Whatever scars I have, she realized, eyeing the hint of paler flesh about where the manacles were locked around Raz’s wrists, I won’t be alone in bearing them.
Her fingers trailed along the metal and wood, following the rectangular edge of the bracket downward. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she moved them slowly to rest atop the back of the atherian’s hand.
His skin felt like silk made solid. There was a deadly softness to it, a firm smoothness that was cool beneath her touch. She had been frightened, for a moment, that she would be repulsed by the feel of his scales, as she had been by Jofrey’s kindly touch. But no nausea came, no crushing weight of dread and sadness. Instead, Syrah felt an old sensation seep its way inside, reaching down and warming her in a way the bed and blankets and heat never would. As with the times when she had sought out his face in her recollections, pulling the memory of him forth to draw hope from and calm her nerves, so too did the feeling of Raz’s hand beneath hers do the same. To an extent, in fact, it was a much, much stronger sensation. Syrah suddenly felt an odd sort of strength return to her, as she trailed the edge of the atherian’s fingers with her own. It wasn’t strength of body—despite however long she had been asleep, Syrah was still heavy-eyed and drowsy. Instead, it was rather as though something had reached down within to find the shivering, bruised spark that was her spirit, and pulled it lightly to its feet.
She smiled wider, feeling the will, the desire to live, return to her steadily.
“How did he get here, Jofrey?” Syrah asked quietly, not taking her eye off the sleeping atherian’s face. “Where did he come from? Did someone call on him?”
For a long time, Jofrey didn’t answer it. The silence had stretched for a good ten seconds, in fact, before Syrah rolled back over, looking at him in concern as she saw that his face bore a stoic look lined with sadness.
“That’s a tale I think Arro had best tell you himself,” Jofrey finally said, his gaze shifting to look at the man across the bed from him. “He’s been dead to the world ever since he got you back up the path, but something tells me he won’t mind if you wake him. First, though, Syrah”—he looked at her again, his face truly grief-ridden, now—“there’s something you need to know. I would rather Carro be the one, but the rest of the council wouldn’t stand for—”
“Carro?” Syrah demanded, almost forgetting herself as she felt a leap in her breast. “Does that mean he and Talo made it back? When? How did they—?”
But she stopped then, as she registered what the man had said. She barely noticed Jofrey’s expression, in fact—a picture of sadness and heartbreak, now—as she realized the implication of his words.
“Jofrey…” she started slowly, knowing all too well that she didn’t want the answer to the question she was about to ask. “Jofrey… Where is Talo?”
It took a very long time, then, for Jofrey to gather himself enough to answer, and far longer to tell her the story of Talo Brahnt’s death. He talked with slow, heavy words that spoke to his own pain in the retelling, and he had to stop often to keep his voice from breaking. He told her as best he could of what had happened, of how Talo and Carro had received her letters and set out immediately for the Citadel, and how terror and tragedy had struck them on the road. He told her what he knew of Raz’s role in the matter, of how he had slain the beast that had dealt the killing blow, but too late. He told her that her Priest-Mentor had died among friends, with his lover by his side, and that he had been laid to rest in the deep reaches of the Arocklen where Laor would certainly have taken him up into his arms and returned him to the eternal cycle of life.
By the time he finished speaking, Syrah felt as numb and hollow as she had after the first visit the Sigûrth had paid her in that cold, cruel tent far below them…
Somewhere, in a distant part of her mind, Syrah was grateful that her hand still rested atop Raz’s. Had he not been there, had she not been able to reach out and touch him and draw from him the warmth his face had always inexplicably given her, Syrah thought she might have lost herself then, in the minutes that followed Jofrey’s news. All of a sudden she remembered waking in the black of night, shivering in the icy air, feeling the hard ground beneath her.
And knowing, by some twisted means that was neither blessing nor cruelty, that somewhere, something terrible had happened.
Laor allowed me to be there, Syrah thought, the realization muddled by the heavy darkness filling her mind. He allowed me to know, allowed me to share that loss…
She wasn’t sure if she was grateful for it, or if she suddenly—for the first time in her life—hated her god with every essence of her being.
She didn’t notice Jofrey leave. She didn’t see him watching her for several minutes, nor heard him call to her in a low voice, seeking to comfort her. She didn’t even see him glance at her hand atop of the atherian’s, or make out the scrape of his chair as he slowly stood, looked at her for a moment more, then made for the door.
It seemed a long time, in fact, before Syrah noticed anything. It might have been no more than a few minutes, or perhaps a couple of hours or even half a day. She was away, floating in the despairing realization that Talo Brahnt—that the man who had been her father in every way but blood—was gone from the world. When Eret Ta’hir had passed some months back, Syrah had thought she understood what loss was. The man had been her confidant, her friend, and she had loved him as a girl loves her grandfather. But this…
Syrah felt a bitter taste in her mouth, and she came to the ugly understanding that—indeed for the first time—she did hate the Lifegiver. He who gives takes, and He had somehow seen fit to take everything from her, and all at once. He had allowed her body to be beaten and used, allowed her spirit to be trampled and cracked. Then, when all that was done, He delivered upon her the coup de grâce, this last great cruelty, this horrible understanding that she had long since said her final words to the man who had raised her, the man who had loved her as any father would love their child.
