Chapter Thirty-Five: Dead Man Walking
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Miko. And blood.
At first, that was all Krista could see. All she could feel, clawing at her heart, strangling the air out of her lungs. All she could think. Scream, though she couldn't say a word.
Miko. And blood.
Krista forced herself to breathe past it.
Miko. And blood. But she could see now that he was still alive—his chest was moving, even if it was bloody—just not ready to get back up yet. Still alive, though. Kyp had stopped Gaffil before he could kill Miko.
Dejah was still fighting, Krista saw when she had pushed past the almost-loss. The woman was tiring, though. Krista wasn't much help in a sword fight, and she hadn't even started the training 'saber part of her Jedi instruction. But she had to be able to help by now, when both participants looked exhausted.
She didn't let herself go to Miko yet. She could feel him—strong and alive, hurt but not in serious danger—in that place where she felt the Force. Things would get worse if Dejah lost. Krista had to prioritize.
A few moments passed, then Krista spied her opportunity. She caught Dejah's eye, signalled her intent, then charged. Her twin daggers made defence difficult, but her darting attacks quickly worsened the soldier's condition. A slash across his sword arm—he didn't like that—and Dejah punched him in the face. He recovered, and kicked Dejah's feet out from under her.
While Dejah's sword was out of the picture, Krista's role momentarily became more precarious. Dejah rose slowly, tired and no doubt injured. The next time Dejah's sword made their opponent open a vulnerable side, Krista took a chance. She sheathed both daggers, and drew her blaster. She knocked aside his protective arm with a hard elbow jab. Before he could stop her, Krista pressed her blaster up against his chest. She shot twice, as quickly as her sore muscles would allow her.
The first shot hit him, and probably came near a lung, but at the very least some essential organs. The second blaster bolt, however, was skewed—the man having shuddered and pushed Krista back. She stumbled and fell backwards. Her head thumped against the ground. She lay stunned for a moment—
her vision blurred, and there were so many people, dying and dead and killing, and she hurthurthurt, and Miko, oh Force, no
—before she could recover. Ow. She had jarred her funny bone on the way down, and it tingled as she reached once more for her blaster. Krista didn't want to think about the stars she saw. Ow, stangit. But even as her arm was straightening out for a third shot, Dejah had risen behind the man. She slit his throat, and Krista shuddered as blood sprayed. Both women stared at him as he fell, and then, for a moment more, at each other.
Krista gulped for air when, seconds later, the fight caught up with her. Her injured arm, shallowly wounded but considerably battered, gave and she fell back to the ground. Her head ached; her mind was dazed.
And two of her nails were definitely broken. Raggedly, even. Ew.
She breathed deeply, then rolled into a sitting position. Miko. Her elbows stung, and her funny bone still tingled. She tried not to move her arms as she stood and walked toward her best friend.
Krista frowned when she saw that Dejah had beaten her to Miko's side. Not that it meant anything—Miko needed medical attention. And as far as present enemies went, there was only that guy Kyp fought—Gaffil, or something?—who remained alive. But Dejah's concern for Miko stirred a strange sensation in Krista's gut. I thought she didn't like guys, the blonde groused silently. Trying to stifle her response, Krista knelt next to Miko. She might have semi-purposely knocked Dejah's hands away from Miko's face. But she doubted Miko would really appreciate a stranger touching him anyway. Even if the stranger in question was an exotic woman with pretty features. Dejah had baggage.
Krista gently turned his face toward her. "Miko?" she said. "Miko, look at me."
He groaned, but opened his eyes. "Kris," he muttered.
She was a little too pleased that Dejah, kneeling next to her, received no such semi-conscious-but-yep-he-still-knew-her acknowledgement. "What hurts?" she asked.
He gave a short, thready kind of laugh. "What doesn't?"
"A little more specific, please?" Dejah asked, no-nonsense.
