Serkaih • Dkanat
Nighttime on the 33rd of Bethas, 2720
T
he sky is starless to go along with its moonless. It’s velvet-soft, the strange watery light of morning beginning to spread across it. He blinks as they emerge; his eyes adjust to the grey gloom and the light of the lanterns not so distant. He smiles over at Nkemi, still listening, his arm through hers. They’re both cold, but he thinks they’re warming up, between the two of them.
He thinks he’d’ve put her down for Iz before she even says it aloud. Flows around obstacles undeterred, he thinks, and thinks of the soft brush of her mind in the lanternlit dark of the wagon, and a line of glittering glass in the sand.
He doesn’t think he knows much of honor after all. He can think of one, at least, for whom honor must be like Tseli, and he knows the sap its sharp edges has spilt. To him, it seems the most like Úvew, twisting and hard to grasp – he can never quite leave it at one thing or another, and it’s all too easy to bend and stretch – but maybe that is, after all, because he doesn’t know much of honor. He never has, and he’s not even sure where he’d start with the work.
Nkemi giggles. His smile springs to a grin. It’s a hoarse sort of giggle, and her lips look chapped; he can’t quite keep the concern from his brow. But they wind slowly back toward the path.
He’s looking at his feet, sandaled shapes in the dark, when he hears it. He feels Nkemi jerk, and his heart jumps to his throat.
This way, she says. “Yes,” he says. Stay in the light, she says, and her arm slips from his, the cold rushing in to fill it – “Yes,” he says, nodding, watching the slim dark shape of her split off through the lanternlight, her sandals scuffing the rock and dirt. He jogs after her, a little slower.
A white blur collides with her. It’s the tsochyusem from a few days ago, he realizes as he gets close enough; he brushes both their fields with his, and the air’s a tangle of sour green– and blue-shift. His lungs ache. He doesn’t remember the man’s name, but at the talk of guards, his eyes widen. Nkemi tells the truth, or part of it; his eyes flicking back and forth between them, he waits, breathless.
There’s another bend in the path, not too far off.
Nkemi slips away from the tsochyusem. Don’t, he repeats, and he looks at him, shut-eyed and trembling. He tries to say something, but the spittle’s frozen in his throat. The lanternlight glints on Nkemi’s headwrap as she rounds the bend, and he hears her gasp.
His glance flicks back and forth. Nkemi disappears around the bend, and his chest aches with the pounding of his heart. He looks back at the tsochyusem one last time; even in the lanternlight, he can see the ashen tint of his dark skin.
Tom Cooke’s seen plenty enough bobbers, as many at least as a prefect. He breathes in deep, but he knows himself. He goes to Nkemi. He doesn’t know what to hope for; whoever it is, it’s not something to hope for.
Is this, he wonders, why? He can’t make sense of it. Is it anger over stolen land? Over the banning? Is it–?
He’s silent as he rounds the bend; there’s nothing to say. The gasp dies in his throat.
He doesn’t understand, at first. Please, Hulali, he hears, please, and Nkemi steps closer. He steps closer, too, drawn like a moth. He glances down and aside at the bowl with its green dregs; he can’t make sense of that either.
His eyes trace them first, swirls of glittering sap against the rock, dark and stinking. He follows them inward – monite etched around them – he follows them inward like a meditation. In, out, he breathes; one, two, three, four. He does not recognize these words. He follows them past what looks like bone, gleaming white, placed like hyperoscillators where circles intersect.
The body he looks at last, when he can bear to. The vivid shift of Nkemi’s field startles him, settling into his own. The shift of their fields is enough to give the night a queasy tint. He can’t separate it from the smells. Now, he does not breathe; he cannot breathe.
The hilt of the knife is bone, too, and elaborately-carved.
Some numb part of him thinks, It looks like they’ve tried to dig out his soul.
Kafo, he thinks he hears Nkemi say; the rushing in his ears is so loud he can’t hear. Kafo’s body’s face is the last thing he looks at. He expects it to be twisted up with pain, but there’s an oddly glassy look in his eyes, and his lips are slightly parted. Kafo is not there.
