The Bridge Beyond Her World (The Boy and the Beast Book 2) (31 page)

Daeymara smirked and tilted her head so that her hair fell away from her eyes. “As a Missionary, I am not supposed to do that,” she said.

Aven gave her a questioning frown. “Do what?”

She tugged her shoes off and joined Aven, lowering her feet into the water.

“Mmmm,” hummed Daeymara, “that’s splendid.”

“So are you breaking a rule right now?”

“In a way, yes,” said Daeymara. “But I think it’s safe.”

“Seems a silly rule—can you not get your feet wet as a Missionary?”

Daeymara’s laughter ended in a sigh. “As a Missionary, we’ve spent two years studying an array of cultures. Some hold water as sacred, others believe it is a curse. What if this fountain had been a revered shrine containing the Pure Water of the Makers? Or what if it was considered cursed water, and to touch it meant you had become tainted and in need of
purification
—that’s possibly where they tie you down and kill you.

“And then there’s another possibility. What if this fountain was the peoples’ drinking water, and you sticking your dusty feet in it is a great insult. You see?”

Aven nodded but wondered how it was other cultures had become so weird and bizarre.

“So, why did you stick your feet in this fountain?” asked Aven.

“Because you did, and none of the passersby seemed to care. Besides, the well cultured Magnus Empyrean lives here, and Core is an upworld. I think it’s safe to say this is just a fountain in a park, and not a shrine or drinking hole.” Daeymara kicked lightly at the water, splashing some onto Aven.

A mist was floating down from the fountain between he and Daeymara. Sunlight caught the tiny beads of water and made them shimmer as they swirled about the attractive girl before him. Her fingers still carefully worked the little thin braid of hair, and it reminded him of his sister twining laussifer roots. As Daeymara worked, her gaze had grown serious, and he wondered what was on her mind.

“So what is this request you have for me?” said Aven.

Daeymara looked down at his feet in the water, then her eyes flashed back to his. “I’m leaving on my mission soon. Can I give you something to hold for me until I return?”

“Of course—I think—what is it?”

A solemn aura bore heavy on her face, and a redness spread around her eyes, as if suddenly saddened by a thought. She looked away, over to the fountain that stirred with mist. “On my homeworld, we don’t really have traditions. Not like yours, or many of the other cultures I’ve studied. We don’t have mothers and fathers, or homes. We’re raised in free communities that in a way feel like a home, except people come and go all the time. Friends leave for new places, you leave for new places, and then you make new friends. And then it begins again. Everything is about fresh experiences, new things. The tasks and jobs in every community on our planet are identical, so no matter where we travel, we can fit in and do our part in any community. That’s the way my world ticks. I’ve gone back to my homeworld a few times since joining the enclave on Loam, but I don’t have a
home
community. And in the last community I lived, a lot changed in a year. Loam, has begun to feel more like home then where I was born.”

Daeymara wrapped her arms around herself as if she were suddenly cold.

“Honestly, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t have anyone who really cares about me. It never mattered to me before I began studying here at the enclave. That’s just how life was. You can’t want something you don’t know exists.”

Aven stared at her in wonder. How could a world ever become as deformed as the one she described? He looked on Daeymara now with new eyes.

She turned her head from the fountain and tried to smile.

“Zoecara has been a friend,” said Daeymara. “And Hark and Rueik, even Arentiss, in her own way. But Hark and Rueik have someone else to care about. And with Zoecara, our friendship is ankle deep. Her heart’s for Rueik.”

Aven didn’t think Daeymara had it quite right. Just because someone was mated to someone, or because they had other friendships, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be invested in you. But he wasn’t going to voice this, because whether or not it was true, it was how Daeymara felt. Perhaps she just didn’t understand how friendships worked. The world she came from was bizarre. Even more bizarre than the worlds that wouldn’t let you put your feet in a fountain.

Aven scooted closer to her. He hoped the little gesture would reassure her without words that he was willing to be a friend.

Daeymara looked at him, her eyes moist with emotion. She reached down and drew a knife from her tunic and put it to the top of the little braid she’d made in her short black hair. The blade was exceedingly sharp, for she severed the braid with two quick strokes. Aven watched in silence as she put away the knife then drew out a white piece of threat and began to tie it around the top of the braid.

“On one of the worlds I studied, when an orphan or a widow who was without a home went to depart on a long journey, they would cut off a lock of their hair and give it to someone in their village. The braid served as a promise. The one it was given to must never forget them. And in turn, the widow or orphan would always know they were thought of, even when they were alone in the world. I know I’m no widow, but I’m rather like an orphan, and though you barely know who I am, if you would just take this braid of mine and put it someplace where it won’t be forgotten. Then I would know someone cares. It would be a comfort, while I’m on my mission.”

Daeymara held out her hand. In it lay the thin braid with the white string knotting the top. Aven reached out and took it, as if it were the most fragile thing his fingers had ever touched.

“I’m honored,” said Aven. His heart ached as he stared at the lock of hair. The significance of this gesture struck him powerfully. “I’m honored that you chose me for this gift. I promise, you won’t be forgotten.”

A mix of strong desires swept over him. To protect her. To show her some physical comfort. He steadied himself, and simply reached out and took her hands in his.

She smiled sadly.

“You’re thinking about your mission, aren’t you?” said Aven.

“Yes,” said Daeymara, “but not only that.” The sadness seemed to ease off her face. “I’m thinking about the strength I feel in your hands. And your new farm. I’m looking forward to going there tonight. I think, someday, I’d like to live in a place like that. A place I’d never leave.”

HEARTH

To Higelion, Magnus Empyrean,

I am requesting to be transferred from Hearth.

