The Woven End Page 15

  "We discussed how much should be told to you and how soon, but we never reached an agreement. I told it that I felt you could be trusted, and that you would understand and believe. It agreed with me and so—my soul, Nat. Are you quite well?"

  Much shaken, the prince took a seat and asked for something to drink. Cova bypassed the water and gave the boy a small glass of red liquid.

  "Clabbeline Wine,” he said.

  The prince drank, cringed a little at the spicy wine, and set the glass down. He felt better. After his improvement was marked, Cova began again.

  "Did it tell you why we wish to include you in this?"

  "Nay."

  "There is only one way to save our world from the destruction. It is to create a new Star. If we can create a new Star, all will be well."

  "If all of this is true, you certainly speak of it as though it were the simplest thing one could do," Nat said, regaining his wits well enough to proceed with healthy skepticism.

  "Ah, but you see… it is. It's as easy as a man and a woman."

  "I don't understand."

  "The Star came into existence by the Great Soul's love for another. Nay, nay, hear me out, it is not allegory or fairy tale. This is truth.

  “The two were not spiritually compatible, and she burst into flames. She is the burning corpse by which we set our seasons and times. If love made our Star, love can make a new Star."

  Nat scoffed. "People fall in love every day. It's absurd to say that love will make a new Star… Assuming that the old one was made by such a thing in the first place."

  "Do they? Yes, perhaps love on a lower scale. Nay, you see, what I'm suggesting is that love of a grander scale must be used."

  "This is ridiculous…" Nat stood up.

  "Just hear me, will you? Sit back down”

  Cova walked to his window and looked out.

  "In a manner of speaking, there are five reactive spirits that found each other in the conduit of the Great Soul. There was the Great Soul, which is, essentially, a male spirit, the Star, which is essentially a female spirit, love, and the authority.

  "The theory—shall we call it—is that if an individual with a unique connection to the Great Soul acquires the spirit of love peculiar to the romantic affection, it would make the creation of a new Star possible. All you need is the male, the female, love, the power and the conduit. The human involvement, we believe, would mute the reaction and spare the human’s lives.”

  "Why do you need a human? Why does the Great Soul not love again and do the work itself?" Nat asked.

  "It has tried, but proven incapable. Nay, the Great Soul cannot love again."

  "How do you know that thing is telling you truth, Uncle? My soul was uneasy in its presence."

  "Because it is sensible. Because I trust my friends, and this slyte is my friend. I believe what it tells me, and I cannot accept that it would lie to me."

  "But, it has no proof that it is the Great Soul."

  Cova raised his voice. "What proof can be offered? Do you expect it to have a seal and signet?"

  "Nay. What do you propose be done? All of this love and men and women—tra la la— Where is the practical application?"

  The color flushed out of Cova's face. He rushed around his desk, his hands clasped before him. Breathless with the thrill of this moment, a moment that had taken over thirty stars of careful monitoring, insinuations and manipulations, Cova meant to speak as he would any other time, but his voice came out only a whisper with a vestige of baritone hiding in it.

  "You. You have—thanks to your amar—a connection with the Great Soul. All that remains is the power strand and the love. You possess the conduit for explosive creative power," he lightly lay his hand over Nat's chest, "in here."

  "Me?" Nat whispered, leaning away from his uncle's persistent stare. "How—what?"

  "I will raise you up as a hero.”

  Nat stammered his way through several wordless syllables until he burst out, now in control of his tongue, "Uncle, have you gone mad?"

  "Nay, nay!" Cova laughed.

  He explained the nature of Sidita's miscarriages, and thus the agreement between Nat-Scrios and Nat's amar.

  "Which means what?" Nat asked.

  "You are, in a sense, the incarnation of the Great Soul. You are a new conduit for a fresh creation. The Great Soul, who you have just met, contains that fragment of the Star, which will ensure that what is created is what we have always known. It is like a recipe for a cake! We have what we need.”

