Chapter 34
Good Little Soldier
Continuing on foot was a move of pure desperation, only marginally better than sitting still and waiting for a curious or predatory driver to make the mistake of testing Nigel’s resolve.
Still, every inch eastward was an achievement, and if her call had made contact—he didn’t dare hope or disbelieve, since either could detract from his efficiency in dealing with current conditions—every available Son from Cheyenne, Casper, Denver and maybe even Billings would be scrambled and en route, as well as every frontier temple team in range, and to finish it off, quite possibly teams from surrounding states on their way as well.
Tracking flights would be working every possible approach, and perhaps the lirai in Cheyenne might even be dowsing for their lost, endangered sibling.
All he had to do was keep her alive. His mission had become very simple, and truth be told the situation was much like the days before steam or combustion engines.
Of course he’d never been lucky enough to closely shepherd a potential or lirai, but if he could be said to have a forte, clearing territory or hunting troublesome unclean would reasonably be considered it.
It was only a short step from hunting to avoiding, or turning upon importunate suitors with enough fury to buy her time to flee. Which he knew could very well be how this entire escapade ended. Falling in her defense would be a pleasure, if only he could be certain it would grant her safety.
The tunnel loomed closer. Not a pedestrian-friendly environment; still, there was no breath or sign of close pursuit at the moment and through was much shorter than around.
He didn’t want to take her offroad just yet.
Cass plodded along, head down, gold-streaked hair curtaining her expression. At least neither of them reeked of rubbish anymore, but the smoke was a constant irritant. And her thin, hunched shoulders were the very picture of dejection.
Say something, you absolute fool. Comfort her. He was the wrong man for that job, even if the only one available.
As if she had read his mind—not entirely out of the question, he was sealed, after all—Cass spoke. “There’s not much of a walkway.”
“Better than going over. Or around.” He tried for a note of subdued, though not forced, cheer. “And don’t worry, cars are easy enough to dodge.”
She tipped her chin up, eyeing the wall of solid rock, and even deathly pale with a thin sheen of sweat dewing her forehead, she was stunning.
Bright eyes, the arc of her cheekbone, the tender hollow of her throat, the clean lines of her profile, the way she blinked and swallowed, visibly bracing for a mildly unpleasant experience—all conspired to cause a queer, almost painful sensation in the upper left quadrant of his chest.
Finally, she cast him a shy, sliding glance. “You say that like you do it every day.”
“I’ve done my share.” He took care to squash any blush of false pride in the notion. “Part of the job.”
“Some job.” Her mouth tightened. Faint amusement, or annoyance?
“It has its moments.” He was aiming for a bit of wry humor, and could have cursed himself into the Nightmare Lands when her chin dropped again. She stiffened visibly as a low hum rose.
It was the tunnels breathing, a lullaby of slow contraction, expansion, transit, and engineered support. Cass didn’t pause—in fact, she lengthened her stride, so far as her weary frame would allow, and he followed suit in order to keep up.
He tried again. “It’s a bit of a walk; pace yourself.”
“I just want this over with.” Quiet and implacable, absolutely merciless.
It was the same tone she’d used asking him about sealing, and the thought the she considered both just a pair of disagreeable chores might have stung if he’d had any ego left at this point.
After a short silence, she spoke again.“Nigel?”
“Hm?” Keep her calm, tell her whatever is necessary.
“What did you want to be when you grew up?”
What on earth? A gloomy stone mouth swallowed them, the ribbon of electric lights overhead weak and watery in reflected dayshine. He calculated the airflow, and came up with the good news that this tunnel was well under a quarter-mile, not very long at all.
His lirai had asked; Nigel had to answer. “I never thought of it. I was very young when I joined the Sons.”
“How young?” There was a raised portion to the right, not quite wide enough for Cass to walk on, but she shrank as close to the wall as possible.
“Eight, I think. It was a long time ago.” He barely remembered the deep malodorous mud under hooves and carriage wheels, the stone of the temple bailey, the first few days of incessant, rigorous tests.
So much vanished into survival when a man focused only on the task before him, then the next, and the next beyond that.
“What the hell?” Her voice bounced against rock walls. “That thing on your arm, you were eight?”
Rather humbling, that she sounded so protective of the child he must have once been.
“Oh, no, that came a few decades later.” He could barely remember that ceremony, Nigel realized. He had, before and afterward, considered himself fortunate. “It wasn’t bad. There was more than enough to eat, and I had aptitude for the training. I never expected to survive this long.”
“Yeah, like you’re so ancient.” A slight toss of her pretty head—was she rolling her eyes? Grim interest was far better than apathetic shock. “What are you, late forties?”
It was a monstrous misapprehension—Sons matured, but did not strictly age—and she would learn better later. “A little more than that,” he owned, hoping for an equable tone, and cocked his head. Engine-noise was approaching, thankfully from the opposite direction.
Still, it wouldn’t do to assume. He tensed, ready to drop the water-jug and move with all the speed he could muster.
At least the lovely forgiving aura of a Dreamer played over him in waves, yet he could feel the weariness behind its beauty.
Sealing made a Son exquisitely attuned to his lirai’s condition and needs.
She was holding together with sheer willpower. A good little soldier; her martinet would be proud.
