Echoes Read online

  “That was not my intent. How far must he walk?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Are we never to seek medical aid? Are we never to recover from a wound if we evade capture?”

  The four were brothers; whether or not the Lady accepted them, they had already accepted Kallandras. They looked to him, and he shook his head; they stepped between his exposed back and the masters of the Labyrinth, although they had all seen Mikal and Torval die.

  The old man’s smile was slight. “You remind me of my youth. Very well. He must walk from here to the centre of the complex, where we first gathered. The Lady will decide—if he survives that long—whether or not she will accept him.”

  “Arkady, can you hear me? Don’t speak. If you can walk down the long hall and through the doors, there will be help for you. I can—I can help you, but only with my words. Decide.”

  Arkady coughed. Blood spilled from his lips, like a black fountain in the poor light, but he managed to hold himself steady. “I’ll…walk.”

  Walk, Arkady. Step with your right leg. Yes. Now with your left.

  The old man looked at him. But he said nothing as Arkady began his awkward, painfully slow stagger through stone corridors. Kallandras hated everything about the brotherhood at that moment. It was the last time such hatred or anger toward his own would even be conceivable.

  Arkady fell twice. Both times, Kallandras forced him to his feet with use of a command that he was far, far too weak to fight. When Arkady stumbled a third time, Kallandras snarled and grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “Arkady,” he said. “I won’t do this without you. We are brothers before we are anything else. That’s what I was promised. I will start here as I mean to continue. If you lie down here, the masters will be forced to kill you, and I will be forced to kill them, or try.”

  Arkady coughed and then smiled weakly. “You are such a stubborn bastard.”

  But Kallandras could not smile in return. His heart was strong enough for two. It had to be. Just a few more steps. They were so close he could see the cascading wall of candles that glowed beyond the open doors. They had never been there before.

  The room was full.

  It was full of men in dark robes, of men in white robes, of light and the harsh shadow bright light cast. Across the floor, inlaid in gold, five points of a star. Without thinking—and even decades later, he could not understand why he did so—he caught Arkady under the shoulders and knees, and lifted him off his feet as if he weighed nothing. He heard the old man’s voice as if it came from a great distance, heard other unfamiliar voices raised in whisper, raised in surprise. He passed them all, left them gaping, ran to star’s center, and carefully laid Arkady to rest upon it, arranging his head in the uppermost point, his arms and legs to the sides. Arkady said, “Can I sleep now?”

  Kallandras nodded.

  And then he drew his dull, blunt weapon, and he held it high.

  The old man came to stand beside him, and Kallandras saw that in the flicker of a thousand lights, his eyes were filmed with unshed tears. “That will do you little good,” he said softly. “But take this. You have earned it.” And he caught Kallandras’ wrist in a grip that could not be broken. He pried his nerveless fingers from the hilt of the practice weapon and laid the hilt of real one into his palm instead.

  The brothers were beginning to chant.

  The floor, rather than growing darker or brighter, grew hazier as he watched.

  “You must use the weapon,” he said softly.

  “Why?”

  “You must offer her blood. Arkady is bleeding; you are not.”

  “But—”

  “Do it now, Kallatin.”

  Kallandras dragged the knife across his left arm, biting into flesh, but not vein. He had no desire to bleed to death.

  “Call her.”

  “Who?”

  “The Lady.”

  “But I—”

  “Call her before your friend dies, and you may be able to save him. The only mercy we know is The Lady’s.”

  He heard no lie in the old man’s voice, although he heard many other things. He lifted his chin, and trembling, he began to do the only thing he knew he could do better than any man present save perhaps the old man. He sang.

  There, in the broken darkness, his eyes blurring, he accepted his curse as the gift it had always been. He sang to praise the Lady, to praise the Moon, to praise the shadows that had given him life when the sun was harsh and blinding. He sang to call her forth, although he told her that he was weak and insignificant by comparison to all of the others that had come before him to serve her. And he dared to sing, when he paused to draw breath, of his love for the brotherhood that served her, and of his desire to save one who belonged in that service, if she deemed him worthy.

  He put all that he had learned into the singing of that song, and when the song was finished he was on his knees, straddling Arkady’s too-still form.

  And she came. The mists had crept up from the ground to his shoulders on all sides—saving only where Arkady rested within the confines of gold.

  Her hair trailed like liquid night down her back and joined the mist that rolled in on all sides, like a phantasm of the sea; her raven sat upon her shoulder, watching them all as if it was possessed of the spirit of a hawk. “You called me, young one. You called me very boldly.”

