whatever it struck. Lariel had told him to give up. To gather the remnants together and bring them to Larandaril until they could decide how best to dispose of them, while House Drebukar reopened the mines of Tomarq to search for her likeness. He did not think the mines would hold a twin to her might, and even if it did, the Way that was made into her depths could never be unmade and laid upon another. Ways did not survive their unmaking and, often, an insufficiently skilled Vaelinar did not survive the attempt to create a Way. It was, for a bloodline, a once-in-a-lifetime happening.
He touched the gem nearest him. He could see from its shape that it belonged melded to the crooked splinter lying next to it. He mated them to one another upon the ground, moving through the bits and pieces, putting the puzzle back together as he had attempted once, twice, a dozen times before. She bit at his fingers and palms, some of her edges sharper than the finest made sword. His hands went raw and bloody before the sun had even begun to climb on the eastern horizon and workers began to arrive on the other side of the barrier. This here, which must go . . . no, not there, but
there
. . . And yet, it would not be enough. It had never been enough. He paused at the edge of the fire pit, its charcoal interior now cold and dead. He could not create enough heat to meld her edges back together. If he could bring the mouth of a volcano to her, perhaps . . . even then, it would only be a perhaps. Who knew what fires and pressures had created her in the first place? He was not a God.
He ground his teeth in frustration, kneeling among the hundreds of other pieces he had not yet fit together, and looked at the travesty of his attempts. Blood from his torn hands dripped slowly and thinly upon the glittering bits. Sweat from his brow trickled down his face and jaw to fall upon the splinters. If it were enough to give his soul to make the Jewel whole, he would have given it. But it was not. Yet, even as he squatted and his blood dripped down, a heat reflected from his shattered puzzle and light dazzled over his hands with a faint sizzling sound, and the thousand tiny, jagged cuts healed. He sat down in shock.
Tranta rubbed his hands. Usually she did not cut him. The fragments would turn in his fingers and hands so as not to harm him, but today he had been frustrated and she had responded in kind, twisted at his maddened touch upon her. Yet—and yet—she knew his touch on her and rose to protect him. Tranta examined his hands minutely. Not a scar. No pinkness or so much as tenderness. He twisted his hands back and forth in examination. The Jewel of Tomarq had healed him, but she was never a healer. Always a guardian. Had he discovered a new power within her depths? He needed to test it. Perhaps he was not meant to return her to her former glory because a new destiny awaited them both. Fatigue swept over him, and he put the heels of his hands to his eyes. With his brother gone, he was the only guardian the Jewel had left, and he feared he was failing her. Seeing things he did not really see. Hoping for a restoration that he could not possibly affect. He sighed.
Spring clouds filled the sky, dimming the day. Someone shouted at him over the barrier, and Tranta went to answer the call, parting the ward with his body to see what the problem might be. The Kernan foreman with more than a few hints of Vaelinar in his blood, leaned on his stone-working pick, a knife-like smile parting his lips. “His lordship says we are nearly done. The anchor is set and set deep on this side. We’ve got nets below, three of ’em,” and he paused long enough to spit to one side, although Tranta could not be sure if it was an opinion of safety nets for the rope bridge or not. “When we hitch it up, it should hold. Even if typhoon winds hit. Though,” and he squinted through one plain brown eye, “I wouldn’t want to be on it then.”
“Nor I. Sounds like
He touched the gem nearest him. He could see from its shape that it belonged melded to the crooked splinter lying next to it. He mated them to one another upon the ground, moving through the bits and pieces, putting the puzzle back together as he had attempted once, twice, a dozen times before. She bit at his fingers and palms, some of her edges sharper than the finest made sword. His hands went raw and bloody before the sun had even begun to climb on the eastern horizon and workers began to arrive on the other side of the barrier. This here, which must go . . . no, not there, but
there
. . . And yet, it would not be enough. It had never been enough. He paused at the edge of the fire pit, its charcoal interior now cold and dead. He could not create enough heat to meld her edges back together. If he could bring the mouth of a volcano to her, perhaps . . . even then, it would only be a perhaps. Who knew what fires and pressures had created her in the first place? He was not a God.
He ground his teeth in frustration, kneeling among the hundreds of other pieces he had not yet fit together, and looked at the travesty of his attempts. Blood from his torn hands dripped slowly and thinly upon the glittering bits. Sweat from his brow trickled down his face and jaw to fall upon the splinters. If it were enough to give his soul to make the Jewel whole, he would have given it. But it was not. Yet, even as he squatted and his blood dripped down, a heat reflected from his shattered puzzle and light dazzled over his hands with a faint sizzling sound, and the thousand tiny, jagged cuts healed. He sat down in shock.
Tranta rubbed his hands. Usually she did not cut him. The fragments would turn in his fingers and hands so as not to harm him, but today he had been frustrated and she had responded in kind, twisted at his maddened touch upon her. Yet—and yet—she knew his touch on her and rose to protect him. Tranta examined his hands minutely. Not a scar. No pinkness or so much as tenderness. He twisted his hands back and forth in examination. The Jewel of Tomarq had healed him, but she was never a healer. Always a guardian. Had he discovered a new power within her depths? He needed to test it. Perhaps he was not meant to return her to her former glory because a new destiny awaited them both. Fatigue swept over him, and he put the heels of his hands to his eyes. With his brother gone, he was the only guardian the Jewel had left, and he feared he was failing her. Seeing things he did not really see. Hoping for a restoration that he could not possibly affect. He sighed.
Spring clouds filled the sky, dimming the day. Someone shouted at him over the barrier, and Tranta went to answer the call, parting the ward with his body to see what the problem might be. The Kernan foreman with more than a few hints of Vaelinar in his blood, leaned on his stone-working pick, a knife-like smile parting his lips. “His lordship says we are nearly done. The anchor is set and set deep on this side. We’ve got nets below, three of ’em,” and he paused long enough to spit to one side, although Tranta could not be sure if it was an opinion of safety nets for the rope bridge or not. “When we hitch it up, it should hold. Even if typhoon winds hit. Though,” and he squinted through one plain brown eye, “I wouldn’t want to be on it then.”
“Nor I. Sounds like
Similar Books
