She tilts her hand, like a bird banking in flight, a gesture in seer sign language that means “more or less”…more or less. She leads me to a flat expanse of cavern wall, worn smooth by countless hands and tools. There is a shockingly detailed painting on the volcanic stone.
I find myself staring at the images there, feeling almost as if I’ve seen them before.
Some, I have.
At the top, a white sword blazes, intersecting the center of a pale blue sun. The sun is something like a cross between Native American and Tibetan images. Almost Japanese, I think––before realizing I am trying to categorize something as human that is distinctly seer. I look at the other figures depicted in painstaking detail around a rendition of Earth that could have been painted by Bosch on painkillers.
The old woman points up, to a central image above the planet.
It is an old man. His staff spins up into the heavens, forming a white arc of cabled light that reaches from Earth to a shimmering, deep gold sea. He wears all white and stands in a night sky, holding light between both worlds. His face is serious, a little bit frightening.
One of his feet balances on the earth.
The Bridge, she says.
Her eyes are stars, so bright I can’t look at them directly.
I gaze up at the old man.
Why male? I say. It is a bit of a sticking point with me. Is it always male?
She chuckles, pointing at another image, this one of a female holding a cloud of what looks like lightning inside a patch of black sky. The female figure wears white, as well, and also has one bare foot on the Earth.
Also the Bridge, Tarsi says.
I study the image, strangely placated, although her eyes are as frightening as the male’s.
There are countless other forms woven into the drawings.
Who are they all? I ask. They can’t all be the Bridge?
No, she agrees. This mural is meant to be a depiction of the intermediary beings. The ones we know of. She smiles again. They are your family, Bridge Alyson. Your true family. The last of your kind to incarnate here.
I glance over at her, once more startled by the brightness of her light.
What does that mean, my kind? What kind would that be?
You know the myth, do you not? The Myth of Three?
I nod. I am uncomfortable, though. I don’t know it, not really. It would be more accurate to say I know of it. The Myth is one of those things that separates me from the other seers. They were raised on the Myth and I was not, and no amount of having it summarized to me now would make it a part of my living and breathing reality the way it was for them.
Tarsi smiles as if she understands. Or at least, as if she hears me.
She begins to recite.
From her mind, the Myth is poetry.
More than that. It is living presence.
The phrases fill me with light, resonating with fine structures in my aleimi. Music unfolds from inside collapsed pockets of meaning, expanding like opening flowers, drawing intimate pictures of past, present, future.
She sings:
Love’s breath ignites in pools of gold, but it is not the first…
…Nor the last, nor even the beginning. A people swim the surface of Muuld, in a world marked garden for the chosen. We breach simple with flat tails and fingered toes, revel in the brightness of young light.
Numbers swell, our limbs extend, exiting gentle waves. We conquer worlds alarmingly fast. We cover creation with our works, both ugly and wondrous. As time brings new, as every cycle of birth and chaos has beginning…
It cannot last. The first race consumes itself inside itself. It calls to Death, and Death listens. But Death could not be left in his loneliness, nor the first in our pain. Compassion brings tears, a wondrous Bridge to touch the sky. They watch, afraid.
For with her, Death leaves bones to feed the new. Love softens Death, brings hope between them. The others come, to weave the next, and…
Those of us who stay must grow, or perish. We make magics beyond what any sees after. But the gods closed doors to those other worlds, and they are left with only one, and it is alone. And in that one, there is Second race born, from trees and under rocks.
They grow to our likeness, yet believing they are alone. Their works cover that lone world, until they meet us and fear. Fires burn black a second time, a second life. Death listens as the Bridge spins down, illumines a path to the sky.
Love song beckons, leaves them alone. The gold ocean covers all wounds.
Second race follows the path of the first, and those left behind, fated to watch the fires burn yet again. For time speeds up, and all histories fold inside themselves.
As for the first, the youngest and most foolish, most magicked and most childlike, the gods call us from the stone. And a great wail rose when the gods spoke, for the door to that other place must need be lost, and those on the other side forgotten.
For when Third Race comes, they bring with them the stars. We leave them, our Guardians of the Middle. And the Bridge spins her light…
…Until we come to live here no more.
18
ELAERIAN
SILENCE FALLS INSIDE the Barrier as her words end.
In that construct cave, I realize I have never heard the Myth before, not like this.
I can only stand there for a few seconds as lines continue to reverberate through my aleimi like shivers of live current. The words themselves hold a kind of light that doesn’t look like light to me; I feel it as presence laced with emotion and images. I let them wash over me, waiting for some kind of… I don’t know.
Understanding, maybe.
Something that makes me feel like I know something I hadn’t before.
It’s not there. Not in a way that makes sense to my mind.
Tarsi breaks the solemnity and chuckles.
You see? she says. Female. In the old myths, the Bridge is always “she,” never “he.”