Eventually, Syrah found that she had run out of tears, and it was this odd awareness that brought her back to the moment. Her left cheek felt sticky and damp, and she rubbed at it and her eye with the sleeve of her left hand as she sniffed. This done, she looked back around, watching Raz’s still-sleeping form, his shoulders rising and falling in a slow, mesmerizing rhythm.
After a time, Syrah found herself smiling again. It wasn’t a happy smile, to be sure, but nor was it a sad one, as can be found on the face of one fondly remembering the dead. It was, instead, a smile of understanding, a smile that spoke to the fact that she had been delivered from misery and terror into grief, but delivered all the same. All of a sudden Syrah felt that she didn’t want to be alone anymore. She had been alone for so long, with the companionship of the baskets and boxes and the cloth beneath her preferable to the touches and salacious words of the men who had visited her. She’d had enough of being without, of being without happiness or hope, without desire to see the next day.
Slowly, carefully, so as not to wake the man, Syrah eased herself up in the bed, lifting her hand from his for the first time since she’d touched it. She felt—as though his skin had been bonded with some strange sorcery—the lingering tingle of his cool smoothness along the tips of her fingers as she did so, and for a moment couldn’t help but stare down at her hand, wondering at the sensation.
After she had bundled the blankets about her hips, making sure she was modestly covered, she paused, then reached out once more. Just before her fingers found his again, she hesitated, looking up into his face, and blushed.
A fine time to start wondering at what sort of mess I must look like…
Overcoming this, Syrah softly grasped two of his fingers in hers, feeling their supple strength, and squeezed them lightly.
“Wake up,” she whispered, watching the atherian’s closed eyes, wanting to see the shine of their gold again.
CHAPTER 43
“There is great value in dreams. Many wonders can be di
scovered among the worlds we visit as we slumber, wonders that seem intangible and unreachable to the woken mind. Take solace in those places, my child, and always seek to bring back what you find there...”
—Uhsula, Seer of the Undercaves, to Princess Shas-hana Rhan
Raz was dreaming of sand and Sun, which was strange in and of itself because Raz rarely felt he slept deep enough to dream. On this occasion, though, he found himself far gone from the humid warmth of the High Citadel, taken away from the cold grey of winter and the constant threat of snow and wind.
Raz was standing at the edge of the Garin, watching the Sun begin to set over the western edge of the lake’s encircling dunes. He was alone at the water’s edge, the surface a single clear sheet that didn’t so much as shiver in the gentle desert breeze whispering about him, caressing the skin of his face and shifting about his wings. He took in a deep breath, realizing at once both that he was dreaming and that he would have been almost content not to wake.
Almost.
For some time Raz stood there, the claws of his feet digging into the warm sand, watching the washed colors of dusk sweep across the sky. There was no sound except the wind, but he felt, without turning around, that his family was nearby, waiting for him to return to the caravan.
Not yet, he thought. Not yet.
It was peaceful, in that place. Thinking this, Raz wondered all at once if he really knew what “peace” was. If he didn’t, then what he felt now must have been as close a thing to it as he was like to get. He could be calm here, quiet, still of mind and body, not worried about living through the next day, or whose blood would stain his hands on the morrow. He could simply be, in that place, just exist without threat or need or desire.
Almost.
There seemed, somehow, to be something missing. Raz couldn’t place it, but it was as though a part of everything about him were absent, as though the painter of the scene had forgotten the one last detail that would make the work complete. Raz didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t bother worrying about it. He had the odd feeling—in the same way he knew he was dreaming—that whatever was out of place would be there soon.
It was then that he felt a slender, delicate hand take his fingers in its own.
For a little while longer Raz didn’t look around to see who it was that had taken hold of him. It reminded him, in a way, of how Ahna had once held his hand, toddling along beside him through the camp, keeping to herself and her dolls but never leaving her older brother alone. It was in the same moment, however, different. The hand was not Ahna’s, to be sure. It was larger, but also more tender. It did not cling to him the way his sister’s had. Rather, it rested about his fingers, holding onto them like they were fragile, priceless things it neither wanted to break, nor let go of.
As the last glint of the Sun began to vanish behind the dune, Raz finally turned to see who it was that stood before him. As he’d suspected, his sister was nowhere to be found. Instead, a woman stood beside him, tall and graceful, the top of her head reaching just about his chest. She didn't move to meet his gaze, the one pink eye he could see taking in the sunset, her braided hair, so white it might have been bleached by the desert, waving about her pale face in the warm breeze. She wore a thin gown of white, and as he looked closer, Raz realized he recognized it. It flowed about her, crafted of the silk mantle he had given her so many years ago to shield her from the cruel gaze of the Sun. She had grown, in that time, almost to the extent that he had grown, becoming a woman in truth.
