As they walked, Caitlin to the left of the Standor, where Vilu’s head lay on her shoulder, Caitlin was able to see the boy’s face. He would be all right physically, she believed, but his condition now was not what concerned her. If she permitted the destiny of Galderkhaan to take its course, Vilu would most likely be dead very soon—unless she informed the Standor what was to come and got him away from here.
But even that, like my presence here, may alter the course of future history, she thought. What if the Standor uses what I tell her and tries to prevent the catastrophe?
As they continued toward the shore, Caitlin briefly felt another tingling at the base of her skull, this one slightly longer than the previous experience. It had a pulsing, electric quality and only lasted a few seconds, but it had been there. There was no image associated with it, but when it left, Caitlin felt as though she were more alert, more present, more guarded, as though she’d had a shot of espresso.
She didn’t know what it was, but she knew what it wasn’t. It was not an assault, like being in the subway when she first saw Yokane causing her energies to come alive; it was not a reaching out, as when she channeled the power of the stones in Washington Square Park. This was something that came from within her, on its own.
Is it me or is it Bayarma trying to assert herself?
Uncertainty filled her soul. She did not want to leave if some part of Jacob were here, in this boy. And the question of what would happen to her soul if Bayarma reasserted control was anyone’s guess. She didn’t think she would just skip into another body—Qala’s or whoever else they might encounter. She had bonded with this family once before, and now she had connected with Bayarma for a reason.
Whether Caitlin wanted to or not, she was going to have to try and hold on long enough to determine whether it was Vilu or Jacob who was in the boy’s body.
“How is your strength?” Qala asked as they walked.
“All right, so far,” she replied.
“The tower is quite near,” the Standor said. “But if you like, I can send a carrier for you.”
“I’m able to make it,” Caitlin assured her.
Caitlin had no idea what a “carrier” might be until they reached another courtyard. The open, sun-drenched area was at least three times the size of the pool yard and there were at least twenty cigar-shaped airships about the size of minivans. She focused on the objects, not the light; it was disorienting to imagine that this is the same sun, the same light, that would one day shine in her own welcoming apartment, light the breakfast table she shared with her son.
The airships were hovering an average of ten feet above the ground. Plants that resembled modern jasmine were being unloaded from nets that hung tightly between them. Indeed, the balloons themselves bore a slight resemblance to their cargo: there were leaflike fins high on the envelopes, fore and aft, presumably to control the vessel in the strong atmospheric currents as it hovered in the clouds.
Jasmine, she thought. It had been present in some form since she had first met Maanik in the Pawars’ apartment. Was she drawn to it, it to her, or was it a coincidence? Or was she simply noticing it in her time because its presence here was informing the future… her future?
Caitlin couldn’t quite grasp that idea, the mechanics of that idea, so she forced herself to stay mentally rooted in this place—observing, collecting information, seeking some way to rekindle her energies.
Beyond the courtyard, down a wide, open road to the shore, Caitlin saw dozens of surface vessels, their small nets full of fish. They were riding waves that had a different action from any she had ever seen: the sea was smooth and then, about ten yards from shore, waves rose up and smashed down as if they were pumped from some deep coastal trough. She had no way of knowing whether it was a local or continental phenomenon. Local, most likely, since ships were coming to shore off to the sides. She wondered if it were artificial since the breakers created a breeze that blew a refreshing coolness into the courtyard and chased away the smell of fish. Heat, odor, and spoilage—as heralded by the obsessed Lasha—would be a problem during interminable hours of daylight.
Caitlin also saw more airships high in the sky, among the clouds. The same kinds of nets were strung between them with foliage of all kinds crowded against all four sides of each. Apparently, the clouds were a more accessible source of freshwater than whatever ice surrounded Galderkhaan. From the barrels that lined the streets she assumed that the harvest here was primarily jasmine, which must grow readily in this climate, by these means, and was light enough to be supported by the airborne nets.
It was a small but impressive spectacle of agrarian and oceanic commerce, as well as simple but effective engineering. Yet the tableau was almost unnaturally quiet, at least to her New York–accustomed ears; even Haiti and Phuket had more ambient noise than this with cars, radios, jets, helicopters, cell phones, and the other trappings of modern civilization. As far as she could see there weren’t fuel- or even steam-powered apparatuses; all the work was being managed by well-oiled pulleys, by weights and counterweights, and by hand. She also did not see smokestacks or chimneys, or even a hint of pollution corrupting the blue of the sky. Given what she knew of the Source, and what Lasha had said, the dwellings in Galderkhaan were apparently warmed during winter by subterranean pools of magma and water.
It was a clean, efficient way of living—more so, it seemed, than other ancient civilizations of more modern times.
And it is about to end, she could not help thinking.
Caitlin felt sick in her soul, even as she reminded herself that it was a Galderkhaani who would cause the catastrophe. Though she could not help but remember, with awful clarity, the vision of the dying as they tried to save their souls through the ritual of cazh, even as their bodies turned to ash, and how she had worked so hard to prevent that ascension—
“Now that we’re away from the others, I would like you to tell me the truth about the bracelet,” the Standor said. “About where you come from.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t look like a thief. And I do not think you are a liar.”
“It’s true, I am neither,” Caitlin assured her. “At least, I don’t think I am a thief. I truly do not know. What prompted you to ask?”
“Your jewelry is not made of Falkhaan silver.” She regarded Caitlin. “I have friends who are miners here. I know the local minerals and their impurities. The name on the bracelet is someone not from around here, or she would be known. You yourself say that you are from elsewhere. That you have a son elsewhere. Yet you also have some connection with this boy, who has never left this village. I saw it in the way you touched him.”
“That is true.”
“And being true, there must be an explanation.”
“I wish I had one,” Caitlin said, and meant it. “I felt as if I know him. Standor, maybe you can help me. You must have traveled the continent. Have you ever met anyone who has lost their memory?”
“Once, when I was still a novice,” Qala said. “I met a Priest. He was experimenting with a ritual and emerged from it saying strange things about other lands… nothing anyone could understand. And he couldn’t remember who he was, even when others told him.”