Falling Skyward

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Embalmed Darkness

Sleep muddled her thoughts, leaving her in a deliciously languid state of consciousness. She felt a warm cheek nestled against her side, and she knew everything was all right. The dreams had stopped.

Ce'te whimpered slightly as she stirred, his face contorting with pain. She brushed back his hair, hushing the nightmares before they could take hold. His face relaxed, though he remained fitful, uncertain. He had hardly slept in three days the night terrors had become so severe. After nights full of screams and days full of stony, emaciated silence, she couldn't stand it. When the sun had set the night before and the screams resumed, she went to her window. Grabbing hold of the vines studded with star lilies and roses, she made her way along an outside ledge of the palace wall to his balcony. Now, she lay curled up next to him.

His body was rigid. The seizure eased only to be replaced with a violent writhing and shrieking.

Lark's hand brushed his own, allowing her soul and mind to open more fully to him—to feel his fear, to ease his pain. She recoiled from the raw heat and crushing despair that seared into her, nearly scarring her mind. She tried again, using other energy around her as a shield and a container for the pain—trying to remember everything Zoram had taught her.

His screams immediately stopped, and the words of a lullaby her mother once sang to her threaded through her mind. She embodied the song in sweet, quiet notes, not much more than a whisper:

"My heart aches, and specter-thin, withers, dies;

For in the graveyard, my sweet angel lies

Where youth grows pale and drowsy numbness pains

Those left among the winding mossy ways.

"Tender is the night,

Full of all her starry warmth.

Do I wake or do I sleep?

In this world of midnight and shadows numberless,

Now more than ever it is a waking dream.

"Wrapped in embalmed darkness I wait for day

When this heart dissolves, fading far away,

Call me to that unseen, till the stars fall through.

"Darkling, I listen,

Sing your lullaby of night,

Help turn my sleep into light

That steals me from this world of midnight and shadow

Until I stumble into your waking dream."

Lark didn't understand the words, but she knew they held great power. As a little girl, she could remember the streams of light her mother's words brought into a room, the warm, slow vibrations that caressed her into sleep. Even now, the words reverberated in her bones, filling them with a fiery peace.

She knew the words weren't meant to be sung in Altymian—that's why they felt so strange, so disjointed. They were meant to be sung in a language as ancient as melody itself, one that merged Imaman with the language of thought. Her mother would speak it at times, speaking the emotions into Lark's mind, but Lark had learned so little. She felt helpless now.

But the song seemed to wind its magic around her brother—his shallow, frantic breaths slowing into the tranquil rhythm of sleep. His dark hair fell over his green eyes, now weighed down by sleep. She could feel his mind flitting around in a dreamlike state, and she kept herself open to him, wrapping her arms around him even as she too fell into a careless sleep.

Hours later, after two of the moons had set behind the mountain's blank, charcoal face, she stirred. Everything was dark, and her mind strove to collapse back into slumber. Ce'te lay so still. So why had she stirred? Then she heard the babble of voices beyond the door.

"Is it the sedative? Did you try another one tonight?" Lark's blood iced at the sound of that stern, unyielding voice.

"No, no Sire. We kept with the same routine the court's healers advised."

"Well think harder then. It's been weeks since he has been so quiet. What was done differently?"

"I—I can't think of anything, milord."

"Well, when was the last time you checked him? Is he still breathing? Why is he so quiet?"

"We . . . We knew he hadn't—we were just nervous to disturb his sleep. It's so rare that he gets . . ."

"So you haven't done anything? My son, my only heir, the only hope we have, and you leave him unattended so you can catch a few moments of peace yourself? Open this door immediately. Open this door and let me see my son."

Lark froze. She heard the key scraping in the door's lock. She eyed the closet, wondering if she could reach it in time. But as the torchlight from the hall hit her face, she shrunk from it, recoiling into the pillows of the bed.

"What is she doing in here?" the man spat, disgust filling the words.

"I—I don't know, Sire. The door was locked all night. There's no way she could have gotten past us."

"And yet, here she is," he said condescendingly, grabbing Lark by the hair. She cringed and gasped, feeling her brother stir beside her.

"Attie, Attie," he called sleepily.

But his father cut off his words, ripping Lark from the bed by her hair and throwing her to the unforgiving stone floor. "What have you done," he said in a venomous whisper. "What were you doing to him?"

The boy began to whimper.

"Are you trying to kill him?" his father began to scream. "Are you trying to kill him just like you did your mother?" The boy began wailing now, but his father just shouted above the wails. "You stay away from my son. You don't lay a hand on him." His voice lowered, but now it was even more cutting and cruel. "You drove her to it. You were a mistake. If it wasn't for you, she'd still be here—and we'd all be better off."

By now, Lark was crying too. "Get the creature out of my sight. And keep her away from my son."

Lark turned away, crawling for the door, but a voice stopped her.

"No. Please." She turned back for her brother, forcing herself on her feet. Forcing herself to take the abuse, to feel the hate—for him.

She reached out her arms, but two gruff, unyielding hands grabbed her, throwing her aside. "Get her out of here," her father bellowed.

Lark felt the hands around her, grasping, pulling her away. But all she could see was her brother's terrified eyes.

"Attie, Attie," he kept screaming, trying to come to her. But their father put a hand around his chest, pulling him away.

"Please no. Attie!"