He was moving so quickly he didn’t realize the thread had stopped until he’d taken several running steps past it. He jogged back to the end, which waved in the air, and looked around. There were five statues nearby. All of them were Santerrans. Not of noble blood, but all with distinctly Santerran features.
The thread was fainter now, and as he watched the wind picked it up and blew it away until there was no trace of it. Thank you, Cath, Piercy thought, though he didn’t speak the words just in case it might get the God in trouble. Well, he’d hadn’t broken his word; he hadn’t brought Piercy to Ayane, he’d just given him a nudge in the right direction. Piercy took a deep breath, inhaled the last of the apple-scented air, and set out again.
This time, he wasn’t as concerned about following a particular family tree as he was about tracing those trees back to the Libekan conquest. Even that might not be enough; there were still plenty of Libekans across the sea, and Cath didn’t discriminate based on where someone was born. If he went the wrong way, he might find Libekans rather than their Santerran descendants. Time enough to worry about that when he was closer to his goal.
He moved as quickly as he dared, though part of him wished he didn’t have to hurry at all. How long had these men and women been here, stone-still and caught up in learning how to move on to the Golden Hills? He did pause in front of a beautiful woman whose movements were more rapid, more defined, than others he’d seen. The stone dusting her form even seemed thinner; her dark skin shone through in places. He shook his head and moved on. He didn’t have time to indulge his curiosity.
The spirits surrounding him were starting to look more like Ayane, at least in general: high foreheads, strong cheekbones, large eyes and full lips. He took his time, looking carefully into the face of each woman, trying not to feel the agitation building inside him. He had no idea how long it had been since Cath had told him Time doesn’t pass here the way it does in the living world, but it does pass, but it seemed like hours, and every one of those hours burned under his skin. He peered at a short man’s face; did he have Ayane’s chin?
He incautiously grabbed the man’s chin, then jerked back as the spirit turned into a swirl of gray dust that spiraled into the air. Piercy held very still as it settled about a foot away and re-formed into the short Santerran man. Reflexively he dusted off his hand, then cursed and examined his trousers for dust. Cath might be willing to help, but he wouldn’t be happy about a mortal carrying off bits of unredeemed spirit.
He was entirely surrounded by noble Santerrans now. How many of the Santerran ruling class had come here after the slaughter by the Despot’s troops? The invigorated feeling the trail of smoke had given him was vanishing rapidly. His hand brushed the head of the walking stick; it didn’t feel any different than it had before, but Piercy imagined Cath’s reproach. He’d been given a task by a God, and he was being selfish, thinking only of his own desires…but the idea of Ayane dead, of never seeing her again, made his heart ache. Ten more faces, he told himself, fifteen more faces, and I’ll stop. For all he knew, these were Libekans and not Santerrans.
Then he saw her. It was so unexpected he stopped in mid-stride, gaping. Then he ran to her—and realized he was wrong. It was a Santerran noblewoman, and she did look like Ayane, but her face was rounder and fuller and she was a few inches shorter. Piercy examined her closely. She was only barely moving, doing something he couldn’t understand. She had to be Ayane’s relative—even her mother, possibly?
Piercy looked around at the nearby spirits. They all had the same resemblance, she had to be near. He walked past a pair of motionless men, stocky and muscular, and saw another spirit who really did seem to be dancing, her arms making great curves, leaping and spinning in slow motion.
Ayane.
He ran, stumbled, fell to his knees in front of her. Her eyes were open and sightless as all the other spirits had been, she was gray and stony, and her face was so still it was as if he were looking at her uninhabited body. “Ayane,” he said, not really expecting a response. She continued her dance as if he hadn’t said anything. Piercy sat back on his haunches and watched her. She didn’t know any Dalanese dances, so this must be something from Santerre, but he didn’t know any Santerran dances and this was still familiar to him. Sweeping arm, leg extended, half-turn and bring both arms together, thrust with the right hand…he stood and took a few steps back and began copying her movements. Sweep, extend, turn, thrust. Sweep, extend—
—by the Gods, it wasn’t a dance, it was a fighting exercise. Strike with the knife, turn and bring the blade in low—of course Ayane’s spirit wouldn’t dance if she could fight instead. Piercy walked around her, watching her move, wishing it were the real woman; this was like a mockery of life. So. He’d figured out what she was doing; how was he supposed to reach her?
