Shaman Rises (The Walker Papers) (27 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I fell. I wrapped my arms and legs around him, and I fell. I didn’t think. I just fell, fell right out of the Middle World and into Coyote’s garden. It was so hot there, desert sky almost white with heat, and when we landed—gently—on rolling sand, it all but burned me through my jeans.

Coyote was torn to pieces, blackened and burned. His beautiful hair was half gone, even here, in his garden, where he should be as complete as possible. Sobbing, I called for healing power, only to have it turn to dust in my hands. I screamed for Raven, for his ability to slip between life and death, and he didn’t answer. There was only emptiness where he was supposed to be, and terror turning my voice shrill as I clutched Coyote against me. “No, Coyote, no, please don’t, please...please don’t. Oh, god, Coyote...”

The Master had struck so fast. Nobody could have beaten him to the punch. Well, maybe I could have, when I had Rattler’s speed to boost me, or in extreme circumstances, Renee’s gift of bending time. I begged for her help now, needing more than the difference in Middle and garden-world time to save my friend. I felt her inside me, folded in on herself, alone and sorrowful, but she didn’t respond. Rage cracked through me like lightning and I shoved the thought of her away, not wanting her help anymore even if she would give it. I could do it
myself:
I had since the beginning, and didn’t need a goddamned spirit animal to ease the way. Not unless it was Raven, and he was gone. Trembling and afraid, I called healing power a second time. Coyote rebuffed it again, sending it pooling into the golden desert sad.

“Stop that, Jo. There’s no time. You know there isn’t. Too much damage.” He was right. He was so badly hurt, his body burned and broken. I could hardly bear to look, could hardly stand to see the terrible damage of a mindfully cruel lightning strike. I tried again to call magic, and again it sluiced away, running over the hard desert sand and disappearing like water into thirsty earth. “Don’t worry. Doesn’t hurt. Burned out the pain receptors, I think.”

The air was impossibly hot around us, as if maybe it drew the pain from his poor tormented body. Whatever the reason, I was grateful, but my trembling hands called for power again and once more Coyote denied it. “Stop. Just glad I was fast enough. You aren’t the only one with a rattlesnake companion.” Coyote closed his eyes and smiled faintly. “Well, you weren’t. Guess you will be now. Had to use it all up, saving you.”

I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to again. But I tried to laugh, because I thought he wanted me to, and his smile grew a little when I managed a choked sound that might have been construed as laughter. “There’s my Jo. Laughter in the face of adversity. S’what I like about you.”

“Coyote, why...
why?
”

“Had to do something, Jo. Couldn’t let you die. Be bad...for the world. Sorry.” He fumbled for my hand and I wrapped both of mine around his, holding his knuckles to my lips.

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry. Just let me heal you.”

“No. No. Wanna say it. I blew it out there. Just got so jealous. We were so well matched, Jo.” He opened his eyes again, pure coyote gold in the fading color of his face. “Back when we started? We were a perfect match. The raven, the coyote, the snake. We were a holy triumvirate, twice. Two-spirited. I thought we were two-spirited. Only your spirit wasn’t shared with mine after all. Not in the end.”

“I’m sorry, Coyote. ’Yote. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have...you shouldn’t have...” I bowed over his chest, hands helpless above him. “Won’t you let me heal you?”

The desert beneath me changed from dune waves to hard flat whiteness, and the heat became unbearable. I sucked in a shallow breath and looked up into Big Coyote’s starry eyes. He was solemn, even sad, his precious-metal fur dull for once. “Won’t you let me save him?”

“You shouldn’t even be here, Jo.” Coyote, Little Coyote, my ’yote, spoke so weakly I almost couldn’t hear him. “The fight’s out there. Save me, lose the world. Don’t do that. It would kinda...” He coughed, a fragile sound. “Kinda defeat the point.”

I bent over him, kissing his forehead and smoothing his hair back. “Hang on, okay, ’yote? Hang on. Just hold on and I’ll come back for you as fast as I can. I’ll beat this bastard and I’ll come back and bring you home. Just hold on. Don’t let him die,” I said desperately to Big Coyote. “Just don’t let him die, okay? Just don’t let him die.”

Big Coyote smashed his forehead against mine and sent me back to the real world.

So little time had passed that the Master was still standing above me figuring out what had gone wrong. Hardly even knowing something had gone wrong, until with a howl of hurt and fury I pushed my poor Coyote’s body off me and surged to my feet. Fire burned in me, so much fire I thought I would be consumed with it. My rage knew no bounds: the universe itself couldn’t contain the size of my loss. I came to my feet with my blade blazing blue in one hand and my shield a shining mass of silver on the other arm.

For the first time, I looked into the Master’s black eyes and I saw fear. Not enjoyment of it, not feeding on it, not thriving with it, but the same bone-deep, gut-level fear that drove humans to build fires against the night and stand watch against the creatures that hunted them.

