Текст книги "The Singer"
Автор книги: Elizabeth Hunter
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
The Singer
Irin Chronicles – 2
Elizabeth Hunter
For my mother
A remarkable, powerful woman, and an inspiration to her family.
Prologue
The Fallen appeared on the summit of Mt. Ararat. Golden eyes reached west, settling on some point unseen by the hawks circling overhead. The wind whipped past Jaron, brushing the black hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore his human form, content to cloak his true nature and enjoy the sharp pleasure of the sun on his skin. Ancient talesm covered his shoulders and chest, gold against bronze. He was a vision of glory, resting against the snow.
His brothers appeared beside him: Barak with his wolf-grey hair, gold eyes watching the birds overhead; Vasu, already pacing, his lean human form dark against the snow.
“You gave up your city, brother.” Vasu stared down as he spoke, seemingly mesmerized by the tracks his bare feet made in the snow. The angel chose to reside in warm climates, though none of their kind were truly bothered by either heat or cold. They commanded their senses at will.
“You imply defeat. I simply chose not to fight for it. It no longer interested me.”
Barak murmured, “And the rest of your territories? Are they secure?”
“Volund knows better than to challenge me. I allowed his child to overrun Istanbul because it served my purpose. No doubt, he was confused to find my people withdrawn.”
“Where are they?” Barak asked. “And do not underestimate Volund. I thought the same about him until he attacked. Now my children think me dead. They hide, afraid of their own shadows.” Barak’s lip curled. “I would cleanse the earth of their presence if doing so wouldn’t give away my continued existence.”
“I am watching,” Jaron said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the city. Something was churning there. Some pain reaching out. The sun fell in the west, slipping below the clouds to shine pink over Asia Minor. “I am always watching.”
“But for what?” Vasu asked. “I hope your visions sing true.”
“Have they ever not? I warned you of Galal’s attack, didn’t I?”
Gold eyes flashed from behind Vasu’s curtain of black hair. His talesm sparked gold. Black and gold, the Fallen glared at his brother. “And I allowed you to persuade me. Now my children think their father murdered by a foreign god. They fight to remain true, even as Galal’s soldiers slaughter them.”
“Tell them to be more careful then.” Jaron shrugged. “When the time comes, you will breed more.”
Vasu curled his lip. “I have not consorted with human women for years. You know I tire of their attention.”
“I hear sorrow,” Barak growled, rising to his feet and looking west to the ancient city. “What is this? I thought the female was unharmed.”
“She formed a bond with one of the Irin scribes. He sacrificed himself for her.” Jaron’s voice held a faint note of admiration. “She mourns.”
“Does this change anything?” Vasu asked.
“No.”
Barak cocked his head. “Why did you allow the sacrifice? Did you foresee it?”
“I did. I was… curious.”
“And she mourns him?” Barak’s voice held no pity. His gold eyes were impassive as he stared into the distance, the evening sun flushing his pale skin a gold-tinted rose.
“She does.”
“You were curious?” Vasu asked, his voice holding more judgment than Jaron expected. Then again, Vasu was younger than his brothers, a mere boy when the Fallen had left their home. He had lived longer in the human realm than the heavenly. “Toying with humans is beneath you.”
“His sacrifice was necessary for the pieces to be put into place.”
The three angels rested at the peak of the mountain, the hawks circling above them, screaming at their intrusion. Jaron, bronze and gold in the light, eyes watching the distance, seeing beyond time and space. His children, when it served him, bore traces of his foresight. Vasu stood slightly behind him, dark and brooding. His physical presence dwarfed his brothers, not in size, for the tall, lean human form he donned was not imposing; but his energy, the tightly chained physicality of his presence, marked him as different, more terrestrial, than his brothers.
Barak sat next to Jaron, his brother’s mirror in eternity. While Jaron saw, Barak heard. His solemn presence was the eternal and constant punctuation of Jaron’s curiosity. Friends. Brothers. The two angels had existed in tandem for millennia. And now they struggled to attain what others thought was lost.