For lack of any better idea, he went back to mimicking her movements. The broken sword made a whistling sound every time he pretended to strike, like someone blowing through a gap in his teeth. Around, across, thrust. His arms were starting to ache. This couldn’t be it. Out of desperation, he grabbed at her wrist and felt nothing. Stone dust eddied and settled again without disrupting her routine.
“Ayane, please,” he said, not caring that his voice cracked. What was the point of finding her if she wouldn’t wake up? It had to be possible, or Cath wouldn’t have let him try. He stepped back again and watched her. It was a strange exercise for her to perform, because it was clearly meant for two people, for sparring partners, and if she were alive, he would step here when she thrust there—
He took a step back and began following her movements, this time performing his half of the dance in tandem with her. His breathing slowed, becoming part of the rhythm, and he began counting, one, two, three, four, and on five he stepped in close and brought his left hand up to block her strike, carefully keeping just enough distance that his hand didn’t disrupt the stone of her spirit. Block, slice, turn, thrust, all within a hair’s breadth of touching her. His breathing became irregular and he calmed himself, willing Ayane to sense his presence. Her gaze was still sightless, not even changing naturally with her movements, but he saw her blink, once or twice, and hoped it meant something good.
He realized his breathing was heavier at the same moment he realized their dance had sped up. Ayane still showed no sign that she was aware of Piercy, but she looked blurry now, fuzzy around the edges as stone dust shivered and made clouds around her arms and hands and legs. Piercy matched her speed, his heart racing with hope as well as exertion. Was it his imagination, or had she looked at him? It had to be working.
He parried her imaginary blade with the broken sword, stepped away from her return swing, and felt the briefest touch as her hand brushed his shoulder. Stone dust exploded in every direction, blinding Piercy. Coughing, he took an involuntary step backward, waving away clouds of dust and trying not to breathe. The air was thick with dust and the smell of hot metal, reminding him of summer afternoons sparring with his fellow Home Defense agents, though he couldn’t imagine where the smell was coming from. He wiped his streaming eyes, coughed one last time, and brushed himself off only to find there was nothing to brush. The stone dust dissipated, fading away until there was nothing but clear air—and Ayane, standing very still about a foot away, her eyes dull and her face expressionless.
Piercy reached out to her, then let his hand fall to his side before he could touch her, before his hand could slide through her immaterial one. “Ayane,” he said, his voice trembling. “Ayane, can you hear me?”
Ayane blinked, twice, then raised her head so those golden eyes were looking directly at him. “Piercy,” she said. Her voice was light, as if it were coming from far away. “I thought you were a dream. Are we both dead? Did the Witch win?”
Piercy closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. “She has not won yet,” he said, opening his eyes, “and we will ensure she does not.”
Ayane reached out her hand to take his. It passed through his flesh,
but this time he felt the faintest whisper of a touch. “You came for me,” she said.
“Always,” he said, wishing he could take her in his arms right then. He settled for touching her cheek, briefly. It was a strange sensation, because she looked as solid as he did even though his fingers went through her flesh. But she clearly felt something, because she smiled at him in a way that made his heart beat faster and resolve, futilely, to find some way to stay with her forever.
“But we are in the Underworld, yes?” Ayane said. “I don’t understand, Piercy. I know I’m dead, but I can tell you’re not. How are we supposed to stop the Witch from opening the gates of the Underworld?”
“We will find the exit, and you will regain your body, and we will use the leash to bind you to it. And Cath has made my stick a weapon that will send the Witch’s spirit back to the Underworld.”