Miko glanced at her. "Uh…" His eyes looked a little dazed. His hand found Krista's, and he gave it a quick squeeze. "My eyes. You're too pretty, Kris." He grinned at her, completely transparent.
She stared at him for a moment, then laughed. "You're obviously going to be fine," she muttered, blushing deeply.
"You know me," he agreed. "Hard head." He sighed, and closed his eyes. "I think I'll just rest a few minutes, though. Don't want to get up just yet."
She nodded quickly, and told herself there were no tears—not even tears of relief—in her eyes. It would totally ruin what remained of her make-up. "That's okay. I'll be right here."
Not too bad, for a fight that broke her nails.
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In Quatroc, Rafintair smiled.
Today.
Today Gaffil would pay for his sins. Rarely did Pucijir pave the way so that everything came together so well. Yet Rafintair never failed to appreciate Pucijir's rewards.
It was a good day.
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"Please tell me you did not actually let Gaffil go." Sanar scowled at him as he tried to bandage her wounds. "Durron? You aren't that stupid."
Kyp sighed impatiently. "I've already explained it twice," he told her. "The Sildar is in his blood now. He might not even make it to his new troops without being carried there. Now, would you just hold still?" This had been so much easier while she was unconscious, he mused with only a hint of remorse. It hadn't taken her long to come completely back to herself once Dara released her; Kyp had barely even brought her into the shade before she had stirred. Around them, other members of their travelling group were dealing with the aftermath, but Kyp and Sanar ignored them in favour of their argument.
She hissed as he tightened the bandage around her upper arm. "Are you trying to cut off my circulation? Larifx. I can't believe you—"
"So you've said," he interrupted. Usually he was all too happy to spar with Sanar, but she was a downright nightmare while injured. Since she had returned to full, coherent consciousness, she hadn't stopped badgering him about Gaffil, never mind her wounds. "Think about it, Sanar, about what the Sildar will do to him over the next month. He's as good as dead."
"He deserves worse."
Kyp shook his head. "And you think either of us could have made it so better than Vengeance? What did he, specifically, do to you anyway?"
She gave him a flat look. "You remember my brother, Devnos."
"Yes." She really was impossible when hurt.
"You remember the behavioural modification chip found in his head."
"Yes…"
"Gaffil is responsible for it."
"I see." Kyp nodded. "Well, this way the Sildar can stretch it all out for a few weeks while you help with our current problems. Rafintair, for example."
"Gaffil was mine," she snapped. "My revenge. And thanks to you, I didn't even get a chance to—"
"To what? Go Dark side?" Impossible, impossible woman. It occurred to him that the Sildar's voices had left him considerably irritated. His typically short fuse was just waiting for any chance to blow. "I've been there, Sanar, and now I've got a thousand of Gaffil's dead victims screeching through my head about what he deserves. I decided that I'd rather you didn't join them. Further, Gaffil Jir isn't worth you trying to destroy what makes you Sanar Klis and not—not—Geneva, or one of her vengeance-driven, blood-thirsty favourites."
"You of all people should understand."
"And you, of all people, should understand the consequences of revenge," he retorted.
Trying to regain his self-control, Kyp brushed his fingers over the bandage on her left shoulder. "Do you think it's all out?" he asked, his voice consciously mild. "It won't heal properly if there's still something in there."
"What do you care?" she sulked.
"Okay, that's it." Barely mindful of her injuries, he grabbed her by the elbows and shook her. "I care. Hate it all you want, but at least accept it. I love you, and I don't care about this stupid prophecy—which I'm not even sure I really understand—and I'm sorry you got caught up in all of this. But we are both stuck with it, and someday you'll have to realize that I didn't know anything about Prophecy when I started to love you. Hells," he laughed bitterly, "I wasn't even the Kavishka at the time."
Because she was Sanar, her eyes flashed and she opened her mouth to hate him. She stopped, though—actually sat back and looked at him as she finally listened to something he had said. "Wait, what?" She blinked, and her forehead creased. "What?"
