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somehow it has bound me to Fire Lake. ... I feel stronger in my new knowledge,
and helplessly elated, and terrified.
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I get up, restless with nerves. My feet lead me through the town until I find
myself standing at the edge of the canyon again. I wonder fleetingly why I
always seem to find myself here, where there is nothing. The depths lie in
black shadow, but I hear the water chuckling over secrets far below. Looking
down from the brink I see a faint glimmer of light pulse and fade. I remember
that once I saw something silvery in the water's depths.
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Something about its shape was familiar . . . but there is nothing to see in
the blackness. I look across at the quarter of the city that lies on the far
rim, see it flickering with ghost-light, images winking in and out. There are
no real people, no real lights there at all. The outlaws stay close to Song,
under her protection. But why? Why does the Lake need her, or me? What does it
mean--?
I have too many pieces to a puzzle, and nothing to fit them into. I press my
face into my hands, feeling my thoughts drown in noise. Moments of sanity are
not enough. . . . Defeat weighs on me like iron. I'm tired
. . . I'm so tired of trying.
I go back to Song's tower; not sure why, except that
I have nowhere else to go. As I walk between the rows
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of bones I wonder suddenly whether she has ordered her
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guards to kill me. But I keep walking, and they let me pass. My tension grows
as I climb the stairs to her chambers.
The rooms are dark and silent. She is still lying on the bed, asleep now. The
fire globe bathes her in dim, bloody light. She stirs as I enter the room, her
face shadowed with exhaustion as deep as my own.
"Why do you let me live?" I ask dully.
"The Lake," she says. "The Lake needs you." She lets her head fall back again,
lying passive and inviting on the silk and velvet coverings. "And I need you."
I lie down fully clothed--on the floor, where I will not even have to touch
her. She murmurs a curse, and then is silent. I feel nothing but a cold knot
of anger, and an aching loneliness.
i7i
When I wake again it is dawn. The town looks like burnished copper. I have
been dreaming about my brothers; the memory jars me fully awake. Song is
sitting on the bed with her knees
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drawn up, staring at me. I try to question her about my brothers, but she
won't listen. She gets up and runs from the room.
Sitting on the floor, I realize that my body no longer hurts anywhere. I have
healed overnight. Overnight? I feel only a passing dismay at the vagaries of
time. I stretch without hurting for the first time in . . longer than I can
remember, and I am only grateful. I scratch at the sparse stubble of beard on
my chin.
The Lake calls me to the window, and I look out at it.
I watch it mutate and flow as it changes randomly, helplessly.
. . . Helplessly. How do I know that? My hands make fists on the stone
windowsill. I shut my eyes, reciting an adhani and feeling the demon choir
inside me fade; listening for the darker voice hidden beneath them, the voice
that I thought was my own madness--the voice of the Lake. I open my eyes,
taking a deep breath, ready to try again.
How does this thing get into my mind? As I ask myself the question, I realize
there can only be one answer: Because
I'm a sibyl, like Song. But what is the mechanism? I
force my thoughts into the chains of question and answer.
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If I can only understand this, I'll know better
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whether I'm really insane--whether I can ever be sane again. The virus causes
altered brain structure, receptivity to a faster-than-light medium . . . my
excitement rises . . . which means . . . which means . . . ?
"Shit!" I push myself away from the window as my concentration falls apart and
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