Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (41 page)

Jaren gathered a damage control team in the steamy bowels of the ship. Mikelburg was sorely missed, but Jastis and Trand put their heads together to sort out the mess.

“Aside from the obvious, do we know what caused the crash?” Jaren asked.

Trand’s youthful face was streaked with grime from crawling through the ship’s winding maintenance tunnels. “Somebody cut power to the drifters,” he said.

“Sulaiman,” Jaren spat. “How does a man who never saw an ether-runner before last week know to cut the drifters before killing the main engine?”

Jastis puckered his wrinkle-lined mouth and scratched his balding scalp. “They might’ve had primitive ‘runners in his day,” he said.

Why would Sulaiman want to bring us down?
Jaren wondered. “Just fix what you can,” he said with a sigh. “I’m going outside to check the hull.”

“You sure you don’t want me to tag along?” Teg called out.

Jaren turned and saw Teg striding toward him down the narrow corridor, though for a moment he fancied the golden-haired figure to be Sulaiman’s vengeful shade.

“We don’t know what’s out there,” said Teg, “but the locals probably saw our entrance.”

“You’re in charge while I’m gone,” Jaren said. “I’ll take Deim or Vaun, though right now I don’t know who I trust the least.”

“Deim’s losing his mind,” said Teg, “but he’s harmless—unless Elena’s involved.”

Elena,
Jaren mused.
What trouble you've caused without lifting a finger.
Yet he wondered about the girl’s innocence.

Jaren met Deim in the hangar. The lift was offline, making the massive door their only exit. After three hours, they managed to open it manually.

The sight that greeted them stunned Jaren to silence. Nakvin had reported glimpsing a range of green hills, but the description did no justice to the verdant country that rolled away in all directions like a sea of emerald waves. A clean draft rushed in, bearing the fragrance of lush greenery. Jaren questioned whether he was still in the Nine Circles. Never had he expected to find such elemental beauty in hell.

Each of the previous Circles had been worse than the last. Only two had even remotely resembled the Sixth. With few exceptions, the Vestibule was covered in hilly, primeval forests in which twisted aberrations denned. The Fourth Circle was a land of extremes: icy mountains on the one hand and blasted wastes on the other, with narrow bands of scrub-grown ridges in between. Jaren had expected the Sixth Circle to be even less hospitable, but all he felt as he scanned the misty horizon was a strange sense of peace.

“Why didn't Nakvin tell me about this?” he thought aloud.

“Because you wouldn't have believed her,” said Deim. The steersman wore rugged tan slacks, a sleeveless shirt, and a black jacket. A splinterknife and a coil of rope hung at his side.

“Let’s get started,” Jaren said.

Thanks to the ship's forward tilt, the hangar door was only thirty feet from the ground. A series of rungs set into the hull made the going easy. After a short descent, Jaren stood beside Deim upon the hillside, glad to feel soft grass under his feet.

“I’ll take the port side,” Jaren said. “You head to starboard. The sending’s down, so stay close to the ship—and be careful.”

A pleasantly cool breeze kissed Jaren’s face as he hiked around the crash site, accompanied by the music of songbirds. He reached the port wing’s tip and saw that the grappler had gouged a deep channel in the hillside.
Probably unsalvageable
, he thought, though it was hard to tell at that distance.

The captain continued his circuit of the wing. A high bank blocked his path, forcing him to descend a narrow gully. His attention was so focused on the black hull overhead that he nearly stepped on the ravine's other occupant. Fortunately, he saw a swatch of white on the edge of his vision and stopped, almost losing his balance on the mossy slope.

The figure sprawled before him didn't move. At first glance it seemed to be a woman with dark, shoulder-length curls and cream-colored skin. A deeper look revealed the true virtue of her nature: timeless beauty and overflowing vibrancy.

“Deim,” Jaren cried, hoping the steersman was still within earshot, “get Nakvin!”

The woman awoke under the harsh white light of Nakvin’s examination table. She squinted her hazel eyes and raised an uncertain hand to her bandaged forehead.

“If you understand me, tell me your name,” said Nakvin.

“Eldrid,” the patient said.

“I’m Nakvin, Eldrid. You’ve got a mild concussion. Can you tell me what happened?”

Eldrid rubbed her temple. “A black mountain fell from the sky.” Her accent almost made the words a poem.

