Racing the Dark (41 page)

She knelt on the slick floor and vomited so violently that her stomach began to cramp. She wept as she purged herself. She knew who had done this. After all, she had even found the bloody shirt. It was amazing that this man was still alive, after all the blood he had lost. She stood up slowly and forced herself to look at his mangled body again, feeling light-headed.

"I'm so sorry," she said. How inane, though. How inadequate.

But why would Kohaku do something like this to another human being? Why not just kill him outright, instead of keeping him here in a state of constant agony? What could anyone possibly do to deserve this?

"Who are you?" she asked, though she knew he couldn't answer.

She realized that his hand gestures had a certain repetitive quality to them-as though he were trying to tell her something. In fact, they reminded her of the hand language that Kohaku had playfully taught her in their first few months together.

"Please," she thought she saw him sign, over and over again.

"Please do what?" she asked.

"Kill me, kill me, kill me..."

It took every ounce of determination she had not to vomit again. When she looked back at him, she nearly fled from the desperation in his eyes. There was a potion, he told her, that Kohaku kept tantalizingly close, in a hidden compartment just outside the door. It would kill him in less than an hour. Nahoa didn't even try to talk him out of it-who would want that kind of life, even if he did survive his injuries? So she did the only humane thing she could think of and searched for the compartment. She found it fairly easily-a part of the wall you had to push in to pull out. A simple wooden jar, filled with a dark, foul-smelling fluid. She went back to the man and handed it to him. She wished there was a way to cut him down, but she saw nothing to stand on anywhere around her, and he was suspended too high. His hand froze when he saw the jar, and then he began to laugh.

She wasn't even quite sure what he was doing at first-the sounds coming from his mangled throat sounded like no laugh she had ever heard before. He began crying and shaking, but still his mouth twisted in the bitterest smile that she had ever seen. Then, without preamble, he pulled the cork of the bottle off with his teeth and swallowed the entire potion.

"Who are you?" Nahoa asked again, without quite knowing why.

He signed something, but she didn't know the gestures. "I don't understand," she said carefully. "Do you know the syllables?"

His head lolled forward and for a moment she was afraid that he was gone already, but then his hand began to move. "Na," she read. His gestures were getting sloppy-probably the first effects of the poison. "He."

Nahe. The man who had destroyed Kohaku's life.

It took him a long time to die, but Nahoa forced herself to watchto witness the end of a man who had spent what was probably the last three months of his life in total agony. He died clutching the jar of poison, his mouth twisted in the same bitter smile he had worn ever since he saw it. Barely aware of her own actions, she closed the door and crawled back up the secret passage. She didn't bother to switch clothes back with Malie. She barely thought at all, making her way back to their quarters like a homing pigeon. Servants stared at her as she passed them in the hall, but she barely acknowledged their existence. She had to practically crawl up the steps to the aerie, her legs had grown so weak beneath her. She wondered if she would faint, and then resolved not to do so until she had confronted Kohaku. But he didn't even notice her when she came in. He was facing Nui'ahi again, but looking down, completely absorbed in something he held in his lap. She walked closer and peered over his shoulder.

She swore loudly, and Kohaku started at the sound of her voice. What he held was a hand. A hand so charred and blackened it should have fallen to ashes, but something held it together. At first she wondered if it was somehow Nahe's before she realized the obvious truth. It was his. Kohaku had, for some reason, kept the hand that he lost.

Kohaku swung around, looking almost murderous at being interrupted. His expression changed when he saw her, though. On his face she saw surprise followed closely by horror.

"All that blood ... are you-"

"It's not mine, Kohaku," she said evenly.

His eyes widened.

The ground beneath their feet began to tremble slightly, as it had a few times this year, and Nahoa stumbled. This close to a volcano, such tremors were inevitable, but Kohaku's reaction went far beyond the bounds of reason. He dropped the hand and its box on the floor and pressed himself against the glass of the aerie.

"No," he whispered.

Had she ever understood him? Even at the very beginning, that solemn night on the ship, had their connection been as much an illusion as the moon on the water? She married him for escape, for adventure, for love. She wasn't sure why she stayed.

When he realized that it had just been a little tremor, Kohaku sighed and sat on the edge of a chair. His whole body trembled. Even now, even knowing what he had done, Nahoa still wanted to comfort him. He had gone through so much, and that man had killed his sister and destroyed his life. She couldn't entirely blame Kohaku for what he had done, but she also knew she could never condone it. How could she live with him, knowing he was capable of such calculated violence?

"I ... I'm leaving, Kohaku," she said. Her voice seemed to break him out of his trance. "I saw it. I saw that room ... and don't pretend that you didn't do it or you don't know what I'm talking about. I know it was Nahe and I gave him the poison. He's dead now-you won't be able to hurt him any more."