Cass glanced back, somewhat nervously. Her dimly lit profile caused that peculiar ache in his chest to return, a nameless, almost exquisite sensation.
He could not remember its like occurring before, in all his long life. “Do you feel anything?” This wasn’t quite prime hunting ground, and there was little sign of nearby shadowbeast habitation or activity.
But she was so very sensitive, and might catch wind of approaching pursuit before her protector.
“No bogeys.” Wonder of wonders, she granted him a tight, clearly unsettled smile before returning her attention forward. “I know I didn’t clock the last one, but I’m pretty sure we’re clear right now.”
“You felt the instant it dropped camouflage. Gave me enough warning to act.” More than enough. He lowered his gaze, eyed his boot-toes and her battered trainers. The latter wouldn’t stand up to much more abuse.
“I’ll do better next time.” The brittle determination hurt to hear.
Nigel decided to shut up, since he was clearly an abject failure at comforting anyone. But as they walked, she leaned away from the wall a bit, and her shoulder bumped his. Which could have been a mistake, except it happened again, and a third time.
For some reason, his face felt odd. As if the corners of his mouth wanted to curl upward.
* * *
In late afternoon the heat was generally at its worst. Yet the smoke overcast steadily thickened, dimming the sun’s eye, giving an illusion of relief.
Cass coughed once or twice, though she refused more than a few sips from the plastic jug—at least he hadn’t forgotten how to purify water, a most elementary sorcery indeed.
Still, the liquid was lukewarm, unappetizing unless given savor by desert thirst.
He had to be careful not to suppress her body’s response to high temperatures too far; she wasn’t a Son, and could very easily collapse. His Dreamer trudged on, flushed but not burning, the warmth of her presence entirely different than the desert’s baking.
They made reasonably good time, often moving parallel to the highway; as daylight waned traffic did as well.
Dusk was almost a relief, except the long shallow curve of the highway before them held no moving lights, and he could not be entirely certain but that seemed rather unusual.
The reek of burning intensified as the wind veered; the landscape slithered, hopped, and twitched with small bits of life emerging as the furnace of afternoon drew down to embers.
Cass crowded ever closer, which was pleasant until he realized she was perhaps wary of stepping upon something venomous.
“Here.” Nigel offered his arm, in what he hoped was mannerly fashion. No doubt his etiquette was of the most rudimentary sort nowadays. “Wildlife knows to avoid Sons and I don’t need much light to see. Just walk where I put you, and all will be well.”
“Comforting.” The word shook slightly as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, even more pleasant proximity. She had to be both famished and fatigued, yet hadn’t flagged a bit. “The stars would be pretty, though. If they were out.”
Huh. He paused, glancing upward, and found she was correct.
A faintly pale spot on the horizon to their extreme right, visible as the road curved southward to avoid another massive stone ridge, marked a final dreg of sunset—waning-moonrise would be well past midnight—and through a tattered lens of high-altitude smoke the Milky Way peered dimly.
He could see far more than an ordinary would, of course, but a lirai lacked the mark’s enhanced vision unless peering through a Son during battle.
Or after sealing.
“They are.” He sounded surprised, even to himself. Would he feel it, if she used his senses? An intimate prospect, almost unbearably pleasant. “Ah, I mean, they would be.” Best not to remind her of his abilities, so similar to the unclean.
Once, the Sons were the Mad God’s most favored; after that long-ago apocalyptic battle, they felt his wrath in their own nerves and brain.
Once a turncoat, a man could never be trusted again; the god’s promises of re-acceptance were most unreliable.
Difficult to remember as much when the whispers swirled; theirs were losing battles.
Always.
His Dreamer’s trainers slipped in sand, which meant she leaned further into his support. “You know, I camp all the time. And I hate it.” Yes, a definite tremor in her sweet voice. “Except for the sky. You get away from the cities and it’s…”
“Yes.” As if he understood, as if a creature like him could have anything in common with a miracle. Indigo peaks and bluffs crowded in every direction, faint smoke-filtered starshine marking edges, deeper darkness filling every hollow. Keep her talking. “Why do you hate camping?”
“Oh, you know. I’m generally doing it with half a dozen overgrown, heavily armed boys.
If it’s not the bathrooms it’s the prank wars, and they all want to use my shampoo because it smells nicer.
” The quaver remained, and he realized she was perhaps at the edge of her ability to cope with an awful, unsustainable situation.
“Ah.” Say something good, reassure her. “Once you’re in a liraim, you won’t have to share a loo with anyone. An entire suite, most probably in a tower, and it will be remodeled to suit. As many times as you like.”
They walked on for at least a score of steps, while she absorbed the notion. “What about you?”
“I’ll be part of your close-guard.” His conscience prodded; even sealed, a Son served largely at a lirai’s pleasure.
The reward of immunity, though granted, might at any time be considered more than adequate in and of itself.
She could banish him from her presence, from the entire continent if she wished—so long as others remained to guard her. “Unless you’d prefer otherwise.”
“So you won’t…” Cass trailed off and halted, her hand nearly slipping free. He had steered her around a slight sandy depression, and thought for a moment he had been remiss in noticing an obstacle. “Oh, no.”
A harsh, piercing cry split the darkness, and every mortal animal in the area began a fierce scrabble to hide.