Page 108

Celcha turned her cheek from the unfelt ground. Hellet stood above her, holding out his hand, strong and wrapped in the scars of his subjugation just as he ever was in the labyrinth of her memories.

Celcha lifted herself from the ground and reached for the offered hand with her own trembling fingers, expecting to find nothing but the phantom of her needing. Instead, a firm grip pulled her to her feet.

“How is this possible?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a ghost too?”

“I am.”

“How do you feel?” Celcha looked up at her big little brother.

Hellet frowned, flexed his shoulders, pursed his lips. “I feel... free.”

Celcha’s throat constricted around her reply. Freedom had been all they ever wanted. She asked another question. “Where’s your body?”

“I don’t know.” Hellet smiled that oh-so-rare smile of his, showing tombstone teeth. “Shall we go and look?”

Many books are taken from the shelves. None are ever entirely returned to them.

Overdue, author unknown

CHAPTER 46

The rain fell for forty days and for forty nights and it seemed as if the world must drown in such a deluge. But the Dust’s thirst had grown and grown and grown again, across ages of men and canith. The cracks on the hardpan ran deeper than history and each needed to be slaked.

The last of the taproots, most ancient of their kind, opened new leaves. The wind-weed stopped its endless turning and sank its fingers into the ground. And on the thirtieth day the Dust declared itself finally full.

Streams ran where no stream ever had. One joined hands with the next until rivers were made, tumbling raw and white-mouthed into the great lakebed. Slowly, slowly, the waters rose, and on the thirty-ninth day the ancient basin lay full and brimming.

“It’s beautiful.” Evar gazed out over the greening plains. His rain-dark mane hung soaking around his shoulders. The sky ran in rivulets across the hard muscle of his chest and belly.

“It is.” Livira held his hand. Soon there would be grass, and the herds would come, bowing their heads to eat, renewing a cycle that had been so close to broken that none could tell the difference.

She leaned against him, not needing his strength or his support but enjoying it even so. The rain fell warm and its soft invasion had reached every part of her. Thin robes clung like a second skin; her hair ran in black streams to frame her face. Water dripped from her nose, from her fingers, ran down her legs.

“It’s not too late. It can be saved.” Evar rumbled and the sound vibrated through the side of Livira’s head pressed against his ribs.

“It’s not too late?” Livira raised her face to watch him, water filling her eyes.

“Close to dead is not dead.” He looked down at her, veiled by the wet darkness of his mane.

“Come down here.” She reached up to draw him into a kiss.

Evar resisted with a grin. “You come up here.” And he lifted her.

Livira wrapped her arms about his neck and her legs around his waist, resting her weight on his hips. His tongue had a taste to it, but she liked it: the boys she’d kissed before had tasted of nothing. It was rougher than a man’s tongue and reached further, but its exploration was gentle.

She pulled back from the kiss, slightly breathless. “How far do you think you could carry me like this?”

“How far would you like to go, librarian?” A wolfish smile.

“All the way.” She kissed his nose. “To somewhere dry. With something soft to lie on.”

Evar squeezed her to him. “I remember this story. It was always one of my favourites. Watching everything change.” His voice fell to a whisper. “How am I here again? Is it because I’m dying?”

“Don’t say that.” Fear made her fierce. “This is my story. There’s no dying in it. It’s about coming to life.”