Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) (20 page)

Nakvin had been relieved by Deim, passed eight hours in fitful sleep, and taken the Wheel again before the ship reached the sphere’s end. The wall was still some distance away when she spotted something on the surface. “That’s impossible!” she thought aloud.

“What is it?” asked Jaren.

“There,” Nakvin said, pointing out a web of grey lines seemingly etched into the far wall. A few seconds later, the others gasped at what they saw.

The fine traceries were actually miles-long columns of human-sized beings clad in light grey, cowled robes. They walked several thousand abreast, marching in lock step across the inner curve of a crystal ball large enough to encase a gas giant.

As Nakvin looked on, the head of the line neared one of the bright spots, which definitely wasn’t a star, but a seething pool of fire. Her dread turned to relief as the lead walker passed within arm's length of the burning abyss.

Nakvin realized that, unless the millions of individual walkers each kept a perfectly straight path, the entire line might plunge into the same open furnace on their next circuit. As this thought came to her, a hideous, many-armed shape emerged from the molten lake and snatched up four of the pilgrims before submerging once again. A collective cry of shock sounded across the bridge.

Without pausing, the line of grey walkers closed ranks and continued on their way.

Nakvin’s horror manifested through the Wheel. The fire went out, leaving a hole giving on emptiness that she somehow knew was the next gate. By reflex she sent the ship forward into a realm of roiling clouds.

“I'm done,” Nakvin said, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing her temples. The Wheel dimmed as she strode from the dais and descended to the deck.

Jaren intercepted her exit. “I didn't dismiss you,” he said. “We're making progress.”

Nakvin fixed her eyes on Jaren. “You can't know what it's like for me,” she said, her voice starting to waver.”

“The shower almost gave me a heart attack, too,” Jaren offered in consolation. “Besides, I saw the same things as you.”

“You did,” she said, “but what does it mean to you? That the Gen legends aren't as absurd as everyone thought?” Nakvin jabbed her index finger at her chest. “I
never had
a tribal tradition. I grew up without knowing what I was! Believe me, ignorance was a blessing.”

The lady Steersman waited for Jaren’s reply. Instead he looked at her for several seconds; then stood aside.

Stunned silence lingered until Jaren addressed the crew. “I know things haven’t gone according to plan,” he said. “Now I want all of you to know something. Against great adversity; despite your differences, you have all performed with courage and honor.”

Jaren scanned his audience. The few pirates wore broad grins, but he was relieved to see many somber and thoughtful Mithgarder faces. A few were nodding. He continued. “With Commander Stochman's approval, I’m calling a period of general shipboard leave.”

“Six hours,” the commander said. “No one touches the Wheel.”

Nakvin was brushing her long ebon hair when Jaren came to her quarters.

“I was only thinking of the crew,” he said at last.

Nakvin held her peace until she finished. Then she laid her hands on the table fronting the mirror and bowed her head. Her hair fell like a lavender-scented hood. “You only
ever
think of the crew.”

“I'm sorry you were embarrassed,” Jaren said, “but we need you.”

Nakvin turned to face him. “I know they need me. I'm not so sure about you.”

Jaren removed his coat and boots. The bed creaked as he climbed into a kneeling position at its foot. “Here,” he said. “How about some help?”

Nakvin hesitated; then sat down on the bed with her back to him. “You know what you're doing?” she asked.

“Don't worry,” said Jaren. “These hands never forget.” He gently took several locks in hand and began weaving them into the elegant plaits that she favored. The sensation soothed her raw nerves, but Nakvin held onto her frustration. Despite the outward humility of his actions, she knew that Jaren's real motive was coaxing her back to the Wheel.

Nakvin had concluded long ago that much of Jaren's antisocial behavior was unintended. He'd been a child when they'd met, and Nakvin remained painfully aware of her role in shaping his personality. Still, these were explanations; not excuses. “I'm sorry,” she said.

Jaren’s hands paused at their dextrous work, betraying his surprise. “You’ve got it backwards,” he chuckled. “I'm the penitent here.”

