Author's Note: If anyone's curious, yes, this is the sphere detailed in Blind Spot's Ch. 9. It's located there if you need a refresher.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Paine condemns me without even knowing it.
"They're still keeping tight watch over all of them. But I'm keeping my eyes open." On the sphere, she is shaking her head and I am hypnotized with my own doom. "If it looks like I can get away with one, I'll bring it back."
Trema's grip is turning my hand numb.
"I just think we shouldn't do anything right now to make the instructors wary."
Dated three months ago, the tag said. Was it only so short a time ago that I sounded so young? So willing to trust?
"Better be careful, Paine." The camera angle shifts as the record continues to play, and I am glad that I cannot see my face on the screen. Being exposed to these reminders of the past is more than I think I can stand these days in Bevelle. It is hard enough to hear my voice saying such things--it would be useless to call out warnings to a screen, to have the person I am now lecture the person I was of twelve weeks prior. I can't tell my own memory not to believe. Not to trust.
But I wish I could. Very much.
The sphere clicks off. Trema and I are plunged back into the dim firelight as it writhes and twists upon the logs.
My words hang in the consul hall, repeating, throbbing in time with adrenaline.
"I just might prove you wrong."
"I just might prove you wrong."
I have been revealed as a traitor.
"Maester Kinoc," is as far as I manage to get before my voice becomes a cry. Trema's grip has tightened on my wrist. I swear I can feel the bones of my arm rubbing against each other.
"We will meet upon this later." Trema speaks patiently. He has all the time he needs to enunciate; I am hanging on his every sound. "We will speak at my leisure, and you will not run away."
To have my fate suspended must be intentional. My mind works feverishly, stringing logic together in the pattern I know of Yevon's habits. Trema must be waiting to see if I will expose others; he sets me free like a rabbit to see which way I will bolt, if there is a warren hidden to retreat to.
There is no reply to such a demand. I have no allies to betray. I made sure of that by coming to Bevelle.
"Agree." It is an order.
I am silent.
"Agree," Trema repeats, more forcefully this time despite the ancient's quaver in his voice, and the world in my sight begins to dissolve in a blur. My eyes are watering from pain. I can't say I feel the impact of my knees to the floor, save in some distant report of nerves complaining that this is twice in one day I have fallen. If I keep such habits, I can expect bruises as dark as plums.
Still, I say nothing.
When the negative energy of Trema's spell burns its way into my flesh, I barely feel it. Everything about the man's touch is freezing, chilling the life from me; in this way it is a blessing as I do not realize I should hurt until the coils of the spell reach my shoulder and dive for my heart.
My muscles refuse to support me. The floor of the meeting hall tilts, sliding sideways and then vertical. Firelight streaming dull from the hearth fades; I see only darkness around me as I fall into a realm of infinite gravity pulling me ever onwards.
I do not think I black out. Not entirely. There were too many stars migrating in my vision, and I desperately trying to concentrate on all of them at once. Still, it is a surprise to me when the dizziness retreats and I discover that my face is pressed against the floor.
Lying prone for longer can't be that bad a decision. Everything is wonderfully numb. Snapping out of this haze just so I can realize I have lost a limb, or maybe just some fingers--that is a discovery that can be put off.
Perhaps Nooj and I can reconcile together over a mutual dependence on prosthetics.
Soles scuffing against the floor finally bring me back from my disorientated trance. Trema is standing above me. When I tilt my head back to look up, forced to roll half-over to accomplish this, I see the founder holding the crimson sphere.
Knuckles like the bony talons of an eagle clasp the orb. I can do nothing but watch as he secures it within one of his own pockets; even though I force myself to remember the location, there is only enough strength in me to bear witness. I cannot stop Trema. His actions are at once creaking stiff with age, and filled with the ruthless power of determination. With so little effort the founder drained the strength from me. I do not doubt he could have taken the rest.
He recovers his outer robe from its hook with the same dissonance of motion, this elderly priest who walks and talks like a man gone senile up until he drives in the knife. It goes around his shoulders, and Trema secures the loops in front with a bemused dexterity.
There are no further words exchanged. The founder leaves the hall, and the twin doors close behind him with the same finality as a tomb's gate swinging shut.
Logs chitter to each other in the hearth in the tongue of combustion while the fire exhausts itself to embers.
At least something in this room is enjoying itself.
