Chasers of the Wind

11

Tal’ki often insisted that mirrors love to lie, even if you ask them to tell the truth. When commanded to show fact, they always answer with a laugh and a distortion of reality. They wheedle, play tricks, dodge, and they lie and lie and lie.

“Never trust mirrors, honey. And never turn your back on them. They’ll burn you,” the old crone had said, smiling kindly and sipping on her cold shaf.

Tia had never believed her—a mirror always reflected reality. But all that changed today. For the first time it deceived her, and the Damned stared at her reflection with hatred; it had suddenly become alien to her.

She wanted to howl. To scream. To kill everyone within easy reach: the stupid locals, the frightened Nabatorians. But most of all, she wanted to kill those whose fault it was that she was now like this: that slut of a girl, the insignificant little whelp who turned out to have the Gift of a Healer, and that archer. The last one especially. She’d rip the flesh from his bones and force him to eat his own eyes.

A fat, wide-shouldered thug with chubby, drooping lips, a flat, dull face, and white, inhuman eyes looked at Typhoid from the false reflected world. And she couldn’t stand it. She snarled like a she-wolf at bay and with all her strength swung a heavy fist at the abhorrent face. It shattered and showered the floor with sharp, oblong shards that threatened to cut her bare feet. The face disappeared and… remained.

Here. With her. Hers. Forever.

The knuckles of its right hand were burning; blood was trickling onto the floorboards. Tia ignored this and tried with all her might to calm the rage seething in her chest. Only now did she truly understand Alenari, who always smashed these liars wherever she found them.

It is intolerable to know that you are no longer yourself. Alenari had been lucky. She may have lost her face, but she kept her body. Tia couldn’t even claim that. In one moment the Damned had lost all that she had, all that she had rightfully taken pride in. Eternal youth and beauty, fallen into the Abyss. Her true form was destroyed, and only her spirit remained, trapped within the soul and body of a fool, to whom she was bound. Tia’s spirit stood behind the left shoulder of the boy and, keeping a tight hold on the reins of control, examined the odious degenerate.

The body that Typhoid was linked to, like a dog on a chain, was mortal. A horribly short amount of time had been allotted to it. Sooner or later it would get old, die, and what then? The Healer wouldn’t be nearby the second time.

The boy’s unpredictable soul lashed out, rebelling at the pain in its hand, and for a moment Tia released the reins. Before she had the chance to wrest back control over the other’s body, the cowherd whined, saw his bloody fist, and yelled, “Let goooo!”

The ghastly whiteness fled from his eyes and they once again became blue and watery.

Cursing, Typhoid “embraced” him from behind by the neck, trying to suppress her aversion, and began whispering soothingly. Pork’s pupils dilated, turned white, and the whiteness flowed outward, consuming the iris and melding with the sclera, transforming them into appalling cataracts. At the same time Typhoid cut off the soul, which was surprisingly strong, from control of the vessel.

She succeeded, but it was hard work. Every attempt to overwhelm the foreign vessel required an incredible exertion on her part. And if she had to execute a more complicated movement, like walking or running, the Damned thought she might be ripped away from this safe haven and spat out into the Abyss. All her power was focused on control. Using a different side of her magic was out of the question. Typhoid could only produce the simplest of spells. Without her own skin, she couldn’t feel the depths of her Gift.

The Damned still didn’t understand how this had happened. The boy, who had used the khilss to create the most unbelievable incantation, had almost been the last thing she saw in this life. The incredibly complicated, threefold weave of her shield had been burnt to a crisp, dissolving the ethereal fibers. In the fraction of a second before the all-consuming light engulfed Typhoid, she cast up the only thing that came to her head—the Mirror of Darkness. The spell should have saved her, even though she would have paid for it with disfigurement. Given time, she would have been able to cure that. But then the archer played his part, coming in at the worst possible time! Tia had been so blinded by pain that not only could she not kill the yellow-haired bastard, but she couldn’t even stop his arrows. The last one finished her off. Her body could no longer keep hold of her soul, and Typhoid died.

It was a complete mystery what happened after that. She saw darkness and light, the tremulous embers of the living all around her, and the bright orange palpitation of the ether in the firmament. She tried to claw after her lost shell, but she had neither teeth nor nails. The Damned would have been dragged into the Abyss, if the bright light of the Healer’s magic hadn’t seeped into the negative side of the world. It snatched up the silvery filaments of her soul and scorched them, stripping away her innate strength, mercilessly freezing her talent and wits, and murdering the very substance of her Gift itself. It flung her left and right; bathed her in an icy spring; flung her under scorching rays; squeezed, stretched, twisted, turned her inside out, and spat her straight into one of the surrounding embers of life. The sharp thorns of the Healer’s magic impaled the Damned, tied her to a foreign soul, anchored her there, and forced her to hover over the back of a stranger.