“I don't mean about earlier,” said Nakvin. “I'm sorry you had to be alone.”

“I've got too many friends to be alone,” Jaren said. “I've got Deim, Teg, the boys—I hope I've got you.”

“Those aren't friends. You use them, but you don’t give anything back.”

“They get steady work and a roof over their head,” Jaren said in a slightly irritated tone.

“Exactly. That's a business arrangement; not friendship. Those people know next to nothing about you.”

Jaren’s voice turned somber. “You know me,” he said. “All there is to know.”

“Because I was there,” said Nakvin. “If you could’ve hidden it from me, you would have.”

Nakvin fell silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice darkened. “Am I just someone who works for you, Jaren?”

She felt his hands squeezing her shoulders. “We're not friends, you and me,” he said. “We're family.”

Nakvin felt tears welling in her eyes but fought them back. “You'd say anything to get what you want.”

Jaren drew her into a tight embrace. “Nakvin,” he said, “I don’t care if you never touch a Wheel again. You saved my life.”

Nakvin fell against Jaren's chest, taking refuge in his gun oil and sweat-scented presence despite her misgivings. “I'm sorry that you're alone, too,” he said. “That's probably why we can't get rid of each other. For what it's worth, I understand why this place disturbs you. It might mean that the Gen legends are true, but not all of them were happy.”

“I don't trust Vaun,” Nakvin said.

“He’s a shady one, but he hasn't played us false yet.”

“It's not what he
is
,” Nakvin said. “It's what he
isn't
that worries me.”

Jaren kept silent, inviting her to go on.

“I know voices,” she continued. “Vaun's is so empty. Devoid of passion…of
life
.”

“You can't hold a man to faults beyond his control.”

“That's true, and this might not be his fault either; but he doesn't speak the way we do.”

“He uses a lot of old-fashioned words, but we probably sound like that to Deim.”

“Deim's a century younger than us,” Nakvin said. “What does that make Vaun?”

The question gave Jaren pause. “He's not a Gen.”

Nakvin looked over her shoulder at Jaren. “I know,” she said, “because I wasn't talking about Vaun's accent. I meant he doesn't talk like we do, or like anyone else does, either. However his voice is produced, it's not by air blowing over his vocal cords, because from what I can tell, he doesn't breathe!”

Jaren's emerald eyes shot wide open.

“There's more,” Nakvin said, a little more reluctantly. “I'm not sure what it means, but I can't sense his thoughts.”

“Doesn't he need to be willing?”

“Yes, but it only takes as much consent as speaking. If I'm already talking to someone, it's never a problem to start communicating nonverbally—except with Vaun.”

Jaren nodded gravely.

Nakvin continued. “Anyway, I can usually send my thoughts to people whether they want me to or not, as long as I can see them. I’ve made mental overtures to Vaun. I was friendly enough at first, but when he didn't answer I tried everything to get a response.”

“It didn't work,” Jaren guessed.

“I won't lie to you. My imagination ran a little wild. Most people would’ve been horrified, or possibly ill, but Vaun didn’t flinch.”

“You've done that before, haven't you?”

Nakvin suppressed a smile. “The point is, either Vaun has a superhuman tolerance for the grotesque, or he couldn't hear me. You decide which is more disturbing.”

“I'll talk to him,” Jaren said.

Jaren found Vaun skulking about at midnight in a warren of the ship’s stuffy bowels rumored to contain the engine room. “Vaun!” he called out when he was sure the cloaked figure wasn’t just a trick of the shadows. “You're a hard man to pin down.”

Vaun greeted Jaren with a bow. “I beg pardon for inconveniencing you.”

“What are you still doing up?” Jaren asked.

“Forgive my uncouth habits,” said Vaun. “I am given to insomnia these past years.”

“Now that you mention it, I'm not sleepy either,” Jaren said. “There's a bottle of Temilian liquor in my quarters—best cure for a couple of nightjars like us.”

Vaun’s silence hid his thoughts like a cloud hiding the moon. “If you wish,” he said at last.

