by K.M. Weiland
Chapter Sixteen
Exhaustion pulled at Chris’s body. By the time he got out of the shower, the late summer sun had dropped low into purple clouds. His eyes felt like someone had rubbed a handful of dirt in them, and his eyelids refused to stay open.
He padded back into the kitchen. Except for Pluto growling at shadows in the corner, the house was silent. Through the open window he could hear voices in the driveway, where Mike was checking air pressure on the tires. Maybe whatever he’d run over on Hunter Street had done damage after all. He winced. He’d dig up the cash for a set of new tires, but for now at least Mike and Brooke were busy where he wouldn’t have to avoid their worry and confusion.
A red light gleamed on the oven’s panel, and he opened the door to find the white cheese on Brooke’s ravioli casserole crisping to golden brown on top. Not bothering to pull it out of the oven, he dug a fork from the dish drainer and helped himself to a few bites of pasta pillows, sweet tomato sauce, and stringy mozzarella.
It tasted great, but when it hit his stomach, the nausea from his overworked concussion swarmed him. He closed the oven door and dropped the fork in the sink. Sleep. He needed sleep—or at least his body did. His mind wasn’t likely to have that option for the foreseeable future. He groped through the darkness of the hall to the spare bedroom, flopped facedown on the bed—
—and shivered as a draft hit him. He fumbled for the blankets and instead smacked his hand against the back of the swivel chair bolted into the floor next to him.
The skycar rattled faintly, and the wind hissed past the windows. The whole contraption rocked beneath him, and he caught a faint whiff of some kind of salty meat. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and tried to slow his breathing and reorient himself.
“Better get him up.” Crea Quinnon’s throaty voice rumbled behind him. “We’ll be pulling into Réon Couteau in another twenty minutes or so.”
“What is he dreaming, I wonder?” Allara’s voice came from his left, from the same direction as the breeze. “What’s it like in the other world? What happens there?”
“Same thing as happens here. Rich and poor, war and peace, this world and that. It’s all a balance, isn’t it? A balance we can’t control. So wake him up and never mind what he’s dreaming. What happens on the other side is his own concern.”
The door behind Chris opened and shut as Quinnon stepped into the rear compartment with the horses.
Chris turned his head and opened his eyes.
The Searcher stood silhouetted by the sun. “You’re awake.”
“Depends how you look at it.” He started to push himself up, but pain jagged through his body, starting with the wound in his shoulder and slashing down his back, arms, and legs.
Next to an open pane in the glass wall, she leaned against the waist-high gold railing that encircled the compartment. Outside, mist rose from the ground and veiled the soft hills in a reflected orange glow. The country here moved up and down, one hill after another, the horizon blocked by the dark green of tree brakes, with occasionally a glint of water beyond.
“How’s your shoulder?” she asked.
It felt like someone had tried to fit a fist inside the wound, but he didn’t care to tell her that. “It’ll live.”
Truth be told, she probably didn’t want to hear it either. Dark smudges framed her eyes. Had she slept at all?
He eased to his feet and walked to the front of the compartment. The little engineer car, half the size of this one, blocked the view in front of them, so he looked out the side wall.
Assuming the sun rose in the east around here, they seemed to be headed more or less north. Below, a herd of zajeles, the gazelle-like creature Orias had brought back to the Cherazii camp, grazed on a hillside. A man who was probably their herdsman lounged on a mossy stone and peered up at the skycar.
The seas of grass had faded while he slept, to be replaced by rolling hills and silver-green forests. Sporadic patches of dark earth, speckled with white and violet flowers, gleamed beneath the bottle green of moss and scrub growth. Through the open windowpane, unseen insects warbled in curtains of metallic sounds. Cold fronted the expected warmth of the wind, just like back in Chicago.
“Feels like a storm’s coming,” he said, as much to have something to say as anything else. “That usual for this time of year?”
“It’s not a storm.” She looked up to where the sun, a fat peach swimming in blue cream, burned down at them. In Chicago, a sun like that would melt people all over the pavement. But here, its warmth floated behind the cold edge of the wind. “And it’s not usual.”
He ran a hand through the sweat-crusted roots of his hair. He was still wearing the cargo pants and T-shirt he’d brought over with Mactalde. Probably he looked as strange as he felt. His stomach growled. The few bites of ravioli casserole he’d eaten back at Mike’s definitely hadn’t done this body any good.
