“I want him to exist plenty,” Teehma said as she watched Ragger and Lucio duel. “But wanting doesn’t make it so. Trust me, I’ve wanted lots of things and they haven’t happened.”
Sirin had finished scraping the pelt from one of Ragger’s kills. It was warm enough in the afternoon that he could start bleaching its underside in the orblight. Teehma hoped that it would soon contribute to their bedding; she missed the soft mattresses of the munkke-trophe’s house.
“Sometimes,” he said so softly that she had to lean in to hear him, “your soul desires something because it exists to be desired.”
His comment brought the conversation up to an uncomfortably philosophical level. She was puzzling out a response when, to her relief, Lucio trotted up.
“Come on, Teehm,” he panted. “Ragger says he’ll teach you how to block an’ parry, if you want.”
No offer was more readily accepted. She jumped to feet and bolted over to Ragger, leaving a surprised Lucio in her wake.
“What’s up with her?”
Sirin shook his head. “She’s struggling with some difficult questions.”
Lucio sat himself down and began munching on a piece of fruit. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“If you’re so curious, why don’t you ask her?”
Lucio spat out a seed. “Maybe I will. So,” he continued, changing the subject, “how long are we going to stay here? ‘Cuz I’ve been thinking of ways to build a shelter, if we need it. It still gets pretty cold at nights, and it might rain again.” He blushed at his own forthrightness.
“And what have you come up with?”
Lucio hefted his shattered pole-ax and began talking. Soon the two had wandered over to the trees, testing their thickness and flexibility. Sirin provided guarded guidance while Lucio hopped from one candidate to another, giving emphasis to his ideas with great swoops of his arms.
Ragger and Teehma, meanwhile, went through the prescribed motions. It did not take long for the munkke-trophe to realize his pupil had lost some of her zeal.
“It seems to me, young miss, that your focus is not what it could be.”
Teehma dropped her makeshift weapon, not bothering to hide her frustration. “I’m sorry, Ragger. I just. . .” Suddenly, and quite to the consternation of her instructor, she burst into tears. “I just. . .just don’t want to know!” This last part came out as a wail that caught even Lucio’s attention, though Sirin, with great composure, steered his attention back to the trees. Ragger hastily put down his sword.
“Don’t want to know what?” he soothed, laying an awkward paw on her shoulder.
“Anything! I don’t want to know what’s going to happen. Or that my father is in that horrible army. Or if, if. . .if all the Prysm stuff is really true.”
“Goodness, I can see why you wouldn’t want to know about your father. But if this ‘Prysm stuff,’ as you call it, were true, why wouldn’t you want to know?”
Teehma sat down on the grass with a thump. All she could manage was a meek shrug. “It’s too scary,” she threw out. Then, through her tears, she tried to rephrase. “It’s too big for me. And if Kynell’s really out there, what does he think of me? Why did he let my parents die? Why did he take Trint and Ester from us?”
Ragger sat down next to her. The girl’s questions were impossible for him to answer, but his heart still went out to her. He picked a blade of grass and started to tie it in knots.
“I wish I could answer your questions, little one. Nobody can do that but Kynell. But I can tell you this: he loves you. More than Trint and Ester ever could, I think. And he loves your parents.”
Teehma wiped a hand under her nose. “If he loved them, why would he let my father become a Chasmite?”
Ragger sighed. “I didn’t know your father, of course. But I suspect your father had a say in that. Those who don’t choose the Prysm are given what remains. And that is Zyreio.”
This was of little comfort. “But what if he made a mistake? We’re all allowed mistakes, aren’t we? What if he doesn’t want to be a Chasmite any longer?”
Ragger hoped that his look conveyed all the compassion he was feeling for this troubled girl. She looked truly distressed. Her face was streaked with tears, her nose runny, and, much to her annoyance, a strand of hair kept escaping from behind her ear.
“You love your father. Kynell knows that. And you can trust Kynell to do what’s right with him. Kynell is real. Your father knows that now, better than even you or I can know it. And if he loved you—as I’m sure he did—he would tell you to give yourself to the Prysm while you still can.”
