Bridge of Dreams Page 4

  It took me some time to recall what I had learned during my training, but as I experimented with my specimens, I remembered the reports about this demon race.

  Dark Guides found these creatures generations ago, before the world was broken during the war between the Guides of the Heart and the Eater of the World. Some of the Dark Guides sowed their seed in females whose hearts already fed the Dark currents of the world, so that offspring would be born with an instinct for discord—and maybe even some portion of the wizards’ gift of persuasion.

  We helped them turn against their own kind. We helped them break their piece of the world away from the rest of Ephemera, and then salted their hearts with guilt and blame that soured their land, spreading those feelings like swift-growing weeds. Even after we abandoned them, our resonance in their hearts helped them crush their own hope, their own future. There is so much destruction a Dark Guide can accomplish when the hatred in one sibling is nurtured and disguised as love.

  Yes, we have seen these creatures before. We have used them to change the resonance of other landscapes into something darker. When a race is so different, it becomes easy to blame them when things begin to go wrong, as things will when wizards put some effort into reshaping a place.

  They call themselves Tryad. We call them scapegoats.

  —an entry in the Book of Dark Secrets

  Chapter 4

  Zhahar hurriedly cleaned her teeth, then wet a cloth and washed her face and under her arms—and sent a prayer to the Triple Goddess to help her stay downwind of anyone important.

  “Can’t be late,” she muttered as she grabbed underclothes out of drawers. “Not today.” She found a clean pair of trousers suitable for work, but the only short-sleeved tunic left in the closet was Sholeh’s. Fortunately, that shade of green favored her complexion and brown hair as well as her sister’s fairer skin and auburn hair.

  One of them would have to do some washing this evening—and it would probably end up being her, since Sholeh had to keep up with her studies. Maybe Zeela?

  She would have a better chance of teaching a pig how to fly.

  =I’ll wash the clothes tonight,= Zeela said.

  Startled by the offer, Zhahar almost missed a step as she rushed to the alcove that served as their kitchen. It was tempting to grab her daypack and run to catch the omnibus, but Sholeh tended to get shaky and disoriented if they didn’t break their fast in the morning and eat light meals throughout the day.

  *Sholeh?* Zhahar called as she stuffed a couple of dates into her mouth and slathered soft sweet cheese over a piece of flatbread. *I had to wear your last clean tunic. I’ll try not to get it dirty, so you’ll be presentable for your class later.* When there was no answer, she stopped her hasty attempt to rush off to work. *Sholeh?*

  =Leave her be,= Zeela said.

  Zhahar’s hands began to shake. She put the flatbread on the counter. Zeela had that edge to her voice only when one of her sisters was hurt. *What happened?*

  =She was dismissed from the school.=

  *Why? She worked hard because she wanted this so much!*

  =They said she missed too many classes.=

  *But she did the work!*

  Bitterness filled Zeela’s voice. =She couldn’t play by the one-face rules and be where they wanted her to be when they wanted her to be there. So she can’t study at the school anymore.=

  *But we paid all that money.* Zhahar looked around. She and her sisters did their best to make it a home, but it didn’t change the truth. They lived in that shabby little room, eating cheap foods and wearing secondhand clothes to pay for Sholeh’s studies. *If they won’t let her study, will they give back the money?*

  =Is that all you care about? The money?=

  *No!* Zhahar snapped. *But we can’t afford to find another place for her to study unless we get it back!*

  ::Don’t fight. Please.:: Sholeh sounded broken, beaten. ::Zhahar, you have to get to work. We can’t afford to have you fail too.::

  =You didn’t fail!= Zeela shouted.

  ::Let me rest. I don’t want to be in view today.::

  Nothing to be done, especially because Sholeh was right: if they were going to stay in the city of Vision, one of them had to earn wages.

  Zhahar grabbed her daypack and rushed for the door. Then she went back, folded the flatbread and cheese, and wrapped it in a napkin. If she wasn’t too late, the new Asylum Keeper might not notice her absence, and she might have the few minutes she needed to finish her simple meal.