She didn’t hesitate for a second. Realizing that this was her only chance to push the peasant’s soul aside, she decisively took the body under her own control. And then she shuddered.

Light, life, the world struck her through another’s eyes. The skin sensed the warmth of the sun, the tenderness of the wind. Air entered the lungs, and Tia, opening an alien mouth, wailed like a newborn. Pain tormented her and she had to let go of the reins; she had to give the man his rightful body back for a moment so she would not lose her mind from the strange, unbearable, foreign sensations. Only then, when she was able to think sanely, did she see herself lying in the street—dead, covered in blood, and broken. She wailed in grief and self-pity, wishing that all this were nothing more than a dream. A nightmare that had caught her up in its web. But no one could hear the Damned except for Pork.

Now, after several days had gone by, she was beginning to believe that all of that had really happened to her. A cruel joke of fate. Tia’s spirit was firmly tied to a foreign soul. And there was no way to disrupt this connection—otherwise the last thread between her self and this world would disappear. Even more bitter was the fact that she existed but was visible to no one except for Pork. She was fated to hover over the man’s back without a body, as a shadowy spirit. Until the moment he died, at any rate. The Damned tried not to think about what would happen after that. Her spirit would be free, but it was unlikely that it would escape the Abyss’s attention.

And in the meantime there was no way to escape this trap. It was a dead end.

“Go sit on the bed,” Typhoid whispered in Pork’s ear. He flinched but, not having the strength to resist her, obeyed.

She kept watch so that the fool’s bare feet did not tread on the mirror fragments, but on the way the cowherd once again lashed out, trying to throw off her mastery. The Damned, who was already well versed in the ways of her charge, was ready for this. She pulled at the reins and got him under control, hissing from the intangible pain that was inflicted on her by the Healer’s weave, and then she stumbled, tipped a chair over, and swore crossly. The other’s body was still unfamiliar, too massive, and far less agile than the one to which she had become accustomed over the centuries. Tia had to exert a lot of effort to cope with the recalcitrant man.

The abhorrent vessel was driving her mad. It was uncomfortable, clumsy, poorly controlled, and it smelled awful. Saliva was always dripping from its mouth to its chest. But she had already started working on the appearance of her disobedient puppet. Step by step, little by little, she changed the face, intertwined the muscles, filling them with power. She needed a tough vessel; she had no wish to ride a moronic gelding. Another two, three weeks and his own mother wouldn’t know this blimp. Typhoid would completely rebuild this body underneath her as she saw fit. The only thing she couldn’t do anything about was the chalky color of his eyes.

The Healer’s magic had incinerated much of what she had. Her spark was not blazing, but smoldering, and she had to waste all her resources on watching over Pork. She couldn’t even think about any other displays of her Gift. Right now Typhoid could hardly light a candle, let alone raze the village to the ground. In one moment Typhoid had lost not only her body but also her powerful Gift. That which remained was only a pathetic grain of sand compared to her former might.

She had become weak and defenseless. Any of her brothers or sisters could now dispatch her effortlessly. Even Mitifa, the most unskilled of the Octet.

“What should I do?” she whispered, and Pork, who was sitting rigidly on the bed and staring dully at a single spot, flinched in fear and looked over his shoulder.

Suddenly a warm wave surged up her spine. Typhoid frowned, not wanting to answer. It was Tal’ki. She was the only one of the Octet who radiated warmth. Alenari’s summons could be distinguished by cold shivers; Rovan’s by an unpleasant burning; Leigh’s by demanding jabs; Mitifa’s by impossibly timid, objectionable caresses. Ginora and Retar had died so long ago that she had forgotten what sensations they produced. But they hadn’t been pleasant either. Only Tal’ki’s summons never vexed the Damned. The warmth emanating from the Healer always felt pleasant. At times Tia wondered how the rest of the Octet perceived her during such conversations. But she had never once bothered to satisfy her curiosity.

Typhoid felt the summons once more and hesitated. Could she put her trust in Tal’ki? What would she do when she learned what happened? How would she proceed? There had never been much peace among the Octet. And when two of them died after the Dark Revolt, the squabbling over precedence only increased. Rovan and Mitifa would gladly annihilate her. She had never been on friendly terms with Alenari either.

Pork also felt the warmth and he shivered in delight. It ran pleasantly up his spine, embraced his shoulders, and crept up the nape of his neck. Then the Damned came to a decision. She forced the cowherd to leap up from the plaintively squeaking bed, rush over to the table, grab an earthenware jug full of water, and heave it at the wall.

