"I'm afraid so," he sighed. "For this to happen to someone so young ..."
"And he's had the plague for two weeks now?"
"It's been over two weeks, two days, and fourteen hours since he was brought to our facility."
Bauleel scarcely believed it. She'd never heard of a plague victim surviving--in any condition--for more than a few days. Yet here was a perfectly normal-looking teenager, if a bit thin and gaunt. His eyes were red and swollen, which Bauleel surmised was from crying. He sat in the corner of his cell, staring off apathetically into space. From the stringy appearance of his hair, Bauleel guessed he hadn't bathed despite the shower facilities in the cell. A platter of food sat untouched near the door at the back of the cell. From his vacant gaze Terem clearly took no notice of their arrival.
Yet here stood Terem Zebio, infected with the plague--yet he displayed not one visible symptom of the disease.
"How can he have been here for two weeks and still look so healthy?" Bauleel couldn't take her eyes off the boy.
Rilte ran a hand through his hair. "Frankly, Matriarch, we don't know. We've run all the standard tests. His blood samples show record highs of the pathogen in his blood, and yet he's not progressing per the usual course. Normally by the time Guardians get to plague victims, they're within hours of symptoms, but he's never progressed. There's been no dementia, violent outbursts, or hallucinations."
"Is the mutation responsible?" Their eyes met and Bauleel felt exposed. She hadn't spoken with anyone face-to-face without her veil for longer than she could remember. The Anemoi meetings she attended unveiled, but that was an altogether different matter. The Temple Elders and Journeywoman Camille wouldn't even recognize her face. Despite worrying about her identity being revealed, Bauleel realized she trusted Rilte. Besides, he had no reason to suspect anything unusual in her appearance.
"It's a possibility. If it is, it's far different from any variety than we've ever witnessed. Compared to other mutation subjects there's no further signs of the disease. By now, the victim should be showing signs of profuse cellular breakdown with internal bleeding, necrosis, and hemorrhagic petechiae. We'd usually expect death within three weeks or less, although we euthanize and burn their bodies long before that point. If not for the scanners the Guardians use, I doubt anyone would have known Terem was sick. I'd almost venture to say this mutation is stable."
Bauleel stared dumbfounded at Rilte. A stable mutation? If so, his blood might open the doorway to the development of a vaccination and thus protection for the Az'Un. There had never been a single stable mutation since the Az'Un colonized this world over 600 years ago. Were they lucky enough to have found one in Terem Zebio?
"Only time will tell, Journeyman Rilte. What symptoms does he display?"
"Well, he's distraught, depressed, and anxious. He asks for his Septmates and mother daily, but that's expected for a boy his age separated from everyone he's ever known. So far, no signs or symptoms of the plague have presented themselves. We test his blood four times a day, and the viral counts continue to increase, but they're the only symptom at this point."
"He appears so disconnected and unaware of his surroundings."
Rilte shrugged. "He knows he has the plague, and he's resigned to the death awaiting him. Do you want to speak with him?" He motioned to the communication panel at the side of the cell.
Bauleel nodded. "Perhaps I can rouse him."
Rilte activated the communications speaker, and instantly Bauleel heard the boy's soft breathing.
"Terem Zebio?" Bauleel asked, not sure what she could say to jolt him out of his apathy. He sat motionless, his breathing the single sound defying his statuesque state. "Terem?" Bauleel demanded, louder and more insistent this time.
Terem turned and met her eyes, his breath quickening. Bauleel raised a gloved left hand to the clear plastic barrier, splaying her fingers in a gesture of acceptance and friendship. Terem got up from the floor and shuffled toward the Matriarch. Rilte looked on in amazement.
Terem came up close to the barrier and in imitation of the Matriarch, raised his right hand and aligned it with hers. He appeared to crave the contact, despite their separation by the thick plastic.
"How are you, Terem?" His gaze was eerie. Had he gone mad?
"You can't be the Matriarch. The real Matriarch wears a veil across her face." Terem's hand slid down the wall, and he looked downward. Bauleel thought he might start crying again.
