Vonda McIntyre - Dreamsnake

Perhaps the guards had misunderstood. The message that came to them might have been garbled, or it was sent so quickly that no one remembered to tell them not to bother about the chains. Arevin resolved to bear this humiliating error with pride and good humor.

The guards led him into daylight that momentarily dazzled him. Then they were inside again, but his eyes were misadjusted to the dimness. He climbed stairs blindly, stumbling now and then.

The room they took him to was also nearly dark. He paused in the doorway, barely able to make out the blanket-wrapped figure sitting in a chair with her back to him.

“Healer,” one of the guards said, “here is the one who says he’s your friend.”

She did not speak or move.

Arevin stood frozen with terror. If someone had attacked her — if she was badly injured, if she could no longer talk or move, or laugh when they suggested chains — He took one fearful step toward her, another, wanting to rush to her and say he would care for her, wanting to flee and never have to remember her except as alive and whole and strong.

He could see her hand, limply dangling. He fell to his knees beside the shrouded form.

“Snake—”

The shackles made him awkward. He took her hand and bent to kiss it.

As soon as he touched her, even before he saw the smooth, unscarred skin, he knew this was not Snake. He flung himself backward with a cry of despair.

“Where is she?”

The shrouded figure threw off the blanket with a cry of her own, one of shame. She knelt before Arevin, hands outstretched to him, tears on her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me—” She slumped down, her long hair hanging around her beautiful face.

The mayor limped out of the darkness in a corner of the room. Brian helped Arevin up this time, and in a moment the chains clattered to the floor.

“I had to have some better assurance than bruises and rings,” the mayor said. “I believe you now.”

Arevin heard the sounds but not the meanings. He knew Snake was not here at all, not anywhere. She would never have participated in this farce.

“Where is she?” he whispered.

“She’s gone. She went to the city. To Center.”

Arevin sat on a luxurious couch in one of the mayor’s guest rooms. It was the same room where Snake had stayed, but try as he might, Arevin could feel nothing of her presence.

The curtains were open to the darkness. Arevin had not moved since returning from the observation point, where he had looked down upon the eastern desert and the rolling masses of storm clouds. The killing winds turned sharp-edged sand grains into lethal weapons. In the storm, heavy clothing would not protect Arevin, nor would any amount of courage or desperation. A few moments in the desert would kill him; an hour would strip his bones bare. In the spring no trace of him would be left.

If Snake was still in the desert, she was dead.

He did not cry. When he knew she was gone he would mourn her. But he did not believe she was dead. He wondered if it were foolish to believe he would know if Snake no longer lived. He had thought many things about himself, but never before that he was a fool. Stavin’s older father, Arevin’s cousin, had known when the little one was ill; he had come back a month early with one of the herds. His ties with Stavin were ties of love and of family, not of blood. Arevin made himself believe the same abilities would work in him.

Someone knocked on Arevin’s door.

“Come in,” he said reluctantly.

Larril, the servant woman who had pretended to be Snake, entered the room.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like some dinner?”

“I thought she was safe,” Arevin said. “But she’s in the desert and the storms have begun.”

“She had time to get to Center,” Larril said. “She left in plenty of time.”

“I’ve learned a great deal about that city,” Arevin said. “Its people can be cruel. Suppose they would not let her in?”

“She even had time to come back.”

“But she isn’t back. No one has seen her. If she were here, everyone would know.”

He took Larril’s silence as acquiescence and they both stared morosely out the window.

“Maybe—” Larril cut herself off.

“What?”

“Maybe you should rest and wait for her, you’ve been searching so many places—”

“That isn’t what you planned to say.”

“No…”

“Please tell me.”

“There’s one more pass, to the south. No one ever uses it any more. But it’s closer to Center than we are.”

“You’re right,” he said slowly, trying to reconstruct the map precisely in his mind. “Might she have gone there?”

“You must have heard these words so often,” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“But I thank you,” Arevin said. “I might have seen it myself when I looked at the map again, or I might have given up hope. I’ll leave for there tomorrow.” He shrugged. “I tried to wait for her once and I could not. If I try again I’ll become the crazy you all feared me to be. I’m in your debt.”

She looked away. “Everyone in this house owes you a debt, one that can’t even be paid.”

“Never mind,” he said. “It’s forgotten.”

That seemed to give her some comfort. Arevin looked out the window again.

“The healer was kind to me, and you are her friend,” Larril said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” Arevin said. “Nothing.”

She hesitated, turned, and walked away. After a moment Arevin realized he had not heard the door close. He glanced over his shoulder just as it swung shut.

The crazy still could not or would not remember his name.

Or maybe, Snake thought, he comes from a clan like Arevin’s, and he doesn’t tell his name to strangers.

Snake could not imagine the crazy in Arevin’s clan. His people were steady and self-possessed; the crazy was dependent and erratic. One minute he thanked her for the promised dreamsnake, the next he wept and moaned that he was as good as dead, for North would kill him. Telling him to keep silent made no difference at all.

Snake was glad to be back in the mountains where they could travel by day. The morning was cool and eerie, the trails narrow and fog-laden. The horses waded through the mist like aquatic creatures, tendrils swirling around their legs. Snake inhaled deeply until the cold air hurt her lungs. She could smell the fog, and the rich humus, and the faint spicy tang of pitch. The world lay green and gray around her, for the leaves on the overhanging trees had not yet begun to turn. Higher on the mountain, the darker evergreens looked almost black through the fog.

Melissa rode right next to her, silent and watchful. She would not stay any closer to the crazy than she had to. He was audible but not visible, somewhere behind them. His old horse could not quite keep up with Swift and Squirrel, but at least Snake did not have to stand for riding double anymore.

His voice grew fainter and fainter. Impatiently, Snake reined Swift in to let him catch up. Melissa stopped even more reluctantly. The crazy had refused to ride any better animal; only this one was calm enough for him. Snake had had to press payment on the horse’s owners, and she did not think the young herders had tried to refuse to sell it to her because they were not glad to get rid of it or because they wanted a higher price. Jean and Kev had been embarrassed. Well, no less was Snake.

The horse shambled through the mist, eyelids drooping, ears flopping. The crazy hummed tunelessly.

“Does the trail look familiar yet?”

The crazy gazed smiling at her. “It’s all the same to me,” he said, and laughed.