Fragments of pottery flew in all directions. The water, instead of falling to the floor, flowed down the wall and took on the form of a large oval that shimmered like quicksilver. This substance absorbed magic into itself, and after several seconds of tedious waiting, it showed the one who had sent the summons.

Tal’ki, known in the Empire as Leprosy, was sitting in a stuffed rocking chair. A fluffy white cat was dozing on her lap, which was covered with a wool blanket. The old woman’s round, good-natured face was intent because she was the one that was holding onto the weaves of both sides of the Silver Window. When she saw a stranger, the Healer frowned and her faded blue eyes narrowed.

“It’s me. Tia,” Typhoid said quickly. She feared that the one who had called her would disrupt the spell or even worse, attack. She didn’t even have a ghost of a chance of withstanding the strongest of the Sextet.

Pork’s voice sounded hoarse. Tal’ki stared at him for a moment and then smiled amiably.

“I simply don’t believe my eyes, my dear.”

“You have to believe, Sister. It really is me.”

Leprosy answered with her habitual smile. But her eyes were not smiling.

“What is your name?” the old woman asked abruptly.

“Tia.”

“Forgive me, I meant your full name.”

“Tia al’Lankarra.”

Her interrogator kept smiling.

“Typhoid. Murderer of Sorita,” Pork obediently repeated that which was whispered in his ear.

The same expectant smile.

“The Flames of Sunset! Blade of the South! Daughter of Night! Rider of Hurricanes! The Abyss take you! Which of my names do you wish to hear?”

“I’m satisfied with those you have named, child. The names weren’t the point. It’s just that you’ve always been impatient and rude to your elders. Yes. It’s you. Though I really don’t understand how this is possible.”

“I’d like to know myself.”

“What happened?”

Typhoid shared her recollections with Leprosy, having decided that things couldn’t get any worse.

She was listened to in silence.

“Interesting,” Tal’ki finally said thoughtfully, and she scratched her cat behind its ears. “I would even say it’s very interesting, my sweet one. Such a… strange resolution of a spell. It’s a curious puzzle. I will try to reproduce the boy’s weave. Such an unexpected result calls for careful scrutiny. What does your friend have on his hand?”

Only now did Tia recall that Pork’s broken knuckles had been bleeding all this time.

“It’s nothing. He cut himself.”

“You shouldn’t shed his blood over nothing. You only have one body, girl. Treat it gently.”

Seething internally that the old woman had fixated on such a trifle, Tia complied with her request and allowed the cowherd to bandage the scrape.

“Can you help me?” she asked with bated breath.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Her withered hand continued to stroke the cat. “Not right this instant, at any rate. I need time.”

“How long?”

“An hour. A day. A year. A century. An eternity. Time is so relative, my dear. You’ll just have to wait.”

“You’re a Healer!”

“So what? I’ve only heard of what happened to you once before, when I was still a young girl and I had just come to the Rainbow Valley. I’ve no desire to run afoul of such a manifestation of a Healer’s Gift. Patience, my darling. Patience. It’s possible I can help you. But not right away. I’ll have to work on it properly.”

“And what should I do while you ‘work on it’? Can’t you see, my abilities are far from what they were.”

“You put it mildly, girl. You don’t have any abilities. That with which you keep that boy under control does not count. Hush now! Don’t frown and huff at an old woman. What my heart thinks, my tongue speaks.” Tal’ki giggled. “The Healer’s weave took a lot out of you.”

“It took everything!”

“You’re mistaken. If that were so, you’d be dead. A person strong enough in his Gift won’t die when his body is destroyed. His true essence can continue existing for some time afterward.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t doubt that. None of you, besides Mitifa I suppose, know things like that. You set aside your books, my dear one. But every now and then you can find something very interesting in books. What happened to you is just like I said. Your true essence, your spirit, which now hovers before me, stayed behind. We won’t guess what would have happened to it without the magic of the Healer. Perhaps you might have intuitively settled in someone else’s body, but perhaps you would no longer exist. The manuscripts from the time of the Sculptor tell us that accomplishing something like this without the proper experience is difficult.”

Typhoid did not doubt for a second that if Tal’ki were in her place, she’d figure it out.

“But you’re in luck. The weave of our talented boy fettered your soul to the soul of the man who is chatting so sweetly with me on your behalf. You are connected by one chain, and you can control him. Even alter him, as I see. But that’s all you can do, isn’t it? You can’t arouse your spark.”

“I knew that without you.”

“Don’t be rude.” Tal’ki smiled coldly. “If you’re bored, I won’t continue.”

“Pardon me.”