“Do you truly think it possible?” Barak asked, rising to his feet. “After all this time?”
Jaron continued to stare. Something was stirring in his vision. “Seven years or seven million, brother. He does not see time as we do. It has to be possible.”
A flicker. A wavering in the heavenly realm as the stars danced above. Jaron stood and walked to the edge of the cliff.
Barak asked, “What is this I hear?” His eyes sought Jaron’s, which were wide and filled with a long-lost emotion.
Wonder.
“A… complication.”
Vasu darted to his side. “What? What do you see?”
“Look, my brothers.”
Then Jaron opened his vision, sending it to the two angels at his side. All three looked curiously at the woman crouched in a hotel room. All three heard the words she uttered, then the tearing of the heavenly realm.
Vasu blinked. “Unexpected.”
“Does this change anything?” Barak asked.
“No. He was necessary to keep her alive. Other than that, he is incidental.”
“The female did this,” Vasu said.
“So it would seem.”
Barak said, “We knew her powers would be unstable.”
Vasu lifted an eyebrow, a decidedly human gesture Jaron wondered if he was aware of. “Is it any wonder our sons fear them?” he murmured.
“She is a means to an end,” Jaron said. “That is all.”
Barak and Vasu exchanged a look but did not argue with their brother.
Vasu and Barak asked in unison, “Does this change our course?”
“No,” Jaron said, his eyes narrowed on a dark riverbank. “We do what we always do. We watch.”
Chapter One
Anatolia, Turkey
He stared at the whirl of stars overhead, feeling their loss even as the soft grass caressed his back. They danced, tremulous in his vision, as her voice floated away on the night breeze.
Come back to me.
As the words drifted away, he caught flashes of another life.
Dark curls lifting in the breeze as the sun flashed on water. Rocking. Snatches of foreign voices and scents.
“Do you like to travel alone?”
“What?”
“Am I not allowed to ask you questions?”
“It’s unusual.”
“Call me unusual, then.”
He closed his eyes to the stars. Another vision. Arms and legs tangled together. Sun-darkened skin against milky-white. She arched above him, her hand pressed to the carved wall of the cave as she sighed a name.
His name.
“Malachi…”
Her face flush with pleasure.
Her face.
Gold eyes and fair skin. Her mouth parted. She was speaking.
Speaking.
Screaming…
Hidden in the shadows, he saw her. Surrounded by grime and the scent of foul water. Saw her eyes widen in horror. Then…
Black.
The man sat up with a gasp, looking around with wide eyes. The river was familiar. But not. The air didn’t smell as it should. There was an acrid tinge of smoke in the breeze and lights in the distance. He pushed to his knees, his legs feeling stiff and uncertain, as if he hadn’t used them in days. He stared down at his bare chest and arms, frowning. Something was missing. Something lacked. But he couldn’t find it in the jumble of his thoughts.
Everything was confusion.
He finally stood and, ignoring the rocks on the riverbank, made his way downstream. There were always humans if you followed the water. His father had taught him that.
He thought his father had taught him that.
The man walked for what could have been hours. He had no sense of the passing time. There was only night and one foot stepping in front of the other. The sound of water and the occasional low of a cow. Step by step, he made his way toward the lights.
The lights appeared from behind a grove of olive trees. As he approached, he realized it was a home, but not like any other in his hazy memory. A dog began barking at him, so the man hung back near the edge of the trees, not wanting to frighten the humans.
Humans would be afraid of his kind.
There was a slamming door, then a man walked out, calling something in a foreign tongue. He looked like a farmer, his pants were stained with the mud from the fields, and his grey hair was mussed as if he’d worn a cap all day. The farmer’s voice rose as he shushed the dog and looked into the dark orchard.
The man stepped forward, holding up his hands to show he wasn’t dangerous. As the farmer caught sight of him, he stopped. He shouted, gesturing for the stranger to go away, no doubt alarmed by the man’s nakedness.
The farmer couldn’t understand him, and the man knew that was wrong.
Shaking his head, he held out his arms, trying to make the farmer understand he wasn’t a threat. That he needed…
What did he need?
