Avelune, page 64
As he closed on her, the woman backed into the bookshelf, wielding the jagged neck of the broken jug. He could see fear under the defiance in her eyes. It would be a relief to kill her. She deserved it. As the Shorn boy deserved it. This, at least, would be a clean death. More than the woman allowed her birds. Fury carried him the final distance and gave strength to his arm as he hoisted the blade.
The Sonan woman flung up her makeshift weapon defensively. Her amber eyes met his, no longer fearful, but full of the knowledge of her death. A clean death. Better than she deserved. She did not turn away as the knife rose. She had never lacked courage, after all. This small, Sonan woman. The one who had seen something of grace in him. Falucha.
“Hold, Ilaye! You will not harm her! You will not!”
Jhared scrambled to rise above Ilaye’s Perspective. The force of her fury shoved him down again. The knife clutched tightly in their fist wavered over Falucha’s heart. Once more, Jhared rose up, holding urgently to his purpose. He had dropped onto Ilaye’s Path with all his own doors thrown wide. A mistake. The knife came slashing downward, veered from its target, found purchase, dropped.
“Vile creature! Violator! Get off my Path!”
Nothing of deliberation or restraint existed in Ilaye as she turned on him. They tumbled, locked together, across one another’s Paths: slamming against his memories of border patrols; rolling over her knowledge of Sona’s coastal towns; barreling through his opinions on Velantar’s bowyers; devastating her understanding of the Saimbor canal system. He kept up with her at the outset, striving to keep his awareness intact. But she owned all the advantage: she had spent nine years riding his Path and knew the architecture of his thoughts and memories. Gradually, she forced the battle into more critical parts of his self: the day he murdered a hawk and swore his life to Avelos; the first time he saw Mayavana beyond the Gate; the night Zinderdali shared his secrets about the Hands of Lumati; the moment Jhared knew he held the power of the killing winds.
Shrill squealed. “No! It isn’t possible. It’s Mayavana! Mayavana holds the key!”
With a sickening thud, she leaped fully into his moment and took it for her own. At her command, Jhared’s heart lurched out of rhythm. His lungs refused to draw air. Agony torqued through him as she ripped through his thoughts, through the places where he defined himself, through every experience that had shaped his understanding of the world. His Path and the weaving beyond began to darken. He struggled, but he knew the struggle existed only in some small corner that remained his own. His body no longer belonged to him. Images began to float across his vision, recalling the past, and the futures that would never be. As his energy dwindled, he whispered the names of those who had mattered.
The ripple started somewhere very far away. A gathering of effort. Slow and unsteady at first, but building, like a storm gathering power. The roar, when it came, reverberated through the core of Jhared’s bones.
“Mayavana holds nothing, you ignorant bitch! She’s just like the rest of us. None of us own the discipline to call the winds. It is all the Shorn. Only the Shorn!”
Rathael smashed against Shrill’s presence, fracturing her grip on Jhared’s Path. A whisper brushed Jhared’s consciousness: “Go!” Then Rathael peeled away, catapulting off both Paths into the Nowhere, pursued by the raging Shrill. For long moments, Jhared could do no more than gasp grateful breaths and try to sweep together the fragments of his self. When finally he could lift his awareness, he limped toward the Gate.
Kest was waiting. His adamant presence hunkered directly before the blue flames. His fatal grin stretched wide. “Show me how to call the winds or suffer the Gate’s scorching fire.”
Jhared didn’t pause, knowing hesitation would finish him. Once before in the Nowhere, anger and desperation had lent him the skill he needed. He hurled his emotion around the big Avelun, and sensed the man’s burst of shock as it caught him. With all his will, Jhared whipped Kest about until the man’s thoughts rattled and his smugness turned to fear. When the red-wing hung limp in his grasp, like a snake in the talons of a raven, Jhared flung him away from the blue flames deep into the black emptiness.