“Cath?” Ayane laughed, and unlike her speaking voice, it sounded rich and merry and entirely like her. “Piercy, did you talk to a God?”
“I did, and I will tell you the story when this is all over, but now I think we should find the exit.” Piercy balanced the hilt on his palm. It didn’t look any different than it had. “Though I fear it may take some time, and time is something we have very little of.”
Ayane didn’t say anything. “I don’t suppose you have any insight as to its location?” he asked, looking up from the hilt. Ayane had gone to stand in front of one of the nearer spirits, a stocky, well-muscled man a few inches shorter than Piercy. She was once again completely still, but had one hand raised, palm out, to mirror the curve of the man’s face.
“Piercy,” she said, “it’s my father.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Piercy went to stand next to her. “Astonishing,” he said, though it wasn’t really. If Kinfe Sethemba was in the Pleasant Fields, his daughter’s spirit would be near him. Lord Sethemba had Ayane’s features, but hardened by age and weight. As Piercy watched, his eyes blinked slowly, but otherwise he made no movement. He was robed as all the other spirits were, but on him it looked martial, like the garment of a conquering hero. Piercy had no trouble at all picturing this man taking on a legion of the Despot’s troops bare-handed and winning.
“We have to wake him, Piercy,” Ayane said.
“We—Ayane, it’s not his time.”
“He shouldn’t have died when he did. It wasn’t fair. Piercy—”
“I was barely able to think of a way to bring you to consciousness. I have no idea how to wake the spirit of a legend.”
“He’ll hear me. Father!”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
“It will work. Father! Father!” Ayane grabbed Lord Sethemba’s shoulders and shook him. Unlike Piercy, she had no trouble making contact with his body, but Lord Sethemba didn’t respond. No dust moved. Ayane released him and crossed her arms across her chest. “He will hear me,” she muttered to herself.
“Ayane, Cath himself told me we must move quickly. I had to argue with him even to gain his permission to free you. I am sorry for your loss, but your father is dead and is in the process of gaining his redemption. We should not interfere.”
“Just let me try, Piercy. Please.” She took Lord Sethemba’s hand and gripped it tightly. Piercy sighed and returned his attention to the hilt. So long as he didn’t know how to use it to find the exit, they couldn’t move on, but he couldn’t help thinking Ayane was making a mistake. Unlike her, her father had no body to return to in the living world. Piercy didn’t know what happened to spirits who didn’t find their way to the Death-Lands, but it couldn’t be anything good. But preventing Ayane from doing what she thought was right was a fool’s errand, and he was a fool, but not about that.
He gripped the hilt again and turned in a slow circle, holding it out from his body. “We cannot stay long,” he said.
Ayane brought her hand around and slapped Lord Sethemba hard enough that the crack rang out in the still air. “It won’t take long.” She slapped him again. He didn’t respond.
Piercy paused, then turned back a pace or two. Had he imagined it, or did the hilt warm fractionally when he pointed it in that direction? He remembered the spell Evon had cast to locate the Despot, making a coin turn hotter when it was nearer the entity. This wasn’t a big enough change for him to be certain, but it could be a sign. He completed his circle and started a new one. It wasn’t his imagination; the hilt really was warmer, and the corresponding cold feeling vanished when he was pointed the right way. “Ayane, we have to go,” he said.
“No,” Ayane said furiously. Her face was streaked with tears. “You go. I won’t leave him.”
It felt as if she’d slapped him instead. “I—” He swallowed I did this for you as being whiny and manipulative and substituted, “Ayane, would he want you to condemn yourself to an early death? Please. Come with me.”
She was shaking with the effort of controlling her tears. “He shouldn’t have died,” she insisted, and threw her arms around his broad shoulders, turning her face away from Piercy.