But I’m going over specific words now, in my head. The myth. It kind of implies that I’m not, I mean, that I’m not actually––
You are not Sark, she agrees.
Her words are matter of fact, as if she were relaying a fact of little consequence.
Not second race, she reiterates. You are first race. All intermediary beings are first race. We call them Elaerian. Second race is Sarhacienne, “Second”… Sark. Third race calls itself human. The old names for them are immaterial now.
I hear only part of this. I repeat her words back to her like a myna bird, as if hearing them again might change her mind about what she’d said.
I’m first race, I send. Like actually a different species? Biologically?
At Tarsi’s raised light eyebrow, I see red and orange sparks course through the veins in my aleimi.
I ask her again. Not only am I not human, I’m not even Sark?
She smiles. You were aware you had differences from us. The light in your eyes––it is visible to humans. Your blood is not like ours. There are other things. You are telekinetic. That is not a Sark trait. You came to physical maturity much too fast to be Sark. You were able to adapt your early growth cycle to that of humans, to pass. Sarhaciennes cannot change their biology to accommodate their environment. Raised among humans, they continue to resemble human children until well past their twentieth year.
She gauges my eyes.
It strikes me that she has converted our appearance to match that of our physical bodies. It happens so seamlessly that I barely notice.
She adds, You likely have other differences we are not aware of. Much of our knowledge of your race has been lost.
But I am stuck in a mental loop that I can’t seem to escape.
Something Revik said to me once repeats in my head.
It is illogical to have an opinion about what species one is.
Of course, when he said it, I thought he was talking about his own species.
But who gave birth to me? I ask.
She
shrugs with one hand, seer-fashion.
Isn’t that kind of an important detail? I say.
It is said that Elaerian reproduce differently than Sarks and humans. That they are able to manifest their offspring inside the physical embryos of other beings, from the Barrier. It is also said that some always live among us, but keep their presence unknown. Some say they are able to appear here just long enough to breed and then expire. It is possible your parents did any one of these things. It is equally possible you birthed yourself from the Barrier… or were born of a Sark, and the difference is in your aleimi.
That makes absolutely no sense, I send, fighting anger.
She shrugs again. I cannot tell you what I do not know.
Wait, I say, holding up a hand. Revik said my blood is a ‘type’ among Sarhaciennes. He said it’s rare, but that it does occur.
Her smile is patient.
Is it so important, to be the same race as us? She quirks an innocent eyebrow. Or is it to him you are so determined to be alike?
Averting my gaze from those rock-still eyes, I force myself to pause, to think.
Maybe, I concede. Or maybe it’s just a little much, thinking I knew what I was… twice… only to find out I was wrong both times. Is this how the elders came to believe I was the Bridge? These biology things?
She makes another of the “more or less” gestures.
The markers in your aleimi are even more telling, she sends. If you were more accustomed to looking at people by their aleimi, rather than by physical appearance, you would realize there are some distinct differences in yours.
So Revik knew?
She gestures affirmative. Most certainly he knows. He conducted the final confirmation.
Confirmation? Meaning what?
Tests of your aleimi, she sends, waving dismissively with one hand. You would not have noticed these tests, not then. But they are partly why you were able to bond with him so easily. She smiled. In a sense, you already knew one another. Far more than you probably realize.
I feel like I am back on the ship, discovering all over again what he’d done to me behind my back. Even now, he keeps me in the dark about how much he knows.
I found out on the ship, after practically prying it out of him at gunpoint, that he’d invaded my privacy numerous times while protecting me for the Seven.
He’d been through every room of my flat in San Francisco, as well as my mom’s house, my brother’s, Jaden’s, my friends’ apartments and houses. He’d stashed weapons, money and headsets at my place, and at Mom’s and Jon’s. He’d created a hiding place in my ceiling in case he ever had to get me out of there without using the door. He’d read my mind and the minds of just about everyone with whom I came in contact regularly.
He went through my drawings, medical records, school records, police records, all of my online accounts. He’d had open access to anything I did on the net, any VR portals I visited––any porn I looked at or read. He’d conducted surveillance on my work and school, my bosses, my family, anyone I slept with, worked with or befriended.
Why didn’t he tell me? I say finally.
She sighs. You wish me to decipher the intricacies of my nephew’s mind?
Feeling my anger rise, she clicks again, softer.
There are many possible reasons, she says. To avoid frightening you. To avoid losing your trust so early in your relationship. Disclosures of this type tend to operate better in stages. That you are the only known living representative of your species… that you did not realize this because you can shape-shift to match your environment… this is not comfortable information, either to give or to receive.
Thinking further, she made a dismissive motion with one hand.
And yes, the telekinesis alarmed him a bit.
At my silence, her amusement returns.
He also likely did not expect to find himself married to you within a week of having awakened you.
She chuckles, her humor sending ripples through the Barrier space.
