Mistress of the Wind (Arucadi Series Book 1)
Page 27
Claid took the lead and guided them to a spot where they could shelter behind a rocky outcrop and peer over it to view the mountain slope and the path winding through the trees that studded the slope. Obeying Claid’s signal for silence, they watched five mindstealers stroll into view, briefly visible through a break in the trees. They seemed to be heading in the direction of the abandoned camp. The creatures each carried one or two brainstones in slings hung on a cord around their waists. One stopped and sniffed the air like a dog. Kyla shrank back behind the rocks until it moved on out of sight.
Alair put his arm around her shoulders, and when she turned to him, he kissed her. “It’s time,” he whispered. She wanted to cling to him, not let him go. “Be strong,” he said.
“Claid, you know what you have to do. Keep the women safe.”
Ruffian whined and wagged his tail. Alair scratched the dog’s head. “Stay!” he ordered, and disappeared into the thick growth of shaggy pines.
Ruffian sat on his haunches, stared after the mage, and whimpered.
“I know how you feel, fella,” Kyla said.
After a couple of minutes, Claid whispered, “Wait here while I see what’s happening. I have to be sure they take him.”
Kyla nodded and he slipped away. Marta looked miserable, and Kyla wished she could offer words of comfort, but she had none. They waited in silence, sheltering against the rocks. Occasionally Kyla peeped over the outcrop to scan the path below.
Startled by Claid’s sudden, silent reappearance Kyla jumped. Ruffian gave a low growl.
“They’ve captured him, but they’re not sure they want to steal his mind. They remember him from before, and the trouble he caused.”
“They may kill him. You've got to stay with him.”
“My master can protect himself. I needed to warn you. They may come this way.”
“We’ll be all right,” Kyla said rashly. “Go back to Alair.”
Claid shook his head. “He ordered me to protect you.”
Fists clenched, chin thrust out, Kyla said, “I order you to guard him.”
“As you say, mistress.” He scampered back into the woods and was gone.
To do what? If only she could be sure of him. “I hate this,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s crazy. It isn’t going to work.”
“I’ll bet it will,” Marta said. “Your man isn’t the kind to throw his life away. He knows what he’s doing.”
Marta’s confidence encouraged Kyla. She had to smile at the girl’s description of Alair as “your man.” Alair would never be anyone’s man but his own.
She had to know what was happening. The wind could tell her where the mindstealers were.
“Stay where you are and watch for trouble.” As she spoke, she took off her heavy pack and dropped it onto the ground. “I’m going to sing the wind. We may need its help. Ruffian, stay here and guard Marta.”
The dog wagged his tail in apparent understanding, but Marta, hands on hips, blocked the path. “Why must you go somewhere else to do that? We should stay together.”
Kyla felt her cheeks flush. Marta was right; they should not separate. Kyla admitted to herself what she could not confess to Marta: she feared the wind would refuse her. She wanted no witness to her failure.
“I concentrate better when no one else is near,” she said. “I won’t go far. If there’s trouble, scream.”
She hurried off. The trail wound upward through the pines and fallen rocks, and although she tried to keep her promise not to go far, she’d gone a considerable distance before she found a clear space, a wide spot between the trees large enough to offer the wind room to play.
Dried pine needles covered the ground; overhanging branches shaded much of the clearing. Though the air, unwarmed by the winter sun, was bitterly cold, she took off her cloak, spread it out, and knelt on it, shivering.
She tried to focus on the wind alone. When the cold and her own fears intruded, she pushed them aside, lifted her voice, and sang. She poured her soul into the song, coaxing, pleading, and murmuring love.
The wind, wearing its hostile pale blue color, came poking around her, prodding with faint tendrils as though exploring a stranger. Its color did not deepen; its icy fingers refused to warm. It plucked at her hair and chilled her face and hands. It swirled around the clearing, stirring up a flurry of broken needles, deepening their pungent scent. She threw her arms wide, tried to embrace it, cajole it. No use. It blew past her and was gone. The air fell still, brittle. Her song died away; she covered her face with her hands and wept.
