“I will be back immediately following our search to let you know what I have found.” Bravis signaled to Gryshen as if she were completely in control of her faculties. He gave Jode a look that suggested he stay put, and off he swam.
“Gryshie.” Jode just spoke the one word, cupping his hands on hers, looking as though he wanted to signal streams of words, but was afraid to do it. He paused, softly squeezing her hand. “Gryshie, everything is going to be okay. You are going to be okay, and we are going to be okay.” His signal was hushed in the dark water, and it carried the uneasy tone of a babe trying to convince themself that there is no monster in their chamber. But he forced a small grin, and just kept patting her hand.
“Jode, Jode . . .” She had to tell him something. She needed him to do something. But her thoughts were drifting away again. And she went back into complete darkness.
There were three times that she could remember feeling steady and sure. The first was when she was very small, and her father gave her rides upon his back. Her mother was still alive then, a distant memory in the background of the picture, though.
Daddy gave her reins made of weeds and helped her tie them around his chest. She’d lay across his back, barking out orders while he swam in the wild, zigzag patterns she’d direct. He seemed to never tire, and she never tired of telling him what to do. One day, her father showed her the beluga. It was not yet a season old, but some hunters had found it far out on a hunt, motherless. They’d figured a shark had made it an orphan. Sodaren had been looking after the animal at the stable, getting her acclimated to her new home, when her father spotted her.
“She’ll be taken out for rides, on the occasional hunt when she grows much bigger and stronger . . . but you may think of her as yours, if you’d like, Gryshie.” The little beluga looked anxious tucked into her father’s strong arms.
Gryshen reached out a small hand to pet her, and she leaned into her touch. This little thing trusted her without reservation, and the seasons which followed, exploring the open water with her, circling their cavern home and observing her tribe from a private distance, offered an even deeper sureness. Misra could count on her. She could count on Misra. They could both count on the sea.
The third time? Well, the third time she felt sure was when she kissed Coss. When she loved him.
Not steady, though. Never steady.
The wild rocking movement pulled her back.
“There’s no sign of any of them.” She saw a small, watchful guard swaying back and forth as she talked to Bravis, her eyes shifting toward the chamber opening, then to Gryshen, then back to the opening.
“All of the Rakor? The whole pod?”
“After the leaders left, the others were tailing behind. That’s what I heard at the hub.”
“Did they ask you about it? Our ilorays? Did they ask what was happening?”
“Oh yes. But I told them it was all under control, and that all would be answered soon. That is right, isn’t it?”
“Of course. Of course it’s right.” There was that uncharacteristic shaking in Bravis’s tone again.
“Sir, may I ask what is going on? Just so I understand what I’m doing.”
Bravis gave a short shake of his head, then spoke as if she had asked nothing. “Keep posted by the openings, just in case one of them returns. That goes for the rest of you,” he commanded to three other guards behind her.
“Thank you,” he signaled as an afterthought while they made their way out.
The room now held only a bleary Gryshen, her torn-apart brother, and the most stable iloray they knew, after the one who had just left them behind.
“Where’s Dad?” Jode asked, a twist on the familiar word as he spoke it. But if Dad was where all the lost things go, Gryshen was sure he was in the Blessing Chamber, the place where they prepared the dead for their final ride to the bone pit. It was higher up, closer to the gravesite, but just a few stretches down from a maker station. This one was used for elaborate ceremonies, to put together scepters, sacred spears, special lanterns, or to repair or even recreate crowns.
One of the few things Gryshen had that came out of there was her necklace. She reached to touch it, and for the first time felt the wringing of her lungs, the tearing along her gills, that up until now she had just been numbly observing, like a bystander of her own body.
They made beautiful gifts in that room, treasures for the living and the dead. The more artistic of the makers made their way into this station. She only knew of one who currently held this job, but he was always busy, as ilorays were always birthing, dying, ruling, and living. She thought about him, the poetic maker, the one who used scraps from the human world, garbage and lost treasures, with the life around them: bones, shells, starfish, and sea.
Did he think of the babes being offered a dressed-up heirloom? Did he ever wish the happy couples well as he fashioned a Loving Lantern for their binding? Did he weep for her father, as even now, he must be using all his abilities to mold a keeper for him, a place to put his withering shell?
Did he cry as he pulled the glass orbs he had probably collected from the lamps on sunken ships? Or perhaps he was using something that would require more maintenance, more care on his part. Maybe the rich teakwood from a freshly found barrel. It would have to be changed frequently, of course. Oceas was especially hard on a thing like that. But that would be part of his reverence, wouldn’t it? Gryshen pictured the midaged iloray—a smooth-faced, smooth-eyed sort of lax. His name was Stoey, wasn’t it? She was sure that was it.
There was a solace in these thoughts, almost. A kind of peace, nearly. She could stretch her mind away from the lost father, drift past the lost love, and think about how very sad Stoey must be. Just think about him taking artifacts above water, talking with the other makers as they repaired lanterns and common spears. She could just see him mourning her father.
That was right. He would mourn and he would grieve. He would construct something beautiful to lock away Frall’s beautiful spirit, so Gryshen could always see his love, preserved. So he could go on being the leader of Rone. He could tease her, and advise her, and even scold her.
His soul would stay put, and she would never be left to die again. She would never be alone.
Never.
“Are you ready?”
“What?” She realized that Bravis and Jode had been holding an entire conversation while she had been busy removing herself from this reality.
“They’re going to change out the medicines on your gills.” Bravis was holding her hand, so warm. She had thought it was her brother, but Jode still floated like a lost child, only speaking necessary words. She wasn’t so sure that he was processing much more than she was.
“Okay” was all she could signal. It felt like an electric eel had wrapped itself around her skull as the ointment was gently rubbed off, then replaced.
“Open your mouth, please,” Apocay directed.
She obeyed, feeling something like seaweed pods, but larger, and almost unbearably bitter.
“I know it’s difficult, but you’ll have to swallow.”
Gryshen chewed the pods, finding a new distraction in the horrid flavor. She was sorry to swallow, because it meant she would have to come back to reality in the next moment.
Just as reality broke in, the brutal tearing she felt in her gills almost totally disappeared. Now it only felt tender, sore. The same went for her lungs. It really was powerful, the iloray’s ability to heal so rapidly.
“And how is it now?”
“Better.”