Somewhere in that emptiness, Rathael battled Shrill. For a moment, Jhared might have gone hurtling after them, but agony throbbed through his thoughts, the agony his Teachers had cultivated over nine years. The time had come to pull his Path in his own direction.
When he sang his litany of names, the doors to his own place opened. He discovered himself sprawled across the floor. His arms, stretched above him, were still bound, but the rope lay slack. The force of his falling body had finally torn the cooking rod free of the hearthstone. It dangled over the beam near the ceiling.
Kest lay unconscious beside him. Fine tremors ran through the red-wing’s large frame as the cold of the Nowhere began to take its toll. Ilaye had fallen facedown, her body half under the overturned table: one wing stretched to its full span; the other askew against her shoulder. Jhared turned away and found Falucha.
Ah goddess. Falucha.
She had collapsed against the bookshelf, books tumbled around her. Her hands, pressed against her middle, were slippery with blood. Jhared scrambled toward her. Ilaye’s knife lay at her feet. Sitting on the floor, he clutched the grip between his knees and sawed at the rope around his wrists until it fell away.
He touched Falucha’s cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, their amber darkened with pain.
“It is over?” she asked faintly.
He glanced at Ilaye’s still form. “Almost.”
“I did not . . . intend this. Do not let them think I sought this.”
He brushed loose strands of hair from her face. Her skin was cold and sweat-slicked. “I understand. You needed to strike a blow.”
“I did,” she whispered, falling wearily into her native Sonan. “For my child.”
Gently, he moved her hands away from the jagged wound in her left side. It was deep and low. The blade had slipped down her ribs, missed her heart and lungs, but found something vital at her core. He had done this. His fist had gripped the knife as well as Ilaye’s, and he had not been skilled enough to stop it. He grabbed Hzelka’s shawl from the back of a chair and pressed it against the gash.
Falucha flailed one hand feebly against his. “Leave it. Nothing can be done. Better not to linger.”
Jhared met her round gaze, crying out inwardly against this turn in the Path. In the brief time he had known her, Falucha had been a friend.
She must have seen the uncertainty in his expression for she nodded her confirmation and closed her fingers over his.
Something beat, faint but rhythmic, deep within Jhared, an urgent stroke of wings still riding his Path. A weak voice hissed from far away. “What . . . ? What’s happened? Falucha?”
Jhared drew a calming breath, but sorrow still rang in his thoughts. “I have her. She will not be alone.”
Instant understanding and horror arrowed into him. “No! Ah, no!”
The force of the cry knocked Jhared backward against the table. He caught himself and flung his thoughts toward the madness that was Rathael. “Where are you? Can you come to us?”
In a rush, he caught the scent of sand and seaweed and heard waves breaking unevenly against rocks. Somewhere off shore, a horn blew, long and mournful.
“Too far. Never make it.” Jhared sensed a quick series of gasps, like a man trying to catch his breath. “Let me speak with her. Please!”
“Has he come?”
Falucha’s fading voice pulled Jhared back. He drew her close, sheltering her torn body with his own, as though he could preserve her from this final pain. “You need not speak with him. I will send him away, if you wish it.”
She winced. A host of emotions crowded her features. “I will not go as Ilaye did. With hatred for a guide. Let him through.”
Once again, Jhared turned inward and pushed open the doors of his own Path. “Have a care,” he warned his Teacher. “Do not cause her another moment of pain.”
Rathael staggered into Jhared’s Perspective like a drunkard falling down stairs. Suddenly, Jhared’s arms holding Falucha became his Teacher’s also. Suddenly, a desperate, remorse-filled love flushed through him, and the grief-stricken voice that spoke in Sonan was not quite his own.
“My heart. Ah, my heart. She will never harm you again.”
“I believe that is safe to say,” Falucha murmured, her dry manner rising above her agony. “Did you come to ask me, Ratha? Are you going to plead one last time?”
“No.” The Avelun faltered and nearly slipped from Jhared’s Path. With a wrench of effort, Jhared caught the man and steadied him.