After a while the cold drove her to her feet. She should not have tried this experiment. It shook her trust in Alair as her trust in Claid had been shaken. Now, when she needed all her wits about her, she was filled with doubt and fear.
She gathered up her cloak, shook it, brushed off the twigs and dirt. As she fastened it around herself, she heard a scream.
Marta!
She snatched her knife from its sheath and dashed toward the sound. If only she had heeded Marta’s warning and her own better sense!
It took too long to reach the outcrop. Kyla skidded to a halt by the sheltering rocks. The spot was deserted. Scuff marks in the ground and a chipped rock told of a struggle.
From farther down the trail a dog barked. Kyla raced in that direction. She nearly fell over something large and black blocking the path. She thought it was a rock until it moved, groaned.
Alair! Alair, curled into a fetal position, his black cloak crumpled beneath him.
She sheathed her knife, bent down, raised his head, stared at his face.
The vacant eyes, slack mouth, bleeding ears told her more than she wanted to know. Kyla lifted him to a sitting position so she could tuck his cloak around him. Again came the sound of furious barking.
“I have to leave. Marta needs me,” she told him, lowering him back to the ground. “I’ll come back for you.”
With a last worried glance at Alair, she ran toward Ruffian’s beacon of noise.
The dog bounded to meet her, spun around to urge her toward the place where they’d camped. Six mindstealers profaned the spot where she’d let Alair make love to her. In their midst she caught sight of Marta, frozen in place, mesmerized by the eyes of her captors.
Kyla drew her knife and hurled herself at the creatures. Shouting, she stabbed one and kicked another. Ruffian joined in the attack; he leaped, snarling, on the mindstealer in front of Marta, tore into its leathery flesh. It turned, fought the dog off. Marta screamed.
One creature sank its claws into Kyla’s knife arm. Another grabbed her by the throat. “Run, Marta,” she yelled. “Get away. Find Cl—”
The grip tightened around her throat, choking off her words. A third mindstealer grabbed her free arm, twisted it behind her back. Ruffian held two more at bay. The last one lunged at Marta, but Kyla saw her evade it and speed toward the trees. It let her go and turned back to help its fellows. The kick it aimed at Ruffian sent the dog scurrying after Marta.
The mindstealer strode toward Kyla. Twisting its mouth in a hideous rictus of a grin, it lifted clawless hands above its head in a victorious wave. Two brainstones hung in a sling around its waist. Lowering its arms, it patted one stone with its shortened fingers. “This time,” it wheezed, “wind witch cannot save mage friend. Join him. Make One stronger, more powerful.”
Wind witch! Kyla cringed at the irony. Her wind singing wouldn’t save them this time.
One of its companions fitted onto its maimed fingers the carved talons she’d seen before. While the others held her immobile, it positioned itself in front of her. Its glowing orange eyes sucked her into their depths.
Sharp pain pierced both ears. She shrieked. The pain exploded into her head.
A sound that might have been the rush of the wind surrounded her. No, it was more like the roar of the sea in a shell held to her ear. Or the rush of blood through her veins when she’d run a long distance.
Not a thought. A sound. Almost-
music. It ebbed and became a slow plaintive crooning. Moments later it built to a thunderous roar. Again it subsided to a low hum, then surged again to a powerful crescendo.
If it were the wind, she should be able to understand it. She concentrated, listening intently. Yes, there was a message.
Life is One. One is life. Join the One. Serve us.
As she distinguished the words, she became aware of a faint scattered glimmering. Again she concentrated, and the lights grouped themselves and formed a mosaic of a thousand scenes. Rocks. Water. Canyon wall. Barren ground. Black figures, tall, thin, and spidery. Trees. Buildings. All in confused juxtaposition, shifting, changing, making no sense.
