We Have to Go Deeper

been a terrible disaster to lose them."

  "A disaster? I don't follow."

  He was starting to lose her in his tangle of First Realm logic. A deep breath bought him time to get his thoughts together. The only thing we know is that we know nothing. What conclusion was he jumping to that was causing the confusion? He cleared his throat, trying to shake off lingering tightness, and said, "How did they die?"

  "The end of their natural life-spans. Old age." Taslin paused. "Except for Nirlok of the Realm-Finders, who was taken by a Ragehound. His loss could be called a disaster, I suppose."

  "Old age? All of them?" It seemed a very striking coincidence, if that was all it was. There was something else he was missing.

  Taslin leaned forward slightly, and when he managed to fight his gaze out of her cleavage, he found a look of concern on her face. That baffled worry bled through into her voice. "Why are you so surprised? They were among the most senior in their factions, and it has been over sixty years. Few enough of my kind are alive who remember any of the Treaty-Drafters. The last who had a name when the Treaty was signed died almost two years ago."

  He thought of Keshnu's subtle, patrician wrinkles and silver hair; Quilo's short, stooped form. Senior Gift-Givers both. When he finally got air past his windpipe, his voice emerged at a whisper. "I thought you lived for centuries. I've met humans who were alive when the Treaty was signed. Grandma-" He choked off.

  "Ah, I see. This is an assumption your kind seem to make almost automatically." A brief look of amusement crossed Taslin's face. "On the rare occasions the matter comes up, we correct the perception, but it has not seemed to be worth the effort of disseminating the information more widely." She lifted her arm - he hadn't noticed, but she wore white gloves that sparkled with diamonds across the backs - and rested it on his, just above his elbow. "An average lifespan among my kind is a little shorter than that among yours, something like fifty-five years."

  Rel's head made a hollow sound as he let it flop back into contact with the wall. The sound seemed appropriate. Thoughts zinged around the space between his ears, far too fast for him to catch one. Did he feel duped? Should he? Had the Gift-Givers gained anything? Would he have treated them differently if he had known they were not ancient and wise? More of their wisdom had survived the Realmcrash. Did it matter whether it had been stored in Wildren minds or in whatever they used for books?

  Taslin watched him, her face still set with gentle concern, unmoving. Finally, a single worry fought its way to the surface. He pieced his question together slowly. "So, if there have been no new Wildren Clearseers since the Treaty, and there are none of your kind alive today who were alive then, there should be no surviving Wildren Clearseers. Right?"

  "There are none." Taslin's eyes narrowed.

  He gave a slight shake of his head. "The Separatists have a Clearseer."

  "You said they were looking for a Clearseer." The Gift-Giver's expression slid off her face. "Among your kind."

  "Yes, to work with their Clearseer, Delaventrin."

  Taslin's face and form actually blurred, her jewels and eyes ceasing to sparkle, the intricate embroidery on her sleeves melding into a smooth gradient. Even the basic shape of her face seemed to shift. Her skin lost its texture, until it looked painted-on. Only severe and deep-cutting shock could cause such an extreme lack of self-control in a Gift-Giver of Taslin's talents.

  With painful slowness, she refocused herself. Rel found he couldn't look away, despite the uncomfortable taste of voyeurism he found in the back of his mouth. Her dress stayed plain, the purple patterns on the sleeves becoming dye rather than needlework, the jewels nowhere to be seen. Her face rose out of haze, her complexion a shade too pale, the intricate crystalwork of her eyes lost in the depth of their colour.

  Eventually, her voice stilted and fitting only awkwardly around the sounds she made, she said, "This is very important information. It explains how they were able to navigate and plan the path they sent Chag Van Raighan on."

  Speaking seemed to help her, though Rel could think of nothing to reply with. The thought of going up against another Clearseer, one whose Viewings were not bound by human logic, one who could have plotted out the long terror of the winter, left rocks grinding against each other in his gut. Taslin's colour improved, and a moment later a rush of emotions cascaded over her face.

  She settled on one he decided to interpret as urgent focus, all the lines of her face hard. Reaching forward, she took one of his hands in both of hers, held it up in the space between them. The diamonds on her gloves were back, and so, when she met his eyes, were those amazing crystal irises.

