“You are abandoning this side for good?”
“There is something I need on the far side, something I have to have. But I will be back and forth. It’s going to take decades, maybe longer, to change everything. Cormia is going to help.”
“And you shall take only her, as a male does?”
“Yes. If the others find mates of their choosing, then I will accept all their female offspring into the traditions of the Chosen and urge Wrath to take their males into the Brotherhood, whether they are born here or on the far side. But I will have only Cormia.”
“What of the purity of the blood? The strength that comes of it? Are there to be no standards? The breeding was deliberate, to beget strength from strength. What if a Chosen chooses one not of a Brotherhood line?”
He thought of Qhuinn and Blay. Strong boys who would be stronger males over time. Why shouldn’t they be in the Brotherhood?
“It would be up to Wrath. But I would encourage him to accept the worthy regardless of lineage. Courage of heart can make a male taller and stronger than he is physically. Look, the race is failing, and you know it. We’re losing ground with every generation, and not just because of the war. The Lessening Society isn’t the only thing killing us. The traditions are, too.”
The Scribe Virgin drifted over to the fountain.
There was a long, long, long silence.
“I feel as though I have lost,” she said softly. “All of you.”
“You haven’t. Not at all. Be a mother to the race, not a warden, and you will win everything you want. Set us free and watch us thrive.”
The sound of the chiming fountain seemed to swell, growing louder, as if catching the drift of her emotions.
Phury looked at the falling water, seeing it catch the light and twinkle like stars. The rainbows in each of the droplets were impossibly beautiful, and as he watched the flashing gems in every fragment of the whole that fell back down, he thought of the Chosen and whatever individual gifts they possessed.
He thought of his Brothers.
He thought of their shellans.
He thought of his beloved.
And he knew the whys of her silence. “You won’t lose us. We will never leave you behind and forget you. How could we? You birthed us and squired us and strengthened us. But now… now is our time. Let us go and we will be closer to you than ever before. Let us take the future into our hands and shape it as best we can. Have faith in your creation.”
In a rough voice, she said, “Have you the strength for this, Primale? Can you lead the Chosen even after all you have been through? Your life has not been easy, and the road you are contemplating is neither level nor well of surface.”
As Phury stood on his one leg and his prosthesis, and thought about the days of his existence, and weighed the mettle of his marrow, he came up with only one reply.
“I’m here, aren’t I,” he pronounced. “I’m still standing, aren’t I. You tell me whether I have the fucking strength or not.”
She smiled a little then-though he couldn’t see her face, he knew she smiled.
The Scribe Virgin nodded once. “So be it, then, Primale. So it shall be as you wish.”
She turned and disappeared into her private quarters.
Phury exhaled as though someone had pulled a stopper out of his ass.
Holy. Shit.
He’d just blown apart the whole spiritual fabric of the race. As well as its biological one.
Man, if he’d known where the night was going to lead, he’d have had a bowl of Wheaties before getting off that bedding platform.
He turned and headed back to the Sanctuary. First stop would be Cormia; then the two of them would go to the Directrix and-
He froze as he threw open the door.
The grass was green.
The grass was green and the sky was blue…and the daffodils were yellow and the roses were a Crayola rainbow of colors… and the buildings were red and cream and dark blue…
Down below, the Chosen were spilling out of their living quarters, holding their now colorful robes and looking around in excitement and wonder.
Cormia emerged from the Primale temple, her lovely face stunned as she looked around. When she saw him, her hands clamped to her mouth and her eyes started to blink fast.
With a cry, she gathered her gorgeous pale lavender robe and ran toward him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He caught her as she leaped up to him and held her warm body to his.
“I love you,” she choked out. “I love you, I love you… I love you.”
In that moment, with the world that was his in transformation, and his shellan safely in his arms, he felt something he never would have imagined.
He finally felt like the hero he had always wanted to be.
Chapter Fifty-one
Back on the far side, in the Brotherhood’s mansion, John Matthew sat in a stuffed chair across from the bed where Tohr lay sleeping. The Brother hadn’t moved since they’d gotten home hours and hours ago.
Which seemed to be the SOP for tonight. It was like everyone in the house was asleep, a collective, pervasive exhaustion overwhelming them all.
Well, everyone except John. And the angel who was pacing in the guest room next door.
Tohr was on both their minds.
God, John had never expected to feel bigger than the Brother. He’d never expected to be physically stronger. He’d certainly never thought about taking care of the male. Or being responsible for him.
He had all of that going on and more, now, because Tohr had lost sixty pounds, easy. And had the face and body of a male who’d gone to war and been mortally injured.
It was weird, John thought. At first, he’d wanted the Brother to wake up right away, but now he was scared to see those eyes open. He didn’t know if he could handle being shut out. Sure, it would be understandable, given all that Tohr had lost, but… it would kill him.
Besides, as long as Tohr was still asleep, John wasn’t going to break down and sob.
See, there was a ghost in the room. A beautiful, red-haired ghost with a rounded pregnant belly: Wellsie was with them. In spite of her death, she was with them, and so was her unborn child. And Tohr’s shellan was never going to be far. There was no looking at Tohr without seeing her. The two had been inseparable in life, and they were in death as well. Sure as shit, Tohr might have been breathing, but he wasn’t alive anymore.
“Is that you?”
John’s eyes shot to the bed.
Tohr was awake and looking across the dim stretch that separated them.
John slowly stood up and straightened his T-shirt and jeans. It’s John. John Matthew.
Tohr didn’t say anything, just kept looking him up and down.
I went through the transition, John signed like a fool.
“You’re D’s size. Big.”
God, that voice was exactly like he remembered it. Deep as the bass note of a church organ and just as commanding. There was a difference, though. There was a new hollowness in the words.
Or maybe that was coming from the blank space behind those blue eyes.
I had to get new clothes. Jesus Christ, he was an idiot. Are you… are you hungry? I got roast beef sandwiches. And Pepperidge Farm Milanos. You used to like-
“I’m good.”
Can I get you something to drink? I got a thermos of coffee.
“Nah.” Tohr glanced over at the bathroom. “Shit, indoor plumbing. Been a while. And no, I don’t need help.”
It was painful to watch-something out of a future John didn’t think would come for hundreds and hundreds of years: Tohrment as an old male.
The Brother put a shaking hand on the edge of the sheets and dragged them off his naked body inch by inch. He paused. Then slid his legs out so they dangled to the floor. There was another pause before he heaved himself up, his once-wide shoulders straining to bear weight that was little more than that of a skeleton.
He didn’t walk. He shuffled like the advanced elderly did, head down, spine curving toward the floor, hands up as if he expected to fall at any moment.