The music rose. DRAW, it urged. DRAW.
A mélange of messages bombarded her. Obeying the plea, she drew them in and tried to make sense of them. There were too many, crashing together, with no time to sort them out.
We must continue crossing big cut. Walk on rocks. Rocks hold back water. Climb to wide land. Good land, dry, full of food for bodies, minds for Core. Make stronger and wiser. Hurry! Cross, climb, run free, take minds, make eggs, increase, spread over whole land.
The music crashed to a shattering crescendo. SEND, it screamed at her. It was impossible to disobey. She could not endure the terrible pressure of the music. Without understanding them, she let the messages flow from her until the sound ebbed, returned to a low hum.
The reprieve didn’t last. New sensations stabbed like needles: disharmonic sounds, a wild babble. She must sift out the inconsequential, draw in the significant, and send it on. As she had done with the wind.
DRAW.
Sudden understanding came to her. She knew what was happening to parts of the One.
SURGE, the music commanded as it built. SEND.
She sent, adding her own contribution to the messages surging through her. The rods that spit fire are guns. They kill. Stay back, away from them. Not all men have guns. Don’t go after ones who have them.
In another surge the music caught other messages, drew them in, joined them with hers.
DRAW. SURGE. SEND. The cycle repeated, and her thoughts became part of the surge and blended into the sending.
Hide from men with guns. Take men with no guns. Steal guns from men. Take more minds. Find more food. Make more eggs. Increase. Spread.
The kaleidoscope of images shifted again. Men. Guns. Dry shrubs. Cloudy sky. Falling snow. House. Wooden door. Man, woman, child. Brainstones.
DRAW.
Streets. Houses. People running.
An assault of sound: shouts, screams, the roar and shriek of a train.
The surge of messages and emotion was overwhelming. She had no choice but to send it on, weaving with it her own message of reassurance.
A train. Not an animal, a machine. Made by men. Men feed coal to make it run. It carries people, things to far places. The wheels run on tracks. It can go only where tracks go. It can’t hurt us if we stay away from tracks. We who get in front of it will end.
DRAW.
The kaleidoscope of images shifted. Houses. Rooms. People. Grain. Animals. Honey. She tasted its golden sweetness.
Eat. Increase. Spread out, cover land.
She was getting the hang of it, falling into the pattern of draw, surge, send. It grew automatic, as it had with the sewing machines in the workhouse. This was easier, really.
DRAW.
Poison. Food is poison. It will make us smaller.
SURGE.
DRAW.
Use guns. Shoot other parts of us.
SURGE.
SEND?
Food is poison. We shoot our parts.
The message was wrong. She hesitated. Should she pass it on? The normal, expected messages also flowed in. Pass everything on? What should she do? The rhythm faltered, the pattern changed. She tried frantically to find and send the messages that fit the pattern she’d learned.
We are one. Eat. Take minds. Grow more parts.
The pattern shifted. She drew one strong message that did not fit yet could not be suppressed.
We run. Run from people. Take guns. Shoot guns. Become smaller.
Hold. Ebb.
DRAW.
Not one. Many parts. I. I am not a part. I am I..
DRAW. SURGE.
All. Join all.
SEND.
All joined. We are one.
DRAW.
Not one. Not we. I. You. Many.
Pause. Ebb.
DRAW.
One. Join one.
Run. Separate.
One. Together.
I am. I am not a part. I am I.
Join all.
Not a part. I.
DRAW.
Not all. Not parts. Not One mind. Many minds. I. I am. I am Alair. I am Alair the mage.
Pause. Ebb.
Alair?
Who?
We. One. Join.
No. Not we. Not one. I. Who? Claid?
Claid. Alair. Not one. Who? Who am I?
Kyla?
Kyla? I? Not all? Kyla. I.
Kyla. No. Not here.
Here. Where is here?
The mind. Mindstealers took me. You too? No! Claid. Ordered to protect you. Where is Claid?