  "Rel, this is really important information." Her voice was breathless, but it wasn't quite urgency, or at least not an urgency that had anything to do with the Separatists. "I want you to know, though, that even if we hadn't stumbled on this, I'm very glad you're free to challenge the Separatists with me. It means more to me than I can express to work with you."

  For the first time, he could see what Dora meant about the Gift-Giver's youth. The conversation just laboured through must have played a part, but she did genuinely seem younger now. He gave her fingers a squeeze, searching for the right words. "Um... thank you, I guess. I'm glad to have you as an ally too."

  A knock on the door made him jerk backwards hard enough to bang his head on the wall. The lump of fatigue where the front of his brain should have been bounced around his skull a few times. Taslin stepped back carefully, swallowing once before she turned to face the door. Rubbing the back of his head, Rel pushed himself upright and called, "Who is it?"

  "Pevan. I need advice." A lie, since Pevan would never ask his advice about anything, but a lie that she would know he would know for a lie, chosen because of what it would tell him. She wanted to talk about some job they needed to do together, probably something that needed to start with a Clearviewing. His head pounded at the thought, but he needed to figure out how to handle the conflict between his sister and Taslin.

  If she was there because she wanted to know the verdict from the trial, she'd have asked if he was alright. If she thought he was out of line over something - which usually meant something she thought he'd promised to do when he hadn't, like join the Separatists - it would have been 'We need to talk'. They'd never agreed to have a code like this, it was just what happened when you worked and lived so closely with someone.

  The trick was not really reading her intent - probably her own discomfort with the Separatists had come to a head at her meeting with them. It must have lasted a long time, unless she'd gotten lost in the Court. The problem was trying to work out how she might interpret whatever he answered with. He needed some way to warn her about Taslin's presence.

  He settled on, "Is it urgent?" If it was, she'd come in and take her chances, which would be her best bet if she was actually fleeing the Separatists. If not-

  "Sort of," was the answer, the words muddied by the thick planks of the door. She wasn't sure, she was relying on his judgement. That meant she wouldn't blurt out anything the moment she walked in. Probably.

  He walked past Taslin to the door and opened it. On the other side, she started, standing up sharply from where she'd been leaning on the panel. Their eyes met, and he glanced down and to his left, pressing his head against the doorframe to help hold it still. She nodded in acknowledgement of the signal. The skin around her eyes was puffy, he noticed.

  Behind her stood the scrawny Guide trainee who'd brought her and Van Raighan to the Court. She saw his suspicious glance at the lad and said, "He's a good guy. Helped me get my head screwed back on straight."

  That settled it. He stepped back from the door, saying, "Come in, both of you."

  Taslin had settled herself smartly in the armchair, her dress back to its full resplendence, though a fan of lace now rose from her neckline, just thin enough to show the glittering stone in the necklace beneath. Rel turned in the middle of the room and opened his arms, and Pevan grabbed him tight enough to bend ribs.
r />   When he grunted, Taslin actually started to lean forward, as if about to come to his aid, but he shook his head at her. Pevan's forehead was hot against his chest, and for a moment he thought he felt a tremor run through her. Unlikely, even given the upheaval she'd clearly been through. He let his arms settle about her shoulders.

  "She's a Separatist," hissed Taslin.

  "Not anymore, I'm guessing." Rel bent his head, pressed his cheek to Pevan's hair. A stray strand of it prickled his nose.

  She gave him another squeeze and pushed away, turning to Taslin. There was a light of defiance in her eyes, but also, however impossibly, the gleam of tears. When she spoke, her voice had an unsteady edge that didn't quite seem faked. "I want to return to my station as Gifted. I know I was foolish, but I only went to the Separatists because I believed their ends better served humanity."

  "As Gifted, you are sworn to uphold the Treaty of Peace." The Gift-Giver affected a sternness that would have melted most humans where they stood. Pevan held firm. "Not serve the ends of humanity."

  "Taslin!" Rel snapped, barely holding back stronger language. He got himself back under control as Taslin turned to face him, her expression an awkward mix of surprise and alarm. "We've all made mistakes. Pevan's hardly measure up to mine, and anyway another ally or two can't go