Come back to me.
He needed to get back to the woman.
He didn’t know her name, didn’t know where she was or who she was…
Then he realized he didn’t know who he was, either.
I don’t know who I am.
He felt as if the air had left his lungs. His arms dropped, the farmer’s anger forgotten. The dog’s barks faded into the background as he closed his eyes and tried to control the panic.
I don’t know who I am.
Something in his expression must have given the farmer pause, because he stopped shouting and stepped closer. He said something else the man didn’t understand, but this time it sounded like a question. He ignored the human, clenching his eyes closed, trying to remember. Remember anything. Even his name—
“Malachi,” the woman had sighed.
His name.
Her soft voice had named him Malachi.
If he knew nothing else, he knew his name.
Malachi opened his eyes and took a breath to center himself.
The old farmer stepped through the gate. He’d grabbed a bedsheet from the line in the farmyard and held it out, speaking in a lower voice. Malachi took it, wrapping it around his body and cutting the chill of wind that had begun to bite his bare skin. The farmer motioned him closer, obviously concerned. He waved for Malachi to bend down, so he did. The farmer ran a hand along Malachi’s scalp, turning his head back and forth, muttering under his breath.
Malachi realized he was looking for injuries. Moved by the human’s kindness, he instinctively stepped away from the farmer’s hands.
He wasn’t supposed to touch humans. He did remember that.
The farmer spoke again, motioning Malachi through the gate and pointing at an outbuilding that looked like a metal-clad barn. Then he raised his voice again, shouting at the house until the door slapped open and a female voice yelled back.
There was a confused exchange as the old farmer led Malachi to the barn and flipped a switch on the wall that illuminated the interior with blinding false lights.
No, not false. Malachi knew what they were. They were the electric lights the humans had invented, fed by the manufactured energy they used to power all sorts of things. Lights. Musical players. Machines. Malachi caught sight of the machine at the end of the barn.
A tractor. The name popped into his mind before he had a chance to catch the source. Snatches of knowledge kept bubbling up, unpredictable and elusive. Disconnected from one thing to the next, he realized he knew the name of the tractor and what it did but had no idea what language the man was speaking. And some instinctive part of him knew that he should know. Knew that if he could just find some of the language written…
There.
Malachi blinked, ignoring the old man who ushered him to a chair by the workbench. He didn’t even notice when the farmer walked out; his eyes were glued to the paper on the table. He grabbed it as his heart began to race. Letters and characters always made sense. He sat down in the old chair and traced his hands over each one, learning its shape, letting his mind unlock its secrets.
The curve of an S, like a serpent in the grass, hissing its tongue.
The circled perfection of the O.
The slashing strength of the V.
His mind drank them up like a beast deprived of water. The letters turned into words, the words jumped into sentences. And as the meaning of the letters crept into his mind, Malachi felt a surge of power. The shouts on the other side of the wall began to make sense.
“—could be!”
“…looks hurt, not dangerous.”
“…no head wounds. …if he was attacked? Do you want…?”
Malachi glanced at the front of the paper. Then at the date. He understood the date, even if it didn’t make sense. The year seemed wrong, but then, what did he know? He read the headlines.
Protests Spread to Ankara
Economic Forecasts by the EU Favorable into 2014
Tourism Down in Istanbul for Summer Months
The letters soothed his mind, ordering the chaotic thoughts that tumbled and twisted. More pieces fell into place. He was in Turkey, in Anatolia, where he had been born. But it was hundreds of years later, and he knew his family was no longer here. But others were, and he needed to find them. Others of his race would be able to help him. Perhaps they would know why he couldn’t remember anything. Did he need to go to Istanbul? Part of him latched on to that idea while a darker whisper warned him to avoid that ancient city.
The woman.
Where was the woman? He continued flipping through the newspaper, and every picture jogged different memories. Rush-hour traffic in Ankara. An airplane crash. Charts showing the ebb and flow of commerce. His brain registered it all as he read, but nothing pointed him toward the woman. Nothing jogged the memories he was so desperate to find.
