Chapter 20 Close Contact
Close Contact
Of all the things he ever expected to be explaining—and for a Father, there were legion—Nigel had never dreamt of having to approach this particular subject with a nervous, round-eyed lirai in the back of a wallowing unkempt vehicle.
At least the engine purred; Edward had a positive gift for selecting transport with well-maintained engines.
Where on earth could one start? “The mark is akin to a door.” The correct tone was passionless, dry, and informative, as if speaking to a class of attentive trainees. “Held slightly ajar so we can draw on power, but that means what’s on the other side can also peek through. And whisper.”
“The Mad God.” Cass took a healthy sip of coffee, and that was welcome progress. “Right?”
“Just so. Sons move in trios; our every move is watched. We scrutinize each other as insurance against treachery, because the god can be… persuasive. But you are a Dreamer, you are immune. What’s more, even before you were awakened, your presence could grant relief from his whispers.”
He had her full attention now, a flood of that deep, forgiving sensation.
The sheer amount of power radiating from one small woman was chastening.
He had underestimated the breadth of her gift.
With enough Sons attending, she could hold an entire city on her own; she belonged in a cushioned, exquisite liraim, protected and cosseted, every desire indulged—save those of escape or self-harm, both of which Dreamers were prone to.
“Relief, huh?” A solid night’s sleep had clearly done her some good, though much more was needed to erase the dark circles under those big bright eyes.
Her cheekbones were alarmingly sharp, and she had again refused fresh clothing.
The small holes and rips in her T-shirt almost hurt to see, as well as those scuffed, dirty trainers and worn jeans.
If they managed to bring her to a temple, frontier or active, any evaluation of her condition would reflect poorly on both Nigel and his Elder. It was a foregone conclusion.
“In more ways than you can imagine,” he said. “The effect has a certain radius—you will have noticed we both stay in your vicinity.”
“Except at the store yesterday.” A most attentive student, though her shoulders were tense as if she expected censure for the observation.
“Edward was within your protection that entire time, ma—ah, Cass.” Nigel paused, almost in confusion, because she smiled.
“Really?” A stunning, sudden ray of emotional sunshine, lighting up her thin, solemn face.
She even condescended to open the bag of pastries—Edward had bought one of every muffin species on the coffee stand’s menu plus a pair of scones, in the hopes of tempting her into taking nourishment.
“That’s good, I guess. I like being useful. ”
How could she be so unaware of her own status? It boggled the mind. “I see. Well, the effect is… a gift. And it can be rendered permanent through sealing.”
“Okay.” She peered into the bag’s depths. “Hey, you guys need breakfast. Ed? You want a muffin?”
“You first, ma—uh, Cass.” The Elder very pointedly stared at the road before them, and his ears had turned pink. It was no doubt deeply embarrassing to witness this conversation. “I didn’t know what you like.”
“I’ll take one of the scones, I guess. So, all right, how does it get permanent?” The bag rustled as she reached inside. “Is it something I have to do? Can you teach me?”
Nigel suspected she’d lose her appetite in a few moments. “The process is relatively simple, and can be performed by any Son. It requires close contact with a lirai.”
“So, like, you just hang around enough and it happens? Or what?” She found a suitable pastry, settled its crackling brown sleeve in her pretty lap, then offered him the bag with clear, though tentative, hopefulness.
“Take something. You too, Ed. You can fight on an empty stomach, but it isn’t ideal.
” The last sentence had a lilt to it, clearly an impression of someone—or a bit of wisdom repeated by her former companions.
“Thank you, that’s quite kind.” Nigel found himself passing the bag into the front seat, glancing ahead to check road conditions.
It was technically disobedience to a lirai’s command, but he could argue he was focused on explanations at the moment, and hence would partake later.
“But no, sealing does not simply happen, it’s rather more…
active.” Could he leave it at that? Was it another disobedience, to the spirit of the law instead of its letter?
A Father was accustomed to rather intractable moral or ethical quandaries most often solved in the manner of the Gordian knot.
Granting penance or absolution with brutal clarity was his function, and required holding himself to the same standard as those who approached him for aid in pushing back the god’s many tempting, teasing whispers.
Or threats.