Kohaku stood and tried to hug her, but she held out her hand to stop him. She couldn't break now. "Nahoa," he said desperately, "You know it was Nahe. Don't you know what he did to me? He killed my sister! I didn't have a choice." His voice broke and Nahoa started to cry. "How can you blame me ... if you leave, you'll take away the only thing left that means anything to me."

She shook her head. "Maybe I can't blame you. I've never been good at judging people, but ... nothing makes sense anymore. I just ... you've changed, Kohaku. I'm afraid."

"I would never, ever do anything to hurt you. You must know that. Tell me you know that."

Nahoa sobbed involuntarily and nodded. "I know. But could you promise to never do it again? No more killing?" No more talk ing to air in the middle of the night, no more staring at the charred remains of your hand?

He hesitated. "Nahoa, I can't-"

"Then I have to leave." She hugged him briefly, but fiercely. "I love you, Kohaku," she whispered. She turned away and fled down the stairs.

"That nun from the fire temple-you must be the one who told her I was pregnant."

Malie rubbed the sleep from her eyes. For the first time since Nahoa had met her, she looked-if not precisely afraid-then less than supremely confident. Eventually, she just nodded.

"You work for her, then? Your scheme ... it was probably to get me to flee to the fire temple so you could use that as leverage with the Mo'i, wasn't it?"

Malie didn't respond, but her silence told Nahoa all she needed to know.

"Well, you've got your wish. Take me there now. Tell the old bat that I want her protection." She felt like her skin was the only thing keeping her from crumbling.

12

OMEWHERE OVER THE COAST of the easternmost rice island, Lana realized that she had to stop. In a few more minutes she would be in danger of passing out and simply plummeting to the earth. A few hours after she began her mad flight, the death had caught up with her, and she thought she heard something like amusement in its voice, past the frustration.

"You keep surprising me, you know. You fight a losing battle, but a worthy one."

Lana's back felt like it was ripping apart, but she managed to reply, "Just trying to stay half a step ahead."

But that had been hours ago, when she was still riding the initial exhilaration of her new powers of flight, and before her exhaustion threatened to help the death fulfill its mission. Warily, she circled closer to the ground and saw that she was over a very rural area, with nothing but a turgid river and rice paddies for miles on either side of her. In the distance she thought that she saw a large house and she angled for that, hoping whoever lived might invite her over the threshold. As she got closer she saw that the building was not so much a house as a villa-a place where well-to-do travelers could get away from city life, or those just passing through could spend an idyllic evening. Sobs caught in her throat. This kind of place was the least likely to take in a dirty, smelly vagabond with no money. Her presence would probably offend the guests. But she was too exhausted to think of another geas and she knew that she would never be able to sleep in a tree with her back in its current state.

Which meant that she had to try. If no one invited her over the threshold ...

She pulled the large black blanket from her bag. She would have to use it as a cloak-better they think her a hunchback than some freak of nature. Then she pulled out the flute, and sounded the first shaky notes before she lowered herself to the ground.

"Threshold," she said quietly. Her nose was running uncontrollably, battered by the cold air above. "Wait until they invite me over the threshold."

The death gestured toward the bamboo gate graciously. "You know they won't let you in."

Lana shook her head and stuffed the flute back in her bag. Then she pulled the blanket around her shoulders and made sure that it covered the wings.

"Is someone there?" she called, amazed at how weak her voice sounded. "Could someone come to the gate?"

She heard footsteps and then a woman just a little taller than she opened the door. She was wearing the demure dress of a household servant, but she held herself with authority.

The woman clicked her tongue. "I'm sorry, we don't give to beggars here. You'll have to try the town. It's a day's walk. Good day."

Lana stuck her hand in the door before the woman could close it. "Please," she gasped. Everything was going white around the edges and she sunk involuntarily to her knees. "Please just invite me over the threshold. I'll sleep in your garden, I'll do whatever you want, just please ... I'll die if you don't."

"As I said, we don't take in beggars here. And certainly not hunchbacks who haven't bothered to bathe in weeks. Now please, leave!"

In the corner of her eye, Lana saw the death creeping closer. The set of its shoulders radiated triumph and its mask mouth was curved in a smile.

Lana realized she was weeping. "In the name of everything you have ever loved, please let me in. I have nowhere else to go ..."

She heard a series of rushed whispers from inside the courtyard and the woman turned to look behind her for a moment.

"Oh, now look what you've done!" she hissed.

"Is something wrong?" a male voice asked. It was deep and melodious, filled with strange undercurrents that reminded her of the ocean.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," the woman said. "Would you like some more rice wine?"

"Who are you talking to?" he asked again. Lana wondered if she should call out to him, but her voice seemed to have failed her. She was lying prone on the ground without really knowing how she got there.