Malachi looked up when the barn door opened. The old farmer and his wife stood side by side, the man concerned, the woman obviously suspicious.
“Thank you,” Malachi said softly, not wanting to frighten them. “I must have been… I’m not sure. I may be in shock. I don’t know how I came to be in your field.”
The old man blinked. “So you are Turkish? We thought you might be a tourist who was robbed. Who are you? What happened?”
“I… I’m not sure, exactly. I know my name is Malachi, but my memory…” He frowned and rubbed a hand through his hair. She’d told him he needed a haircut. He cocked his head at the bubble of memory. “I’m remembering more and more. But nothing makes sense. I was born here, I think.”
“Tell us their name. We will find them for you.”
“No… no, they’re all gone now. I just… I need to find—”
“Who?” The farmer’s wife spoke. “Is there someone we can call for you? Perhaps we can take you to the hospital in Polatlı? Your name is Malachi? What kind of name is that? English? You don’t look English.”
Malachi shook his head. “I don’t need a hospital. I feel fine, just confused.”
The cave. There was a place with many caves. A place he and the woman had been. They’d been safe there. He remembered the feeling of safety. Was the woman still in the caves?
“But if you don’t remember anything, then shouldn’t you see a doctor?” the farmer asked. “That is not normal. You are a young man. Perhaps there is some illness in your mind that—”
“I need to find a place with caves,” Malachi said, standing abruptly, suddenly confident in his destination. He heard the farmer’s wife gasp and her eyes widened as she glanced down. Malachi realized the sheet he’d tucked around his waist had fallen off. Clearing his throat, he reached down and wrapped it around himself again.
The farmer only looked amused. “With caves? A place with caves? There are caves all over Turkey.”
Malachi’s heart sank. “I remember being in a cave. I have this memory of my…” What was the human word? “Wife. My wife and I. There was a house in the caves.”
The old woman cocked her head. “You were living in a cave with your wife?”
“I think so. Or… we were staying there. There was a bed and… a desk. A washroom, even. I… I don’t know more than that.”
They exchanged a look, and the old woman shrugged. “Cappadocia, maybe?”
“One of the cave hotels?” the farmer asked. “Perhaps they took a holiday.”
“I can’t think of any other place. Who lives in the caves these days?”
“Cappadocia?” Malachi said, searching his mind. There was a faint memory… Yes. His father had gone to Cappadocia to study when he was a boy. There were scribes there—
Scribes.
He took a quick breath as another bubble of memory rose. He was a scribe. That was why the letters spoke to him. He was a scribe and others of his kind were in Cappadocia.
“Yes,” he said in a more confident voice. “In Göreme. I have people there. People who will pay you if you bring me back. I need… I need to find her. I think she is there.”
The farmer’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? I still think it might be a good idea for you to visit a hospital. You can always call them—”
“No.” Malachi realized the farmer was talking about using the telephone. “I… don’t remember any telephone numbers.” The more he searched his mind, the more he remembered. Odd things. He had crystal-clear pictures of his childhood, but couldn’t remember his mother’s name. He knew he wasn’t human, but also knew he couldn’t tell the humans what he was. He could picture faces, but not in context. He’d traveled the world—he knew that—but he wasn’t sure if he could drive a car. It was as if he’d been put back together from pieces, but too many of them were missing to create a clear picture.
And he couldn’t remember her name. He desperately wanted to remember her name. Remember more about her. But other than a few brief memories, his mind was silent.
“I have a friend who could take you,” the farmer said. “He has a truck going to Kayseri tomorrow. I can ask if you can go along.”
“I don’t have any money to pay…”
The farmer shook his head. “I can sense you are an honest man. I know these things. You will pay him when you get there. Or send money back.”
The wife’s raised eyebrow told Malachi she was more skeptical, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she said, “I will get you some blankets. You’re welcome to sleep on the cot over there.” She pointed at the corner where a small pallet lay. “Are you hungry?”
He nodded. His stomach had been aching since he woke. “I don’t remember the last time I ate.”