  He had never heard death in a voice so clearly. For a moment all breath was suspended as he absorbed what he’d heard, and then he drew breath again as he looked at Arkady’s still face. He had summoned death—he understood now, why the brotherhood who served this Lady performed the acts they did—to save life. But it didn’t matter. He was done running from what she offered.

  “Your pardon, Lady.”

  “Perhaps. Let me see the one you guard, young one.”

  He bowed his head and gained his feet. Arkady was not cold, and he had not stopped breathing; there was nothing else that Kallandras could do for him.

  She leaned down, and Kallandras stiffened, but her hands merely grazed Arkady’s cheek. “Your song is sweet,” she said, “even though you are not yet mine. Join me, and I will grant you what you desire.”

  He bowed. “What must I do to join you, Lady?”

  “You will know,” she said. “Come. The bowl is waiting for your blood. The others are already there.”

  He swallowed. “And Arkady?”

  “Is that what he calls himself?”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  She reached down and caught his limp hand. “Arkady,” she said softly. “I have need of you here. I withhold the journey of death from you until such a time as you have earned it. Serve me well.” She pulled him to his feet and he came, blinking as he met her gaze. His jaw fell, not in fear, but in wonder. He could not even speak.

  Together, Arkady and Kallandras joined the old man before a basin carved in stone. It seemed a miracle that they could have failed to notice it the first time they were here; it was not large, but everything about it seemed to glow with a star-white crispness. Kallandras saw that a thin layer of blood covered the basin; he added his own to it without hesitation—but he reached out to catch Arkady’s hand after the blood had fallen. Arkady smiled.

  “Give me your name,” the Lady said, and he jumped back. “Give me your name, boy, and I will guard it against all use. Your truest identity will be within me, and only I will know of it. Not even death will find you when it is your time to die.

  “I will find you,” she continued, when none of the six spoke. “And I will return your name to you when I lead you in safety to the Halls of Mandaros. We may speak, then. We may rejoice, or cry, or laugh. But I cannot take your name if you have no desire to give it.” She lifted a hand; dropped it through the air as if it were an executioner’s blade.

  The six boys cried out in terror as they felt something jump through them. And then they cried out in shock and surprise as they felt what followed: The thoughts, the hopes, the fears, of the men who gathered
in this room, watching.

  What is this, what is this, Kallandras?

  I—I do not know, Arkady.

  Tell him, an unknown voice said. Tell him Constanso.

  He was afraid, and the fear was strong and cloying. But to the fear came comfort, a wordless offer of wisdom and knowledge that was not his own.

  You are brothers, the old man said. You are our brothers. The Lady accepts you. He was crying, quietly. It has been four years since we have had new brothers emerge from the Labyrinth. Four years since we have found those whose understanding was stronger than their fear.

  My name? From out of the darkness, her hands came to caress his cheeks; to draw his gaze up to meet hers. He saw all of the night sky, and he had never seen a night sky with such grandeur and such depth. He had forgotten just how much he missed the sky. He spoke his name into the night she brought with her, and she caught it, gently, as a movement of lips against her brief kiss.

  You are the Lady’s servant. We are the Lady’s servants. And Kallatin, there is a joy that waits us at the end of our lives that makes us fearless. You will never be alone again.

  And when I die?

  No matter where you are, no matter how dark or how isolated, you will not die alone; we will be with you, always, as we are tonight. We will hear your name, no matter how far away we are. In the green Deepings; in the heart of the Sea of Sorrows; in the ice of the Northern Wastes—there is no distance that can separate us or keep us from your side.

  When you take your first life, we will be the hands that guide you; when you suffer your first doubts—or your hundredth—we will listen and offer comfort. You are one of us now, and nothing can remove that save the Lady herself should she so choose.

  He felt a sharp and terrible pang, like a premonition. Has that ever happened?

  The old man’s laugh was rich and warm; it seemed to echo and linger long after it had passed. It has never happened. Who could be one with us and betray us?

  * * *

  He rose. I could, old man. In all of the history of the Kovaschaii, I could. I loved my brothers much, much more than I loved their Lady. He bowed.

  And then, although he knew it would not be welcome, he spoke a single word.

  Arkady.

  He lifted Salla as he rose. There were deaths in the desert that lay before them, and he had been given all the time he could expect for this singular act of mourning a loss that was three decades old.

