A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3)

This time, it was her eyes which went to Gabe’s hidden form. And understanding fell at last on Sophy Love, like the proverbial tonne of rocks.

Unprompted, she put one hand to Gabe’s dear, slack face, felt him relax beneath her too-long-withheld touch with a tiny, relieved sigh. Then her eyes blurred again, and she bent over him, touching his forehead to her own.

My boy, she thought. My son, my Mesach’s son; Lord, let this cup pass from me.

But only if it be Your will.

“He’s a baby, barely knows his own name. He . . . won’t understand one thing about what you want.”

“No.” Inexorable, despite this agreement: “But that’s where you come in.”

“Drawing upon the secret tongue shared only by mothers and infants?” Sophy shook her head. “Can we not at least wait ’til morning? Let him sleep?”

“Well, time’s tight, ma’am, as you yourself just pointed out; we don’t dare wait, really. Also — the Spinner says this should be done at night to have the best chance of working; the Crack gets wider in the dark, apparently, or some such. So, I’m sorry, more than you can know. But . . . no.”

Sophy cradled Gabe, rocking him quietly, while she collected herself. “Will it hurt him?” she finally asked.

“Truth? I’ve no idea,” said Yancey. “How could I? I’ve never tried anything like this before. You?”

While Sophy couldn’t quite bring herself to laugh, she did manage a snort, at the absurdity. “Hardly.” Then, shifting toward Yancey so they sat face to face on the cavern floor, with Gabriel sweetly asleep on Sophy’s lap between them, she looked down at him, and sighed. “Very well. Let me wake him, first.”

Gently, she eased him up in her arms ’til she could place her head beside his, coo softly in his ear, sleek his cheek with hers. He came awake slowly, goggle-blinking and dazed, as though trying to decide whether he was hungry or scared. Though still too young to smile a-purpose, his face relaxed at his mother’s sound and smell. He yawned, widely.

Yancey, too, seemed unable to resist smiling down at him — but then placed one hand over his head, resting thumb and forefinger on both soft temples. As Gabe looked ’round in vague suspicion, she lifted the other to Sophy’s forehead, pausing at the last instant, a question in her eyes. Sophy closed her own and nodded once, short and sharp. She felt Yancey’s palm settle over her brow; it was surprisingly cool, and a little damp.

Long moments passed. The clamp of fear in her throat and chest eased off, though what replaced it was, illogically enough, irritation rather than relief. “Well?” Sophy demanded.

“I’m trying,” said Yancey, equally impatient. “For yourself, Missus Love, you might try not to — ” She stopped, let out a breath. “No. I can’t tell you not to be afraid, when I am. Just . . . try not to be afraid of me.”

Sophy opened her eyes and stared, so incredulous the girl coloured a little. Then asked, simply: “How?”

“Because — I’ll swear you on a stack of Bibles, if we both survive and your boy likewise, then I’ll go to Bewelcome after and put myself in your hands for you to execute, as a cold-blooded murderess.” Nodding stiffly, as Sophy’s jaw dropped: “Yes, I mean it. Bad doesn’t wipe out bad, so I should answer for what I’ve done.”

“My Mesach being the bad, I suppose?”

“You’ll never believe me on that, I fear, but he was bad enough, to me. It doesn’t matter, though. I mean it, all the same.”

“Easily said. But how can I know?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Sophy stared back, then closed her eyes again, with a huff. Loosened all the muscles she could by force of will alone, and prayed: Lord God, help me know and do what is right. . . . Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be —

There was no warning, and no transition. Simply the sudden feel of every voice in some million-strong choir broken at once into song, a single overwhelming note in twelve octaves, blotting out everything but pure, vibrating power. Even Gabe’s sudden shriek of fear was only another note in that great song, mirrored by Sophy’s own terror — and yes, she knew it now for nothing but truth, Yancey’s as well. Three lives instantly laid open, decades of memory pouring torrential into each other, and all channelled through Gabriel’s terrified conduit.

Oh Lord, Gabriel!

In an instant, the fear she felt was only for him. It made her brace herself, master the flood, wrap Gabriel’s mind in hers; abandon all words and the ideas attached to them, shuck herself of everything pure expressions of love, conviction, protection.

I’m here, she sent, unable to think of anything else to “tell” him. Always. Mama is always here.

Experienced this way, there was dismayingly little to Gabriel’s thoughts yet except the rawest of impulses: Want; Hungry; New?; No!; Away! And most terrifying of all, lurking there in the very background lay something dark and vast and dangerous, all possibilities rolled into each other at once, something Sophy could only think of as . . . Wish.

Distorted sensations, compiled through touch and taste as much as through sight or sound: her own grip; the taste of her milk; blissful smell of warm wool blankets; a half-formed thing that Sophy realized with a wrench was all Gabe could remember of Mesach’s face. She twinned it with her own memory and sent it back to him, attaching her own love for Mesach and mirroring it with Gabriel’s love for her. Papa, she willed him to hear. Papa.

The memory sharpened in Gabriel’s mind, feeding Sophy a leap of joy, as: Papa! came back strong and clear.

And then, on that miracle’s heels, a question — Where?