“HEY GUYS!” Jean bellowed down the tunnels. Zaja trailed off with a sort of a weak whimper. While they waited for the others to catch back up, Jean glanced through the gate.
“Got what’cha came here for?”
“Hmm?” Zaja startled as though she hadn’t been paying attention, refastening her coat in the colder subterranean air. “Oh, yes. I’ll be fine. All of you can get on your way whenever you’re ready.”
“Nice to hear it,” Jean smiled. “Glad someone’s shit is still down to earth compared to what we’re up to.”
“What are you up to?” Zaja asked.
“Nothin’ much,” Jean replied nonchalantly. “Just gettin’ this fucked up order of gods straightened out so the galaxy don’t collapse.” She scratched her head. “Somethin’ like that.”
Zaja was sorry she had asked. When the others finally returned, she opened the gate, let out a yawn, and beckoned them to follow her.
“And keep quiet,” she stressed.
*
Flynn suspected the Kana they were entering was the different from the one Zaja had left. Darkness had fallen, and whatever warmth still piped up through the cratered city could not match the raw brutality of Oma’s night winds. Zaja led the way with leaden footsteps, through streets nearly devoid of life. What few remained outside had little more energy than she, and their weary group gave a wide berth to what few stragglers they encountered. They soon reached a building on the lower-mid levels, quite unnoticed.
At Zaja’s insistence, they went around to the side alley, waiting and shivering in the growing darkness. As Flynn was glancing up, a lamp lit and a window opened. Zaja peeked out and waved before ducking back in. It was too high to climb, until a rope of tied bedsheets fluttered out.
Lucky, Flynn considered, that her room wasn’t positioned any higher.
At the other end of the rope was a modest bedroom, ready-made with uninspired furnishings. The bed was large enough for two, the room suspiciously well kept for workers’ lodgings. There was little else, save a storage chest and an end table with an idol upon it.
“Pretty nice digs,” Jean complimented.
“Thanks!” Zaja flashed a chipper smile.
“This is to be your new home?” Chari asked.
“For the foreseeable future, yeah.” Zaja nodded. “Oh, and sorry, you’ll have to sleep on the floor. I couldn’t tell them I have guests for … obvious reasons.”
Preoccupied, Flynn examined the idol, a painted of figure of stone who held one arm aside in a peaceful gesture while the other reached down with a sideways, cupped hand. Its expression was serene and contemplative.
“It’s fine,” Flynn responded distantly.
Zaja’s lodgings seemed too generous for a new and untested worker. Flynn would have bet easy money that the sign outside read “hotel,” or some variation thereof. Zaja sat on the bed with an innocent smile, and Flynn knew there was no point in asking her—if she was up to something, or trying to make things seem better than they were, she would only lie. Easier to just find a spot on the floor, borrow a cushion, and settle in for the night. They’d all been awake for the bulk of the day and a little of the night before, and the siren’s call of sleep was too alluring to ignore.
*
It took deliberation and planning to overcome the cold of night and awaken in the midst of it. Were Zaja sleeping in the tunnels somewhere between, rather than in the barest warmth of Kana, she’d have awoken hours later to an embarrassing disappointment. While squatting over the toilet and relieving herself, she was equally relieved that her plan had worked. She had drunk so much water before going to bed that had she not woken up, it would have dripped through the mattress. Once her bladder was emptied, she dressed snugly. Not a soul stirred.
Zaja stopped short at the door. Jean’s mace rested against the wall near where its owner slept. Stepping warily, Zaja reached out with one hand and took up the heavy weapon. Gripping firmly, she lifted and stepped away—only to stagger and nearly drag it into the ground.
She makes it look so easy, Zaja considered, wide-eyed and envious. In that strength, Jean reminded her of a favored teacher, and she admired her a little more for it. Better aware of the weapon’s burden, Zaja strained and lifted it again. She slipped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind her.