By the look of it, I am uninjured. All my fingers are present. They're attached to my hand, too, which is always a good thing, and that hand to the rest of my arm. Nothing seems permanently damaged; even my nerves have begun recovery as I try to rub the life back into my stunned limb.
Trema did not summon guards to hold me prisoner. He knows I am trapped in Bevelle by my own dread until he is ready for me.
I think I am going to be sick.
Evening meals are well over by the time I finally stumble out of the meeting hall, one hand wrapped around my stomach as if there was a wound gutting me open and I still desperate to shove my intestines back in. I don't think I have the appetite anyway.
At no time did I swear aloud by Trema's terms. He and I both know that they bind me regardless. Even as I step out into the fresh air of winter, I feel the leash of the founder settling around my neck as secure as if the man swore me by leather and rope.
I could try to run. Dopha with his mastery of distance equations could summarize for me just how far I would get before Yevon's guards came pounding after.
Even with the vision of an army hunting me, the temptation to flee is overwhelming. Doubt nips at my resolve. I could leave Bevelle, I could find Paine and Gippal again and the three of us together might have a chance at finding our answers. So long as we remained at each other's sides, surely no obstacle existed that we could not overcome.
So long as we were together, we could survive.
Just like the Squad did.
I push myself away from the doors, finding the familiar track of my thoughts almost as ill as my nerves. The Squad failed us. Friends blinded me. I should know better by now; I will stand alone, or not at all.
It is a careful trip back down the stairwells from the meeting hall. Several times my vision darkens; the dizziness that bubbles through my blood is enough to find me groping for support against a wall each time, not daring to walk blindly across the bridges. Bevelle is a giant smear of white. The buildings are grey outlines fuzzed against a flattened sky, and if it was not still snowing, I might be tempted to lie down on the ground until I have my strength back.
It is colder out here than I expected. So cold that I do not realize it at first when I have begun to shiver badly enough to have my teeth chatter. Did I leave my own cloak back at the meeting hall? No; I never took it off to begin with. My memory stumbles along as it rewinds itself, trying to neatly avoid the moments that Trema tainted. No, I am still wearing all my layers, despite how they itch.
So why am I freezing?
Maybe because I am crouching in the snow again, palms planted against the ground, fingers fanned. The ice is so pale in contrast to my skin. I stare at the shapes my hands make when they are spread wide as wingtips.
A bird. Tree branches. Gippal's ridiculous ribbed pants.
I am kneeling in the snow. When did this happen?
"Baralai?"
Like an animal crippled, I lift my head and try to turn it towards the sound. Was that voice familiar?
A rush of warmth descending and my answer comes in the form of robes rustling thick as field-grasses in summer. Coils of brown hair are all I see until I manage to focus properly on the face beneath. I recognize her by her nose; it is wide from being broken repeatedly and reset over the years. Even then, I blink.
"Gella?" It must be. No one else has that much of a glare while wearing one of those stupid formal hats. "Aren't you supposed to be at practice?" Words slow to keep from slurring them; even then, I think I have spoken them entirely out of order.
Gella's response is to attack me. Then I realize she is only grabbing my shoulders to haul me upright.
I make a note to thank her for this later.
"Finished that just half an hour ago. Dopha told us at dinner that you'd been doing him a favor at the consul, so... " her voice breaks off when I pull myself away from her, one hand cupping itself over my mouth. The act of her shaking me around has upset a delicate balance in my stomach. For a moment, I think I will be violently ill.
The nausea passes.
"Wha' happened?" Gella is studying my face. Her grip is practical, hometown accent slipping thick in her concern. Her priest sends her to voice lessons to correct this, but Gella ignores them in favor of me. "They do anything to you?" Eyes, intense. "Any of 'em hurt you wrong?"
It should worry me, that Gella knows to suspect such things.
I cannot explain to her that my distress comes from being outed to Trema himself. Or from being struck down by him as neatly as another man might slap a gnat's life from existence.
Instead I try to shake my head in the negative, end up coughing into her hand by accident. Finally I give up and simply resort to concentrating on not passing out. She seems to accept this answer, though she tactfully wipes off her palm on my sleeve.
Gella's fingerpads are roughened from her practice sessions. Rightfully, her skin should be as stiff as untreated leather from sparring, but her priest keeps her busy with books. It is a wonder that Gella manages to sneak away for time at all in the courtyards. I can tell she has been indulging because there is sweat-grain beneath the nails of her fingers, staining hands as sturdy as a farmer's.