  Zhahar twitched with impatience as she waited her turn to exit the omnibus. Some drivers were more interested in maintaining their schedules than giving people time to get off at their stop. Fortunately for her and other passengers, the teams of horses that pulled the omnibuses knew what the bell meant and planted their feet when they reached a stop, regardless of what the driver wanted.

  As soon as she stepped down, Zhahar hurried across the street, then trotted along the path through a weedy, overgrown piece of land that was supposed to be a small park for those whose minds had healed enough to meet the world partway. Since the people in the city were supposed to maintain the park as a kindness to those who had been hurt in mind or spirit, the neglected land felt like a shouted warning that her kind would never be accepted.

  The one time Zeela had seen this park, she’d thought it was a sign that they were in the wrong place. But in the city of Vision, you could find only what you could see, and this piece of it was the one place they had found when they arrived that offered something for each of them.

  Other parts of Ephemera where it had been safe for Tryad to work or trade—albeit showing only one face and never admitting they were a “demon” race—had turned dangerous or had disappeared completely. And the last time the moorings failed to hold a connection between their land and another place in Ephemera, parts of Tryadnea had vanished, along with the Tryad who hadn’t returned to the homeland in time.

  A few months ago, Morragen Medusah a Zephyra, the leader of the Tryad, had sensed the presence of another land that was within reach. Using her magic, she twisted a little of Ephemera’s currents of power into six moorings between Tryadnea and the city of Vision. Then she asked some of her people to brave the unknown city in the hopes that the Tryad would be able to secure the moorings and provide a stable connection between Tryadnea and that piece of the world.

  Sholeh speculated that what the a Zephyra Tryad could do with the currents of power was the equivalent of people putting down the gangplank on a moving ship and rushing down to the dock to secure the lines before the gangplank fell into the water and the ship drifted away. A risky business, since those securing the lines could be left behind, and those left on the ship might not have enough supplies remaining to survive until they found another port.

  But that was the truth the people of Tryadnea had faced for generations, so Sholeh Zeela a Zhahar and five other Tryad had crossed over to the city of Vision. Despite its vastness, the city had held little promise for her kind so far—and time was running out. The other five Tryads, perhaps feeling too desperate to be careful, had revealed too much about themselves. According to the letters Zhahar had received from the Zephyra aspect, the Tryad who weren’t dead and had managed to get home were too wounded, physically or emotionally, to return to Vision.

  Now Zhahar and her sisters were the only Tryad left. Despite their best efforts to live in a way that secured Tryadnea to Vision, the mooring the a Zephyra Tryad had spun for them kept slipping, and that connection, the last connection, was now in the northern part of the city. If it slipped to a place beyond Vision or snapped completely, they would be left here with no way to get home.

  She couldn’t think about that. Every day the a Zhahar Tryad remained here created another tiny thread that helped Tryadnea retain its connection to Vision—and that, in turn, gave Zhahar and her sisters another day to find something that would end a cycle that was tearing the hearts out of the Tryad people. Their homeland needed the sustenan
ce of connection to another part of the world. When they were adrift, rivers and streams dried up. Rain was sparse if it fell at all. Crops withered in soil that couldn’t nourish them. Little by little, Tryadnea became a desert that couldn’t sustain its people. The only time there was a sign of the land restoring itself was when they were anchored to another piece of the world—and every time less of Tryadnea bloomed.

  We’ll stay here until autumn, Zhahar thought. If we don’t find some occupation for Sholeh and Zeela by autumn, we need to move to another part of the city. Maybe head north so we have a chance of getting home before the mooring fails.

  Of course, if she lost this job, they would have to move much sooner.

  Zhahar pulled a ring of keys out of her daypack and unlocked the gate that separated the Asylum’s grounds from the weedy park. Pushing open the gate just enough to slip through, she locked it again before running to the staff room in the main building, where she could store her pack and pick up the blue jacket that indicated she was a Handler.

