Anne Bishop - Bridge of Dreams

The one time Zeela had seen this park, she’d thought it was a sign that they were in the wrong place. But in the city of Vision, you could find only what you could see, and this piece of it was the one place they had found when they arrived that offered something for each of them.

Other parts of Ephemera where it had been safe for Tryad to work or trade—albeit showing only one face and never admitting they were a “demon” race—had turned dangerous or had disappeared completely. And the last time the moorings failed to hold a connection between their land and another place in Ephemera, parts of Tryadnea had vanished, along with the Tryad who hadn’t returned to the homeland in time.

A few months ago, Morragen Medusah a Zephyra, the leader of the Tryad, had sensed the presence of another land that was within reach. Using her magic, she twisted a little of Ephemera’s currents of power into six moorings between Tryadnea and the city of Vision. Then she asked some of her people to brave the unknown city in the hopes that the Tryad would be able to secure the moorings and provide a stable connection between Tryadnea and that piece of the world.

Sholeh speculated that what the a Zephyra Tryad could do with the currents of power was the equivalent of people putting down the gangplank on a moving ship and rushing down to the dock to secure the lines before the gangplank fell into the water and the ship drifted away. A risky business, since those securing the lines could be left behind, and those left on the ship might not have enough supplies remaining to survive until they found another port.

But that was the truth the people of Tryadnea had faced for generations, so Sholeh Zeela a Zhahar and five other Tryad had crossed over to the city of Vision. Despite its vastness, the city had held little promise for her kind so far—and time was running out. The other five Tryads, perhaps feeling too desperate to be careful, had revealed too much about themselves. According to the letters Zhahar had received from the Zephyra aspect, the Tryad who weren’t dead and had managed to get home were too wounded, physically or emotionally, to return to Vision.

Now Zhahar and her sisters were the only Tryad left. Despite their best efforts to live in a way that secured Tryadnea to Vision, the mooring the a Zephyra Tryad had spun for them kept slipping, and that connection, the last connection, was now in the northern part of the city. If it slipped to a place beyond Vision or snapped completely, they would be left here with no way to get home.

She couldn’t think about that. Every day the a Zhahar Tryad remained here created another tiny thread that helped Tryadnea retain its connection to Vision—and that, in turn, gave Zhahar and her sisters another day to find something that would end a cycle that was tearing the hearts out of the Tryad people. Their homeland needed the sustenance of connection to another part of the world. When they were adrift, rivers and streams dried up. Rain was sparse if it fell at all. Crops withered in soil that couldn’t nourish them. Little by little, Tryadnea became a desert that couldn’t sustain its people. The only time there was a sign of the land restoring itself was when they were anchored to another piece of the world—and every time less of Tryadnea bloomed.

We’ll stay here until autumn, Zhahar thought. If we don’t find some occupation for Sholeh and Zeela by autumn, we need to move to another part of the city. Maybe head north so we have a chance of getting home before the mooring fails.

Of course, if she lost this job, they would have to move much sooner.

Zhahar pulled a ring of keys out of her daypack and unlocked the gate that separated the Asylum’s grounds from the weedy park. Pushing open the gate just enough to slip through, she locked it again before running to the staff room in the main building, where she could store her pack and pick up the blue jacket that indicated she was a Handler.

Putting the keys in her trouser pocket, she had almost closed her daypack into the lock bin assigned to her when she remembered the flatbread. Pulling it out, she locked her bin, unwrapped the napkin, and bit into the simple meal, filling her mouth with bread and sweet cheese.

Naturally, the moment her mouth was full, the door opened.

“Where have you been?” Kobrah asked as she hurried into the room. She eyed the flatbread for a moment before looking away.

Not damaged enough to be an inmate, but too damaged by her past to see anything but the darkest pieces of the city, Kobrah had been found by Zeela in the weedy park one night, unconscious and beaten. After shifting who was in view, Zhahar had alerted the Handlers who tended the inmates at night.

Uncertain if Kobrah should be made an inmate or sent to The Temples for some kind of heart healing, the former Keeper allowed her to stay until he could decide. Zhahar had given Kobrah small tasks—weeding in the garden, sweeping a floor—while the young woman healed physically. By the time the Keeper made up his mind, Kobrah was working as Zhahar’s Helper. Instead of being locked up or sent away, she was given room and board and token wages—not quite an inmate, but it was understood that Kobrah couldn’t leave the Asylum alone.

That was six months ago. The only clue to Kobrah’s past was that she looked at every man who worked at the Asylum with suspicion bordering on hatred and called them all Chayne—the name of the man who had damaged her.

Saying nothing, Zhahar divided the flatbread and gave Kobrah half. When the woman was upset, she wouldn’t eat, and the uncertainty swirling around the arrival of the new Keeper had put everyone on edge.

“ He was looking for you,” Kobrah said. “He’s already spoken to the other Handlers. And I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

Zhahar heard the fear in Kobrah’s voice, watched the way the woman’s hands trembled. But she wasn’t sure the fear and trembling were caused by the same thing—especially when Kobrah took a bite of the flatbread.

Then the door opened again, and the new Asylum Keeper walked into the room.

Zhahar choked down the mouthful of food. Anyone might wear white trousers and a lightweight, collarless shirt. But only one group of people wore the long white robes.

The new Keeper was a Shaman ?

“You are Zhahar?” he asked.

His voice held the song of a mountain stream and a whisper of summer grass. His dark hair was grizzled. His face was unlined, giving her no clue to his age. And he had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

Kobrah elbowed her, a sharp reminder that she hadn’t answered the man—and a Shaman wasn’t someone she wanted looking at her too closely.

“Yes, Keeper,” she replied. “I am Zhahar.”

He glanced at the flatbread. Then his eyes returned to hers.

“Do you value your work?” he asked.

“I want to keep this job.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

His smile was gentle, but it held regret—and a decision.

She spoke before he could. “I’m sorry I was late, sir. My sister received bad news and was distressed this morning, so I stayed a few minutes too long to comfort her.”

“Ah.” He reached out and touched her arm. Just a brush of fingertips, but she felt the warmth of that touch. “Does she need you with her today?”

Sympathy. Understanding. Genuine concern.

“No, sir. My other sister will be with her today. And we’ll all be together this evening.” Not quite a lie, since they would be together that evening. The words just didn’t acknowledge that her sisters were always with her.

Nodding, he turned his eyes to Kobrah. “You are a Helper?”

“Yes. I mostly work with Zhahar, Keeper.”