  He set his lute in her case; closed his eyes, and then lifted his shoulders, straightening them into a perfect line so that no one would see the burden he carried.

  And he heard it, on the wind, free from fury, contempt or loathing.

  Kallatin.

  THE END

  Short Stories by Michelle West and Michelle Sagara

  The first six stories released are connected to the Essalieyan Universe of the novels I write for DAW as Michelle West. Since those are my most asked-for short stories, those are the stories I wanted to make available first. The rest of the stories will be released in chronological order from the date of their first appearance, which I’ve listed in brackets beside the titles, along with the anthology in which they first appeared. All of the stories have new introductions (which will probably come through in the samples if you’ve already read the stories but want to read those.)

  In the Essalieyan universe:

  Echoes (2001, Assassin Fantastic)

  Huntbrother (2004, Sirius, the Dog Star)

  The Black Ospreys (2005, Women of War)

  The Weapon (2005, Shadow of Evil)

  Warlord (1998, Battle Magic)

  The Memory of Stone (2002, 30th Anniversary DAW Fantasy)

  * * *

  Birthnight (1992, Christmas Bestiary)

  Gifted (1992, Aladdin, Master of the Lamp)

  Shadow of a Change (1993, Dinosaur Fantastic)

  For Love of God (1993, Alternate Warriors)

  Hunger (1993, Christmas Ghosts)

  Four Attempts at a Letter (1994, By Any Other Fame)

  Winter (1994, Deals with the Devil)

  What She Won’t Remember (1994, Alternate Outlaws)

  The Hidden Grove (1995, Witch Fantastic)

  Ghostwood (1995, Enchanted Forests)

  When a Child Cries (1996, Phantoms of the Night)

  The Sword in the Stone (1997, Alternate Tyrants)

  Choice* (1997, Sword of Ice: Friends of Valdemar)

  Turn of the Card (1997, Tarot Fantastic)

  The Law of Man (1997, Elf Fantastic)

  Flight (1997, Return of the Dinosaurs)

  The Vision of Men (1997, The Fortune Teller)

  By the Work, One Knows (1997, Zodiac Fantastic)

  Under the Skin (1997, Elf Magic)

  The Dead that Sow (1997, Wizard Fantastic)

  Kin (1998, Olympus)

  Childhood’s End (1998, Tad William’s Mirror World)

  Step on the Crack (1998, Black Cats and Broken Mirrors)

  Diamonds (1998, Alien Pets)

  Sunrise (1999, A Dangerous Magic)

  Elegy (1999, Moon Shots)

  Return of the King (1999, Merlin)

  Work in Progress (1999, Alien Abductions)

  Water Baby (1999, Earth, Air, Fire and Water)

  Faces Made of Clay (2000, Mardi Gras Madness)

  Sacrifice (2000, Spell Fantastic)

  Shelter (2000, Perchance to Dream)

  Pas de Deux (2000, Guardian Angels)

  Déjà Vu (2001, Single White Vampire Seeks Same)

  To Speak With Angels (2001, Villains Victorious)

  Lady of the Lake (2001, Out of Avalon)

  Truth (2001, The Mutant Files)

  The Last Flight (2001, Creature Fantastic)

  The Knight of the Hydan Athe (2002, Knight Fantastic)

  Legacy (2002, Familiars)

  The Nightingale (2002, Once Upon a Galaxy)

  A Quiet Justice (2002, Vengeance Fantastic)

  The Augustine Painters (2002, Apprentice Fantastic)

  How to Kill an Immortal (2002, The Bakka Anthology)

  Fat Girl (2002, Oceans of the Mind VI, ezine)

  Diary (2003, The Sorcerer’s Academy)

  Winter Death* (2003, The Sun in Glory: Friends of Valdemar)

  Dime Store Rings (2004, The Magic Shop)

  To The Gods Their Due (2004, Conqueror Fantastic)

  The Stolen Child (2004, Faerie Tales)

  The Rose Garden (2004, Little Red Riding Hood in the Big Bad City)

  The Colors of Augustine (2004, Summoned to Destiny)

  Unicorn Hunt (2005, Maiden, Mother Crone)

  The Snow Queen* (2005, Magic Tails; with Debbie Ohi)

  Shahira (2006, Children of Magic)

  *Set in Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar, as the anthology titles suggest

  For more information—or just to say hello!—I can be found online at:

  Twitter: @msagara

  Facebook: Michelle Sagara

  My blog about my written works: Michelle West & Michelle Sagara