  "I'm not feeling well, uncle. This is a bit much. I need—I need some fresh air. I need—"

  "Yes, please, get some fresh air, and while you're at it, think about bringing a rain. It’s been dry lately. Reach out your hand in the Sálverøld and bring it to pass. You will find that you will do it without the effort you think necessary. The Great Soul can work through you whether you wish it to, or not."

  The prince lost his composure. He made quick efforts to regain it, but his eyes betrayed him to the governor, who smiled at the sight. If he stayed much longer he would either lose his temper or cry. The prince had no desire to stay and try himself against either. In a terrified fervor, he stood up, left the room, and made his way outside. He plowed through the doors and stepped onto the portico, stopping abruptly. He hadn't realized it until now, but he was sweating. He swept a damp palm across his moist forehead.

  A mad Alchemine. That's all this comes to, the prince thought. You can send word to your apar to have your uncle removed from his office and, of course, seek permission to return home as soon as possible.

  He rubbed his chin, a few prickles grew where he shaved away even fewer prickles a few days ago. But the slyte… You cannot deny that. You saw it, you spoke with it, and you approached the Star itself and saw that… thing within the slyte's being. You saw it. By the stars, you saw it, Nat! What are you going to do? You have touched your soul and you know what it feels is true. Yet, you know that black soul… Something is not right."

  He entered the Sálverøld with just a whisper of effort. He didn’t allow himself to think about it, he simply decided on rain. His soul shot up into the air and grasped the appropriate spirits. He blew on them as he threw them and shouted the direction he wished for the wind to blow.

  No gentle rain appeared, but a cold sheet of rain whipped past, again and again, layer after layer, blowing northward. Nat watched the water souls fly through the Sálverøld.

  A blue-hued human soul scurried toward him and ran up the stairs of the mansion onto the portico.

  "Oh! My stars, Your Majesty, you'll forgive me. I didn't see you there in the darkness," the blue souled servant said.

  Nat smiled at the man, told him it was quite alright and remarked on the sudden change of the weather.

  "Great Kookaroos, don't you know it! I never saw the likes of it in all m’life. I tell you, it was a clear Star fall. I was just standing there looking at the stars—after my duties had been tended to— and zip, zip, here come the rain. What a thing!" The servant shook the rain off his hat, placed the hat back on his head, and shivered.

  "Pardon me, Your Majesty. Again, my truest of apologies to you for running up on you in such a manner. I certainly meant no disrespect.”

  "None regarded.”

  "Thank you, thank you. Have a pleasant Star fall, good prince.”

  Nat nodded. The servant passed on.

  Nat stood, rigid, as though being chastised. His eyes were watery with tears, not quite willing to flow, and internal distress showed on his face beyond doubt. He was not a man to be spoken to right now.

  He entered the Sálverøld and grasped a quick-moving, energetic, white, spirit from the many floating about him. He knew nothing of these spirits, nor what to do with them, but somehow his soul knew what to do. He clapped it in his soul's hands.

  A flash of lightning tore through the darkness with a chilling CRACK-BOOM, splitting a tree on the governor's property in half. He covered his mouth tightly with his hand
and ran through the mansion's doors.

  Once in his room he ripped at his clothes without thought or sense, thrashing at his garments, popping buttons, and growling in frustration, until finally, succeeding in removal of the various articles, he cast them to the ground with great force and uttered a guttural scream. He grabbed his head tightly with both his hands and then, fingers spread apart, shoved them through his curly hair, squeezing his head as he did so. He looked about the room, grabbed his gown, neatly layed out on his bed, put it on, and turned for the water basin.

  Empty, of course.

  What was he to do? He paced a few times, sat down on the edge of his bed and flopped back, his legs hanging off the edge. He heard a voice in his mind. It must be his own, but it didn’t sound right.

  "You can't tell anyone. There's no one you can trust with something like this. It's mad. But, it's obviously true. Why would your uncle lie to you? He wouldn't. The only options are that he's trying to embarrass you…”

  He broke the train of words in his mind and thought of something else.

