despite his strange appearance, Matthew recognized him.

  "Ramos?" he said. "Ramos de Tavera?"

  Ramos laughed. "Yes, it's me, my friend."

  A realization struck Matthew. "It was you in the fire!"

  Ramos shrugged and nodded.

  "And those salamanders were your doing?"

  "In a manner of speaking."

  Matthew grasped Ramos's arm—as real and solid as his own—and introduced Catherine. "This is my fiancée," he said. "We owe you our lives."

  Ramos shook his head. "It was your substitution that made it possible. I simply transferred the link."

  "I don't understand."

  "You and Catherine were linked by a quintessence thread, just like the one I passed through from London to Horizon. The threads are more like tunnels that reach into the space beyond; they can transfer just about anything. I simply took that thread and reconnected it to a group of salamanders that hadn't yet found their way to the sea."

  "But . . ." Matthew gaped at him. "How could you possibly do such a thing?"

  Ramos smiled, and there was a gleam in his eye of some deep understanding. He was a man at peace with himself and with the world. "Honestly?" he said. "I have no idea."

  Matthew wanted to press him on it, to hear his story, but by then the other colonists had crowded around, shaking Ramos's hand and clapping him on the back.

  Catherine drew Matthew away. "Plenty of time to get your questions in later," she said. She pulled him toward her. This time, they made the kiss last. Matthew never wanted to pull away, but eventually she pushed him back. "I have to breathe, you know," she said, laughing.

  Matthew saw a young girl pushing her way into the crowd. "Look," he said.

  Catherine saw her. "Make way!" she called. "Everybody stand back!"

  The crowd parted, and Ramos saw her, too. "Antonia?" he said.

  A smile split her face, now filled with intelligence and awareness of her surroundings. "Tío Ramos!" she said.

  They ran into an embrace.

  Matthew buried his face in Catherine's hair, breathing in the scent of her, smoke and all. "It's over," he said.

  CHAPTER 29

  CATHERINE'S wedding dress wasn't white. They had no white cloth to use, and no way to whiten it, even with quintessence. It was one of a long list of details that was causing her mother heartache.

  Catherine hoped she was happy, despite all the complaints. Before coming to Horizon, her mother would have expected her to marry a nobleman in a cathedral, exquisite in the best dress money could buy. She had, in fact, pushed hard to find such a match back in England, thinking that the way to ensure Catherine's future happiness and security—not to mention the happiness of her grandchildren—was to land her with a reliable and lavish income. This, like so many other things, hadn't turned out as Catherine's mother had planned.

  "And the flowers are all wrong!" her mother said. "A wedding is supposed to have rosemary and roses; it's how it's always done."

  "But roses don't grow on Horizon," Catherine said. "Nor does rosemary. We do have some lovely red blooms, though."

  "It's not the same. And look at your dress!"

  It was probably the tenth time she had exclaimed about it. The dress was a dark gray, stitched by Joan herself from a silk tablecloth found in Captain Torres's cabin aboard La Magdalena. It had a
square-cut neckline, flowing sleeves with lace snipped from another of the Spanish captain's amenities, a tightly-fitted waist, and a skirt over layers of petticoats that poured out like a waterfall in every direction. Catherine thought it was beautiful.

  "It's perfect, Mother. You did a wonderful job."

  "But there's no church! How can you get married without a church?"

  "True," Catherine said. "But how many girls get to have a Princess of England as a bridesmaid?"

  Her mother beamed despite herself. Catherine knew that she was fiercely proud of this fact, even though there was no pecking system here and none of the aristocratic ladies with whom her mother used to interact were here to be impressed. Back home, it would have been the highlight of her mother's year to be spoken to by the princess; for Elizabeth to actually be in her daughter's wedding made up for any number of other deficiencies.

  Catherine's father strode into the room. He was getting better at managing his bond with Tanalabrinu; he didn't seem so distracted all the time. "Did you tell her, my dear?"

  Joan's smile vanished. "I couldn't do it," she said.

  "Tell me what?"

  Her father sighed. "We won't be coming with you after the wedding."

  "What do you mean? We're all going back to England, just like we agreed. It was your idea."

  Her father met her eyes. "Most are going. But not your mother and I."

  "I don't understand. There's nothing left here. We talked about this. We decided!"

  After bringing so much disaster, they had come to the hard conclusion that there was no place for human colonists on Horizon. It was inhabited already. Their presence had disrupted manticore politics and nearly destroyed the whole island itself, more than once. A small colony was only the start; with the generations, it would grow, and their children and grandchildren would be always be at war with the manticores, until one side or the other was completely destroyed.