He stared at her for a moment, because this was something new from Sanar. He had to think; he turned her face one way and then the other as he catalogued the cuts and bruises. Dara really hadn't taken any chances before she dragged Sanar out into the open. He would have groused more about the ethics of beating an injured woman, but anything less probably would have killed Dara. Sanar was tricky like that.
"Which part?" he asked finally, meeting her eyes.
"You—" She winced, and finally seemed to realize she was hurt as she touched her bleeding lip. "Ow. When did—you said you—when…?"
"Someday you'll have to realize we're in this together?" he summarized, confused.
She flushed scarlet. "No. Not— I thought you only…after you came back from the dead. And—" She looked away, frowning. "There's— I just don't understand."
Finally, he thought maybe he knew what was bothering her. "It wasn't love at first sight, but… I knew you for over a year before I became the Kavishka for sure."
She looked at him.
"What did you think this was?" he asked. "You, suddenly spinning in my head because I had a new heartbeat?"
She stared a moment more, then slowly shook her head. "I don't know what…" Searching for distraction, she fiddled with the bandage on her right hip. "I just thought of something Niha said."
He waited for her to explain, but her eyes were far away. Kyp sighed. At least she hadn't ended this conversation with a scream and her back. After the past month, it was progress.
"I was twelve when my father died."
Belatedly, Kyp realized that it wasn't an accusation. "I know," he said. He stifled his questions.
"And you—"
"I was sixteen?" he offered, when she did not finish.
She shook her head. "No. That's not what I— She said teenager. Niha said you—when I was a teenager."
"What did Niha say?"
Sanar groaned. "Nothing. I'm not thinking straight. That damned—arrow, and that woman—I just need to be able to think clearly, and it'll make sense."
Avoidance was never a good sign. "Sanar, what did Niha say?"
"Nothing. I misheard her, or she made a mistake. My blood loss is making me obsess about something that doesn't exist."
He wanted to say something to comfort her, or at least to make her confide in him. No appropriate words came. Kyp had no idea what this was. "You don't have a concussion," he said, double-checking with the Force. "How about if you get some sleep?" He smiled at her gently, and brushed some of her hair out of her face.
She relaxed for a moment, her head sinking in his cupped hands. The word "sleep," however, made her jerk away. "No. I'm fine. I don't need sleep. I'll sleep when I'm dead."
Bemused by her behaviour, he raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" he teased. Her bottom lip jutted out in a stubborn pout. "So that's why you're ready to nod off, and you can't think clearly. And I'm not a healer, but I do realize blood loss makes you tired, so maybe you want to try that again?"
She rolled her eyes, and he noticed that they were rather bloodshot. "Sleep is for weaklings."
Worried by her response, he sent out the faintest tendril of the Force in query. Had she been thinking clearly—and she had gotten even remotely enough sleep in the past month—Sanar would have noticed it. As it was, she remained oblivious. "If you'd like, I can put you in a healing trance." He studied her. "It's dreamless, and you'll be out like a light until I bring you out of it… But it should get rid of your yawns while also helping you heal more quickly."
Sanar didn't look at him, instead concentrating on the nervous motions of her hands. "I suppose, if it'll get me back into fighting shape faster—" Her lips twisted the way they always did when she submitted to logic against her preferences. "You're sure you got Gaffil with the Sildar? It'll affect him before he can start another attack?"
"I'm sure," he insisted. "I didn't get a good look at the wound, obviously, but it was definitely bleeding—his death is going to take a while, but the symptoms should have already started."
"Alright," she murmured in defeat. Having acknowledged her exhaustion, she could no longer ignore it.
In surrender, she became softer and more relaxed. Curled inward, she leaned toward him. Kyp thought—if he moved just a little, he could have kissed her. Let his lips brush hers, and then the soft curve of her cheek, her nose, her temple. He took a shuddering breath; he took another; but he still felt dizzy. Force. This wasn't the time—it was never, never, never the time.
