Kill the Dead(39)

Absurdly, ordered to leave the subject alone, Myal had almost succeeded in wiping it from his mind. A feeling of apprehension which came with the fading of day could be interpreted simply as normal antipathy to another night on hard ground, with possibilities of foraging bears and no supper. Ciddey Soban had been pushed into a corner of Myal’s consciousness. He had not wanted to dwell on her.

But now he recollected, and with good reason.

Dro was in front of him, about fifty feet away. Perhaps forty feet ahead of Dro a girl was stepping nimbly up the slope. She did not turn, or hesitate, or threaten, or mock. She was only there, walking, pale as a new star. Ciddey. Terrible, unshakable Ciddey.

Myal swallowed his heart as a matter of course. He went after Dro, prowling, delicate, as if travelling across thin ice. If the girl-ghost turned, he was ready to freeze, change into a tree, dive down a hole—

She did not turn.

He reached Dro. Through the closing curtains of darkness Myal peered at the ghost-killer’s impassive face.

“It’s not my fault,” Myal whispered.

Dro did not whisper, though he spoke softly.

“Maybe. She shouldn’t be able to manifest without a link. There doesn’t appear to be one. But she’s there.”

“Do you want me to play the song upside down again?”

“No. I don’t think there’s much point. I’d say she only left last time out of a kind of scornful sense of etiquette.”

“What do we do?”

“Follow her. That’s her intention. We might learn something by falling in with it.”

“Where’s—where’s she going?”

“Where do you think?”

“Tulo—the Ghyste.”

“The Ghyste. She’d know the road. That’s not illogical.”

“In every story I ever heard,” said Myal, “a vengeful spirit pursues, it doesn’t lead. Suppose she stops?”

“Shut up,” Dro said, still softly. “Start walking.”

Myal, forgetting the burning ache in his muscles, walked. They both walked, and Ciddey Soban, not turning, walked before them, into the black cavern of night.

And then the black cavern of night parted seamlessly to let her through, and she was gone.

At first they waited, glancing about for her. Trees grouped together on the slope ahead, hiding what lay beyond. After an unspeaking minute, they went on and through the trees. Nothing stirred, the dark was empty once more. At the edge of the trees, the ground levelled and brimmed over into a great velvet moonless void, like the end of the world, but which was most probably woods.

They looked down at it.

“She’s gone,” announced Myal. He thought of something. “If she used me to come through, I didn’t feel it this time, or last. Only that time in the priests’ hostel, when I was sick.”

“You’re getting accustomed to giving her energy, that’s why. That’s when it becomes most dangerous.”

“Thanks. I feel so much happier now.”

Myal sat on the turf, put his arms across his knees and his head on his arms. Despite his words, he was exhausted, and dully afraid.

“We’ll see the night out here,” said Dro.

“What stupendous fun.”

“I mean to watch for three hours. Then it’s your turn.”

“I’m not watching. I might see something and scare myself to death.”

“If you see anything, you wake me. You’re watching.”

“All right. I’m watching.”

An hour later, the moon came up in a long stream of cloud.

Myal was twitchily asleep. Dro stared across the land, keeping quite incredibly motionless, seldom blinking, as if it were his curse, as with certain guardians in myth, to watch forever.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Oh, Myal,” said a girl, licking his ear tenderly. “Oh, Myalmyalmyal.”

Myal woke up, already excited and apprehensive.

“Someone call?”

“Oh, Myal,” said the girl. “Ohmyal.”

She lay on her elbow at his side. Her ash-blonde hair fell across both their faces. He knew who it was, and wondered why he was not petrified. Then it came to him. The simple, obvious solution. Dro had been mistaken, and so had Myal himself. Ciddey was not dead.

When he had dragged her out of the water, he had saved her, just as he desperately meant to do. That she had not revived at once was not utterly surprising. He had been wrong about the strangulated face—a trick of light, and his alarm, the impending fever. No, Ciddey lived, and she had somehow caught them up. She was playing with Dro, punishing him. But she had decided to reveal the truth to Myal, who had rescued her.