DRAW.
Mindstealers?
SURGE. SEND.
Parts of one. All.
Kyla. You are Kyla. I am Alair.
Kyla. I am. I am Kyla.
Yes. You are Kyla.
Not parts? Not together?
Not parts. Mindstealers. They kill. Remember.
Where is Claid?
Claid. Not here.
No, not in the mind. He should be channeling power. I can’t sense him. Deserted again. Put you in danger. I ordered him to protect you.
I knew the danger. I wanted to be with you. Claid had to keep Marta safe. He couldn’t protect us both.
He could have. This happened the other time. He grabbed the chance to get free. I’ll get you out of this. Define yourself. Think separately from the One. Don’t let it swallow you.
She had been swallowed, drowned in the group mind, until his call pulled her out. Sorting the bewildering mosaic brought by many eyes, making sense of its elements, reacting to them—these processes challenged her. Her mind demanded its role in directing the units to work together no matter how widely apart they might spread. The pattern must not be broken.
Think, Kyla. Think for yourself. Don’t help the mindstealers. Break the pattern.
Messages poured in. She had to pass them on, had to add her wisdom to the knowledge of the all. Her surge strengthened the all, helped our parts grow and spread.
Kyla. Help me, not them. Listen to my message and pass it on. Not parts. Enemies. Destroy. Mind thieves. Separate. Destroy.
The message was strong. It overrode the ebb and flow of the other sendings. It broke the hypnotic rhythm that kept her a part of a thinking machine.
DRAW. SURGE. SEND.
She passed the message on, spreading confusion, division.
Good girl. We’re doing it. Keep sending.
No all. No one. Separate. Destroy.
She drew in, sent on. The rhythm grew erratic. The resonance changed to inharmonic clatter, like the sewing room when some machines stopped and others moved at different speeds. Connections broke, sections shut down. She felt the fraying mind try frantically to reassert the steady flow.
DRAW.
All. All joined.
One. One mind, many parts.
Together, all together.
Not one. Many. Separate.
SURGE. SEND.
DRAW.
Act together. One mind. Not se
parate. All one.
Kyla. Alair.
SURGE.
Alair. You lied. I couldn’t—couldn’t sing the wind. You said I’d be able to, that it wouldn’t matter that we made love. It did.
No, Kyla. I wouldn’t—I didn’t lie. Not about that.
DRAW.
Join.
Take minds. Strengthen One.
Together. Act together.
SURGE. SEND.
All one. Join together.
Kyla, hear me. You are Kyla. Your mind is separate.
Not joined. You lied. Together. We are one.
DRAW.
I didn’t lie. Your fear kept you from singing the wind. Not our love, Kyla. Only your mistrust. And fear. Don’t let your fear destroy you.
DRAW.
All join. Take many minds. Strengthen One.
SURGE.
Kyla, hear me. Don’t let yourself be destroyed. Kyla, separate yourself. You are a windspeaker. You haven’t lost your power. Kyla, trust me. You must. I love you.
Claid?
{Claid is here, master.}
At last!
DRAW-snap.
I. I am. I am Alair.
I. I am. I am Kyla.
SEND.
I. I am. I am.
The message rang out from several sections of mind. The visual mosaic fractured into a collage of confusion. Mindstealers fought one another. Scenes shifted, rocked, spun, as the owners of the eyes ran madly, some in circles, some leaping, jinking, slamming into trees and rocks. Mindstealers plunged mindlessly down hillsides, crashed against the sides of houses. Some shot the guns they’d stolen, not aiming, firing at anything, even at themselves and each other.
Scenes winked out; blind spots appeared in the fragmented mosaic, transforming it into splotches of motion and color among swaths of black. Those swaths spread, the tiny fragments of color grew fewer, and the views more bizarre, a thousand disparate nightmares.
The dizzying visions confused her. If only she could shut them out, and along with them the voices crying, begging for identities lost long ago.