Forcibly distracting himself, Kyp briefly averted his eyes. "C'mon, let's get you to your tent."
When he moved to help her, she gave him a lofty scowl. "I can walk," she sneered. In direct contradiction of her words, she stumbled into his arms. "My legs are fine."
"Of course they are," he demurred, not letting go of her.
"Shut up."
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An hour into their journey, Gaffil felt the first hint that something was wrong. The wound on his side was behaving properly as far as healing went, but the pain was increasing. With fire then ice it burned, betraying him with fine muscle tremblings.
Poison. The Kavishka must have applied poison to his blade—which explained why he had let them go so easily, bargaining chip or otherwise.
He and Dara rode for three hours more before Gaffil was certain of the poison and its potency. A fever made his eyes hazy, and his mind slowly liquefied from a well-oiled machine to mere flashes that masqueraded as thought.
Gaffil changed their course for Quatroc, and rode his paxi hard. Rafintair's plans regardless, Gaffil could not trust an average healer—let alone a Pirese priest—with a toxin of possibly alien origins. If his mind became useless after the longer-than-expected trip, Isra would know what to do.
A few hours before the waking nightmares began, he thought that it was—
Gaffil thought—
It was ironic, really, that he might be undone by one of his own tricks.
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Isra felt the change long before anyone told her. The priests' eyes lingered too long, Rafintair's too blatantly. Geneva had to be informed, and she reacted exactly as Isra had predicted. Suspicion was replaced with appreciation and greed. No MR spy had ever managed to be transferred to the emperor's court, let alone been ordered to take vows. Isra was to do anything—anything and everything—to ensure she went to Rafintair. Even if she only succeeded for a little while, the potential was endless. When Isra was discovered, the Resistance could train a girl to replace her. The Resistance would finally know how to mould their girls.
In passing, Geneva had dutifully muttered something about Mujir's paradise.
Isra didn't beg, and she didn't cry.
The Holy Brothers came at noon, exactly one week after Isra had last heard from Gaffil. The leader gave her a cursory look, identifying her, before speaking. "The prince is missing, and presumed dead," he informed her.
She blinked, stricken, and sank into a chair. She did not look at the Brothers' faces (not that she was really allowed to, but sometimes Gaffil—) but instead at the elaborately stitched dragons on the hem of their tunics. She murmured half a Pirese prayer for the dead. Isra had practiced this reaction many times. It was more prepared-to-take vows than hysterics, grief, or even relief (I may be released from the atheist prince's attention?).
Gaffil, who was always plotting ahead and always in contact, was gone three days after his last letter; she had been prepared. This only confirmed it. She wanted to ask if they knew how he had died, and part of her—the part in which Gaffil had taken such amusement—wanted to ask if he would ever be pronounced dead, or if they would just burn the body and let the myths grow. Isra held her tongue, just as her new role demanded.
The Holy Brothers turned away from her, and focused on the others. Harvil and Jerica had run, but the rest had known better than to follow. Harvil had a few connections that might, for a while, protect him and his lover. Tewelin, Beliq, Cian, and the other spies, servants and bodyguards did not. This way, they might have a chance.
Isra left before she could see some of them arrested, and some join Rafintair's personnel. At least there were no other women among Gaffil's primary staff. The maidservants would be transferred to another household, and be grateful to have escaped Gaffil. The prince had never thought much of them. Fools, Isra thought—they would regret the change soon enough. Gaffil had never raped them, or beat them without just cause. As it was, Gaffil may have arranged their placement under a man he respected as much as he did the maid. Isra knew what kind of man Gaffil could not respect. Remembering how the other women had whispered about her, and what happened in Gaffil's bed—from the facts to the obscene fabrications—Isra could muster up only token pity.
"See what you do to survive," she muttered bitterly. "Without my cause to justify your actions."