His eyes wander down, toward his neck. It’s the last thing he sees. When he can finally breathe, he sucks in a lungful of that smell, sweet and sour, and that’s all it takes. He doesn’t reach for Nkemi, when he goes. He goes all at once, and the last thing he feels is the cold canyon floor underneath him.
he sky is starless to go along with its moonless. It’s velvet-soft, the strange watery light of morning beginning to spread across it. He blinks as they emerge; his eyes adjust to the grey gloom and the light of the lanterns not so distant. He smiles over at Nkemi, still listening, his arm through hers. They’re both cold, but he thinks they’re warming up, between the two of them.
He thinks he’d’ve put her down for Iz before she even says it aloud. Flows around obstacles undeterred, he thinks, and thinks of the soft brush of her mind in the lanternlit dark of the wagon, and a line of glittering glass in the sand.
He doesn’t think he knows much of honor after all. He can think of one, at least, for whom honor must be like Tseli, and he knows the sap its sharp edges has spilt. To him, it seems the most like Úvew, twisting and hard to grasp – he can never quite leave it at one thing or another, and it’s all too easy to bend and stretch – but maybe that is, after all, because he doesn’t know much of honor. He never has, and he’s not even sure where he’d start with the work.
Nkemi giggles. His smile springs to a grin. It’s a hoarse sort of giggle, and her lips look chapped; he can’t quite keep the concern from his brow. But they wind slowly back toward the path.
He’s looking at his feet, sandaled shapes in the dark, when he hears it. He feels Nkemi jerk, and his heart jumps to his throat.
This way, she says. “Yes,” he says. Stay in the light, she says, and her arm slips from his, the cold rushing in to fill it – “Yes,” he says, nodding, watching the slim dark shape of her split off through the lanternlight, her sandals scuffing the rock and dirt. He jogs after her, a little slower.
A white blur collides with her. It’s the tsochyusem from a few days ago, he realizes as he gets close enough; he brushes both their fields with his, and the air’s a tangle of sour green– and blue-shift. His lungs ache. He doesn’t remember the man’s name, but at the talk of guards, his eyes widen. Nkemi tells the truth, or part of it; his eyes flicking back and forth between them, he waits, breathless.
There’s another bend in the path, not too far off.
Nkemi slips away from the tsochyusem. Don’t, he repeats, and he looks at him, shut-eyed and trembling. He tries to say something, but the spittle’s frozen in his throat. The lanternlight glints on Nkemi’s headwrap as she rounds the bend, and he hears her gasp.
His glance flicks back and forth. Nkemi disappears around the bend, and his chest aches with the pounding of his heart. He looks back at the tsochyusem one last time; even in the lanternlight, he can see the ashen tint of his dark skin.
Tom Cooke’s seen plenty enough bobbers, as many at least as a prefect. He breathes in deep, but he knows himself. He goes to Nkemi. He doesn’t know what to hope for; whoever it is, it’s not something to hope for.
Is this, he wonders, why? He can’t make sense of it. Is it anger over stolen land? Over the banning? Is it–?
He’s silent as he rounds the bend; there’s nothing to say. The gasp dies in his throat.
He doesn’t understand, at first. Please, Hulali, he hears, please, and Nkemi steps closer. He steps closer, too, drawn like a moth. He glances down and aside at the bowl with its green dregs; he can’t make sense of that either.
His eyes trace them first, swirls of glittering sap against the rock, dark and stinking. He follows them inward – monite etched around them – he follows them inward like a meditation. In, out, he breathes; one, two, three, four. He does not recognize these words. He follows them past what looks like bone, gleaming white, placed like hyperoscillators where circles intersect.
The body he looks at last, when he can bear to. The vivid shift of Nkemi’s field startles him, settling into his own. The shift of their fields is enough to give the night a queasy tint. He can’t separate it from the smells. Now, he does not breathe; he cannot breathe.
The hilt of the knife is bone, too, and elaborately-carved.
Some numb part of him thinks, It looks like they’ve tried to dig out his soul.
Kafo, he thinks he hears Nkemi say; the rushing in his ears is so loud he can’t hear. Kafo’s body’s face is the last thing he looks at. He expects it to be twisted up with pain, but there’s an oddly glassy look in his eyes, and his lips are slightly parted. Kafo is not there.
His eyes wander down, toward his neck. It’s the last thing he sees. When he can finally breathe, he sucks in a lungful of that smell, sweet and sour, and that’s all it takes. He doesn’t reach for Nkemi, when he goes. He goes all at once, and the last thing he feels is the cold canyon floor underneath him.