“Your spark doesn’t blaze because you don’t have the proper vessel. Yes, your spirit is strong, but without the required, shall we say, fervor, you can do nothing. To use your real Gift, even at a quarter of its strength, you need a vessel.”

“I can’t move into another body. I don’t have the ability. Plus, you yourself just said that I’m shackled to the soul of this idiot.”

“So I did. And I wouldn’t recommend breaking the chain. It’s not that easy to return from the Abyss.”

Typhoid did not like Tal’ki’s smile.

“Then I don’t understand.”

“Dead bodies.”

“What?”

“Dead bodies, my dear girl. They don’t have souls. The house is empty and a new tenant may as well inhabit it. For a short while, naturally. The chain will let you pull off such a stunt if that young man is nearby.”

“I’m not going to crawl into the body of a corpse!”

“Then forget about the possibility of using your Gift.”

“I simply could not accomplish such a thing!”

“It’s not that difficult. Memorize the design of this weave. It’s pretty much the same as for control of kukses. And it takes about as much strength as a mouse’s spit.”

Tal’ki drew a flaming pattern in the air with her finger.

“Did you memorize it? Excellent. And now another two little designs, my sweet. The first will make it so that you don’t have to whisper in the boy’s ear. You can control him as if it were your own body. And the second will make it so that the Healer’s weave no longer inflicts pain on your spirit. I think they’ll both let you feel like you are far more free than before. Memorize them.”

Two more patterns appeared in the air.

“Will I have control over the corpse and this body at the same time?”

“No. You won’t need to control the corpse. You’ll become it. And the strength that will emerge in you will allow you, in some measure, to restrain this charming little boy as well. Just don’t forget, please, that the dead bodies should be fresh. And you can reside in their shells for no more than three days. After that not even the power of your spark will be able to keep the body from decaying. I advise you to leave before that happens or else you might remain there forever. And don’t forget to control your ward. He shouldn’t go more than twenty yards away from you. You wouldn’t want to be pulled out like a dog on a leash, would you?”

“I think I can cope with this.”

“Well, that’s good. I’ll attend to your problem right away. Frankly speaking, I’m quite interested in it. It’s not every day that something like this happens. Even if it’s just a diversion for a sick old woman. One more thing, my dear. I’m awfully interested in that talented girl and the boy Healer.”

“I’ll kill them!” wheezed Tia, trembling from the hatred that rushed through her.

“Don’t you even think about doing something so stupid!” Tal’ki snapped. All her goodwill suddenly disappeared. “The girl, who so easily mastered the khilss and who knows the weaves of Death, which only Elects of the Sixth Sphere and up are capable of, is essential. We need to know who taught her! We must!”

“She’s of no use to me!”

“But she’s of use to me,” snapped Leprosy. “And you’re not in any condition to be acting precipitously.”

“And the little boy? Give him to me, Tal’ki.”

“He’s a Healer, my dear. Don’t you understand how valuable he is? Or has the thirst for revenge entirely blinded your reason? Killing him would be very… inopportune. That sort of Gift…” She smiled at her own thoughts. “Plus, if you want to fully return to yourself, he might be needed. It’s possible that only with the help of his spark will I be able to break the chain and transfer your soul back. If the lad did it once he might do it again. The young man could be a fallback, in case your spirit does not surrender to my Gift.”

“I can’t come back. My body is dead.”

“There’s plenty of that stuff around,” said the Healer dismissively. “Of course, it would be better if the vessel already carried someone’s spark within it. To that end, our talented little girl could come in handy. Of course, only after she’s answered all my questions. Right now you have only one task—to find both of them and bring them to me. Alive.”

“I understand. I’m not a fool.”

“Can you find them?”

“I think so. There’s only one road here. To Al’sgara. I’ll try to overtake them.”

“Lovely, my dear. By the way, I wanted to tell you something. I found two girls with the Gift. Both Walkers. One isn’t against helping us. The other is still giving me cheek.”

“Are you sure of the first?”

“Oh yes. She’s a very driven child. She reminds me of Alenari when she was young, my sweet.”

Tia wrinkled her nose.

“Well, you’re going to have to hurry if you want to catch our friends.” Tal’ki smiled. “Remember, I need them alive.”

In the next instant the Silver Window went dark, and the freed water spilled to the floor. Typhoid swore, and Pork, obeying her command, kicked out with all his strength at the capsized chair, which was blameless.

The old hag dared to admonish her!

The Damned was furious that she would have to submit to Leprosy, or else the hag wouldn’t lift a finger to help her. The boy and girl could hardly have gone far. If she needed to overturn the entire Empire, she would find them and drag them back to Tal’ki in chains. All but the archer. She didn’t have to give him to anyone.