"I would not speak too loudly," a man whispered near her ear. "Someone will think you've lost your wits. It might actually reap worse repercussions than taking those vows."
Isra's entire body tightened in split second fear before she slowly relaxed and turned around. General Alon smirked at her. "Only a man would think that," she murmured in return. This was another role, but Alon could be more than bearable at times. If Gaffil had been the type with friends, this man might have been one of them. They had come to a truce years ago, their plans complementing the other's.
Though slightly more harmless than Gaffil (wasn't everyone?), Alon hid his power behind good humour. He could be as ruthless as any of them, but closet atheist and calculative though he was, he appeared more trustworthy.
He smiled thinly, then nodded toward his office. "If you will."
She let him see the amused flick of her eyes. This is all a game. "Of course, sir." Despite the laughable phrasing, the general's request wasn't an unusual one. Alon was one of the few men who knew about her position, and the amount of trust—if it could be called that—Gaffil had placed in her. Gaffil had loaned her services to Alon several times, both on missions and for consultation. She had never minded. It brought further intel for the Resistance, and Alon had a healthy respect for Gaffil's claim.
Alon followed her into the room, and closed the door behind them. "I heard about Gaffil."
This, she had not expected. Isra faced the general stoically. "Yes, he's missing?"
"As good as dead," Alon corrected absently. "Rafintair plans to move you to his quarters."
"So I've been told."
He scrutinized her briefly. "You know of no further plans Gaffil may have made for you?"
She raised an eyebrow. "I hardly think the prince will require my presence in the afterlife."
He smiled with her at the joke. "No, I wouldn't expect it." Alon gestured to the canter of amber liquid on his cluttered desk at the back. "A drink, Isra?"
As she poured his cup, she realized there had been an offer in the order. Hesitating only a second, she sloshed some more of the liquid into a second glass. She handed the first cup to Alon before taking a deep drink of her own. "Thank you." Now was the time to keep her eye on him. Isra might not be a particularly exceptional actress, but she knew not to trust people. Alon was different from, not better than, other men.
"Help yourself," he urged her.
She wondered what this was, so she played with him. "Trying to get me drunk?" she asked, injecting just enough teasing into the words.
"Not likely," he replied, grinning.
Not likely indeed, she thought, hiding her own smile. Everyone except Rafintair (who would never accept such an abomination) had heard the rumours. Isra was one of the few who had just a little more proof than that.
They drank slowly and in silence. Isra hated the taste; Gaffil had never been a fan of alcohol, preferring (as she did) the clear head that came with sobriety. But she knew better than to break a role. Besides, if there was any time for drink, this was it.
Eventually, she remembered herself. Death for public, vulgar drunkenness might be better than her coming fate, but Geneva would destroy her remains. Isra put aside the glass. "General?"
He eyed her thoughtfully, then put down his own drink. "I have business elsewhere; Gaffil's death has left many holes for the rest of us to fill. I doubt I will see this office again for several days." Alon picked up a sheet of paper off his desk. He scanned it, then folded and pocketed it. "Until you are assigned elsewhere, you are to keep this office tidy."
She looked around. It was covered in papers, weapons and knick knacks. "But not too tidy?" she suggested dryly.
He grinned and winked at her. "Gaffil trained you well."
She curtseyed quickly and breezily. She thought of the letter she had sent Gaffil, and the silence it had garnered. "I am very grateful."
Alon snorted. "I'm sure you are."
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"I don't understand any of this."
Jaina, who sat across from Sanar, planted her chin her right hand. "This whole thing is stupid," she muttered.
Sanar glanced at her, disturbed by the other woman's tone. "Solo?"
The younger woman laughed, but it sounded fake. "Oh, it's nothing we need to talk about right now."
Sanar rather doubted that. She had, after all, just told Durron something similar. "Is it something to do with Zekk?"