Knowing she couldn’t go farther, couldn’t endure another journey, she had to prove herself here. The Governess would see and everyone would agree that she could be useful, that she would have something to contribute. That certainty drove her as she slipped out of the hotel and into the night, struggling under the burden of her borrowed tool.
Chapter Twelve: A Kiss of Death
Two men cloaked in an assortment of cloths borrowed from the satchel of a Saryu priestess moved through the dark streets of Kana. There were no street lamps here, for the people of Oma found it difficult to function at night and thus had little need for them. Disingenuous people could have this town for the taking, a consideration that rotated through Flynn’s mind.
“You sure you’re okay there, Flynn-o?” Mack asked.
“Just focus on keeping warm, Mack.”
It was midnight when they’d begun to awaken. Flynn could only guess how long Zaja had been gone, what it had taken to rouse herself from her subzero torpor. Mack kept close, gripping Flynn’s wrist tightly while the other led the way through the dark. Flynn could almost make out his clouded breath wafting in the night air. Chari’s thin garments offered little in warmth and were more for coverage than comfort.
It’s a mining city, Zaja had told him. She had come here for work—it was not hard to fathom the sort of work she was expecting to find. After nearly an hour of wandering, they found the gateway to the mine. All doubt was removed as to Zaja’s presence therein. A lock, similar to that which had barred their way to Kana, lay broken on the ground, less gracefully shattered.
A string of hanging lamps trailed into the deep, activated by an upturned switch that should have been left off when the workers went to rest. Beyond the creaking gate was a rack of lanterns for the workers, with one having already been taken. Flynn took another and trusted it to Mack, knowing that if the lamps above went out, even his keen eyes would be useless in such darkness.
It was not long before they reached the first fork in the road. “Which way d’ya think she went?”
Flynn began to ruminate over her motivations, why she’d come here in the dead of night. She’s very proud, he recalled, with enough resentment for having been saved once already. A hatred that would no doubt deepen if they saved her again.
“They rejected her,” he realized. “She’s here trying to prove herself.”
“Sooo … left?” The left path petered off to rubble and dusk.
“Not if she has something to prove,” Flynn clarified. “Zaja won’t have taken the first unbeaten path she saw. She needs to find something valuable, and knows to delve deep for it. Something that shows she can earn her piece.”
Underground, the climate was steady—warm, even, compared to the outside chill. Flynn’s sixth sense nagged—the way from Oma was near. He tried to shut it out, listening instead with his natural senses, for signs of Zaja’s labors, or her breath’s echoes—
“Heya, Flynn-o?”
The question cracked Flynn’s concentration, and he suppressed an urge to snap at his companion. Gritting his teeth, he issued a collected, “What?”
“Just wonderin’ … why’d you come here?”
At first, Flynn didn’t understand the question. The purpose of rescuing Zaja seemed inherently self-explanatory, yet the why wasn’t for her, but for him. Why did I come here? The way from Oma was not far now, close enough that they could endure the cold above that the walk would certainly call for. Perturbed that Mack saw through him so easily, Flynn told him, “She’s going to get herself killed.”
“And that’s it, huh?”
The logic was solid. Zaja had nothing left to give, little more as an ally than a
s a friend. Even considering the debts between them, the two sides—the Omati native and the otherworldly travelers—were even. This left only the possibility that this was the right thing to do, something that Flynn’s withered heart needed desperately to understand. Reason favored firm pragmatism, a focus on the mission and the redemption his actions might offer on the cosmic scales. Yet some part of him understood that right and wrong was more than a series of checks and balances, and he couldn’t use that metric forever in his crusade to bring his heart some semblance of peace. It was then that Flynn understood why he was down here, seeking out a girl who no longer had anything to offer: He was once a monster who would have ignored such a person in need. He could yet become that person again. As Mack looked to him, not for a moment fooled by his stated reasoning, Flynn thought it best to change the subject.
“What about you?” he asked. “Jean offered to come with me.”
