Anne Bishop - Bridge of Dreams

A tapping on the door he’d left open. He turned and saw Zhahar, straightening her Handler’s jacket.

“You wanted to see me, Shaman Danyal?”

“I met your sister,” he said, giving her a gentle smile.

“Yes, she mentioned that when I came out of the washroom.”

Was he seeing wariness in Zhahar’s blue eyes? “She told me about the woman who was attacked. Perhaps I should have a Guard escort the female Handlers to the omnibus stop from now on if their shift ends after dark.”

Zhahar nodded. “That would be wise—and, I think, welcome by all the women who work at the Asylum, not just the Handlers.”

Her answer surprised him, because he’d thought she would tell him Zeela was sufficient escort. But the surprise lasted for only a moment. It had become apparent to him over the past month that when it came to dealing with other people, whether they were her colleagues or her assigned inmates, Zhahar was highly intuitive and tended to lead with her heart. She might have a sister who could protect her against would-be attackers, but the other women didn’t. Therefore, she would show approval for an escort even if it was inconvenient to her to have someone observing her once she was off the Asylum grounds.

And what had given him the impression it would be inconvenient?

“What do you know about the twilight of waking dreams?” he asked, deciding to pursue the other subject that was bothering him. She looked almost fearful until he added, “Kobrah mentioned the phrase, and I wondered if you had any thoughts.”

Zhahar licked her lips. “I’m comfortable that whatever Kobrah is experiencing is doing her no harm, and the female inmate who had mentioned being visited by a dream lover was also not being harmed. In fact, her clarity of mind seemed to be improving until…”

“Until?” Danyal prodded when it became apparent that she didn’t want to say anything more.

“Until the previous Keeper ordered Meddik Benham to give her a sleeping draught that would put her under deeply enough to silence any dreams.”

Danyal studied her. “You don’t agree with that decision?”

“She was improving,” Zhahar said, a touch of stubbornness—and anger—in her voice. “Even if no one else will acknowledge it, she’s been declining daily since the dreams stopped.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of these dreams if they were unknown before?” Danyal asked. “This inmate as well as Kobrah is my responsibility now, Zhahar. I may not be a physician or a mind healer or even a general meddik, but I am a Shaman and I am the Asylum’s Keeper. As such, I should have the final say on the treatments the inmates receive.”

Zhahar lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, and he saw—and felt—some of Zeela in her body language. “Kobrah isn’t an inmate, and what is said to a friend should remain with that friend when no one will be harmed by word or deed. As for the other woman, I’m sure the Handlers on duty made a notation about her ‘friend,’ especially after a male inmate had to be restrained when he tried to escape in order to ‘cross over’ to meet his dream lover. Deep sedation might have been the right decision for dealing with him, but it damaged the woman. As for why you weren’t informed, this happened just before your arrival. We’re all still learning what you expect of us. I am not a senior Handler, Shaman Danyal. It is not my place to offer opinions about the Keeper’s or the Meddik’s decisions.”

And yet I heard several opinions about the Asylum and the people who make decisions for those not capable of making choices for themselves. “Is there anything else I should know?” he asked mildly.

She didn’t have a chance to answer because another Handler ran in, his jacket splotched with blood.

“Shaman! One of the inmates just attacked Kobrah and bit off one of her fingers!”

Zhahar was the first one out the door, but Danyal was close behind her. Together, they burst out of the building and ran toward the tangle of people on the lawn.

Three Handlers were struggling to secure a restraining jacket on an inmate. Kobrah stood to one side, pale and shaking. Her left hand bled untended; her right still held the wind chimes.

“Damn you for bringing the Light!” the man screamed. “We don’t deserve the Light! We don’t deserve anything!”

Zhahar rushed over to Kobrah, bunched the bottom of the Helper’s gray jacket around the woman’s left hand, and held it while Danyal grabbed the man’s hair to prevent him from biting the Handlers trying to subdue him.

“We should be drinking pus and eating worms!” the man screamed. “Snuff out the Light before it grows any stronger!”

He didn’t like it, but after the Handlers strapped the man to a bed in an isolation cell, Danyal gave permission to use a mouth restraint, as much to protect the Handlers as to prevent the man from biting off his own tongue.

Going to the infirmary wing, he found Kobrah sitting on one of the narrow beds, dressed in a clean white shift. Her left hand was thickly bandaged. She had the groggy look of someone heavily sedated, but her right hand still clenched the short chain attached to the wind chime.

“Kobrah?” Danyal sat on the wooden stool next to the bed. It took her so long to focus on him, he wondered if Meddik Benham had been too generous with the sedative.

She held out the wind chime. “I kept the Light safe. It’s important to keep the Light safe.”

He took the wind chime. “Yes, it is.”

Zhahar breezed into the room, her effort to be cheerful producing whitecaps on her usually calm lake. “I brought you a glass of water, and I found some twine so we can…Oh. Shaman.” She glanced at the wind chime in his hands, then sat on the bed beside Kobrah. “Drink some water. Then you should sleep for a while.”

Danyal held out his hand. “Give me the twine.”

She pulled a length of twine from her jacket pocket.

He knotted one end of the twine to the wind chime’s chain. Pushing aside the gauzy curtains, he secured the other end of the twine to the curtain rod. The light breeze coming in from the fully opened window made the chimes sing.

Kobrah looked at the chimes but was too drugged to respond. Zhahar, on the other hand…Those blue eyes told him hanging the chimes to comfort Kobrah had earned another level of her trust.

Then he looked down at her boots—and another shiver ran through him.

Why was she wearing the boots that held her sister’s knife?

“Get some rest,” he said, gently touching Kobrah’s shoulder. Looking at Zhahar, he tipped his head and walked out of the infirmary. She joined him a few minutes later.

“The Handler who informed you saw the blood but not the actual injury,” Zhahar said. Holding up her left hand, she pinched the bit of finger between knuckle and joint. “The inmate took a chunk of skin and meat, but not bone. More blood than damage.”

“Do you know why this happened?”

“He wanted to destroy the wind chime because it called to the Light. Kobrah wouldn’t give it to him, so he attacked her. He said…” She hugged herself. “He said the Dark Guide would stop tormenting him if he helped destroy the Light.”

Dark Guide. Drought. Famine. Death.

“Shaman?”

Danyal didn’t realize his eyes were closed until he opened them. “I’m fine. I’m just concerned, and I have much to think about.” He touched her arm, fingertips on her jacket at the spot where he’d seen her sister’s tattoo.

Storms. Summer lake. Bright water.

“I want to be kept informed about Kobrah’s condition—and if there is anything I can do to help.”

“You let her keep the wind chime,” Zhahar replied softly. “That helped.”