  …Or that he's being lied to—

  The prince's heart hurt. He held his hand over his chest and breathed slowly, in and out, in and out. He tried to push the thoughts of the end of the world, slytes, incarnations and Great Souls from his mind, but failed.

  By the Stars, this would be his end, his body driven over the edge of life by Alchemine extremism. He reached his hand out in a vain effort to reach his glottit pills. His fingers brushed against the little bottle and knocked them to the ground.

  His head spun. A ball of fire burrowed out of his chest as the Sálverøld flashed through his mind on a phantasmagoric journey to death's door. Yet, he would not die. Facing the threshold of death—he recognized it as such—the images would not stop, his mind could not completely pass out of thought. He lay in desperate pain for several minutes before his half-functioning mind heard,

  "You can have a healthy heart and repaired constitution if you will just listen to me."

  "Go burn with your Star," he replied.

  "Let it be known that you will not die. The weakness of your heart, however, has been pushed to the edge, and you will, because of your amar's weavings on your fetal body, live ‘til the end of the world in this pain. You will not die, Nat. You will not die, you will only suffer. Allow me to aid you. I know of suffering without relief for ӕons."

  The prince responded with thoughtful silence.

  "Enter the Sálverøld, prince."

  The prince appeared incapable of doing anything, but something pushed him forward into it, apart from his own will. Something was amiss in the Sálverøld. It seemed dark, and the spirits like muted mists of color. He felt dizzy.

  "In the room beside you is a soul. Take the silver cord," Nat-Scrios ordered.

  Nat entered the room. Upon the spirits of the cotton, silk, and wood that made up a bed and its coverings, lay a soul colored like the Star rise: pink, blue, orange, vydren. He hesitated for a moment before the force that pushed him into the Sálverøld now seemed to prod him forward with increasing strength. He tried to recall whose room this was and who laid there. What happens to people who lose their silver cords? He recalled nothing except the horror his body endured that very moment.

  His body, animated by the subconscious call and irresistible pull of its soul, staggered out and into the neighboring room. This activity called for his body? It had to be done with his body? What was he going to do? The Star rise soul turned to look at him and seemed to tremble between existence and disintegration. What was it? He had no time to think about it, nor the presence of mind to try.

  He reached out and grasped the silver cord.

  "Now, eat it," Nat-Scrios whispered.

  The Sálverøld still swirled about him.Without the ability to clear his mind and think, he could do nothing but obey.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Upon hearing a fierce knock at his door, Nat leapt out of his bed with surprising agility. The sound of shouting men sent a thrill of adrenaline through his body.

  His legs felt strange to him. He stumbled and fell to the ground. He stood up on much lighter feet than those he was born with and, carefully now, approached the door and opened it.

  His great uncle looked him up and down, then eyed the fireplace. Cova’s eyes were pink and wet with tears.

  "Tapa…Tapa is dead. Murdered. We…we must increase security and inform the king. Have you a weapon?”

  Nat shook his head.

  “Here." Cova thrust a sheathed knife into Nat's hand. "My wish is that you remain in your room until I come to you or send for you. We do not know who the murderer is, and we must take every precaution for your safety. I will be under close watch by the guard myself. Lock your door, and permit no one but myself, or the head of my guard, to bring your meals."

  "Yes, sir."

  Nat closed the door and leaned back on it. He inspected the knife. It was well used, but sharp, engraved with scribbles and a web pattern. He cast it aside and, overwhelmed, ran his hand over his head, clenching a fistful of hair.

  It had been a dream. He was sure of it. It seemed like a dream. Wasn't it? Presently, he realized his chest was bare. He touched his chest. Something about it was harder, more distinctly contoured. A series of realizations then struck him.

  There were dying embers in the fireplace. It was a warm night, why would he have started a fire? Nay. A servant must have. But, why?

  The water basin contained a few beads of water.

  A window was open.