“She was just crotchety cause the Bluester stole her mace.” Mack grinned. “Besides, Jeannie needs to see that Mack can take a long walk through a cold cave and … something-something …” He trailed vaguely off, not quite sure what point he was trying to make.
“You want her to respect you.”
“I think that’s part of it,” came his rapid agreement.
“You know she thinks Zaja was flirting with you,” Flynn pointed out.
“And maybe I wanna gauge that. I’m not gonna pretend I’m perfect, but if I get to help Zajers and push a few of Jeannie’s buttons in the process, maybe I’ll get a better idea—on a scale of one to ten—just how much she likes me.”
Flynn felt a little better, hearing that, and knowing that even a close bond of friendship between two people could still be driven by what one wanted from the other. It certainly didn’t bring Mack down, at least not in Flynn’s eyes. It just made him a little more human.
“Mack, I think you are the most tolerable person I know.”
“It’s a gift,” Mack agreed. “A gift.”
Whether it was some whimper in the breeze or an inherent grasp for Zaja that lurked so deep in his mind he needn’t call upon it, Flynn couldn’t know. But he reached out, stopping Mack at a fork in the path before the lights ahead bent away out of sight. Whether this was the end of the road or the way to something deeper, they would never know.
They did not descend into the shadows long, when the light from Zaja’s lamp made the path certain. They found her upon a deposit, the existence of which was only hinted at by a shimmer in the wall. It had undoubtedly been discovered by an experienced miner, whose glory Zaja hoped to snatch. Slouching weakly, her temperature had dropped and she was too far gone to protest. Something in her eyes begged not to be saved out of fear, rather than contempt. What she wanted most now was not to be uncovered.
He took moved to take her in his arms, ready to shame her a second time.
“What should I—?” Mack started to ask.
“Just keep holding the lamp,” Flynn instructed and, though disappointed, Mack complied.
Flynn didn’t want to talk as they made their way back out, and Mack’s few attempts to stir up conversation fell on deaf ears. Zaja pulled at his vest and pleaded once or twice to be set down, whispering that she could carry herself, or that she needed to return to where she was found. These, too, were ignored.
Flynn began to consider whether, in rescuing Zaja, he had offended more than just her sense of pride. In his shallow naivety, he could not have conceived of a person who would scorn him for saving them rather than abandoning them. He understood now that contempt knew no boundaries.
Mack and Flynn both knew the way out was near when the first cold breeze slithered past them. Though chillier, the air was fresher too, and they reflexively breathed deeper. Outside the hotel, near the end of the rope, Jean waited. She knew better than to say a word, and beckoned them to follow with a gesture. Wearing a veil to cover her skin, she looked almost exotic as she led them through the dark routes of Kana by the light of their borrowed lantern. Jean moved decisively, though it was not a quick jaunt to their destination. Zaja made no noise, and Flynn noticed she had fallen asleep in his arms.
Hooded and covered so that even her hands were obscured, Chari intercepted the group, and led them the rest of the way to a nearby hospital. Even in the dead of night, with not a soul wandering in the cold, she’d been cautious not to let herself be seen. Flynn handed Zaja to Jean long enough to adjust his own coverage. He donned the spectacles, while the priestess adjusted the coverings over his face to keep as little of his pale skin visible as possible. During these adjustments, Flynn noted that the hospital was the one building in Kana whose many lights were on. He anticipated a stronger warmth inside, expecting it was the only way the Omati people could operate at night.
“Don’t face anyone longer than you have to,” Chari warned. “They should be focusing on Zaja, not you.”
“I know.” Flynn was grateful for her concern. “Stay in the hotel room for now; feign sickness in Zaja’s place if you have to.” The last direction was to Chari specifically, the only person he trusted to convey such a lie. “Just don’t let them open the door.”
Taking Zaja back from Jean, he moved to the doors with just enough time for Mack to pull one open for him. Flynn left his friends in the cold, stepping into Kana’s local hospital—used to dealing mostly with injured miners during saner hours, but nonetheless staffed—and cried, “Emergency! I have an emergency!”