“Does it hurt?” She nibbled at the almond scone, and it was indeed heartbreaking to see such bright interest, such determination. Strengthening sunlight described the highlights in her hair.
No mercy like a Dreamer’s, the proverb ran.
So often they were determined to save the world; whether the urge was a side-effect of their talents or a gift from the Flame, it appeared very nearly a compulsion.
Even with the recent revelation of a single lirai driven to betraying his own kind, it was clear the impetus was deep despair instead of cruelty.
“It doesn’t have to,” he was forced to say. “The problem is… well, sealing requires very close contact. Of the physical, intimate kind.” Was that clear enough? Nigel discovered treating her like a trainee was extremely difficult.
In fact, damn near impossible. He held her soft, gleaming gaze, hoping she would understand. Being more specific would be highly uncomfortable.
He would almost rather face a crowd of the unclean with only his sword.
“You mean… oh.” A long, drawn-out syllable, her eyebrows raising, and she blinked a few times, then studied him intently. Almost suspiciously. “Oh.”
His Elder’s ears were no longer pink but bright crimson; Nigel’s cheeks felt suspiciously warm.
He hadn’t blushed in decades, but being alive meant surprises, or so he had often told Edward and Michael.
The Younger should have been here to initiate this conversation instead of a cheerless, sardonic Father; a flare of nasty hot feeling somewhere in his chest was another oddity.
It couldn’t be the god—salvation was literally trapped an arm’s length from him on a bench seat and had turned pale, lowering the scone.
Of course he had ruined her appetite. They would be lucky if she didn’t now attempt to flee a vehicle moving at freeway speed.
“Wait. Okay.” Blinking rapidly, tilting her head in almost-feline manner. “Are there women? I mean, girl Sons? Daughters?”
“Traditionally, no. Taking the mark requires a certain physical size and robustness; the Mad God had… other uses, for human women.” He restrained himself from saying females at the last moment, and hoped she would not ask for specifics concerning the god’s particular proclivities in that area.
Even a bare description might well grant further nightmares to a lirai who already endured more than her fair share.
“So… Dreamers. Lurries—lirai,” she corrected, her forehead wrinkling. “They can’t all be—”
“Lirai may be any gender, or none.” At least his trio had taken the latest Social Sensitivity course modules before being sent out. “It does not affect the process, the mechanics of sealing.”
“Wow.” Two bright-red spots bloomed high on her thin cheeks. She swallowed, hard, and took a hasty gulp of her latte. It seemed to rather fight going down, to judge by her expression. “Uh, how often does this happen? Are all of you… do you all have to…”
“Nowadays every lirai seals at least one protector. Some seal their entire inner Flight—at least three trios.” Nigel decided a history lesson in the traditional gladiatorial matches for the proving of fitness to enter a lirai’s bed would be counterproductive.
“But I am afraid it is rather a necessity. He has some method of hunting unsealed potentials, and quite possibly unsealed Dreamers as well. It is a risk the Sons cannot take with a lirai’s safety, so you may be asked to… to choose.”
Edward gave a dry cough, attempting to cover the sound with a bit of rustling as if digging in the bag of baked goods.
The historical custom was to seal a potential as quickly as possible, not least for their own protection.
Even betrayed to the Flame afterward, many Dreamers eventually reached some kind of equanimity with the necessity.
But it was very, very difficult. Nigel had to force himself to continue in the driest, most academic tone he could summon.
“Most Sons are never granted the honour, nor the relief. Sealing permanently and completely blocks the Mad God’s influence, so it is considered a very great privilege indeed.
” There were rumors that the Dreamer recently gone mad with despair had somehow withdrawn that protection, but Nigel could not in conscience add that information, it being unverified.
Or perhaps he was too disturbed by the prospect to do so. “Does that answer your question?”
“Sir?” Edward spoke up. “I hate to interrupt, but…”
For a moment he thought the Elder was about to add further necessary details, and could not tell whether to be relieved or ashamed of his own incompetence. Then a reflected gleam caught his attention, and he twisted to glance out the rear window.
A police cruiser, red and blue lights flashing, threaded through morning traffic.
“Oh, no,” Cass breathed. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me do the talking?”
Had that been her duty while among her previous companions? “No need.” Nigel was almost grateful for the distraction. “We’ll handle this.”