She has the same practicality as one too. "Belly-rubbers," she spits. I do not understand the reference to her curse, but I assume it is a harsh one judging from how her face screws up when she says it. Then Gella turns her attention back to me. "Get to your room. You want me t' walk you there?"
The taste of my mouth when I swallow is as sour as week-old milk. "No. I should be all right." I say this with more conviction than I feel, which is easy because I feel nothing.
Standing involves supporting myself on the Lustrum. I wipe the clumps of snowdrift from my robes. When I get to my quarters, I would do better to change out of these clothes before the damp melts all the way through. Maybe into something simpler, so I can run in it and provide the gunners with decent target practice.
Gella does not seem to trust me when I take a step away from her; one of her hands remains extended just in case I look about to topple.
"Pale 'us a pyrefly," she mutters. In her distraction, Gella's words merge into a curious mix of temple-guided formality and her own childhood upbringing. "I'll send Shelinda up with tea."
This would make it twice in one day that Shelinda has been used to task. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. "Really, I'll be fine. You don't have to bother her--"
I am dismissed by a scornful cough on Gella's part. "Girl could use getting told what to do so she doesn't busy hersel' in all our business. Always asking us if we know what t' do next, sticking her nose in here, there, everywhere." The Lustrum's fingers wind themselves in my robes and heft me steady when I start to slide back down again. "You... sure you don't want me t' give you a hand, Baralai?"
I debate how far I have managed to travel during all my protests to Gella thus far.
"Maybe."
She interprets this as affirmative. I do not stop her. One arm, the numb one, gets slung around her shoulders and Gella grabs my robes at the waist to keep me in line. Despite the lateness of the hour, the evening has cast a blue haze radiating across the snowdrifts; winter may have the sun set early, but it compensates by having the ice reflect back the moon's light.
No one will care about two figures attached on the way back to the Lustrates floors. If any of the guards look, we can easily pass as a pair of drunkards. They can spend their time betting on when and where we will fall off the landings.
Business unfinished nags at me as we travel. "I need the crates in the hall shipped," I manage slowly as we both stumble along, speaking mostly into Gella's shoulder but also into her hat. "Up to lord Trema's. I need to do that before anything else."
Mention of the spheres is a mistake on my part. Gella's mind is a shrewd one; her priest has some merit for noticing that much. "Lord Trema cares about Larsolia that much, huh? Fool man. Even if he cozies up to the elders of it, no town's going to want t' hold spheres for New Yevon if they know they'll get fiends for it."
Thankfully, she is unaware of all the details.
"It was him that got you, wasn't it?"
Or she could be just as acute as ever.
"Gella," I begin to say, hoping to excuse the slowness of my speech on weariness.
"Don't say it." A roll of her shoulder, and she is yanking me along like an oversized sack of grain. "You don't need to. I'll tell Dopha t' get you off any duties until you're feeling better."
"But--"
"Quiet."
Each of my protests has escalated Gella's movements until we are both at a brisk walk. More accurately, it is the Lustrum who is keeping such a pace; I am unable to do much more than attempt to lean on her and not stumble too much.
"Here you are," she announces once my door comes in sight. Still disoriented from how quickly she has attempted to drag me, I can only give a slight nod of gratitude. The woman's body language is of barely contained anger that I do not know how to address at this moment; her jaw is firmly set, and she does not look directly at me.
In that, Gella reminds me of Paine.
I decide to think of something other than memories. The preservation of my life is an excellent start.
Having no other idea of what to do with me, Gella props me in the doorway while she jiggles the doorlatch open. A groaning of the door indicates her success. "There y' go. Don't worry about the crates neither. I'll handle that."
"Gella?"
The Lustrum is already halfway down the hall when my voice stops her. All that pent-up emotion is bearing her as aggressive as a bull. She turns her head; judging from her expression, the woman must have expected to see me collapsed on the floor again. "Neh?"
"Thank you."
Two words soften her innate scowl. Then it returns in full force. "You get in, lie down. I'll go haul Shelinda out of bed if I have to." The Lustrum's mouth purses in vexation at what must be her own thoughts; the words she says next are nothing other than firm. "Rest yourself, Baralai. Priests be damned, we've got care of you."