Teehma stared at the grass. Maybe Ragger was right. Maybe her father
would
say something like that. She hoped so. The paw on her shoulder tightened.
“But I must also tell you, young miss, that you don’t have much time. If, Kynell forbid, the Chasmites win this battle, they will overrun Rhyvelad. If we survive, our lives will be short and difficult—yes, even more difficult than the life you have led. And if we don’t survive, we will be rushed to the side of our master. So now is the time to hurry to the god who loves you. Not to Zyreio.”
Teehma absorbed the whole speech, but that last phrase stuck in her mind. He had said it before; it seemed like an important point. “Kynell loves me?”
But Ragger had jerked his head up as if he had heard something. He sniffed the air with the most peculiar expression. “Something’s about to happen. We must hurry.”
Before she could respond to this strange comment, Sirin and Lucio returned from their study of the surrounding timber. Sirin had just opened his mouth to praise Lucio’s resourcefulness when Ragger stopped him.
“Sirin, we have to go Lascombe.”
“What? Why? Our first priority is to keep these children safe.”
“This is more important.”
Sirin looked offended at the other munkke-trophe’s calm insistence, but in the end, he could do nothing. Ragger did not bother to explain. He only began packing up their things, paying special attention to their rude weapons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The betrayal at the south-east gate had taken everyone by surprise. The defenders had been so intent on the enemy outside that they had not considered potential traitors among them. But the Risen Ones stationed at the gate were putting up a valiant fight. Chiyo’s old friend Hunoi, who had been struck down by an arrow in the marshes, seemed to take down three Chasmites with every blow. But the Sentries and fennels pouring in through the open door outnumbered the Risen Ones six to one. By the time reinforcements arrived, Hunoi had fallen under the overwhelming numbers, the invaders had taken possession of the gates, and Chasmites were branching out into the streets. Smoke darkened the sky as the grinning, agitated reptiles and oversized cats began to torch everything in their path.
Tertio had been assigned to the soaking crew for just such a scenario. He and the other members of the crew had been soaking the city for two nights now—ever since Resurrection Night, as everyone was calling it. They had worked tirelessly, drawing up thousands of buckets of water from the city’s deep wells, and passing them down lines radiating out into the streets. Tertio had been there in the dark morning hours before the first day of bombardment; not being handy with a sword or siege engine, he had joined in with the rag-tag group of older men, young women, and priests, all of whom were determined to stay above ground. Many had been part of Lascombe’s poverty-stricken lower classes, but that seemed like distant history now. To Tertio’s great delight, his son Nes had joined him for a time, and Tertio had basked in his company. But then he left, claiming that he had other duties to attend to. His departure had broken Tertio’s heart, but there was nothing he could do. Nes was not his son any longer, if indeed he ever had been—he was Kynell’s. So he had continued upending buckets, grateful that the splashing water helped cover his watering eyes.
When the rumors of Kynell’s appearance reached him, he had shaken his head in wonder. A day ago, he would have disbelieved the messenger, but after seeing Nes, anything seemed possible. His instinct had been to drop his buckets and find him, and he was just preparing to do so, when Kynell came to him—or rather, to his crew of soakers.
As a tall man, Tertio had been assigned to the end of the water line, tossing up the buckets’ contents as far as they could reach. The messenger had scarcely departed when he heard an outcry of voices about halfway down the line. It was hard to tell if they were in distress or not, so he and those around him hurried down the road, anxious to prevent any trouble or injury.
What he found was buckets scattered on the ground, dropped from hands that had lost any function. The owners of those hands were solemnly watching the new person that had come among them.
“Is it really?” thought Tertio to himself as he stood at some distance. His insides had frozen and, without knowing it, he had stopped breathing. The man moved with purpose, shaking listless hands, greeting men and women by name, and even cupping the cheeks of a few with his hands. He behaved as a celebrity, a father, and a friend all in one. To those who bowed, he placed his hand on their head.