Allara turned to a floor-to-ceiling cupboard in the corner and pulled out a handkerchief-covered plate. “Here. Break your fast. We’ll arrive in Réon Couteau soon.”
He cradled the plate against his ribs. The handkerchief hid a hunk of cold sausage the size of his fist and a matching wedge of flaky white cheese. The sausage, made of a dark meat, had a robust smoky flavor, with an almost overpowering aftertaste of spicy mustard. The cheese was as hard as an old brick of parmesan and tasted like the salt had been left out altogether. He ate it anyway.
He leaned his good shoulder against the window. “When we get there, are people going to know what I am?”
“No. You look like an ordinary man, except for your clothes, which we’ll soon fix. Why?”
“That conductor last night. He looked surprised to see me.”
If possible, her shoulders drew back even more. “We probably shouldn’t have brought you straight through town. An ordinary man, riding with me, especially with all the rumors that have been circulating.” She shook her head. “He likely guessed the truth.”
“Am I supposed to be a national secret or something?”
“The country will know soon enough, but I would like it to be after you’re secure behind the city walls.”
He didn’t really like the sound of that. “Secure behind walls” could mean captivity just as easily as safety. He shouldn’t poke her, shouldn’t prod her. She was already strung so tight she was probably capable of just about anything. But something in him wanted to push her off balance, if only to crack through that icy façade of hers. If he could get her to react, maybe she would show him what was going on in that head of hers.
He chewed carefully. “A new Gifted wasn’t supposed to come this soon, was he?”
She frowned. “How do you know that?”
“Eroll said something about it.” He held his breath, debating with himself. If he played his cards now, he might not have anything to put on the table later on. “And so did a man named Harrison Garnett.”
She froze. “Harrison Garnett?”
“He introduced himself the other day. Said he’d been searching for me all my life.”
Her eyes got big, wild almost. “You know him in the other world? He found you? He couldn’t have. He couldn’t have known about you. No one knew, not even me.”
He wasn’t quite certain how he had expected her to react. But this wasn’t a little fissure in her defenses. This was a gaping chasm. “He said something about this Garowai of yours. That’s how he found out about me.”
“The Garowai knew . . . and he didn’t tell me . . .” She looked as if someone had slugged her in the stomach and all she wanted to do was curl into a fetal ball and hide from the next blow.
Then the instant ended. The crack closed up, and her voice deepened. “Harrison Garnett was a traitor. He did things no Gifted had a right to do.” She lifted her chin. “He deserved to die.”
Chris stood away from the window. “Is that what’s going to happen to me too?”
Her eyes flickered. “What happens to you is in your hands. I have
no reason to trust you. Or any Gifted.”
“Or anyone? You might as well say it. You don’t trust many people, do you?”
She hesitated the briefest of seconds. “No, I do not. Trust, faith, hope—they get you killed. They get people you love killed. They’re not facts, they’re fantasies. And I have too much at stake to trust a fantasy.”
She meant it. She was playing straight with him even though she might have been wiser to lie. The truths she was flinging at him weren’t the kind to make someone want to roll over at her feet. But whatever else she was, she was honest, and he appreciated that.
He appreciated the survivor’s soul in her. From the look of it, her life had left her just as battered and broken as his had left him. Maybe more so. On any other day, in any other dream, he would have heard that strangled cry and answered it. He had no desire to hurt this woman. But it was a little too late for that.
Last night, he had said he would do whatever was necessary to fix what had happened. And he’d meant it. But this morning, the enormity of what he had done and what he still had to do if he was going to even attempt to fix it was too big to look in the face. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d steered clear of all his life. Why kid himself? He couldn’t fix what he’d done. He couldn’t save the people who would die in the coming battles. If he tried, he would fail.
He set the plate on the nearest chair. “I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me to be. I didn’t ask for the dreams. I didn’t ask to be lied to and used.”
She glared. “Oh, yes, you’re absolutely the victim here.”
He stood facing her, only a few feet between them. “I’m not saying that.”
She was a tall woman. She didn’t have to lift her chin very far to look him in the face. “Then what are you saying?”
“I’m staying. I’m here. But I’m here now because I choose to be here. Don’t forget that.”
He had hurt her, and he was sorry for it. She was angry with him and she had a right to be. But he wasn’t going to sit around like a dog waiting to be kicked whenever she got steamed. If any of this was going to work—and that was a big if—then she needed to come to grips with what he had done. She needed to stop riding him. And she needed to realize the mistake was his to fix—or not—as he saw best.