"I am the Matriarch, Terem. My veil is drawn back so I can see you more clearly."
He drew his face close to the barrier and pressed his nose to the surface, fogging the wall under his nose. "You're beautiful," he whispered. Terem's eyes remained fixed on hers. He appeared unaware of Rilte's presence.
"Thank you Terem, but right now I'm just concerned about you." She rarely received compliments on her looks, due to her veil and her position of power, but in this context his words disturbed her.
"Oh, don't worry about me, my Lady."
Bauleel frowned. Did he appreciate the gravity of his situation? "Why shouldn't I worry about you, Terem?"
His dazed eyes stared at nothing as he spun around the room, arms high in the air, head thrown back in apparent ecstasy. Bauleel glanced at Rilte, whose confused look mirrored her own.
"Terem?" Bauleel asked, unable to form a more cogent question.
Her voice jolted him out of the dance, and for a moment, his eyes became quite lucid. Terem looked back and forth between the Matriarch and Rilte, walking back toward them. An odd look came over his face, a mix of confusion and sarcasm. "You shouldn't worry about me, Matriarch Bauleel, because I am already dead. Isn't that obvious?"
"You're not dead. Very sick, but hardly dead ..." Bauleel explained. Terem held up a hand and shook his index finger at her, casting an accusing stare at her.
"I'm dead. I'm here, aren't I? I will never again see my family, never again see the moons rise, never again run with my brothers in the fields. Everything I ever took for granted is now gone." His voice broke, and Bauleel feared he might soon slip back into his earlier catatonic state.
"You need to understand a few things, Terem. First, you're not dead. Second, you don't appear to be dying anytime soon. Third, if you're infected with a new variant of the plague, one we've never seen before, the Techs may be able to find a cure for you--or at least a treatment for your symptoms. In fact, the unique nature of your case might reveal a cure to the plague for everyone."
The anger melted from Terem's face, filled instead with the shock of hope. "You're saying there's a chance for me?"
Bauleel took a deep breath. "There's a chance, yes. For this to work, you need to cooperate with the Technicians. You need to answer their questions, and submit to whatever tests or procedures they demand of you."
"So I might be able to go home to my Sept again someday?"
Bauleel paused. No one with the plague lived, much less returned home. Still, keeping him cooperative would ease the testing process for the Techs. "If a treatment can be found and you recuperate, you can return home," she promised, knowing that the likelihood of this happening was slim to none.
"I'll hold you to it," Terem replied. "How long will it take, do you think?"
Bauleel shrugged. "It's impossible to know, but most likely a few months." Considering the ridiculousness of such estimations with this unprecedented case, if he lived that long they'd deal with the repercussions of her promise.
Terem said nothing for several seconds; he must have been trying to take it all in. "Can I get some books to read? I've been so bored ..."
Bauleel managed a meager smile. "Sure you can. I'll make sure the Techs get you a few. Even a few of my personal favorites." Clearly, the Techs rarely had subjects healthy enough to ask for entertainment beyond the next narcotic dose. Bauleel would call for new procedures from the Sept to help maintain their charges sanity.
"Perhaps you send someone to talk to me sometimes? I don't want to take up a lot of anyone's time, it's j
ust it gets so quiet in here." Terem's voice wavered on the edge of tears.
"Oh, you'll have plenty of company, I promise," said Rilte, and Bauleel believed him. Terem was the patient of a lifetime, especially for the younger techs who'd never witnessed a plague mutation firsthand.
Terem approached the barrier and gathered his composure, as well as any teenage boy in his position could. "Many thanks, Esteemed Matriarch. I apologize for my earlier behavior. I'll help you and the Techs in any way I can."
Bauleel hoped her presence gave some comfort beyond mere words. "Know you're in my thoughts daily, Terem. I'll return to check up on you soon."
Journeyman Rilte turned off the comm, and they walked together back into the main research lab. Once inside, Bauleel turned to Rilte. "I trust you'll honor his request for books?"