Then he had come to Tertio, who had dropped his bucket along with the rest.
“Hello, my tall one,” he said, for he indeed had to look up at Tertio, a situation Tertio quickly fixed by dropping to his knees.
“My God,” Tertio muttered, “do not look at me. I’m not worth looking at.”
But Kynell was looking at him, as well as pulling him back up to his feet.
“You are right to kneel, but now I want you to stand. There is much to be done. Please, may I have a bucket?”
Four buckets were instantly pushed in his direction. He selected one then looked back to Tertio. “We shall water these buildings together. It is as necessary a task as all the others.”
And so all that morning and the following day, Kynell worked with the soakers, sometimes right next to Tertio, sometimes further up the line. When eager volunteers asked to work next to him, he would always allow it, only sending them back to their duties after they had passed an hour or more in his company. That night he had left without explanation, only to return bleary-eyed but purposeful the next morning.
Whenever Kynell came near him, Tertio had taken the opportunity to protest that surely the god of the Prysm would feel more at ease in the presence of the city’s leaders. They could certainly use his help there, he added. In truth, it was making him nervous that Kynell was spending all his time soaking, a task which was only necessary if the worst were to happen. Everyone, Tertio knew, would feel more at ease if Kynell were up on the battlements, deciding how best to annihilate the Chasmites.
“This task is necessary,” Kynell had insisted, and his tone allowed for no further questions.
They were seven blocks away from the south-east gate when the fennels and Sentries broke through. Tertio’s heart stopped when he heard their roar of triumph. He looked at Kynell, who had calmly dumped another bucket. His expression, difficult to read at times, was solemn, and a nerve in his jaw was twitching.
“Are you scared?” Tertio asked, without knowing why. Of course Kynell could not be scared. But he knew that he himself was terrified; he had no wish to face death, though he hoped he was ready for it.
Kynell seemed cheered by Tertio’s question. “You’re concerned for me?”
“I would give my life to protect you, if I could.”
He smiled, a wonderful sight. “It won’t come to that.” Then he hefted another bucket and pushed it at Tertio. “Come on. We must work faster than ever.”
As civilian mortals, the soakers would only fight with the Chasmites as a last line of defense. Instead, they directed their energy toward dousing the flames as soon as they started. This was not easy, since they had to avoid being cut down by the marauders at the same time. They quickly learned the best evasive maneuvers. Most of the Chasmites were thirsty for a quick kill; they seemed almost incapable of staying in one spot. And their agitated groans and shrieks gave their prey ample warning to hide. So with sloshing buckets at their side, the soakers could run through the open streets until they heard the tortured cries of the enemy. Then they would duck into the nearest door and run the rest of the way through connecting inside doors, if they could. Tertio had never considered a burning building a refuge before, but it was safer than being out in the streets.
Kynell stayed by his side for a time, but then, after offering Tertio and a few others a brief goodbye, he left. Tertio hoped it was to go join the combatants, but there was no way to be sure. If the Prysm god had gone to fight, it didn’t seem to be making any difference: the wide avenues radiating from the south-eastern gate were soon damp with the blood of mortal victims. But the valor of the Risen Ones was awe-inspiring. They were determined to track down every Chasmite who made it past the initial defense and engage it in face-to-face combat. And Tertio couldn’t help but notice that there were several times when a Chasmite, even if it appeared the stronger, would have preferred to duck aside. But even the weakest of the Risen Ones would face it and die rather than allow it to escape unchallenged.
At one point, Tertio thought that his days would be ended by one of the fiends. It had caught him in the street as he urged his comrades through a smoking door. The last of them had disappeared inside when a snarling fennel knocked him to the ground. He had just time to wince at its pungent breath when the pressure on his chest disappeared. He opened his eyes to see the fennel on his side, writhing pathetically before vanishing. His deliverer was nowhere in sight, nor did Tertio spare the time to look for him. With a prayer of gratitude, he was on his feet again, looking for the nearest source of water.