isolated crannies, gully bottoms and tree tops. Hissing darkness, wayward odors . . . glanced at, they are dismissed. Inhaled, they are politely ignored.
A madness of reality takes note, unnoticed.
Dayna uncrumpled the dispatch Bendi had managed to pull in off the system—it was all she could do to keep up with the urgent messages, and Dayna was certain Bendi missed at least half of the ones aimed at Second Siccawei. Sometimes the Siccawei dispatch wizards fielded one for them and sent it again, giving Bendi a second chance.
But Bendi was only one person, working within a secondary hold established for retreat work. None of them were prepared to have Second Siccawei as ground zero.
Not that the others knew what ground zero even meant, or had done anything but cast her strange glances when she muttered it. But Dayna knew . . . and she knew they'd soon be overrun by Secondary Council wizards trying to determine what had happened. The illused paper in her hand told her as much, along with its listing of immediate restrictions on basic travel and transport services. Well enough for them—given an anchor point, most of them could free-travel. Certainly they could communicate with each other over considerable distances; their own efforts and convenience would hardly be affected.
But there were those who commuted to work via the travel booths—and some of those people provided basic services. And there were those who were isolated and depended on basic dispatch communication for their needs.
And there were those like Dayna, who'd seen ground zero the day the Council died and who now had little choice but to sit idly by and watch the Secondary Council close down Camolen in their belated search for the cause.
And then there was Dayna unlike anyone else, Dayna alone who had felt the undirected magic sweep through the area, leaving no backlash.
She already knew they wouldn't believe her. Didn't believe her. Undirected, raw magic left backlash.
Always. Therefore she was wrong.
Dayna knew she wasn't.
She just didn't know what it meant . Or if she'd get a chance to find out.
Do something.
Anything.
Make it better.
Right. Stuck here in little Second Siccawei with no one listening to her and no grand ideas about how to make it better , not any of it. How could you make the death of your friends better ?
So she sat cross-legged in the wide-silled first floor window of Second Siccawei, watching for Jess to arrive while crumpling the dispatch from the Secondary—no, not anymore. Just the Council, now. Or as close as Camolen had to one. Crumpling the dispatch and thinking of Sherra. Dignified Sherra, full of calm and somehow always able to share it with others. Sherra who had given Dayna so much—healing her upon her first arrival here, taking her in as apprentice when it became clear that Dayna's combination of ignorance and talent was a danger to everyone around her . . . and then allowing her to stay. On Earth, Dayna had been just another drone, working in a small hotel, a petite woman with life closing in around her.
Here, she had purpose. Here, she had a kind of power she'd never imagined on Earth. Here, she thought she'd found a semblance of control over life . . . though with Sherra's death, with Arlen's death, she now suddenly realized that control was nothing more than illusion, here or on Earth.
Sherra. Arlen. If anyone had enough power to claim control, it would have been them.
But they hadn't. They'd died.
She smoothed the paper over her knee, coming one step closer to hating the crabbed handwriting of whoever had sent it. Around her, the small hold offered unusual silence; it was a hold in mourning—and one in waiting, shackled and unable to act. Muted noise came from the kitchen . . . everything else might stop short, but the people always needed to eat.
Finally, Dayna caught a glimpse of movement at the splotchily snow-covered edges of the hold clearing.
Stables were on one side of the clearing, the hold
A madness of reality takes note, unnoticed.
Dayna uncrumpled the dispatch Bendi had managed to pull in off the system—it was all she could do to keep up with the urgent messages, and Dayna was certain Bendi missed at least half of the ones aimed at Second Siccawei. Sometimes the Siccawei dispatch wizards fielded one for them and sent it again, giving Bendi a second chance.
But Bendi was only one person, working within a secondary hold established for retreat work. None of them were prepared to have Second Siccawei as ground zero.
Not that the others knew what ground zero even meant, or had done anything but cast her strange glances when she muttered it. But Dayna knew . . . and she knew they'd soon be overrun by Secondary Council wizards trying to determine what had happened. The illused paper in her hand told her as much, along with its listing of immediate restrictions on basic travel and transport services. Well enough for them—given an anchor point, most of them could free-travel. Certainly they could communicate with each other over considerable distances; their own efforts and convenience would hardly be affected.
But there were those who commuted to work via the travel booths—and some of those people provided basic services. And there were those who were isolated and depended on basic dispatch communication for their needs.
And there were those like Dayna, who'd seen ground zero the day the Council died and who now had little choice but to sit idly by and watch the Secondary Council close down Camolen in their belated search for the cause.
And then there was Dayna unlike anyone else, Dayna alone who had felt the undirected magic sweep through the area, leaving no backlash.
She already knew they wouldn't believe her. Didn't believe her. Undirected, raw magic left backlash.
Always. Therefore she was wrong.
Dayna knew she wasn't.
She just didn't know what it meant . Or if she'd get a chance to find out.
Do something.
Anything.
Make it better.
Right. Stuck here in little Second Siccawei with no one listening to her and no grand ideas about how to make it better , not any of it. How could you make the death of your friends better ?
So she sat cross-legged in the wide-silled first floor window of Second Siccawei, watching for Jess to arrive while crumpling the dispatch from the Secondary—no, not anymore. Just the Council, now. Or as close as Camolen had to one. Crumpling the dispatch and thinking of Sherra. Dignified Sherra, full of calm and somehow always able to share it with others. Sherra who had given Dayna so much—healing her upon her first arrival here, taking her in as apprentice when it became clear that Dayna's combination of ignorance and talent was a danger to everyone around her . . . and then allowing her to stay. On Earth, Dayna had been just another drone, working in a small hotel, a petite woman with life closing in around her.
Here, she had purpose. Here, she had a kind of power she'd never imagined on Earth. Here, she thought she'd found a semblance of control over life . . . though with Sherra's death, with Arlen's death, she now suddenly realized that control was nothing more than illusion, here or on Earth.
Sherra. Arlen. If anyone had enough power to claim control, it would have been them.
But they hadn't. They'd died.
She smoothed the paper over her knee, coming one step closer to hating the crabbed handwriting of whoever had sent it. Around her, the small hold offered unusual silence; it was a hold in mourning—and one in waiting, shackled and unable to act. Muted noise came from the kitchen . . . everything else might stop short, but the people always needed to eat.
Finally, Dayna caught a glimpse of movement at the splotchily snow-covered edges of the hold clearing.
Stables were on one side of the clearing, the hold
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