She tilted her head. “If I told you now you were free to go, would you?”
“If I said yes, would you still let me?”
Her face closed up, and she turned away to lean both hands against the railing. “You say you didn’t ask to be a Gifted. Well, I didn’t choose to be born a Searcher. The God of all gives us our destinies, and the best we can do is fulfill them. And pray someday He will reward us with freedom.”
“Freedom.” Sounded good. Sounded impossible too. And judging from her fists clenched around the railing and the muscle hopping in her cheek, it hadn’t worked out too well for her up to now. “Is that what you’ve found?”
The rear compartment’s door opened, and Quinnon stepped in. He took in Chris and Allara at a glance and fixed his glare on Chris. “Back off. Haven’t you heard of royal distance?” He tilted his head forward. “Réon Couteau yonder.”
Chris turned to look just as the forest-covered hills gave way to the wide-open blue of a tremendous lake.
“Ori Réon,” Quinnon said. “The Lake of Dreams.”
The lake’s surface glinted and blurred. Strange half-formed reflections skittered over its surface. Pictures, like streaked watercolors, swayed on the water, then rippled and disappeared, and reappeared once again.
Chris leaned against the glass and craned his neck back to see the sky, but nothing flew overhead that might reflect in the lake. “What’s that in the water?”
Allara let out a shuddering breath and unclenched her grip on the railing. “Dreams.”
On the nearest shore, a five hundred foot waterfall plunged from a cliff of black stone. Mist cloaked the top, like diaphanous scarves upon ebony shoulders, hiding but not obscuring the city that crowned the summit and spilled down the side of the hill. A wall of the same black stone, almost as tall as the cliff itself, had been built into the hill. It tapered down until it disappeared around the edge of the lake.
The skycar rattled up the shore a few more klicks, then slowed and tilted into an ascent. A few minutes later, it crossed the wall. Long white buildings packed the hillside in haphazard layers, and the morning sun cast its shadow over the blue roofs. The throaty gong of a bell rang out and was answered by another and then another.
“That’s the Vesper district,” Allara said. “It’s where the monks and other religious acolytes live.”
“Acolytes?”
She stepped back from the railing and unknotted the gold scarf at the end of her braid. “Réon Couteau is viewed as a sacred place. It’s the domain of the Gifted. It’s where the worlds meet. Unlike your world, that’s common knowledge here.” She looked at him. “It’s a dangerous time to be a Gifted. More dangerous than ever now that Mactalde’s crossed. The people here have their own beliefs about what you’re supposed to be.”
He gave the blue roofs a long look. “I thought the Gifted were respected.”
“They are. The people love the Gifted. You’re the stuff of legends. But there’s many now who would just as soon see you dead.”
“Nateros?” he asked. Quinnon had mentioned something about them last night.
She draped her scarf over her shoulder, combed her hair out with her fingers, and started re-braiding it. “If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to stay clear of them. They have rather decided ideas about Searchers who bring over more than one Gifted. Even though it’s not exactly our choice.”
“Do they support Mactalde?”
“No. Or at least not openly.” She tightened the scarf with a jerk. “But they’re certainly not for us. If Koraud doesn’t crush us from the outside, we might just find ourselves in a civil war.”
“What is it Nateros wants?”
“Religious and political control. They’re fanatical traditionalists, and they want no part of anyone who doesn’t play by the rules as they see them.” She glanced at him. “And that means you and me. In the aftermath of the last war, they’ve been a loud voice against my father’s regime. You find Lael a disgruntled country, and sometimes disgruntled people believe whoever shouts the loudest.”
The skycar moved past the blue roofs of Vesper. Mansions, most of them constructed of the same black stone, stood sentinel within vast courtyards. The houses were all of three or four stories with multiple peaks and chimneys. Crumbled shale covered the yards, crisscrossed by paths of mown grass. The whole neighborhood had a sense of stability and history. Old money.
“This place has been around a while,” Chris said.
“Réon Couteau is one of the oldest cities in Lael. It was originally a destination of only the Searchers and the Keepers, but over time, it’s become a shrine for pilgrimages from all over the world. A few centuries ago, we started mining the silver out of the Illise hills, and the city’s grown even more since then. The farther north you go, the more miners and hunters you’ll run into. Here at the southern end, we confine ourselves to religion and wealth.”
“Sounds like uncomfortable bed partners.”