…I understand this world is in someway pivotal, but I am not being told why. Regardless, I did not graduate first in my class to eek out a career as a Cultivator in a place where the stench of sulfur grows stronger every year. The people here are completely devoted to their bizarre worship of fire and their cultic leader,
the Divine King!
How I loathe having to call him by his title.

My Divine King, will your vast mountain walls ever be tall enough, or do you intend them to reach the stars?

My Divine King, when will I be worthy enough to enter your temple?

I know the Guardians strive to preserve each world’s unique cultures, but perhaps we should consider some unworthy of this goal…Hearth would be at the top of my list.

I implore you, find a better psychological match for Hearth’s Cultivator. I cannot stand it here much longer.

Sincerely,

-Hezzat, Cultivator of Hearth (Transmission to Higelion, Magnus Empyrean of Sector 54)

CHAPTER 33

SAVARAH

Savarah lay embedded in darkness behind closed eyes, but she was conscious. The pain pulsing in her right breast was agonizing, for she realized by the cold stone pressing against her right arm, that she must have been dropped on the floor, and that the front of the arrow’s shaft was pressing with her own weight against the floor, the ragged wood prying excruciatingly against the raw, severed flesh inside her chest.

Harcor had known she was coming. But how?

And why hadn’t he killed her yet? She was certain of one thing. If she didn’t manage to escape, this would be the place where her vengeance ended.

Savarah took in her surroundings through her nose and ears. There was the crackling of fire and the scent of charcoal and burning wood. A monotonous scraping sounded not far from her head. It took only a moment to recognize she was inside the very room she had been spying into through the window. Harcor’s blind wife must be there, sharpening her knife.

With no other decipherable sounds, she slowly opened her eyes. If she had any chance of escape, it would be now, if Harcor was gone from the room. She doubted he was absent.

Below her the stone floor was covered in her blood. Too much blood. The sight of it made her suddenly dizzy. Her lungs wheezed, unable to draw in enough air to satisfy her need.

The scraping of the knife above her head stopped momentarily, then continued.

Desperate, Savarah placed her palms flat on the stone and pushed herself up. The pain was too great. She teetered upright for only a moment, legs spread out before her, then the room seemed to shift on her like a boat caught in a storm, and she fell down on her back, against the protruding arrow shaft. It twisted, then snapped under her weight, and she screamed from the pain that felt like teeth scraping on a thousand raw nerves.

She screamed again, and again, until the pain became almost bearable.

In that moment, when she’d briefly sat up, she’d seen Harcor watching her, seated beside his wife, lips curved downward at the ends, eyes hollow, as if he were looking at a spot of dog piss on the floor that needed cleaning.

She lay there, breathing shallowly. She’d lost too much blood.

“How did you know?” Savarah rasped, coughing. Blood pooled at the back of her throat.

“Osiiun sent a message when Aszelbor died,” said Harcor. “He simply told me to be wary. And that if you should show up before a second letter came from him, that I should kill you.” His eyes stared coldly at her. “My vigilance has proved worthwhile.”

Savarah closed her eyes. Damn Osiiun and his caginess. It had nearly gotten the best of her the first time, when she led him to the razor arm. He must have known as he died there on top of her what would happen when she tried to kill Harcor. He knew she would fail.

“I haven’t heard from Osiiun,” said Harcor. “Did you kill him?”

“Yes,” said Savarah, retaining a smug pride in her tone.

“Why?” asked Harcor.

Savarah stared up at the ceiling. “Because these people are better than us. Their ways are better than our master’s.”

“These people are like putty. Ruled by their emotions. Do you find weakness and frailty better than strength and power?”

“Yes. I have beheld their weakness. I have felt their compassion, if only in small moments. Nothing we have compares to it.”

“You drank of their weakness and have become a drunkard. Look what your compassion has gained you. Nothing but death. Because you have become weak. If I had the feelings of these people, I suppose I’d feel pity for you. But I feel nothing when I look at you. All I see is an ugly growth, like a wart on a pure and beautiful face. Nothing that a knife stroke can’t remove.”

“The beauty is in the weakness, not the calculated perfection.”

“I disagree. And so does my wife, Semmie. She has learned the way of our master. Born blind, would you call her imperfection beautiful, too?”

“Let me kill her now,” said a woman’s voice. Semmie.

“Whenever you wish,” said Harcor. “My curiosity has been quenched.”

Savarah found her thoughts drifting from the room in her last moments. What was the purpose of it all? She had been willing to risk her life for the cause of her master, for his vision was wide and full of purpose. Why had she risked her life? For whom?

For the good of the weak people around her. Yes. That was why. But what was their end? Isolaug’s end had been grand, for he had set in her a vision for taking the entire galaxy, and beyond that, the seven galaxies that comprised the universe of the gods. But what was the hope that drove these people? Their love? Their sacred writings? Some vague promise from the Makers that she had not heard?

She hadn’t asked enough questions to know if there was more to it. She knew only that she’d been moved by something beautiful in their care for one another.

The cold hand of Harcor’s wife caressed her forehead, pressing it gently to the floor, exposing her neck.

Savarah drew in a thin breath she knew could be her last. She was going to die for that alluring beauty the Hold people called love. Whether she was a fool for doing so, she would never know.

Savarah opened her eyes to see Semmie raise the knife in her hand.

A crash sounded in the room. Semmie’s sightless eyes drifted up toward the noise, and, in that instant, an arrow tore through her eye socket, and her head jerked out of sight.

A bow string twanged near her, and the shriek of a dying man followed it. A discordant fury of arrows twanged from bows in response. Then the clanging of steel sounded. Swords clashed. A body fell across Savarah’s legs, but she didn’t have the strength to lift her head.