A curious itch trailed through Krysty’s mind unexpectedly. She felt chilled by it, and nausea sent burning bile to the back of her throat.
You speak the truth. You are not one of us. The woman’s puzzlement filtered through her pain, seeming to become a distraction enough to tear her away from her agony.
“No,” Krysty replied, “I’m not.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the pain ebb and flow in her head again. “Who are you?”
Phlorin. I am one of the Chosen.
“What Chosen?”
You do not know?
“No.”
But your power? How could you have it and not know of us?
“I received my power from my mother.”
The woman screamed as the sound of gunshots ricocheted from the area where Ryan had gone.
Krysty concentrated on the .38 in her fist. It was solid and secure. She had to stay rooted in reality if she was going to help Ryan. She shifted, on top of the flattened building, but her equilibrium was distorted and she felt too weak to get to her feet. “What is wrong?”
It is the Staggers. They think I am a doomie.
Doomies were muties who exhibited paranormal powers, generally hinging on an ability to foretell disastrous events in the near and distant future. Often, they were considered to actually bring bad fortune to those around them rather than to merely predict it. Krysty had worn the label herself. “Who are the Slaggers?”
The men who captured me. Coldhearts of this region. Phlorin’s thoughts broke away abruptly.
Instinctively Krysty reached for the woman’s voice in her mind. Contact was made, feeling as much like a caress as her sentient hair coiling around her neck. “You are alone?”
Yes.
“Why?”
Because there is no one else.
Krysty felt the woman’s thoughts become disjointed, like cold water slipping through her closing fist. She struggled to maintain the contact. As the woman drew away, it felt as though a vacuum opened in her mind, maybe powerful enough to drink down her mind, as well. The thought scared her. “Were you always alone?”
No. The rest of the response was slow in coming.
Krysty waited, her eyes searching through the haze of her vision to the area where Ryan and Jak had disappeared. Only then did she become aware of how slowly her heart seemed to beat. Then she realized the conversation taking place in her mind had to have been taking place much faster than she realized.
There were others. We never go out alone.
“Where are they?”
Dead.
“How?”
The Slaggers killed Thusella today. Wolves brought Artimys down nearly a week ago.
An image of a rock-covered grave appeared in Krysty’s mind. Three women, one of them the blonde she thought was Phlorin, stood above the grave. All of the women wore some kind of white robes. Krysty couldn’t believe they dressed in such a fashion while in the rough.
“Three of you?” Krysty asked.
Of course. There are always the Three. There is much power in that number.
“Who are the Chosen?”
There is no time to explain. I am dying.
“Mebbe not.” Krysty tightened her hand on the .38. “If there’s a way, mebbe we can help.”
It’s too late for me, child.
“Never too late.”
One of the Chosen always knows her time, the woman said. That is one of our gifts and one of our curses.
“Give up,” Krysty said, “and you might as well cut your own throat.” Her head didn’t hurt as bad now, but the thrumming vibration filling it changed timber.
I’m giving up only on this hold in the mortal realm. Another life awaits me. One much better than this.
“If you believe,” Krysty said.
And you do not?
Krysty didn’t answer, though she felt Phlorin already knew. Mother Sonja’s teachings about Gaia remained strong in her, provided her a cornerstone of strength and belief.
You do believe.
“Because I have seen what Gaia can do.”
Gaia? You worship Gaia?
“I pay her my respects.”
How is it, then, that you are not one of the Chosen?
“You know of Gaia?”
All of the Chosen know of Gaia. She is the Earth Mother who binds us all, ties us one to another. Only most are too blind to see.