“No,” Rathael repeated. “I do not deserve your forgiveness. I came only to promise that on the next Path, I will not fail you.”
“The next?” Falucha stiffened, with anger more than pain, Jhared thought. “Do not follow me.”
“No one can prevent that now, my heart.”
“Do not! I will . . . refuse you on the Hidden Paths.” Falucha’s breath hissed quick and shallow.
With Jhared’s hand, Rathael touched the sunset-colored stone at Falucha’s ear. His presence in Jhared was a pale thing. “We went into the forest once . . . to watch the hawk teach her fledglings to fly.”
“Yes,” Falucha said hoarsely.
“I will wait for you there. On every Path. I will wait until you return to me. I will—”
The blue flames flared high, severing Rathael’s low voice. His presence winked out, like the sun dropping into the sea. Jhared grabbed for him, but nothing remained to grab.
Falucha cried his name, half rising out of Jhared’s arms with the force of her anguish.
“I am sorry,” Jhared murmured. “He’s gone.”
“His life . . . should not be wasted,” she gasped. “The world should not lose his strength and beauty. Please. Do not let him follow me.”
Only now did tears spring into her eyes: the tears she had not shed for herself spilled for the man she had loved; the man who had betrayed her. The man who had spent years tormenting a Shorn child.
With Falucha in his arms and the remnants of Rathael’s love and remorse pounding through him, Jhared found only one answer possible: “I promise it. Whatever can be done, I will not let him abandon this Path.”
He held her as Falucha fought her last, desperate battle. Softly, he sang the Sonan lullaby Maya had sung for him. He kept singing, even when Falucha could no longer hear the song.
Nothing existed to mark the passage of time when sounds from outside the house penetrated his melody. The noise grew, entered the house, and became the sounds of alarm and dismay. Jhared stroked Falucha’s cheek. He had once seen Riana’s guide come to lead a fallen man’s spirit to the Hidden Paths of the Dead. He wondered if the doors of those Hidden Paths would open themselves as readily for him as the Paths of this world seemed to do. He wondered if he would find Falucha there.
“She’s dead.” Hzelka’s voice slammed against Jhared like the jug had slammed against Ilaye’s wings. “I knew it could happen. I told them there was strength in you.”
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up into Hzelka’s homely face. Moravel stood behind her, staring at the carnage with a sick expression. “Little Lucha,” the red-wing said brokenly.
Anger bulled across Jhared’s grief. He shook off Hzelka’s hand. “Where have you been? Where’s Rathael? You went to find him hours ago.”
Hzelka took a startled step backward. Wetness gleamed at the corners of her eyes. “I don’t know. I searched the woods. I didn’t find him. Ilaye caught me heading north. She had guards with her. I had to go back to the house to care for Nemaye and the others. I tried to return to you. I—”
“Quiet!” Jhared ordered. “You needn’t bother with excuses. Falucha can no longer hear them.”
The Avelun woman bowed her head.
Moravel caught site of Kest. He dropped to his brother’s side. “What happened?”
“Ilaye meant to kill me. Falucha intervened. I failed to protect her.”
“And Kest?”
“Is struggling his way back from the Nowhere. I suspect it will be a long trip.”
Moravel took off his cloak and tucked it around his brother’s trembling body. “I don’t understand.”
“I do.” Hzelka watched Jhared with wary regret. Slowly, she lowered her round figure beside him. “I told them there was strength in you,” she repeated faintly.
Jhared did not respond. His gaze lingered on Moravel. “Why did you not send warning that Ilaye had evaded you? You said you would gather them all.”
“I did gather them.” Moravel’s expression turned bitter. “Ilaye and Kest appeared to drink with the others. They dropped as the others did. It was a sham. Ilaye must have doubted me from the start. She has been too close to Mayavana. She must have guessed the truth.”
“What truth?” Jhared snapped.
“I told her that Mayavana carries my child. Nemaye called them together herself to celebrate.”