She shrugged. “It’s the way of the world. This is the Manors section. Most of the nobility and wealthy live here. The skycar docks officially in Rockmon, the commercial district. But it has stations all over the city. Our engineer has orders to take us directly to the palace.”
As if on cue, the skycar jerked to a stop as another train, this one hauling maybe as many as thirty cars, whooshed past.
“We’ll be switching cables.” Quinnon dropped into his chair and pulled his gauntlets from his belt. “The royal car claims precedence at all the intersections.”
After a wait of only a few seconds, the car lurched forward again and snaked around in a hard right. Twenty minutes later, they began another climb, and Chris got his first glimpse of the
palace. It hugged the edge of the cliff, actually straddling the waterfall. From this angle, it seemed to be made up of two separate parts, the large part curving around the edge of the cliff, flat-topped, with two stories of slitted windows glaring blackly from the walls. Branching from there, the construction took on a square, almost boxy look, framed by two turrets, one higher than the other, with a yawning hole of a gate in between.
The skycar crossed between the turrets and descended into the courtyard. Below, a troop of Guardsmen marched in a square ten men deep. As the train glided to a stop just above the ground, their leader called a halt and ordered the men to salute.
Chris dusted a few cheese crumbs from his shirt. Here he was, then. No turning back. From here on in, he wasn’t just some guy who’d taken a wrong turn and fouled up massively. From here on in, he would be expected to be the Gifted.
The lead Guardsman swept open the door, and Allara faced forward. She shot one glance over her shoulder at Chris, then stepped down from the car onto the wide walkway.
With a deep breath, Chris followed.
“Your highness.” The Guardsman stomped one foot and smacked his heels together smartly. “The Garowai flew over the walls just an hour ago.” Excitement filled his voice. “We think he’s behind the waterfall now.”
Her back was ramrod straight again. She nodded without hesitation. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” She looked at Quinnon, and Chris caught a glimpse of the steel in her jaw. Whatever she had to say to the Garowai, it wasn’t going to be too agreeable.
Quinnon jumped down from the car and moved to the ramp at the end of the horses’ compartment. “We’ll take these mounts. Save time saddling new ones. These’ve rested some overnight, and we won’t be gone long.”
They unloaded the horses, checked their girths, and mounted up. Chris rode behind Allara this time. Almost before they were in their saddles, four of the Guardsmen had run to the far end of the courtyard and hauled open a set of twenty-foot gates.
Chris took a grip on the back of the saddle. “The Garowai doesn’t live here?”
Allara reined her big black horse around and urged him after Quinnon’s gray. Hooves clopped against the cobblestones.
“He lives at the Gloamfall, four hours south, but he knew we were coming here.”
Once outside the gates, the gravel trail plunged into a steep decline. The waterfall roared not too far away.
“How’s he know about me?” Chris asked.
“The Garowai have always been our messengers. They fly nearer heaven than anyone.”
“He’s what—an angel?”
“In a way.”
He braced both hands against the saddle and leaned back as the horse picked its way down the hill. “Seems like having an angel on your side should help tip the odds in your favor.”
“The Garowai rarely fight in our battles. Their lives are not connected to ours, and they have been given an indemnity we do not share.”
Ten minutes later, the trail leveled out and rounded into view of the waterfall. The horses perked their ears at the scent of water, and Allara’s stallion nickered deep within his nostrils, the soft skin quivering.
Quinnon halted his mount and looked at Chris as he spoke to Allara. “Want him to wait with me while you go ahead?”
She reined up at the water’s edge and gestured for Chris to dismount. “No, the Garowai knew he was coming.”
He braced against the cantle and swung his leg over the stallion’s rump. Both feet thumped onto the bank.
“So this guy has a name, I suppose?” he asked.
“No. He is just the Garowai. There is never more than one Garowai in Lael. They rise and fall with the ages. When one dies, another is born from its body.” She stared ahead. “The rest he will tell you himself.”
He turned to look.
Up close, the surface of the lake was more dizzying than ever. Colors streaked and swirled beneath the waves, dancing incomprehensibly. The waterfall smashed down and raised a cloud of mist that obscured everything.
From within the spray, a blue-gray shadow swam toward them, slowly, almost leisurely. The curtain of mist broke. Through the haze protruded a craggy feline head, framed in a dark mane and a darker beard. Green irises, visible even from across the lake, gleamed. They stared at Chris, unmoving. The milky inner lids blinked, and the Garowai emerged.