It was just as night fell, arriving with the last fading flash of day, that she finally turned to look at him. Syrah Brahnt’s eyes, both whole and wide and gleaming in the sudden shine of Her Stars far above their heads, looked up into his.
Then she smiled, and he remembered how he had wanted to keep that smile upon her face forever.
She opened her mouth to speak.
“Wake up.”
Raz awoke quickly, as he was apt to do. He blinked once, twice, then the world returned, drawing itself into sharp focus all around him. He was sitting—rather uncomfortably, in fact—in a hard-backed chair that had been supplied only at the High Priest’s insistence. The room about him was a small thing—at least to his mind—and at once felt cramped, tight and smothered in the limited space of the walls that seemed to press in on him from all sides. There was no fire, but the place was warm and kept lit by the candles set in alcoves in the surrounding stone, throwing guttering light over the bed before him.
And illuminating the Priestess, upright and smiling gently, seated atop it.
Raz grinned back slowly, his fingers tightening about hers as he realized that it was indeed her hand in his, and when he spoke he almost breathed the words, as though awed by what he saw.
“Syrah Brahnt.”
“Raz i’Syul Arro,” Syrah said by way of reply, laughing softly. “I’d say I’m surprised you figured out my name, but I think that would be shunning the hundred other things that are more surprising about your being here.”
Raz chuckled. “No one has ever spoken a truer word.” He felt his face fall, then. “Are you all right? How are you feeling?”
He regretted the questions immediately, seeing a little of the spark die in the woman’s eye as she started to lose her brightness, but a moment later it was back, though she averted her gaze.
“Well enough, I suppose,” she said quietly. “I-I should thank you, to say the least. If you hadn't come when you did—”
“Stop,” Raz cut her off, squeezing her fingers comfortingly. “Enough. If you want to thank me, then do me the favor of not speaking of it, at least as of yet. I don’t want to regret leaving those men breathing, back there in the Woods…”
Syrah turned to meet his eye again, and she looked grateful. “I promise,” she said, her smile returning in full. “If we’re to talk about something else, though, I think you can understand I don’t even know where to start the questions.”
Raz gave an understanding nod. “I can. And I won’t leave your side until I’ve answered every one.”
He might have imagined it, but he thought he saw the woman flush the smallest bit at that. To top this, her voice sounded almost teasing when she replied.
“Well in that case I’ll be sure to keep a few for another day.”
It was Raz’s turn to blush, or would have been had he been capable of it. As it was, he felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, as though someone had twisted it suddenly into a loose knot. He opened his mouth, intent on saying something clever, but found that the words wouldn’t come. A moment later he felt a fool, sitting there gaping at the woman sitting on bed before him.
It appeared, however, that this might have been exactly the reaction Syrah Brahnt was looking for. Her bandaged free hand came up to cover her mouth, and she barely stifled a giggle. Raz grinned sheepishly at that, his eyes moving over her, taking her in.
She was frighteningly thin. That much wasn’t like to change overnight. The bones of her shoulders were sharp and distinct through the thin gown they’d dressed her in before putting her to bed, and her fingers, still wrapped about his, felt thin and frail, one bent and crooked where it looked to have been broken and poorly set. Her ruined eye, too, was saddening, though at the very least it had been covered with clean bandages and cloth, and for the first time Raz noticed also that her hair, though clean now, seemed to have been unevenly cut. It hung long and loose, now, undone from the frayed and dirty braids he had found her with, and whereas it hung well past her right collarbone, barely hiding the twisted remains of her ear, on her left it looked to have been roughly sheared, and didn’t fall far past her chin.
What sort of torment did they put you through? Raz pondered silently, his eyes lingering on this clean, uneven sheet of beautiful white hair. What violence did they force you to suffer?
As though she could read his thoughts, Syrah’s fingers fell from her face, her eye meeting his. She reached down to take his one hand in both of hers.
Raz didn’t reply, struggling with himself as he took her in once again, witnessing her wasted, bruised body, thinking of everything that he knew and wondered had been done to her.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
After that they spoke for what could only have been hours, no matter who was keeping track of the time. Raz told Syrah his story, initially starting upon reaching the North but going back to working with the Mahsadën and its šef at her insistence, then further back again at her continued urging. Eventually, Raz found himself at the very beginning, spending a great deal of time telling her of the Arros and the life he had lived as a child of the trading caravans. He spoke of how he had come to be among them, then of how he had come to be accepted. He spoke of his mother and father, of his sister Ahna and his uncle Jarden. He’d laughed, remembering the antics of he and his cousin, Mychal, telling her of how he had once rebroken his wing when the boy had convinced him to jump off his parents’ wagon in an attempt to fly.
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 122