“I’ll get you a plate then. Osman will bring it out after he’s called Ibrahim.”
“Thank you.” Malachi sat again. “I cannot thank you enough. I promise I will repay your kindness somehow.”
The woman’s voice softened. “I hope you find your wife. Sleep well. I’ll send extra blankets. The nights are getting cold.”
He slept deeply that night. Malachi dreamed he was running in a dark forest. He knew he was searching for her, but no matter which way he turned, the paths all led to dead ends. He could hear her crying somewhere. The sound almost brought him to his knees. She needed him. She was as lost as he was, but so far away.
Come back to me.
He heard her whisper it again. His soul raged in pain and anger, and Malachi knew he would hear her his whole life. She would call and he would answer. He belonged to her as surely as she belonged to him.
When he woke, the sky was still black, but he was more determined than ever.
The truck came at dawn, the honk of the horn answered by the old farmer’s friendly yell and the smell of breakfast wafting from the house. Malachi dressed in the too-small clothes the farmer named Osman had given him, apparently left from a cousin who’d lived there briefly. The pants were too short and a little baggy, but the T-shirt fit him well enough. He kept looking down at his arms, sensing something was wrong… but they were fine. The skin was smooth and unmarred by injuries or scars. He shook his head and went out to meet the driver.
Osman’s friend, Ibrahim, was a delivery driver for a shipping company out of Ankara. He was taking a load of wool to Kayseri and bringing back finished textiles. As he was an old friend of Osman’s, he was more than happy to do the favor, though he couldn’t promise how fast Malachi would be delivered. They took off as the sun was rising, Malachi shaking Osman’s hand briefly, conscious of his growing strength, careful not to hold the farmer’s hand too long.
Malachi could sense some energy growing. It made him edgy. Uncomfortable.
Luckily, Ibrahim didn’t ask many questions; he mostly wanted an audience. Ibrahim liked to talk. Malachi sat back, amused by the humorous old man, smiling for the first time as he listened to the raucous jokes and fantastic stories of the truck driver. Two hours later, he drifted into a fitful sleep, only to wake when the truck jerked to a halt.
Ibrahim was smiling. “What was that?”
“What?”
“That language you were speaking! I’ve never heard it before, even in Istanbul.”
What language had it been? Probably the language of his thoughts and dreams. The one he knew the humans weren’t supposed to know about.
Malachi decided to play dumb. “I have no idea.” He smiled. “How could I? I was sleeping.”
Ibrahim laughed. “Fair answer, friend! Well, we’re here.”
Malachi looked around the dusty town, but nothing seemed familiar. “In Cappadocia?”
“Osman said you had people in Göreme. I brought you to Göreme.”
Cars and pedestrians were scattered around a lively intersection, but Malachi could tell it was a very small town. Surely, once he was walking, he’d recognize something.
“Where are the caves?”
Ibrahim laughed again. “It’s Göreme! There are caves everywhere. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to a hospital?”
“No.” Malachi sat up, spying something out of the corner of his eye that looked familiar. It was a restaurant with a balcony. Red umbrellas shaded the tables. There was something about the balcony… “No, I just realized where I am.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded, reaching for the door handle, suddenly eager to explore. He halted when Ibrahim’s arm shot out.
“Wait.” The old man reached for his wallet. “I like you. Take a little money, just so I’m not so worried, eh?”
“I don’t—”
“Please, take it.” He held out some notes. “I’ll give you my card. If you want, you’ll pay me back when you find your people. But Allah would not be pleased if I sent you away with nothing. Take enough to be safe for a day or two, okay? And you’ll have my phone number, too.”
Touched by the man’s generosity, Malachi smiled. “You are a good man, Ibrahim. And you tell very good jokes, even though I didn’t understand all of them.”
Ibrahim roared with laughter. “Well, you have brain damage! What can I expect?”
A few minutes later, Malachi waved as Ibrahim drove down the road, then he turned and searched for the restaurant. He walked slowly, hoping that, somehow, things would start to make sense. As he passed the restaurant, he caught the edge of a sign for a rug shop and knew he’d walked by it before.