  He charged for the window and looked down. He could tell nothing by that. He closed the window. He poked at the glowing cinders in the firelace a few times, uncovering a very small scrap of something like fabric. His pulse raced and breath quickened. He clutched at his chest out of force of habit, though he had no cause for it. His heart beat perfectly, and the blood pulsed through his body in proper rhythm.

  In just five long strides he reached the basin. He must have gotten water on his own last night. He didn't remember it. Well, maybe… faintly. Yes, he remembered it now.

  Oh, Dear Great Soul.

  He inspected the drops in the bowl. He shook the basin 'til the droplets gathered together in a small pool in the bottom of the basin. Maybe it was his imagination that the water appeared to be tinted pink against the white porcelain.

  He tucked the knife into the top of his pants and peeked out the door, his pounding heart, though terrified, did its job happily and enthusiastically.

  The hallway was empty, so he slipped over to the room next to his.

  Tapa lay in her bed, accompanied only by a physician. The old man was analyzing the body and investigating the wounds. He startled quite a bit when a board in the floor creaked.

  "Oh, stars! Stars! Your Majesty, I apologize. Oh, stars." He sat down in a chair clutching his chest as Nat would have yesterday.

  The horror of the attack disfigured her face. He winced at the sight. Such a lovely face should never have horror like that pasted on it for all to see. It felt indecent to look at her in that state.

  Someone washed her face and neck, for all that remained was a very deep, clean bite in the neck. The bedding suffered in the attack and would never be purged of such a stain.

  He knew now. He would never be purged either.

  A sick feeling filled his stomach. He was going to vomit. The physician made the natural assumption that the boy was merely overwhelmed by the matter of his aunt's death and approached him with a grave expression.

  "Your Majesty, I…"

  Nat dashed from the room, and by the grace of fate or, he knew not what, he reached his room and threw himself at the chamber pot to expel the contents of his stomach.

  Blood. It was all blood.

  "My soul, my soul…"

  He opened the window and cast the contents of the chamber pot toward the right. Perhaps it would not appear to have come from his room. He looked out the window. The gray walls of the mansion were splattered with
blood.

  He dropped the pot, which struck the ground with a reverberating GONG, and dashed to the mirror to look at himself. His color was considerably better and nearly bronzed as his apar. His eyes were clearer, his teeth whiter, a thick shadow of hair had sprouted on his chin overnight. He set the mirror down and looked at his hands, sinewy and veined now, those of a man and not of a boy. They were trembling. He looked at his face again. He had blood on his chin.

  The iron taste of blood lingered in his mouth. He hesitated, but rang the bell. The head of the governor's guard arrived in a few minutes.

  "Your Majesty?"

  With great effort, Nat spoke through the barely-open door with an even, unbothered voice. "I need water. Is this possible?”

  "Yes, sire. Your pitcher?"

  The pitcher, of course. Nat took the pitcher and handed it to the guard who wrinkled up his nose and sniffed the air.

  "Your Majesty, I smell blood. Is everything quite right?" He tried to press forward to look over Nat’s shoulder.

  "Quite. Quite. I just cut myself on a knife my uncle loaned me. I thought it was dull. That water, please. I'm just distressed by these events. Some water will refresh me. Please."

  "Yes, Your Majesty." The guard bowed and left with the pitcher.

  Nat sat down on his bed and tried to piece the matter together from the fragments of memory and evidence. He remembered thinking he was going to die. Everything after that seemed like a dream. He recalled walking in the hallway. Evidence declared that he killed his aunt by biting and— his stomach turned. The thought punched his gut and knocked the wind out of him.

  I drank her blood. My tars, I drank her blood …

  Rap. Rap. Rap.

  "Who is it?"

  "Dulo son of Abetz, the head of the governor's guard. I have your water, Your Majesty."

  "Leave it at the door, please."

  The guard did so.

  An un-voice spoke up."Your Majesty, do not fear, all will be well. You do not remember because you were near death and are only just recovering. Of course the memories are unclear, but you have made correct assumptions on the matter. This is your doing," Nat-Scrios said.