“That was the
Exodus
,” Nakvin said. “It’s an ether-runner—a flying ship.”

Wincing, Eldrid sat up. The embroidered outlines of red and gold birds covering her white gown seemed to fly when she smoothed her skirts. “I know them,” she said. “Rarely have I seen one so large.”

Nakvin's eyes widened. “There are bigger ships than
this
?”

“Some were much larger,” Eldrid said, “but that was long ago.”

“Is she awake?” Jaren called from the hallway. He entered without waiting for an answer. When the patient met his gaze, he froze.

“Is something wrong?” Nakvin asked.

“It’s true,” Jaren said as though he addressed a talking tree. “You're a Gen.”

“As are you,” said Eldrid, “of the Fire Tribe, I should think.”

“Half Gen, actually,” said Jaren. “What’s the Fire Tribe?”

“One of the great clans—at least they were. Their features are seen only rarely now.”

Jaren made an effort to straighten his waist-length red hair. “You must mean this.”

Eldrid covered her mouth to hide a smile. “That I credit to your human half,” she said. “Your eyes give you away. They shine like emeralds.”

“This is Eldrid,” Nakvin interrupted. “Eldrid, this is Jaren Peregrine, our captain.”

Eldrid’s eyes went wide as a doe’s, “You are the master of this great vessel?”

“I am,” said Jaren.

“Not originally,” Nakvin said.

“May I tour your splendid
Exodus
? Eldrid asked.

Jaren turned to Nakvin. “Can she walk?” he asked.

The question annoyed Nakvin more than it should have. “What she needs is rest, and she should be monitored for the next day or so. It’s probably best if she stays here.”

“I can keep an eye on her,” Jaren said.

Eldrid beamed like a smitten schoolgirl. “We might pass the time making proper introductions. I'm sure you have much to tell that I would hear.”

“Fine,” Nakvin said as she stormed out of the room. “There’s no sending, so haul her back here if she starts vomiting or passes out.”

Back in her quarters, Nakvin sat down heavily on her bed and sighed. Her departure from the infirmary had been unprofessional and inhospitable.
Jaren’s missed his people’s company for so long,
she thought.
I should be happy he finally found another Gen.

In truth, Nakvin couldn’t begrudge Jaren’s excitement at not being alone. She found her aversion to Eldrid rooted in a desire to protect him.
What are the odds of crash-landing on top of a single Gen in the middle of hell?
She wondered.

Jaren led Eldrid to the captain's dining room and spun out his life's story over tea brewed with actual water from a nearby spring. The spicy aroma and bitter taste reminded him of the hardest choice he’d ever made.

“We were smuggling Stranosi tabacco,” he said. “I was young and careless, and it finally caught up with me.”

Eldrid leaned across the glossy black table. Her hazel eyes never left Jaren’s face. “What happened?” she asked.

Jaren took a sip from his cup, set it down, and shrugged. “When customs raided the drop site, I had to choose between my steersman and my crew. Deim never knew his grandfather, but the man had something beyond courage—a certainty about his destiny that he never lost.”

Looking up from his tepid beverage, Jaren saw Eldrid regarding him with such profound sympathy that he nearly wept.

“How hard the solitude must have been for you,” she said.

“I was never really
alone
,” Jaren said. “Nakvin was there when they took my father, and Deim's family stayed with us.”

Eldrid shook her head. “You have good friends, but living among the clay tribe, no matter how welcoming they were, cannot replace the fellowship of your own kind.”

The clay tribe,
Jaren mused. He hadn’t heard the Gen term for humans since his father had died. “What about you?” he asked. “Was it lonely growing up?”

“I came up in the company of my own people,” Eldrid said.

Jaren thought he understood. Eldrid was like Sulaiman—stranded in hell while the ages passed her by. “Where do you hail from?” he asked.

Eldrid’s expression said that Jaren might as well have asked the color of her eyes. “I was born here,” she said.

Jaren's brow knotted. “You were born in the Nine Circles?”

Eldrid placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Pardon me for saying so, but your lack of learning shows.”

Jaren frowned.

“Please,” Eldrid said, “I meant no offense. We of Avalon have grown so accustomed to our way of life that it is difficult to imagine any other.”

“
We
?” Jaren repeated.

“Indeed,” Eldrid said. “Avalon, in the Sixth Circle of hell, has been home to a hundred generations of Gen.”

