LYNX
My hand is resting against Quancee when her gleam dwindles, flickers, and fades to darkness.
“Don’t do this,” I plead. “Quancee, no. No!”
As numbness spreads through me, my gaze drifts around the chamber. For the first time in over one thousand summers, this room is lit only by pale firelight.
My fingers press harder against Quancee, as though my touch alone is enough to call her back from the dead. Instead, I hear Arakie’s elderly voice seep up from my memories: Love is atonement. Get used to it.
I’ve been preparing myself for this moment for three summers, and now I discover I am not prepared at all. She’s always been a tower of strength and magic. Three summers ago, Arakie told me she was dying, but it didn’t seem possible.
As the pane beneath my fingertips turns to ice, I see thousands of spiderweb-like cracks in her panes that I’ve never noticed before. They were hidden beneath her glow. Was she so old and broken that she simply could not go on?
Turning away from her is the hardest thing I have ever done.
I resolutely walk to the pile of rocks I collected along the shore of the paleo-ocean. Each stone is colorful and glacially smoothed to perfection. I select a large gray rock about the size of my head, lift it, and place it on the huge pile I’ve already built in front of the closed door to Quancee’s chamber, then I fall back a step to survey my work.
The barricade will hold them off for a little while, maybe one or two hands of time, if I’m lucky. Eventually they’ll batter it down and force their way inside. What are their orders when they come in? To destroy Quancee? To kill me?
My spear leans against the wall to my right. I’ll fight for as long as I can, but I suspect I’ll only get in two or three good spear thrusts before they drag me down and kill me. Not that it matters. Centuries from now, my death will be nothing more than a small detail in a larger story about the defeat of a luminous evil being. I imagine the story will begin with the Battle of the Stronghold when Quancee shut down. No one will ever understand why she stopped fighting; they will only remember that her betrayal allowed the enemies of the glorious Jemen to overrun these caverns. The story will be repeated around the winter fires of the Rust People, for by then Sealion People and Dog Soldiers will be long gone. No one will remember the truth.
Bending down, I pick up another rock, carefully place it on top. This is a useless last effort. I know that. But I can’t let go of the hope that, out there somewhere, Quancee’s wave function still exists, and if I can protect her body here, one day she will come back and this room will flicker and blaze to life again.
The tangy fragrance of pine-needle tea rises from the boiling bag hanging from the tripod by the fire. My half-full cup rests near the hearthstones. I walk back and sit down beside it.
Before I reach for the cup, I run my dirty hands through my hair. My cold fingers feel good against my aching skull. I’ve never felt this empty in my life.
What will I do now? Where will I go?
Bowing my head, I close my eyes and feel my way around the edges of her loss. Like a blind man, I seem obsessed with judging the size and shape of the abyss, as though knowing such things will help me understand the darkness.
“Oh, Quancee.” I lean back to rest my shoulders against her panes. “Did you find your way across the wasteland to the place where no shadows fall?”
Firelight dances across the ceiling, flows into the widest crystal cracks and flares in the clefts like tiny campfires of the dead. My sense of time has vanished. I gathered and hauled rocks for what seemed an eternity. Is it dawn yet? Midday? It must be close to . . .
Voices rise outside.
Cocking my head, I strain to recognize the speakers. I don’t hear Sticks or Thanissara. Certainly not Jorgensen. I’m sure he will not be here until the danger has passed, then he will simply walk in and pick through the pieces of Quancee that he wants.
I hear several different men now. Their footsteps are heavy, pounding down the corridor beyond the blocked door. I suppose they’ve sent their bravest warriors to face me. After all, I’m the man who can kill with the wave of his hand and bring the dead back to life.
“They’re coming,” I say as I reach up to stroke Quancee.
“Come out, Blessed Teacher!” a man shouts. “Don’t make me kill you.”
Someone pounds on the door. It echoes around the small chamber.
I reach for my tea cup.
There’s plenty of time to finish it while they throw themselves at the barricade.