He cradled Zaja in his arms until a staffer came rushing out with a gurney. Zaja’s eyes opened and he felt her watch him just long enough to blame him before being carried away.
*
Despite the hour, Flynn found the hospital cafeteria still open. The offerings were modest—simmering soup and a few other courses on the side—but he took what he could, settling in an alcove out of easy view. Here he shed his spectacles and the wrappings that covered his head, his arms. Secure in these surroundings, he sat before a bowl of soup and thought back to Zaja, whose contempt he felt even now.
Troubled? Strange that, of all people, he would recall Scytha, the so-called Reaper he’d met back on Sechal. As he stared into his soup, he knew he needed some perspective. It may be that this apparition could offer it.
“I tried to help someone,” he replied in a low voice, should anyone happen into the room. “Compared to what I used to do, I thought at least ‘helping’ was a cut-and-dry process.”
Have you given any real thought as to what it means to be ‘helpful’? Who exactly are you helping? It was an unexpected question.
“Maybe I am just helping myself,” Flynn conceded. “It’s frustrating, dealing with someone who wants to live but can’t save herself. It feels like she blames me, every time something goes wrong.”
We are talking about Zaja DeSarah, yes? I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.
Flynn’s bowl of soup reflected his vexed expression. It was frustrating enough to sit so uncertainly, only to find your mental soundboard was losing track as well.
Two fingers reached out, hooking his bowl of soup and dragging it across the table. He looked up to find Scytha—the real Mystik of Death, not a memory conjured from his mind—sitting right across from him. He flushed when he saw her, realizing that his subconscious had never pulled up a conversation partner in the first place.
“Long time no see.” She smiled coyly, twirling her fingers in the broth before drawing them out and sucking her digits clean. Leaning back, Flynn slid the unused spoon across the table to her. She picked it up and examined it before dipping it in the broth. “What, no indirect kisses?”
“I wasn’t really expecting to see you again.” He wasn’t upset or annoyed at her appearance now, just uncertain what to make of it.
“I’m not here for you, or your friends,” Scytha replied, looking into the soup. “Actually, I was surprised to see you here.”
“So you haven’t been following us around?”
“How could I?” she asked
. “As I told you before, I don’t know where the rifts between worlds lay. I’m not attuned to them like you are.” She took a bite of soup, before explaining further. “You can thank Zaja DeSarah for my coming here.”
“Then I was too late?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Scytha smiled with a warmth that suggested a desire to reach out and touch him. She didn’t, though. “She’s been flirting with—well, me—for days now, like a mortality roller coaster. Oma’s climate isn’t friendly to its people to begin with, least of all someone like that girl.”
A pause. “She’s sick,” he concluded.
“Not … precisely.” The Reaper hesitated. “It’s not quite my place to explain, and I’m not so well versed on Omati physiology as to give a concise answer.” She shook her head, dismissing the concern. “Regardless, you’ve got her here now. If you stay, you’ll likely find out.”
“Then she’ll live?”
“For the time being,” Scytha conceded. “Thanks to you. And really, Flynn,” she teased, “you keep ruining all my business trips.”
“You seem so lax for someone whose time is spent escorting dying souls,” he admitted.
She shrugged. “That’s why I don’t do it.”
Flynn gave her an inquisitive look, and Scytha smiled, pleased with herself.
“My posture as Mystik of Death is more that of a filter or a conduit. Simply by my being, the passage to death is maintained. With little else to do, I flit between worlds, looking in on cases that interest me.”
Other worlds, Flynn recalled. “What can you tell me about Terrias?”
The spoon slipped from Scytha’s hand, landing lopsided in the soup, although her face hadn’t lost any composure.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“Airia Rousow.” Flynn kept it simple, to see how many bells the name would ring.
“I hope for your sake that you said no,” she told him, bowing her head. “Few cross paths with Taryl Renivar and live.”
Outcasts of the Worlds Page 27