  Putting the keys in her trouser pocket, she had almost closed her daypack into the lock bin assigned to her when she remembered the flatbread. Pulling it out, she locked her bin, unwrapped the napkin, and bit into the simple meal, filling her mouth with bread and sweet cheese.

  Naturally, the moment her mouth was full, the door opened.

  “Where have you been?” Kobrah asked as she hurried into the room. She eyed the flatbread for a moment before looking away.

  Not damaged enough to be an inmate, but too damaged by her past to see anything but the darkest pieces of the city, Kobrah had been found by Zeela in the weedy park one night, unconscious and beaten. After shifting who was in view, Zhahar had alerted the Handlers who tended the inmates at night.

  Uncertain if Kobrah should be made an inmate or sent to The Temples for some kind of heart healing, the former Keeper allowed her to stay until he could decide. Zhahar had given Kobrah small tasks—weeding in the garden, sweeping a floor—while the young woman healed physically. By the time the Keeper made up his mind, Kobrah was working as Zhahar’s Helper. Instead of being locked up or sent away, she was given room and board and token wages—not quite an inmate, but it was understood that Kobrah couldn’t leave the Asylum alone.

  That was six months ago. The only clue to Kobrah’s past was that she looked at every man who worked at the Asylum with suspicion bordering on hatred and called them all Chayne—the name of the man who had damaged her.

  Saying nothing, Zhahar divided the flatbread and gave Kobrah half. When the woman was upset, she wouldn’t eat, and the uncertainty swirling around the arrival of the new Keeper had put everyone on edge.

  “He was looking for you,” Kobrah said. “He’s already spoken to the other Handlers. And I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

  Zhahar heard the fear in Kobrah’s voice, watched the way the woman’s hands trembled. But she wasn’t sure the fear and trembling were caused by the same thing—especially when Kobrah took a bite of the flatbread.

  Then the door opened again, and the new Asylum Keeper walked into the room.

  Zhahar choked down the mouthful of food. Anyone might wear white trousers and a lightweight, collarless shirt. But only one group of people wore the long white robes.

  The new Keeper was a Shaman?

  “You are Zhahar?” he asked.

  His voice held the song of a mountain stream and a whisper of summer grass. His dark hair was grizzled. His face was unlined, giving her no clue to his age. And he had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

  Kobrah elbowed her, a sharp reminder that she hadn’t answered the man—and a Shaman wasn’t someone she wanted looking at her too closely.

  “Yes, Keeper,” she replied. “I am Zhahar.”

  He glanced at the flatbread. Then his eyes returned to hers.

  “Do you value your work?” he asked.

  “I want to keep this job.”

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  His smile was gentle, but it held regret—and a decision.

  She spoke before he could. “I’m sorry I was late, sir. My sister received bad news and was distressed this morning, so I stayed a few minutes too long to comfort her.”

  “Ah.” He reached out and touched her arm. Just a brush of fingertips, but she felt the warmth of that touch. “Does she need you with her today?”

  Sympathy. Understanding. Genuine concern.

  “No, sir. My other sister will be with her today. And we’ll all be together this evening.” Not quite a lie, since they would be together that evening. The words just didn’t acknowledge that her sisters were always with her.

  Nodding, he turned his eyes to Kobrah. “You are a Helper?”

  “Yes. I mostly work with Zhahar, Keeper.”

  He looked uncomfortable. “‘Keeper’ is a title I must use when I deal with other officials, but it is not what I am. So I will tell you what I told the other Handlers and their Helpers. When we are private as we are now, you may call me Danyal. Out there”—he made a graceful move with one hand to indicate the grounds—“you should address me as Shaman.”

  She wasn’t going to be dismissed. Knowing she would still have a job made her momentarily dizzy.

  Which the Shaman noticed, of course, because Shamans noticed everything.

