Jo Clayton: A Gathering Of Stones

“That’s it. Tak.”

“Maksim.”

“Surprised to see you here.”

“Not half so surprised as I am.” He touched Brann’s cheek, returned his hand to her shoulder. “Seems to be one of the drawbacks when you grow fond of a certain turbulent young, lass.”

“Fond, hah!” Brann said. “You’re just a horny old goat.”

“That too.”

Maksim started to speak, shut his mouth as the light shuddered again.

Yaril and Jaril appeared at the next Hexa-point. They stood side by side, each with one arm about the other’s waist. Jaril held his free hand chest-high ivith Churrikyoo sitting on it. Two pairs of crystal eyes turned to Maksim, turned away; they chose not to greet him.

The light shuddered.

Korimenei appeared at the Hexa-point at Maksim’s left, a long-tailed beast on her shoulder. She wore Frunzacoache around her neck, the leaf within shining a brilliant green. She glanced quickly around, nodded as if she recognized what she was seeing, then she smiled at Maksim. “I missed you,” she said, “I thought you’d lost interest in me.”

“No, daughter mine, never that. Just unavailable as you see.”

“Take me as an apprentice?”

He laughed, a shout that filled the room with life and vigor and made its deadness even deader. “Kori, you don’t waste your opportunities, do you?”

“Doesn’t Tungjii say take your Luck where you find it? Well?”

“Of course I will. As you propose, so I accept. If we manage to get clear of this.” He looked round. “What is this place, anyone know?”

Brann sighed. “I forgot you hadn’t seen it, Maksi. Chained God. We’re in his body.”

The light shuddered.

Trago appeared on the Hexa-point beside Korimenei, frightened and uncertain. He held Harra’s Eye clutched tight against his chest and looked wildly around, started to speak to Korimenei, but didn’t; instead he bowed his head and stood staring intently into the flawless crystal sphere.

The light shuddered.

Danny Blue appeared with Felsrawg crouching at his feet. He flung out a hand and Klukesharna slammed into it. He stared at the talismana moment, then looked round. “Family reunion,” he said. “Brann, Kori, Maksim, Changers. I was beginning to wonder if I’d see you all. It’s like trail stew, drop in the ingredients as before and stir vigorously. Simms, sorry to see you, man. Where’s the Esmoon? She ought to be here, seeing I’m infested with this thing again.” He held Klukesharna between thumb and forefinger and waved it about.

Simms chuckled, he was amused but there was an edge to his enjoyment. “Sucked up there,” he said and pointed at the glittersack; he was content to sit where he was at Maksim’s feet and didn’t try to stand. “I don’t think she’s enjoying it either.”

“Should hope not.” He reached a hand down to Felsrawg. “You gonna sit there or what?”

She moved her shoulders, looked disgusted. “I can’t get up,” she said. “I’m stuck here. Let me alone, fool.”

“Your call. Hey, Garbage Guts,” he yelled, startling Maksim and drawing a grimace from Brann. He was scowling at the broad sheet of milky glass spread across the front of the room. “What the hell’s going on?”

For several breaths nothing happened. Lights flickered, threads of god-stuff danced and darted, minor lightnings struck and rebounded. The noises got louder; though they weren’t music in any other sense, none of the euphony Maksim expected, there was a rhythm in those noises, a pulse not quite a heartbeat but similar; as they got louder, more demanding, their effect on him and the others intensified. There was a sense of something ominous getting closer and closer.

Maksim set himself to resist. He fought to tie into

Shaddalakh, fought to resist unnamed, shapeless demands the noises made on him. He fought the god.

Korimenei saw Maks stiffen, begin to gesture and chant. She couldn’t hear him. As if she were sealed off from him, a wall between them. She dropped and sat cross-legged with Ailiki in her lap, closed one hand about Frunzacoache, rested the other on the curve of the mahsar’s back. Frunzacoache shook. She thought she could hear it screaming with rage as it tried to touch her. When reaching for the realities didn’t work, she flipped through her choices and began trying everything she could think of to attack the forces holding her. She fought the god with everything inside her.

Brann leaned against Tak WakKerrcarr and struggled to draw energy from Massulit. Nothing. She reached for Yaril and Jaril. They were sealed off from her. Tak said losing them would put her in danger; she understood that now. She was powerless against anything she couldn’t touch; whatever stayed beyond the reach of her arms was safe from her. She ignored the pressure from the Chained God and concentrated on reaching the Changers. If they could make that bridge again, the Chained God would find his metaphorical fingers singed. She denied the god, denied his hold on her, refused to let him shape her acts. She fought the god with everything in her.

Danny Blue’s half-sires forgot their differences and fought the god. They were shadows of what they were, but they had their skills and their stubbornness. They poured all that into Danny; he fought the god with Daniel Akamarino’s will to freedom and Ahzurdan’s learning and his own rage. Danny clutched at Klukesharna, felt her quiver as she tried to break through to him and help him. He fought to reach her, he fought the god.

Jaril and Yaril raged as one; they struggled to reach

Churrikyoo, but could not, together they punched at the force holding them on the Hexa-point, they struggled toreach out to Brann, they could see her, they knew she was trying to reach them. Wordlessly, they merged into a single glowsphere with Churrikyoo floating in their core. Wordlessly, furiously, they fought to break free and suck the life out of the god.

Trago clutched at Harra’s Eye. He fought against being swallowed, but he knew so little about what was going on, he was, after all, only a six-year-old boy, the ten years he’d passed in spell might have been ten minutes. All he could do was deny and deny and deny. He could not relate to the woman who said she was his sister, she was a stranger. He didn’t want any of this, he was terrified and angry, the god made him feel sick when he looked at it, it was ugly, rotten. No, he shouted into the crystal, no and no and no.

The noises changed, the noises were a chant.

The Chained God chanted, gathering his forces, thrusting his will at them, a wordless spell or if there were words, they were sunk so deep in computer symbology and machine noise they were wholly unintelligible to mortal ears, even Danny Blue’s.

BinYAHtii appeared, hovered over the Hexa-center.

The glittersack opened, poured out the geniod.

BinYAHtii quivered, hummed with power, put out a pulsing red aura, calling, calling the geniod to it: hungry hungry hungry: Hunger Incarnate. A HUNGER greater than even the geniod’s. Demanding. Compelling.

The geniod struggled, screamed-and streamed in a river of light into the heart of the talisman.

BinYAHtii ate and ate, ate them all, its power song sinking into subsonics.

The river vibrated, distorted, took on one shape, then another, then was Palami Kumindri half submerged in the liquid light. “The Promise,” she screamed. “We obeyed in all things. The Promise. Pay us what you promised.”

The God spoke, hits multiple voices like a swarm of locusts buzzing. “This is MY reality. What made you think I’d let you eat it bare? You’ve lived well enough. I owe you nothing. I used you and now I purge you. Consider it the price you pay for the worlds you have destroyed.” H/it sounded prim and complacent. Wit drove the geniod into the Hunger of BinYAHtii until every fleck of light had vanished and the talisman glowed like a small red sun.