"It's the least we can do. Keeping his morale up will make him easier to work with. I'm ashamed we didn't think of such palliative measures earlier."
"It's a rare case. You couldn't have anticipated he'd have lasted this long." Bauleel adjusted her veil to conceal her face.
Rilte sighed. "The boy's right, you know. You are quite beautiful, Esteemed Matriarch. It's too bad you have to wear that veil all the time."
Bauleel stiffened. An age-old panic slipped through her bones. "As you well know it is Az'Un custom for the Matriarchs and Elders to remain faceless, so we can better guide our people." The real reason for the veils was an entirely different matter, but she wasn't about to share that with Rilte. "I trust you won't share that aspect of this encounter with anyone."
"Never, Esteemed Matriarch."
"What I want are answers, Rilte, not compliments. Find out what makes this boy tick, and for all our sakes, make sure nobody else gets infected with Terem's mutation. We can't know how stable or dangerous it proves until it runs it's course."
Bauleel didn't wait for a reply, but instead fled back to her quarters, wondering what secret Terem Zebio's infection harbored, and how long it would take to unearth them. She only hoped they had enough time.
*
#BEGIN TRANSMISSION#
#ROUTING CODE: GUARDIAN GRAEBER, GUARDIAN SEPT, ROAMING COM H3-29Y TO MATRIARCH BAULEEL, RAVEN'S CALL TEMPLE, RAVEN'S CALL#
#ENCRYPTION: HIGH#
GRAEBER: I have informed my sister of my choice to assist you. She stands neither with nor against us. She's willing to keep things quiet, but she won't cover for us either. I hope you weren't expecting any more from her.
BAULEEL: I expected nothing less. I'm shocked you shared our plans with her. Can we trust her to be discreet?
GRAEBER: She promised to remain neutral, but tried to convince me to back out and end my involvement with you. You can't blame her, can you? There are days I can scarcely believe what we're doing. Consider the costs to both of us should we fail.
BAULEEL: You think I haven't? Do you regret the path we've chosen?
GRAEBER: I had a moment today where I almost ended this charade. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, I didn't. I'm not ready to end it yet.
Anyway, here's our status. The girl is adapting to her new Sept, and I've observed no problems any of the Sept members have had with her to this point.
BAULEEL: That's ideal. Perfect even.
GRAEBER: All the news isn't good. During an unfortunate altercation with Iron Wolves along her journey to Kiya's Grace, she managed to fire a sidearm and kill one of the beasts. Her two Durmah Septmates may wonder how a teenage girl managed to bring it down. I have only myself to blame for this incident. If I'd been a few moments faster, she'd never have had the chance.
BAULEEL: Don't blame yourself. I'm sure you of all people would have managed to avoid the situation if you could. It's unfortunate, but doubtful they'll attribute the episode as anything but sheer luck on her part.
It appears things are relatively well on track then, in your opinion?
GRAEBER: From what I can tell, yes. I will continue to monitor for signs of her other unique 'talents' resurfacing--though my limited exposure to her may make this somewhat difficult. I hope that this was simply a fluke, but we should hope she has no other incidents that trigger further awareness.
Watch your back. It's best to assume the Anemoi are watching.
BAULEEL: I am ever vigilant, old friend.
#END TRANSMISSION#
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rai stood in a forest full of ancient trees so tall she couldn't make out their crowns. A whisper of light filtered down through a thick fog clinging to the valley floor. The only sound was a melodious trickle pointing the way to a nearby stream. The landscape was dotted with ferns as big as boulders growing out of rocky outcroppings in between sections of fallen trees. She was an ant dwarfed by her surroundings.
Rai looked behind her, out of breath. Mud caked the bottom of her long, brown cape and blue tunic, and bits of fern and dirt tangled through her long red curls. The cool, humid air tore at her lungs. She tried to slow her breathing, afraid to make any sound at all. She froze, sensing movement nearby.