  Please, Zhahar thought. Let my secret remain secret.

  “Break your fast,” Danyal said. His smile was a bit apologetic. “You had good reason to be tardy today, but I must set an example. The others have their assignments. There is only one task left, and it is hard, dirty work. Meet me outside in ten minutes.”

  He walked out of the room.

  Zhahar looked at Sholeh’s tunic and sighed.

  “Do you think he really gave the other Helpers permission to call him Danyal?” Kobrah asked.

  “No.” She took another bite of bread and cheese. It would probably sour her stomach, but she needed the food if she was going to spend the day laboring. “But I doubt any of the Helpers were present when he talked to the Handlers. What did you want to tell me?”

  Kobrah nibbled her piece of flatbread before answering. “I made a friend. He’s not like anyone I met before. He doesn’t dress like us or talk like us. We take walks and hold hands, and he doesn’t mind just being friends. He’s met me a few times now, and he’s going to come back. I don’t know when, but he’s going to come back.”

  Startled, Zhahar ate the rest of her bread. Kobrah, taking a walk with a man? What man? Kobrah wasn’t allowed to leave the grounds. She couldn’t stand the male Handlers, and becoming involved with an inmate was foolish as well as dangerous. So who could it be?

  “Where did you meet him?” she asked.

  Kobrah hesitated too long. “In a dream. He says we meet in the twilight of waking dreams.”

  She sucked in a breath. A couple of the inmates had talked about dream lovers. The woman had become calmer, more lucid, but the man had become violent when he wasn’t allowed to leave in order to “cross over” and meet his lover in the flesh. If this was a new symptom of madness…

  “What does he look like?”

  “He has pale hair and blue eyes. His name is Teaser,” Kobrah said.

  Zhahar wiped her hands on the napkin, offered it to Kobrah, then folded it and put it in her pack.

  “We had better find the Shaman and get to work,” she said. “I’d like to hear more about your friend, but I think it best that this remains between the two of us. At least for now.”

  Kobrah studied her, then nodded.

  They hurried outside and found the Shaman waiting for them. There were Handlers, Helpers, and inmates all over the grounds, washing windows, weeding flower beds, draining the murky water out of a reflecting pond. But the worst job was on the other side of the pond from the main building—a small, two-room building that hadn’t been used in years.

  “We’re supposed to clean this?” Kobrah asked when Danyal led them inside.

  “Yes,�
�� he replied.

  “How clean?” Zhahar asked.

  “What is precious to you will be held in this room,” Danyal said. “How clean does it need to be?”

  Zhahar sighed. “I understand.”

  He smiled. “Then I’ll leave you to your work.”

  She and Kobrah did work. They swept and washed and scoured and polished. By the end of the day, the small building was clean and the grounds showed noticeable improvement. Through it all, the Shaman walked among them, helping, listening, being.

  When she got home, she was more than ready for Zeela to come into view. She sank into a deep rest—not quite full sleep, but not participating with the others. True sleep came only when all three of them were at rest, and was something they needed at least once every third day.

  As memories of the day drifted through her mind, one realization brought her back to the surface.

  =What’s wrong?= Zeela asked.

  *Nothing.* When you were one who was three, you really couldn’t lie to your sisters. *Something I just realized about the Shaman.*

  =What is that?= Zeela sounded wary.

  *He has the most beautiful eyes, but despite all the times I spoke with him today, looked into his face, into those eyes…I can’t tell you what color they are.*

  Too restless to sleep, Danyal followed the lit walkways between the buildings. He had been at the Asylum only a day and already felt the weight of this place seeping into his body, into his heart. If he’d come here with any lingering doubts about his own sanity, this place would have crushed him. And it still might.

  Some of the inmates were truly ill beyond changing. However, many of them had simply lost their way, confused by the nature of the world. But until their minds were able to gain some peace and clarity, those people would remain in the Asylum, unable to see a future in a city that should have held boundless futures.