…I imagine a lot more of his attention was consumed with determining how to relay that particular piece of information to you, Bridge Alyson.
Still smiling, she studies my eyes.
I feel a faint worry under her humor, though. Like Chandre, she’s concerned she’s harmed my view of Revik. This irritates me, too, for reasons I can’t quite articulate to myself, not at first. I feel somewhat ganged up on, I realize.
Alyson, she sends, before I can say anything. We are simply aware that, given your current condition, you are likely to overreact to any new information about your mate. In this case, it is completely unwarranted. He was under strict guidelines as to approach and disclosure. He asked us––many times––for permission to approach you directly so that he might start training you. He was refused, repeatedly. Mainly because we did not know how violent your awakening would be. Blinded, you were safe. Relatively speaking.
I pause on this.
So why didn’t Vash tell me? I ask. Once I got here?
I am telling you, she says.
Fighting to keep my temper in check, I pull a childhood trick I used when I got angry at my mother.
Holding up my hand, I stare at the reconstructed flesh.
It works, in part. I am amazed at the detail––down to a cut I got the previous morning on the helicopter door, as well as bruises on my knuckles from the fight with Maygar.
I wonder if I added those details, or she did.
You did, she says. You see? It is one of your gifts… to become like those around you. You have only been partially successful at this in the human world.
Again, I remember something Revik said to me.
Like blood on a white sheet. They notice you, then make up a reason why.
At Tarsi’s smile, I look up at the painting on the rock wall, focusing on the figures painstakingly drawn there. I count twenty-five, maybe thirty forms in the painting other than the two she’s already said were the Bridge.
They’re all intermediary beings? I say. All Elaerian?
She points at particular images.
The first stands below the image of the sword bisecting the sun. He is a boy, holding the blue sun in his arms and laughing. His eyes are kind, startlingly innocent.
Death, she says. You know him as “Sword” or “Sword of the gods”… Syrimne d’ gaos.
Her finger moves to another of the forms, a female figure in all red, woven into and standing behind the image of the sword and sun.
War, she says. Also cataclysm. Her finger moves again, to a figure made of bones, but in the shape of a crow-like bird.
Rook, she says. He is also called famine. The starver of souls. She glances at me. These are imperfect translations, of course. But your knowledge of old Prexci is insufficient at this time, so I am providing the English. It is only roughly equivalent––
I know those names, I say, interrupting her.
Looking around a little uneasily, I remember a conversation Revik and I had, what seemed a million years ago now, about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the Bridge.
I’d blown him off at the time, thinking he was just explaining seer religion.
Now, however, I am reasonably sure Tarsi just listed off three of their names, one after the other: Death, War, Famine. The fourth is their leader, who rides a white horse. That is the one about whom no one can agree––whether it is supposed to be evil or a force for good.
The first time we played chess, Revik told me I had to be white. It was his idea of a joke. He said the Bridge was always white; he even called me “the white horsewoman.”
I look at the images of the Bridge.
In both, the figure is dressed in all white.
It is not so simple as the humans portray it, Tarsi sends to me gently. Let us simply say for now that much was lost in the translation. She gestures towards the painting with one hand. What else do you see, Alyson?
I re-focus on the images in front of me.
It is like c
hess, I admit. I point to the image of a centaur in a helmet, carrying a sword. He wears chain mail, his expression fierce. Knight? I say.
She nods. Warrior. Knight is also good.
I point to an image of an older, Saint Nicholas-looking man wearing a crown.
King? I ask. When she gestures “more or less,” I point to his female counterpart. Queen?
Again, she makes the “more or less” gesture with her hand.
We call the King “Shield,” she says. The queen is “Arrow.” But essentially you are right. They are stabilizing forces. They provide structure when it is needed.
Shield? I stare up at the kingly form. Galaith then, right?
She gestures assent. That is correct.
So he was good?
She gestures dismissively. Good, bad… at base, he was neither. He aligned with the Dreng, Alyson, so no, he was not good.
Her light eyes focus on mine, and their complexity makes me stare.
As with Syrimne, she adds. It did not have to be that way. And he still served his purpose… more or less. Dark consequences came of that stability Galaith designed, many more than were strictly necessary. But he did help to thwart that early attempt at bringing the Displacement, prior to his recruitment by the Dreng.
I stare up at the face of the being there.
I imagine I can almost see Galaith in it.
He, too, is your brother, Bridge Alyson, she says. It is part of why you were tasked with curbing his excesses.
I give her a wry smile. If by “curbing his excesses” you mean bringing about his death, well I guess I fulfilled my task well enough.
The old seer merely shrugs, her light eyes focusing back on the mural.
Not all of your brothers and sisters made it to the human chessboard, she says. But many make their appearances in other places.
She points to the image of a dancing rabbit.
Shield (Bridge & Sword: Awakenings #2): Bridge & Sword World Page 18