Jaina opened her mouth, then quickly closed it. She chewed on her lip for a moment before saying, "You first. I'd rather try to figure out the grand destiny stuff before the boy stuff."
"Try having them tied together," Sanar grumbled. She let it go for the time being. "He—he can't come here, can he? Durron?"
Jaina looked surprised. "He's awake right now, isn't he?" she pointed out. "And Kyp isn't exactly the type to break into a healing trance dream. He knows I'll kick his butt."
"If you say so." Sanar gathered her thoughts. "Niha told me—before—that the Kavishka dreams started when I was a teenager. So, thirteen, at the earliest."
"A year after the dreams actually did start," Jaina realized. Her eyes became sharp; she drummed her fingers against her chin in contemplation. "That would put a very different slant on things."
"But, no," Sanar refuted, frustrated. "It must have been just a mistake. It happens all the time."
"I can recall…bits and pieces of the first dream," Jaina slowly told her. "You would remember better, but—I could believe that he was just Kyp, then."
"What are you talking about?" Sanar demanded, exasperated.
Jaina looked at her blankly. "It was Kyp, not the Kavishka. One of them came first, and Prophecy couldn't have chosen Kyp as the next Kavishka if he didn't barge into your dreams first."
"But Kyp is the Kavishka, has been since Carida. Or earlier, if Prophecy has always known how Daddy would die. It was all just written in stone from the start. Hence the dreams."
"No." Frowning, Jaina shook her head. "Kyp fell in love with you, hence the Kavishka. Hence, at some point the dreams. More people than Kyp could have been blamed for Daddy's death, Sanar. What if he just happens to be the one who fell in love with a Na'Lein woman first?"
"Oh, knock it off about the love stuff, already," Sanar snapped. "It's a matter of Prophecy, and screwing people over, and taking away free will. It has nothing to do with love."
Jaina gave her a moment, then softly continued. "You loved him. Did anyone make that happen?"
Sanar glared. "I don't think I want to be having this conversation."
"You love him. But I think—" Jaina took a deep breath, and prepared herself for the fallout, "I think you had forgiven Kyp. Before Niha told you about Prophecy, I even thought maybe you…liked him."
"Shut. Up."
"No." Jaina's expression was just as fierce as Sanar's. "Kyp loves you, Sanar, and everyone but you knows that it isn't because of Prophecy. At the very, very least, it goes beyond his role as the Kavishka."
"I bought that once, I'm not likely to repeat the same mistake twice."
"I'd like to think that falling in love is never a mistake. No matter what you find out about it."
Sanar's head, which had dropped in a sulk, snapped up at Jaina's words. "Was that one for you or for me?"
Jaina smiled carefully, almost tightly. Her eyes glimmered dimly; it was so uncharacteristically cynical that Sanar almost flinched. "Does it matter?"
"Oh, it matters," Sanar said darkly, through clenched teeth. "What did he do?"
Jaina shook her head, looking more weary and worn than Sanar had ever seen her. "I need to be getting back," she told Sanar. "Mission planning—a few weeks from now, we're going into the fray."
After a long moment of consideration, Sanar let Jaina change the subject. "We should be doing the same."
Jaina turned as if to go, then stilled. "I'm not sure how much I've told you about this mission," she started. "But someone has been shipping—we thought it was a new drug, but it's a foreign liquid. Water, as far as all but the most educated chemists can discern." When Sanar did not appear enlightened, Jaina sighed. "I think—and all signs point to this—the water is from NLY."
"Mujir. Rafintair is—?"
Jaina nodded grimly. "It would be quite the 777 anniversary of triumph, don't you think?"
"Gantik said they were planning something special," Sanar remarked after a pause.
"They could be just selling the water," Jaina admitted. "There are plenty of disgruntled and paranoid factions in the galaxy right now, never mind the usual criminals. But it could be a warning of Rafintair's intentions."
Sanar nodded dumbly.