Hzelka turned away from the red-wing and reached out a hand to stroke Falucha’s brow. “Rathael must not learn of this.”
“He already came to say goodbye,” Jhared answered.
“But how did he . . . ? Oh.” Astonishment passed over the Wren’s features once more. “You realize that you must flee now. Whatever you pledged to Falucha, you must leave it and run. You have killed Nemaye’s daughter, the Guide of the Avelune. The general’s men will come after you.”
“Falucha asked only one thing, Hzelka. I will see it done. If he will let me.”
The Wren sighed. “It will do no good to find Rathael unless you mean to take him with you. He will not survive here now she is gone.”
“Then I will take him.”
“If that’s what you promised, Jhared, you must do it. You must go.”
Jhared looked down at the shell of the woman in his arms, his vision blurring with unexpressed sorrow. “I cannot.”
Understanding softened the Wren’s features. “I will tend to her myself. She will not be alone. I will light the candles that Riana’s guides might find her. Then I will send to her family. No others will touch her.”
“It is the least of what she deserves,” Jhared said.
“I know.”
With Falucha cradled against his chest, Jhared rose. He laid her body upon the table. Moravel’s shadow fell over him as he straightened her braid and folded her arms.
“Mayavana is waiting for you,” the red-wing said.
“Is she?” Jhared hadn’t even thought to ask. A short time ago it had seemed the only thing of importance. “What word of the Mila Jul?”
“Left Saimbor this afternoon. Heading upriver.”
Half a day’s head start, but rowing against the current. Not unreachable. He had to find what was left of Rathael. He had to get them all to Vjeran. It was the only way they might stay ahead of the general’s men. That must be his goal now. “Rathael is somewhere along the beach. An outcropping of rocky shoreline. I heard a horn. Does that give you some clue as to where he might be?”
“Yes.” Hzelka’s wings opened and closed; her head bent over Falucha. “It’s on the other side of the estate. I didn’t believe he could wander so far. If I would have considered it sooner—” She cut herself off, but a single track of silver traced her wrinkled cheek. “The others don’t bother with it. It’s nothing more than a barren spine of rock close to the city.”
“The Spearhead?” Moravel looked surprised. “It’s just a bit short of where you’ll find Mayavana. Past the rocks there’s a stretch of abandoned warehouses. She’ll be there. It was the best hide I could think of. I feared Ilaye might send searchers.”
“She did.” At last Jhared turned away from Falucha and began to gather his things. “What of you both? What will Nemaye do to you?”
“She’ll have no time for us. With Ilaye gone, Nemaye will have to take her place again at the general’s side. They have plans for Amuria.”
“Plans, Hzelka? They intend to use the killing winds to obliterate Amuria. And then Avelos and Sahiste.” As Jhared walked away to retrieve his travel sack, he heard the stunned gasp from Moravel and the silence from Hzelka.
“You and Mayavana are leaving. Their plans will come to nothing,” the Wren finally said.
“Do you think so?” Jhared retorted. “Kest knows the truth of the killing winds now. I suspect Nemaye is ready to believe what he tells her.”
And the Sonan border guard, Mursa Vin and his men, had befriended the unbound. Even if they didn’t have him, they knew Alende’s people. They could reach Shira.
“Well, what will happen will happen,” Hzelka said, hunching into herself. “Just get yourself gone. I’ll try to win you some time. That’s all I can do. I owe nothing to Avelos or any of them.”
The rill of acid rage that ran through Jhared seemed only partially his own. “You choose strange times to play at indifference, Hzelka. I wonder how things might have gone for Falucha and Rathael, if you had refused to be involved when Nemaye came to you eight years ago. If you had refused to give her the poison to kill their unborn child.”
In the brittle wake of his words, Jhared rested his hand over Falucha’s brow, then picked up the sack she had packed for him and turned to leave.
“I’ll come with you,” Moravel said into the silence. “You will need another set of hands to help with Rathael and perhaps to defend you from the others.”
