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Cast in Chaos. Michelle Sagara
Читать онлайн.Название Cast in Chaos
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781472015389
Автор произведения Michelle Sagara
Издательство HarperCollins
And that, of course, was magic; the marks along the insides of her thighs, arms and the back of her neck were now aching in that all-skin-scraped-off way. She clenched teeth, gave up on sprinting, and walked instead. She could walk quickly. The hall on the other side, however, seemed to be moving, and it wasn’t moving in the right direction.
Come on, legs. Come on. Widening her stride, she tried to gain speed; she managed to gain enough that she wasn’t losing ground. But she wasn’t gaining any, either. A pace like this, she could keep up all day. But magic in its infuriating lack of predictability probably wouldn’t give her all damn day, and if the sight of those damn bookshelves suddenly faded, she’d be stranded in the middle of a nowhere that was ancient and totally unknown.
Because she was certain it was ancient. The only place she had encountered anything similar was in the heart of a Tower in the fiefs, and those Towers had been constructed by gods. When the rest of the city had started their decline into crumbling ruins, the Towers had mimicked them—but nothing destroyed them. Nothing broke them.
They, on the other hand, were perfectly capable of destroying the people who wandered through their doors. She walked. The hall receded, as if it were teasing her. But it was the kind of teasing that caused tears and heartbreak.
“Severn! Evanton!”
Her voice was clear, strong, and completely steady; she was proud of the last one. There was no echo, no subtle resonance that indicated either geography or architecture in the distance to either side. The only clear reality loomed ahead, always ahead.
She had no idea how long she’d been walking; she broke into a run every so often, but the run was almost as slow as the walk, and it was more tiring. Her arms and legs still ached, and at length she rolled her sleeves as high as they would go because the cloth brushing her skin was almost agonizing.
It didn’t surprise her much to see that the runes were glowing. Their color, on the other hand, did: it was gray, almost an absence of color, in keeping with the rest of her environment. It made the runes seem, for a moment, like windows into the Other, and windows were not meant to grace the arms of living people. She let her arms drop back into the wide pumping swing of a brisk walk, and then stopped and lifted them again.
Severn.
No answer. No answer at all. She tried again, gazing at the only reality she could see. Silence. Turning, she dared one backward glance over her shoulder. There was no frame, no door, no Garden; the gray of this nonplace had swallowed them.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose so sharply they might as well have been quills. She turned instantly, and then stopped moving. She had taken her eyes off her destination, and the destination had, like the Garden, vanished.
CHAPTER 7
Kaylin had had nightmares like this, but they didn’t usually start someplace bucolic. They didn’t usually end in a gray, empty space, either. They ended, frequently, with the voice-of-pissed-off-Leontine on the other end of an active mirror. She didn’t panic, largely because she wasn’t in pain, didn’t appear to be close to death by starvation, and, more important, it wouldn’t do her any damn good.
Instead, she kept moving forward. There wasn’t anything to move toward, anymore, and the movement didn’t appear to be doing any good, but she still hoped. And cursed. There was an awful lot of Leontine cursing where no one could hear it; she also practiced her Aerian, and her translation of either into common.
Since there was no sun, and none of the usual geographic markers by which she told time, she had no idea how much had passed. It could have been very slow minutes—and probably was—but it felt like hours. And hours. And hours. The whole lot of nothing began to wear on her nerves, and she let it. More time passed.
And more.
And more.
She could jog with her eyes closed, because there wasn’t anything to trip over, run into, or avoid. Sometimes it helped, because the darkness beneath lids felt natural, and this was as close to a dream—albeit boring and featureless—as anything real generally came. Unfortunately, dreams had a way of taking sharp turns or steep drops into nightmare. She opened her eyes.
When her stomach growled, she was almost grateful, because it gave her some sense that time—in a decent interval—was passing, not that she wasn’t often unreasonably hungry at random times throughout the day. But when she heard the second growl—a distinctly external one, she froze. Her legs and arms still ached; nothing short of getting away from this damn place was going to solve that.
She fell silent, listening; she wondered if her stomach’s growl could produce the echoes her natural voice—in tones of Leontine, even—couldn’t. Funny, how little she appreciated the answer. The growl—the only other evidence that someone else was also in this space, seemed to come from somewhere below her feet.
She stopped cursing. Which meant she stopped speaking at all, and started to move.
She could hear the sound of deep and even breathing. Sadly, it wasn’t hers; hers was now shorter and sharper. And quieter. There was no obvious wind—but it felt, now, as if the gray, amorphous endless space was a living thing, and she was trapped inside it. She left off the specifics of where, because it didn’t seem to have anatomy, and any answer she came up with was not good.
She stopped jogging. Stopped running. She kept moving, because it was better, for the moment, than standing still. The bracer was now warm against her stomach, and she thought about tossing it away. Thought about what the Emperor would say—possibly even to her—if it failed to reappear again, ever. Or the Arkon. She had some suspicion that it came, indirectly, from his hoard.
Then again, that would mean he’d parted with it, so maybe that was inaccurate.
She crouched, pressed her hand against the ground. Her palm passed through it, as if it didn’t exist. She hated magic. Her feet, clearly, were being supported by something; her hands, however, couldn’t touch it. She stood, took a step forward, and fell.
So much for exploration.
Falling was like flying without options.
She didn’t scream; it wouldn’t have done any good. But she held her breath for an uncomfortable length of time while she waited for the ground—or what passed for ground here—to rise up and splatter her. When it failed to happen—or at least, when that breath ran out—she swallowed air and opened her eyes. She’d closed them when the ground had suddenly dropped out from under her. It hadn’t made much difference.
The sickening sensation of stomach being pressed up against throat diminished; instead of falling she was now floating. But the growling grew slowly louder, and almost instinctively she began to jog again. Falling stopped, and not the usual way, which involved ground and pain. This was good. But the growling had changed or shifted; it wasn’t directional, and it seemed to bypass her ears and head straight for the base of her spine, where it then traveled up and down like a hysterical child.
Severn!
The silence was worse, this time; it hit harder. The growl that answered—that seemed to answer—the silent invocation was now louder. She spun, hands dropping to daggers, but could see the same nothing she’d seen since she’d arrived.
Severn…
No answer.
This time, she realized that no answer would come. He would look for her, if he knew—but the chances are, he didn’t. He was with Evanton, and the real Garden, in some other place. He hadn’t known that she was coming; he therefore didn’t know that she hadn’t arrived. She had given him her name, it was true: the name she had taken for herself from the Barrani stream of life. But she’d taken no name for him; what he gave her, as always, was acceptance.
She didn’t have his name.
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