"Anyway. I thought you should know." Jaina mustered up a smile, and it looked worse than ever. "You know where I am, if you need me."
Sanar pinned the younger woman with her best "big sister" look. "Ditto," she reminded her.
"Thanks."
Then silence.
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(Set my path before me, oh Goddess, and grant me strength to remain pure in these dark times.)
Dejah's mind wandered during prayer. It had not always been so; she had once hung on every word the priestesses spoke. As a girl she had seen nothing but Mujir and Her day of reckoning.
(Grant me serenity so that I may extend mercy to my enemies, for we are all Your children.)
She had not felt that in years. There were reasons—Dejah doubted anyone would blame her. The Resistance—whether Mujir's or some other, now failed version of it—had been waiting, waiting, waiting and hoping for centuries that Mujir would return to them and it would all be over. But everything had been horrible, and then Rafintair had come and it kept getting worse. Women were now all targets, and not the only ones. Blood had left a permanent stain on Dejah's home. The lines were more solid than ever, and yet the more lost for it. Anything and everything was betrayal, heresy; anything and everything was right when it was for the cause. Dejah had seen the priestesses' dirtier work, had watched while fighter turned on sister fighter in desperation that this might be it, that they really were alone and all that was left was their dying gasp.
(Bind me to You; let me never doubt, for doubt will poison my soul as well as hate ever could.)
This planet was cursed, and every day it got harder to ignore it. Her soul cried for sense, for comfort of her Mother Goddess; but was no longer convinced that it—or She—even existed. And even if She did, would She even want to exist, to stay and save them? Some days—more and more of them—Dejah could not summon the strength to care.
(Deliver us, Mother, guide us ever; reclaim what is Yours, for we cannot do it without You.)
Millions of women had spoken this prayer and ones like it, long before Dejah had, and they would continue to do so. By rote. Pleading without hope, and always in whispers now.
(Show us the way, Mother.)
Kyp Durron claimed to be the Kavishka; he had beaten Gaffil Jir and claimed that the (currently) deathless victory had been enough. It all sounded too wonderful—too at last, at last and faith reaffirmed—to be true. Niha said that it was real, that Mujir had finally chosen Her moment and Her initiator. Dejah wanted to believe. A part of her did. But Mujir had waited nearly eight centuries. Dejah was no longer certain.
(When we falter, as all do, return us to our feet; give us our eyes.)
In the desert night, Dejah lit her candle. Once, she had prayed so often that this candle would be completely gone within days. Tonight, it was only half melted. Of all the times to fall behind, this wasn't it. "These are the days that prophecy walks," she murmured to the silent dark. "The days of heroes and noble deeds, of redemption and saving grace. These are the days of the goddess." These, Dejah thought, or perhaps the ones another century from now.
(So say we all.)
She turned the flame to the wind, and let it flicker out. Returning the candle once again to its cloth wrapping, Dejah stood. "So say we all," she repeated. By rote.
Dejah stared into the darkness for a moment, searching, before shaking her head. It was late; tomorrow would be early. There remained only three—perhaps four—more days until Quatroc, until Geneva. She had left both in hopes that the abbey might rekindle what she had lost. Kyp Durron had defeated (but not killed) Gaffil, and yet Dejah had not found what she had been looking for.
You are a fighter of the Resistance, Geneva's voice hissed in her ear. This has never been what you think you need.
Geneva. Larifx.
Rather than think about the Resistance's leader, Dejah headed back toward the camp. It was quiet—it was late, she reminded herself, and tomorrow was almost here already, and she had lost track of time. It was colder than it was when she had started her prayers, and Dejah began to notice it. As Dejah slipped into her tent, she glanced at Sanar. The other woman was sleeping at last, if only because of some magic on the Kavishka's part.
"Geneva won't be pleased," Dejah told the sleeping form. "Bad enough a prophecy. A broken one is worse."
Sanar remained still.
No, Dejah thought. Geneva isn't going to like this at all.