The Skybound Sea (8 page)

Or that might have been his own fist as he brought it up to his temple.

“What was that?” He struck his head, trying to knock the answer loose. “What just happened?”

No idea
.
His conscience answered him in a jarring, disjointed train
.
What was that she did? Mind trick? Brain magic? What was that? That was … what?

His head hurt. The sound of wind turned into a shrill, ringing whine. The scent of sea was overpowering, scraping his nostrils dry. He felt dizzy, nauseous. It was hard to think.

Well, of course it is. You haven’t had a drink in … in …

“That can’t be healthy,” he whispered. “Where’d I leave my drink? Back in there?”

Don’t go back in there, stupid! She’s still in there! You can’t look at her again
.

“So, what? Kill her, then?”

He looked down at his wrist, the heavy leather glove upon it. He could feel the blade, hidden and coiled upon the spring behind the thick leather. Just a twitch, he thought, and it would come singing out, a short, staccato song that ended in a red note.

Did you already forget who is in there?

The image of her smile flashed through his head. Too broad, too excited, too bereft of hatred. She was supposed to
hate
. She was supposed to
curse
. She wasn’t supposed to smile and this wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

Not at all this hard. She’s a woman … well, in theory. You’re good with women, right? You can’t not be good with women! You’ll ruin the group dynamics! What else are you good at?

“Killing.”

NO! Women! Women are easy for you! Things don’t get harder around women!

He chuckled inadvertently. “That’s funny.”

Yeah, I just got that. Remember that for later because—STOP TALKING TO YOURSELF
.

A reasonable idea for a reasonable man, the kind of man he ought to be. A reasonable man would be able to see the problem: that the drink only soothed thoughts that he shouldn’t be drinking away; that confronting those thoughts that tormented, those thoughts that returned to him when a woman smiled at him that way, when a woman confronted him as he had been confronted once before, was the only sound philosophy.

Reasonable. Denaos was a reasonable man without philosophy or drink to turn to. And so, he turned to blame.

Women, he told himself. It was the women causing his trouble.

Might be the chronic drinking, actually
,
his conscience replied
.

No. He wasn’t ready to face that.

It was that one woman, the priestess, who had nearly died. She had caused the whole thing. He had stood over her, cried over her, like he had done before. And that led to the memories, the waking nightmares, like he had had before. That led to the drink, which led to Teji, which led to netherlings, which led to Xhai, which led to her smiling with a broad smile that didn’t hate him or mildly loathe him and told him he was a good man.

Like he had seen before.

Always before.

That’s it, you know
, his conscience whispered
.
This is a sign. This is an omen from Silf
.

“No, not yet.”

You’re already stinking drunk. You’ve been drunk since this morning and you’re still thinking about this
.

“It is obscenely rude to be bringing this up now. I haven’t had enough to—”

There won’t ever be enough. Not enough to change the truth
.

“Truth is subjective.”

You killed her
.

“Truth is—” His sentence was cut off in a hacking cough.

You opened her throat
.

He tried to respond, tried to reply. The coughing tore his throat apart. The air was too clean out here, too fragrant. He needed stale, he needed stench.

You killed them all
.

He fell to his knees. Why was the air so damn clean? Didn’t anyone
drink
today?

You’re going to hell
.

He inhaled sharply, ragged knives in his throat, jagged shards in his lungs. It hurt to breathe. Hurt to think. He shut his eyes tight as he tried to regain his breath.

It was so bright out here. He belonged in a bottle, in something dank and dark that would prepare him nicely for the blackness he was going to.

And that was the truth. That was what it all came down to, what all the drinking and vomiting and crying and killing had done its best.

He was going to hell.

He killed them all.

He killed her.

And, on cue, the dead woman was there when he opened his eyes. Her feet were, at least: white with a white gown wafting just above them. The sensible choice would be to watch the feet, stare at them until this nasty bout of sobriety passed and he could stare into a puddle of his own vomit again.

Sensible plan.

Reasonable man.