Lord Sethemba quivered. Slowly, his arms rose to clasp his daughter around the waist. Then the two of them disappeared into a burst of stone dust that forced Piercy to step back and cover his mouth and nose to keep from inhaling it. He blinked away tears and waved the dust away from his face, but it was already dissipating, vanishing into the air. Ayane had her arms around Lord Sethemba, who now looked real and utterly solid, and he embraced her tightly. “Ayane,” he said, and his voice was low, almost a growl, “how long have I been dead?”
“Three years. A very long three years.”
“Have we lost the war?”
“No, I took your place, I carried your legacy. I’ve fought for Cyrah in your name.”
Lord Sethemba let out a deep breath. “As I taught you.”
Ayane laughed, a merry sound that nearly broke Piercy’s heart. Stupid. He ought to be glad for this reunion and it was selfish of him to want to be the only cause of her joy. “Yes, Father,” she said, “I’ve done everything you would want of me. Santerre is thriving. Cyrah’s rebuilding it. I only wish you could see it.”
“I don’t need to. I see it in you. You’ve always known where your duty lies.” Lord Sethemba held her at arm’s length, gripping her shoulders. “But—no, Ayane, you are too young to join me here!”
“I’m leaving the Death-Lands, and you’re coming too. I’ll explain everything when we’re out of here.”
Lord Sethemba looked around at the statues nearby, but stopped when he saw Piercy. “Who is this pale?”
Piercy swept him a low, respectful bow. “Piercy Faranter, sir, and may I say how much I admire your work—“
“Dalanese,” Lord Sethemba said dismissively. “Why are you in company with him?”
“We are…we were caught up in this together,” Ayane said. “He and I are sworn to defeat a dangerous magician who wants to destroy the world. He isn’t an enemy, Father.”
“The Dalanese betrayed us. That makes him our enemy.”
“My country made mistakes,” Piercy began, “but I assure you—”
“I’m not interested in the assurances of a pale. Ayane, I thought better of your judgment. You shouldn’t waste your time coddling him.”
“I’m not coddling him. He fights well, Father, and he…I have given him kinship.”
“What?” In two quick strides Lord Sethemba was within throttling distance of Piercy. It took him a substantial effort not to recoil. “You dare presume on my daughter?” The growl turned into a snarl.
“I consider Ayane a friend,” Piercy said. The lie burned his tongue. “She has been a true companion and ally. I did not ask her for anything she did not give willingly. I apologize if that seems presumptuous.”
“You address her as Lady Sethemba, pale.”
“Stop calling him that!”
Lord Sethemba turned to face her, slowly, like a statue moving on its base. “Have you forgotten everything, Ayane? What men like him did to o
ur people? How long have I been dead, that you can give this pale the same honors our fallen dead earned?”
“Don’t call him that!” Ayane shouted. “The Despot’s men crushed us underfoot and we destroyed them in turn. He’s got nothing to do with it! I—” Her gaze flicked to Piercy, pleading with him to understand, and it was like a burning blade in his chest. Of course she wouldn’t tell her father she’d fallen in love with him. Lord Sethemba probably wouldn’t understand that it didn’t matter, that she’d chosen her heritage over Piercy. It still hurt.
“You’re betraying your people,” Lord Sethemba said, his voice once again low and smooth. “You’ll walk away from this immediately. No Sethemba needs the help of a pale.”
“Sir,” Piercy said, “Ay—Lady Sethemba has made an oath to see this thing through, as have I. I assure you she has no interest in spending any more time in my company than is required for the sake of this quest.” He didn’t look at Ayane, didn’t want to see what she thought of that perfectly true statement.
“Of course not,” Lord Sethemba said dismissively. “But she owes obedience to me as head of the Sethemba line, and I won’t have our family lessened by this weakness.”
“She is the strongest person I know, Lord Sethemba, and I think Santerre cannot possibly benefit from isolationism.” Piercy expected the look of angry disdain Lord Sethemba directed his way. To think he’d once dreamed of meeting this man, long before he’d ever met Ayane.
The God-Touched Man Page 31