She swung her arms as she walked, and Malachi let his brush against her. Just the brush of contact. Just so she knew…
He turned right, then right again at a cafe with a cracked window.
She stopped, her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she caught the tenor of his thoughts. Embarrassment, but desire, too. He knew she wanted him…
Up the hill he climbed, until he’d left the shops behind and the streets were filled with stone houses. A striped cat walked along the top of a wall, following him as he searched for clues. At each intersection, he’d see something.
An orange tree that tilted to one side.
A wall with colorful graffiti no one cared to paint over.
An abandoned cupboard with grass growing through the bottom.
Each turn led him up the hill and farther away from the town center, but with each step, his sense of familiarity grew.
She was chatting about something with a dark-haired man. Laughing at some joke he wasn’t a part of. He was irritated by their ease together.
At the end of the road, a house rose into the cliffs. Or, he should say, a group of houses. There were buildings stacked at the base and rooms carved into the cliffs with stairs leading up. A wall surrounded the old compound, but no graffiti covered it. Trees grew over the walls and he could hear voices whispering within. He didn’t recognize the language.
Here.
She was here. She had to be.
Malachi stepped up to the large wooden door in the wall and lifted the knocker, banging it down as the voices beyond the wall stopped. There were shuffling steps, then an old man opened the gate.
“Yes? How can I—sweet heaven!”
Malachi stood speechless as the old man’s face paled. His eyes were like saucers.
“Hello?”
“It can’t be…,” the man breathed out.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I… I think I—”
“You’re dead.” The man stepped back, and fear rose in his eyes. “You’re dead.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“What are you?”
“What?” Fear twisted Malachi’s heart. Perhaps he’d been wrong to come here.
The old man’s hands shook. “You wear the face of a dead man.”
“I don’t understand—”
“What are you?”
Anger rose up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m not dead, obviously. I just don’t remember—”
“Malachi?” The awestruck voice came from behind the old man.
Malachi raised his eyes to see the dark-haired man he’d seen in his memories. “I remember you.”
The other man’s eyes were also filled with fear. But it was a fear mixed with hope. “They said you were dead.”
“Who did? I don’t know what’s going on. Who—”
“It can’t be.” The dark-haired man stepped forward, his arm raised. He reached for Malachi, confusion written wide on his face. “They saw you die. Your dust rose. She felt your loss…” The man’s fingers touched Malachi’s shoulder and gripped. “You’re real. How are you real?”
A thick emotion filled his throat, and his eyes burned. “I don’t know what happened to me, but I need to find her.”
Another voice rose in a shout. “No!” The sound of running steps, then a tall blond man stood in front of him, mouth gaping. “No, I saw you die.”
“Maxim,” the dark-haired one said. “Are you sure?”
“How can you even ask me that?” he cried. “We all saw him die, Rhys. You saw her grieve. This is something… This is not our brother!”
She grieved… For him? Fear and shock and anger wrestled within him. Malachi said, “I don’t know who your brother is, I just need to find her. Where is she?”
“You will not hurt her!” the blond man yelled. “Whatever thing you are, you’ll keep away from—”
“But Max”—the dark-haired man named Rhys stepped between his friend and Malachi—“if it is him—”
“It can’t be!”
“What if it is?” He held the blond man back by the shoulders. “What if some miracle—”
“Miracle? Is this the time of the ancients? This is evil. Evil wearing the face of our—”
“I need to find my wife!” Malachi roared. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know who I am. But I know I heard her. Heard her calling me to come back to her. I just need to—”
“What?” Rhys had frozen, turning to look at Malachi, even as he continued to hold Maxim back. “What did she say?”
“I said, I need to find—”
“No,” he hissed. “What did she say?”
“I don’t—”
“When you heard her”—Rhys stepped closer, looking Malachi in the eye—“what did she say?”
Malachi tried to calm his racing heart. “Vashama canem. She said, ‘Come back to me.’”
All the color drained from Rhys’s face. “Heaven above.”