So he looked up. Each sight was familiar enough to be seen in his skull before he saw it in his eyes. Ghastly white robe, ghastly white body, so thin and frail. Throat opened up in a bright red blossom, blood weeping onto her garments. Thin black hair hanging around her shoulders. The worst was yet to come: her smile, her grim and wild and hateful smile.

He looked up. The dead woman was frowning at him. The dead woman hated him.

She had never done that before. Not when she was alive. Not when he had opened her throat.

She was disappointed in him.

Somehow,
that
was the worst part.

“Get up.”

A voice. A woman’s voice. Not the dead woman’s voice, though. Her voice was something with claws and teeth that he felt in his skin. This voice was something with air and heat, something he heard.

The boot heel that dug into his shoulder and knocked him to the earth wasn’t, but he felt it all the same.

“I’d really rather not,” he grunted, clambering to his knees. “A man who aspires to rise beyond his station is invariably struck down by the Gods.”

“If that were true, I wouldn’t be here looking down at you right now.”

Asper’s voice was cold. Her stare was colder. It was almost refreshing. The air was a little staler around her, possibly due to the palpable bitterness that emanated from her.

Looking into her eyes quickly quashed any sense of refreshment. Something was boiling behind her mouth, twisted into a sharp knife of a frown.

Resentment, maybe: for having arrived too late to save her the nights before, too late to have saved her from what had happened to her. Scorn, maybe: for having seen what he’d seen that he, nor anyone, was ever meant to. A face on fire, a body engulfed, an arm pulsating like a hungry thing.

Or, much more likely, hatred: for having known what had been done to her, for having known what hell she carried in her arm, and for having not so much as looked at her since it had happened.

Or maybe it was just spit?

“What have you learned?” she asked.

“About?”

She stared at him, unblinking. He sighed, rubbed his temples.

“Not a tremendous lot,” he said. “It’s not as though it should come as a colossal surprise, really. I’m sure the vast majority of her is bone—”

“Muscle,” Asper said. “Over half.”

“Whatever. The point is that getting information from her is proving …”

Unnerving? Slightly emasculating? A little arousing in the same way that it sort of makes you want to cry?

“Difficult,” he said. “If she even knows anything, she won’t tell me anything.” He glanced to another nearby hut. “Dreadaeleon might be able to coerce her, or—”

“Or Bralston?” she asked, thrusting the question at him.

“Or Gariath,” Denaos said. He narrowed his eyes upon the hut. “I don’t like the look of the Djaalman. Too shifty.”

“You’re in a poor position to comment.”

“And a good position to observe. The man’s too … probey.”

“Probey.”

“Probish. Probesque. He’s always staring at us.”

“He’s staring at
you
. He stares at no one
but
you.” She smiled blackly. “Watch your back, lest he try to probe you more attentively.” She wiggled her fingers. “Electric touch.”

“Was there something else, or …”

She turned her stare at the hut’s door, looked at it for a moment. When she turned back to Denaos, her face was a hard, iron mask. “Why not just kill her?”

“What?”

“Go in there and open her throat.” She scowled at the door. “She’s too dangerous to leave alive.”

“Granted, but that’s not for us to decide. Lenk thinks she still might have—”

“
Lenk doesn’t know them
,” she snarled, whirling on him. “He thinks they’re savages. The only reason he hates them is that they’re more longfaced than
his
little savage.
I know them
.” She jabbed a thumb at her chest. “I know what they’re capable of.
I
know what they do. I know how foul and utterly—”

“You think I don’t?” he interjected. “You think I haven’t seen what they’ve done?”

“I don’t
think
anything about you,” she said. “I know you, too. I know you’re scum.”

He knew why she knew, too. Just as he knew he couldn’t deny it.

“And I know that
you
know
nothing
about them.” She turned on him now, turned a face cold and trembling upon him. “Because
you
came too late to stop it from happening. Because
you
did nothing to stop it from happening and because you … you …”

Asper was an honest woman. Too honest to survive, he had once thought. Her face wasn’t made for masks. Her face fragmented with each moment it trembled, cracking and falling off to reveal eyes that weren’t as cold as she wanted them to be. There was fire there, and honest hate.