Glad to be back in the relatively comfort of his cabin, Jaren took a slender bottle and two tumblers from his locker and sat in a steel frame chair facing another across a small table. He filled a glass with amber liquid that lined his throat with smoky warmth when sipped. “Tell me your story,” he said, offering the second glass and chair, which Vaun refused.

“I hail from Mithgar,” Vaun began, his hollow voice turning Jaren’s quarters into a deep cavern. “There I dealt medicaments on the Ostrith waterfront.”

The storyteller paused. Jaren turned his chair around and rested his arms across its back.

Vaun continued. “My trade ran afoul of the law and brought me to a choice between death on the gallows or in the arena. I competed in those bloody games. Memory fails me as to how long. Finally, after gathering a pile of corpses to my name, an Adept from Steersman's College purchased my debt. The brutality I suffered at my new master's hand made me long for the gore and grit.”

Jaren felt a chill. Mithgar law hadn’t sanctioned public duels to thin the ranks of debtors and convicts since time out of memory—for humans, at least.

“Eventually,” said Vaun, “I killed my patron and confiscated his books in recompense for my mistreatment. Since that day, I have pursued an endless quest for wisdom and truth.”

Jaren chuckled. “You sound like one of the Arcana Divines.”

Vaun didn’t laugh. “I am not of their number,” he said, “though my late master was.”

“So Vernon and his boys aren't as enlightened as they say.”

“Do you believe that we reached this destination by chance?”

The question caught Jaren off-guard. He frowned. “What is this place,
really
?”

The shadows of Vaun’s cowl shifted in the harsh overhead light so that his mask appeared to smile. “Zadok and Thera were not the only gods,” he said. “After their demise, other powers arose in their stead.”

Jaren's brow furrowed. “How?” he asked. “Earlier you called Zadok
All-Father
. Did he create the other gods before his daughter killed him?”

“There are many stations in the hierarchy of being,” said Vaun. “You yourself occupy a place one step above men. Do not boast, for Gen are far from the pinnacle. The spectrum of existence stretches from the simplest particle to the Nexus itself, and a razor could not penetrate the spaces between. To mortals the higher orders are indistinguishable from gods, and some indulged that conceit. Yet there were others outside of Zadok’s design.”

“Where did they come from?” Jaren asked. “Where have they
gone
?”

“The eldest sources only speculate upon the strange gods' origins,” said Vaun. “The end of their flight is likewise moot, but they left undeniable proof of their presence.”

“That I'd like to see,” Jaren said.

“You have,” said Vaun. “And you may again at leisure. Whenever you peer through the black ship's windows, your living eyes behold the place which the gods prepared for the reprobate dead.”

Jaren’s face fell. Gen lore described hell as a state of purification pending reincarnation; not a place. Being there was troubling enough. Learning the Nine Circles’ true nature as a prison made by otherworldly gods was downright disturbing.

Vaun must have seen Jaren’s discomfiture. “Truth is seldom pleasant,” he said.

“It's hard to accept that the gods came here just to torture people.”

“Some did, perhaps,” said Vaun. “However, this realm and others like it were but means to far grander and obscurer ends.”

“Then there are other places than hell?” Jaren asked.

“Once a man faced myriad possible fates: perhaps as many as there were gods. Now they are all sealed—as were the Circles until your lady Steersman forced the lock.”

“Why did the gods build worlds for the dead? What did they want?”

“Souls,” said Vaun. “Before the coming of the strange gods, every shade returned to the Nexus. Some gods captured souls for their own ineffable reasons, and these men called evil. Others sought to bar those deities from claiming the deceased, and men deemed them good.”

Jaren felt like he’d taken a blow to the face. “To hear you tell it, hell and paradise took whoever they could get, and the whole business of the good being rewarded and the wicked punished was just a whitewash.”

“Not quite,” said Vaun. “The Well bequeaths to all a portion of light, but our deeds may darken it. Those who die with radiance remaining are drawn toward the Nexus, and dark souls descend to the Void. The heavens were placed nearest the Well, and the Void is hell’s foundation. The gods gave their priests doctrines that increased the likelihood of snaring those who followed them, but now their game is done.”