 Snippet from TheLaran Gambit (the final text may be different)
Gradually they ascended the slopes leading to Scaravel Pass. Beyond it, Martina assured Bryn, the going would be easier. The pass itself was over seven thousand meters high, and the approach often led along sheer cliffs through slanting sleet. The trail grew steeper, more like something goats would follow than any proper path. Bryn clung to her saddle, trying to sit as still as possible so as not to unbalance or distract her mount. Often they had to dismount and lead their animals, half-scrambling, half-climbing. Martina, as the leader, ensured that whenever possible, the two older people were able to ride on the sure-footed chervines. Bryn’s heart pounded and her breath came in quick gasps from the thinner air, but her body seemed to remember the strenuous trek from their crash in the mountains, and she felt her muscles grow stronger day by day. She noticed how none of the Darkovans complained, taking the hardships of the terrain for granted. I’m becoming like them, she reflected, and the thought renewed her determination.
At night, Bryn snuggled deeper into the cocoon of her blankets. She’d gotten used to sleeping on the hard ground, and the altitude had left her tired enough so she had no difficulty falling asleep. She stirred as her tent mate, Doranne, slipped inside and settled herself. Just as she was dozing off again, she heard a faint, eerie wailing. She jerked fully awake, her muscles instantly tense. Her heartbeat sounded unnaturally loud and fast. The faint rustle of cloth told her that Doranne was awake and reaching for her long knife.
“It’s a banshee, isn’t it?” Bryn whispered.
“Aye, but far off.”
The cry came again, rising and falling. Bryn could not tell if it came from farther than before, or if the mountainous terrain and her own fears only made it seem so. If it came upon them in the night —
No, don’t think that!
Doranne got to her feet, knife drawn, and left the tent. A few moments later, Bryn heard voices in the camp, too low and soft to make out the words. She made out Desiderio’s voice among the higher pitches of the women, but nothing that sounded like her father or Felicity. Fervently she hoped they would sleep through the incident.
Drawing her blankets more snugly around her shoulders, Bryn put her head down and waited. Minutes passed, one growing from the last. Strain as she might, she heard no more banshee cries, yet sleep would not come. Doranne had not yet come back; Bryn told herself that was a good thing. Doranne and the other fighters would be on guard, keeping everyone else safe.
Safe? Is anywhere truly safe? Not Terra, not Alpha, not Cottman IV.
Bryn touched the silken pouch nestled between her breasts. Her fingertips outlined the hard crystalline contours of the insulated starstone. Her starstone. She remembered handling it for the first time, the moment when it had made contact with her bare palm, the way its blue radiance had flared like a living thing, reflection and complement to her mind. How she had focused through it to monitor the bodies of the circle workers. It had made her more than she once was, and through it she had entered a larger, more vibrant world.
The starstone rested now in her lightly closed fist, lifeline and guide. Light pulsed through her. It filled her, soothed her. She drifted on the patterns of brilliance that were as familiar as the hardness of her bones, the inside of her closed eyelids. Safe, it was safe to sleep now . . .
Gradually she coalesced into herself and became aware of her surroundings. The light had shifted from blue to pale, watery gray. All the warmth had seeped out of it, like the sullen overcast with rain not ready to break. She felt no cold, however, only a strange absence of emotion. As for her body, she could not feel it, not quite, but any moment she expected a surface to materialize under her feet, a chill wind to ruffle her hair. The grayness before her was not uniform but darker in some areas, lighter in others, the patterns suggesting faroff structures, a tower perhaps, or a person.
She was in the Overworld, and all the warnings she’d been given came rushing into her thoughts. But so too did the nature of the place, for here she could encounter the dead she had once loved.
Leonin!
As if summoned by her silent plea, a figure condensed. She knew without having to speak that it was indeed him. Hope beyond hope, she had been given this last chance to see him, to speak with him, to hold him in her arms. She tried to move in his direction but was not yet substantial enough for traction with the insubstantial ground. In desperation, she reached out with her mind to his and, to her astonishment, made a connection. It was fragmented, like a reflection seen in the shards of a broken mirror, but enough for her to catch his mental response. She could not make out any words, not even her name, only a silent cry. At the same time, she became aware of a bone-deep chill creeping across her skin. All the warnings she’d been given of the dangers of the Overworld flashed through her mind.
She dared not linger — but just a moment longer — if she could only make out what he was trying to tell her — this was no place for the living — she might be trapped — one last glimpse of him.
In a last, desperate effort, she stretched out her mind. Blue light flared, filling her. The distant figure grew no closer, no clearer, but she heard, very faint but clear, as if he too were throwing all his might into the call:
Don’t waste my death! |
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