Muted voices echoed from the ancient trees. They spoke menacingly in a language she didn't remember, yet somehow understood. They accused her of trespassing, of going where she was not welcome, of committing atrocities. They called for her death.
Rai ran through fog and fern, terrorized by the voices. They pursued her relentlessly, unwilling to give up on their prey. Fleeting images of faces and forms haunted her through the fog, but she was too petrified to turn and face them. Suddenly the voices ceased. Confused, she stopped running and listened, but the forest was silent. Sharp claws dug into her shoulders and neck, and her essence, her very soul, drained away from her.
Rai let out a frantic scream, clawing against her unseen attackers, falling backward into the mists.
*
Rai awoke with her hands wrapped firmly around the neck of Tinker Somnu. Both bathed in sweat, Somnu fought to dislodge her grip. She released his neck, and he gasped in air. He pinned both her arms to the bed, and she let him. Unable to move, Rai took stock of his injuries, which included a bloody cut on his right cheek, bruising along his right shoulder and up along his neck where she must have been gripping it.
How had her dreams yet again manifested themselves so violently in the real world?
He continued to hold her while he caught his breath. His eyes held a mixture of suspicion, anger and curiosity. The electricity that had coursed through her body at his touch previously shifted into a sensation of nausea.
"Are you awake now?" Blood from the cut on his cheek ran down his face, dripping down onto her.
"Yes." She wasn't wearing any clothes. A single sheet separated their hips, but her breasts were fully exposed.
"I trust you won your dream battle?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"Well, it wasn't for lack of trying. That must have been one heck of a nightmare?"
"Yeah, terrifying. I'm sorry I hurt you."
He stared at her for a long moment before he released her hands. He slid off the bed, pulled on his pants, and picked up a washcloth. He wet it in the washbasin on the dresser and wiped at the still oozing blood on his cheek. "You have these nightmares often?"
Rai sat up in bed, rubbing her wrists. "Now and again."
"Well, I hope your other victims have fared better than I." He turned back to Rai, reappraising her as he held the cloth firmly to his cheek.
"I hit my attendant healer in the jaw at Temple a few weeks ago. So I guess not."
"You'll be glad to know your fingernails are every bit as effective as your fists." Confusion filled his gaze.
"I'm sorry ... I'm so sorry." Rai arose from the bed in tears. She threw on her clothes, not meeting his gaze. "I don't know what's wrong with me." Rai headed for the door.
Rai stopped and looked at him one more time when she opened the door. She needed him to say that it was all right. Instead, he stared back with an expression of vexation. With tears still running down her face,
Rai ran out the door and closed it behind her.
Rai walked through the quiet guest corridors she reflected on the night. Although sleeping with an unmarried male was acceptable in Az'Un culture, she guessed that attacking a hotel patron--for whatever reason--would be anything but acceptable to Jesse. How could Rai possibly explain herself? She should never have allowed such a turn of events to take place to begin with.
Rai passed by the staircase leading to the main floor and heard the voices of numerous people moving around downstairs. She quickened her step. It must be early afternoon by now. Most patrons would be either socializing in the dining hall or, more likely, out in the town conducting business. She'd better clean up before Hilse came looking for her.
Once back at her room Rai removed her clothes and hung them over a chair next to her dresser. Naked and alone with her thoughts, she assessed her situation. She still had no memories of anything before three weeks ago, and she now could look into a person's emotions at the slightest touch. What did it all mean?
On her first night in charge of the Waystation, she'd managed to sleep with and attack a customer and good friend of Durmah. Dark red drops of his dried blood still marked her chest and belly, serving as wordless reminders of her transgression. Not wishing to remain bloodstained, Rai rummaged through the wardrobe, located a bathrobe, and wrapped it protectively around herself.
She dashed across the hall to the bathroom, but not before Hilse could find her. "Good afternoon, Mistress Rai! I bring good news: Jesse has returned, and she wishes to catch up with you. Once you're dressed, that is."
The Dream Sifter (The Depths of Memory Book 1) Page 16
