that dividing by zero method just served to focus your mind. It was me. I used your link to the hole in the world to trap her.
“Can we do it again?”
She will destroy me. No doubting the fear in Mahudia’s voice.
“But you’re already dead,” Lenares said, knowing how selfish she sounded. How could she know what Mahudia endured in that cold place beyond time, or how much it pained her to draw close to the world?
I am dead, Mahudia said, a faint hint of steel in her words. Eaten by a lion. Eaten by Umu herself, hence my link to her and the source of my ability to help you trap her. If she sees me here she will know what I did, and she will absorb what’s left of me into herself. It is what they do, these terrible gods: prey on the souls in repose beyond the sky. If she finds me I will become her food. That has already happened once, child. If it happens again I will cease to exist.
“I understand,” Lenares said, her voice low.
I see you do. Genuine warmth infused her mentor’s words. I never would have believed it, my Lenares, but you are developing empathy. My child, growing up.
“I’m not your child, not really. I met my real family, you know. They were not very nice.”
I wondered if you would. Dear one, don’t be distressed at what you found, nor surprised your feet led you there. You are exposed to the pattern of time, and the gods are pulling the threads. It is no wonder you ended up back where your thread began. Be happy you escaped your family when you were young. And now at least you have met your other half, and you can combine your strength against the gods.
Lenares held her breath a moment, trying to work out what Mahudia meant by that, especially the last. It was almost taking shape in her mind.
“My other half?” she asked. “What do you mean?”
The faintest of hisses came from the thread binding her and Mahudia. Have you not—but that was the whole purpose! A silence, then, in a calmer voice: Ignore me, child, I do not see too well from where I stand. I must go now. Already I have been here too long. I must not be discovered.
“Please, don’t go! Explain to me what you meant by my other half. Do you mean Torve? Is he my other half?”
She waited, but there was no reply. The thread hung motionless before her. But despite her desire to learn more she would not tug on it again, not now at least. Not if her Mahudia was in danger from Umu. If only she had not let the treacherous god go!
The pain had subsided to a dull discomfort, but Torve knew the amount of pain associated with the cut itself was irrelevant. He was ill with corruption. His wound had become infected and without medicine he would die. No one said this openly to him; his new companions spoke encouraging words, but they would abandon him when he became too inconvenient. It was what people always did with Omerans, after all. Even Lenares would leave, driven by her obsessive compulsion to search for and destroy the gods.
He wished they would abandon him. He liked the forest, its blanket of leaves, its thick silences and warm, moist breath. So much better than the stark, sterile desert where one was exposed to the world’s mocking gaze. Nothing but heartache came from the sands and rocks of Elamaq. Let the others go on to do whatever it was they felt they had to do, while he remained here, lying still as the leaves filtered down to smother his face, as he decayed into the rich soil of the forest floor.
“Feeling sorry for yourself, lad?”
Torve still struggled a little with the Bhrudwan language, but Heredrew spoke with such clarity he was easy to follow. “You read minds,” he replied.
“No, but yours is a face with few secrets.” The tall Falthan hunched down beside him. “You’re gravely ill, my friend. You ought to feel sorry for yourself.”
Torve smiled. It hurt to smile, he discovered; his cheeks and his forehead ached for a few moments after he carefully relaxed his muscles. “They have not told me, but I know. I will not leave the forest alive, it seems. Please tell the others to go on without me.”
“I will do something better, but only if you keep my secret.”
“Secret? What use