“It’s hard for me to believe that,” said Jaren. “My father told me that he and I were the only ones left.”

Eldrid’s voice became solemn. “There was much he did not know, it seems. Such a pity that our memory has faded from the Middle Stratum.”

“I’ve got the time,” Jaren said. “Fill me in.”

Eldrid fell silent as if composing her thoughts. After a moment she said, “The Gen once lived with humans—on the same spheres, if not side-by-side. In time, men learned to exploit our Mysteries. Generations of war followed, and our people became pariahs; then exiles.”

“I know that much,” Jaren said, “but I never understood why it happened.”

“There are creatures of matter that do not know,” Eldrid said, “and there are those who know, but die. Of these, humans are the greatest. Beyond the Middle Stratum exist intelligent beings that live forever. The Gen are like these in that they do not die. They are like men in that their souls inhabit forms of base matter.”

Jaren nodded, but he thought that Eldrid missed a vital point.
We can die just fine. Not if we're left to ourselves, but the clay tribe makes death contagious.

“Humans learn quickly,” she went on, “if not deeply. The Gen were exploring Mysteries before the clay tribe mastered agriculture. We shared this knowledge with humanity, and they soon transgressed the bounds of our tradition. Even so, both races lived peacefully until men learned the secret of the Wheel.”

“It was a Gen who showed them, wasn't it?” Jaren asked. “We were betrayed by one of our own.”

Eldrid's face fell. “Worse than that,” she said. “Ebrim Kirth was a failed dreamer spending his life in folly when, out of pity, our last god taught him how to forge the Wheel.”

Eldrid's admission dealt Jaren a double blow: first, that the Gen had worshiped gods of their own; second, that one of those deities had given men the weapon that had ensured his people's destruction.

“The Gen had long since put aside the Mystery for giving life to inert objects,” Eldrid continued. “They thought it a mere curiosity, but humans make up for their short lives with ambition. They blazed trade routes between the Cardinal Spheres within two centuries of the Arkwright’s death. Kirth's borrowed invention was stolen in turn by a handful of powerful families. Their merchant empires exceeded the wealth of whole worlds.”

Eldrid's expression darkened. “The seeds of the slaughter to come were sown even then. The great merchant houses guarded their power jealously, but the trade fraternities that manned the merchants’ ships matched their greed. A great dispute arose over rights to the Wheel, embroiling even the Gen. The quarrel became a conflict, and then bloodshed—though a mere drop compared to what lay ahead.

“The fighting concluded with a pact. It is fascinating what woes can come of setting ink to parchment. The reign of the six families was swept away with a quill-stroke, and the rule of the Guild began.”

Eldrid paused to let her words take hold. Jaren nodded. The tale made sense, and he could guess how it ended.

“The tribes were caught between the storm and the rocks,” Eldrid said. “A great convocation was held at the Gold Tribe's stronghold on Mithgar. Amlaril the Last Queen presided. The seat of the Golden Gen had always been held inviolate. Even the merchant barons would never have dared to desecrate that sacred isle.”

Jaren managed a grim smile. “The Guild would.”

Eldrid paused again, and Jaren saw that she was holding back tears. She composed herself with an effort and went on. “The guildsmen blackened the sky with their ships. They turned the beaches to glass; burned the forests to cinders. Not even the Court of Twelve Moons was spared their malice. Amlaril, last sovereign in the direct line, fell with it. A remnant fled inland to a deep valley. They were disorganized; desperate. It was then that the stranger came.”

Jaren frowned. This part of the story sounded familiar, though he couldn't say why.

Eldrid's voice fell to a near-whisper. “The newcomer appeared as a wandering monk. Though he seemed but a mendicant, his words carried lordly weight. He offered the Gen a choice: take refuge in his country, where they would dwell in safety; or stay and die—perhaps not that day, but soon enough.

“The beggar lord gave terms for his asylum. Ten in every generation—those of greatest vitality—would be offered to him in exchange for sanctuary in a place where the Steersmen could not follow. With the cannons blasting over their heads and the sky thick with the ashes of their kin, the survivors agreed.

“The mendicant led the Gen under an arch formed by the branches of two trees. They found themselves at the edge of a vast green wood overlooking rolling highlands. The skies were empty, and the air was clean. None objected when the first ten were taken.”