“Everything … everything that happened to me, what Sheraptus …” She winced at the name, clenched her teeth. “He
violated
me … and then … then, my arm—” Her face trembled so violently he had to fight the urge to reach out and steady her. “And with it all, after all the secrets about it and all
that happened with him, I thought at least I had you, at least I had someone to …”

A curse would have been nice. Spitting in his eye would have been workable, too. The sigh she let out, though, was less than ideal.

“I
needed
you … and you shoved me away, like I was … like I was unclean.
Trash
. And now you won’t even look at me.”

And Denaos wasn’t looking at her now. He was looking at her forehead, at the hut door, at the sand and the unbearable sun. Her eyes were too hard to look at, too shiny, too clear; he might see himself in them.

“You don’t need me.”

“You’re the only one who knows this,” she grabbed at her arm, “
any
of this. Do you have any idea how long I’ve—”

“
Yes
.” He looked at her now. “Yes, I know what it’s like to wait that long. And yes, I know what happened to you and I know what’s happening to you.”

“Then why won’t you?”

“
Because I’ve seen it before
.” He clutched his head. “I know why you threw yourself at me because I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen women, children,
people
get torn apart like you did. I’ve seen them carry worse things and think that they have go into the arms of someone, anyone, just to tell it. But it can’t be anyone, Asper, and it can’t be me.”

Not entirely true. There was a lot she could tell him, a lot he needed to tell her. But what, he did not know. How exactly a man went about telling a woman he had seen what women do after being violated because he had watched it happen was beyond him. He neglected to tell her that. That, he reasoned, was slightly better than lying.

“I am not a good man. I am not what you need.”

She stared at him for a moment. He never saw the blow coming. It was only after she had struck him, sent him reeling, that he admitted she might be better with masks than he thought.

“No one tells me what I need,” she said. “Certainly not a man hiding cowardice behind more cowardice.”

She stalked off silently, swiftly, leaving him alone with his conscience.

Could have gone better
.

True
, he admitted.

She might hit you less if you actually talked to her, you know
.

That sounds really hard
.

Good point. Want a drink?

Wanted one, yes. Needed one, yes. He needed many things at that moment. The most important of which became apparent when he looked back, toward the distant huts and the figure standing amongst them.

Bralston stood out in the open, unabashed, unafraid. A Librarian did not need to hide. This Librarian, however, didn’t bother to hide many things. The stare he fixed upon Denaos among them.

Denaos, too, did not bother to hide his stare. In the moment they met, the brief moment before Denaos turned and stalked into the distant forest, there was a brief trial. Accusation, confession, sentence, all handed down in the span of a blink.

And Denaos knew what he needed most, then. In the feel of heavy leather on his wrist and in the sound of feet crunching upon sand, following him into the forest, he knew.

This, at least, would be easier.

S
he was floating, drifting upon a current that seemed to obey her without a word. Through the fish that had thinned from colorful curtains to ragged schools, over coral that was dying out and becoming barren desert underneath Lenk’s feet, still stubbornly bound to the sandy floor.

But no matter how he changed his pace or tried to navigate through the coral, she remained always above him. Her shadow was colder than he had expected.

“You’re not talking,” he said.

A condition she was apparently not prepared to break with his stunning observation.

“If you don’t talk, this all seems slightly more insane,” Lenk continued, throwing up his hands. “Because now
I
have to start looking for meaning everywhere.”

He swept his stare around the sea floor. The coral had vanished, leaving nothing but the most stubborn outcroppings of rock. The sole fish was a lone, ragged creature: something that vaguely looked like a bloated axe-head if bloated axe-heads were capable of eating disorders and stares that belonged to veterans, whores, and herb-addicts. Everything about the creature suggested something that had no business existing and being keenly aware of it as it slowly swam away from decent sea-going society.