I was a hunter, a warrior, a shaman, and I could not let this stand. Not this time. Not Coyote. Not my beloved friend, my teacher, my guide. He was not, in the end, my everything, but he had been my beginning, and I would not lose him. The very core of the earth was not so hot with power as I was; the moon itself was faint in the light of my magic.

The Master’s face contorted and he leaped at me, a desperate measure of a desperate creature. His meteoric blade rose and fell in a death blow.

I caught it on my shield. Power blazed. Iron fragmented, and I stood eye to eye with an unarmed monster.

Fear split his face again, then defiance so transparent that on another day it might have made me laugh. He had not spoken since the fight began, but now, with lifted chin, spat words: “Kill me if you can.”

“Oh, no.” I shook with rage, with hurt, and with determination. “Oh, no.”

I threw the sword away, released the shield. They became a part of me again, grew into the breastplate my mother’s necklace had become, until I was armored all over with a blaze of light. Copper bracers and arm guards. Gloves of flexible ash wood, fingertips glittering with silver. Purple laced the joints of armor so fluid it moved with my every breath. All the gifts I had ever been offered from family, from friends, from the inhuman to the unusual came together and made me into a thing of power, a thing as endless as the Master himself. I was what he had never understood, what he had struggled for and fought to attain for an existence longer than eternity.

I was love, honed to a blade by loss, and I thrust myself into the very heart of the Master himself.

We had danced it all together, me and Coyote and Annie. I took that dance with me into the Master’s garden, a place of cold and dark beyond comprehension. Even in the darkness, I could see the light of those things that had been born around him, and if those were two impossible things lying cheek by jowl, then in the depths and darkness of his garden it was not a conflict. There could be no shadow without light, and I did not deny that shadow must exist. But I would bring the light to the shadow if it was the last thing I did. He would know what he had taken: that would be his punishment for killing my friend. Not death. Death was too good for him. Death was an ending, death meant there was no more pain, and this was a pain upon which the Master could not thrive. He would feel it, feel it until the end of time, because now I would not let him die.

I danced in the darkness, pouring out the story of my life and the story of my love.

My mother’s love, misguided or brilliant as it had been, giving me up to my father to keep me safe. Such love there, and it had taken me so long, too long, to understand it. It was love, honed to a blade by loss, and I thrust it into the Master’s garden. Forced it to take root there with each step of my dance, driving it into barren earth that had only dreamed of life.

My father’s love, awkward and misguided, too, trying to protect me from the fate my mother had sent me away from. So many mistakes, muddying the path that I was always bound to walk, but done with such good intent. Not a road to hell at all, but love, laid down across the countryside to heal and strengthen it. I took that love and danced it into the garden, demanding that the garden accept it and become fruitful.

Gary’s love, running so deep. It became the soil, ready to grow. Morrison’s love, patient as only the earth could be. Coyote’s love, so bright it had burned him; it became the sunlight to warm the fields. Annie’s love, soft and unending, the rain to water the land. Billy, Melinda, their passel of amazing kids: I danced that love of family, of standing together, into this place. My crazy cousin with her fire-engine-red hair and her excitement over the magery burgeoning in her, I danced that, too, letting the idea of magic take root. I danced for my son, and for his sister, and the love I felt for them was something I threw into the Master’s teeth, making it a strong part of this new land so that he could never look on his garden without remembering the blade of loss. I danced and I built on everything my story had ever been, making it part of the Master’s story, too.

This was not what he wanted, a pain that lived inside him. The pain of love, much sharper than he could have imagined, the pain of loss when love failed—no. He had used that before, made slaves of those whose broken hearts made them vulnerable, and he feared that fate for himself. He did not want this, tried to throw it off, and I pulled him close to snarl in his ear:
“I don’t care what you want.”

Love would grow here, the price of a life.

I left his garden.

The Master, my other self, fell with my soul-sword still piercing his body. Exhaustion swept me, but the battle wasn’t over yet. There was so much to do, too much to do, and I was so terribly tired. All I could do was ask as I’d asked once before, ask everything of everyone, and take what I was offered. I knelt over the shuddering, screaming, stolen body of the Master, and whispered, “Help me, help me, help me.”

I opened my soul to the world around me.

There was so much magic gathered in this place, in these moments before dawn. I had known there were others here now, more than those who had watched our battle begin, but I felt them now, bright and vivid marks on my soul as they came into a circle around me.

Fuchsia and orange: Billy, whose power gave the dead a voice. Across from him his wife, Melinda, in orange and yellow, blooming with the wise woman’s knowledge of life. Paired, a perfect complement. They were the west and the east, dying day and dawning sun.

Green and silver, fire without secondary attributes. Gary and Suzy, age and youth, standing north and south. The four of them, the four of them alone brought such strength to the circle that I cried out with it, hurting in my hands, my stomach, behind my eyes. Too much power already, and more were coming into place.

My
father,
what was my father doing here, his forest green and earthy browns stepping up to meet my own silver and blue, earth and sky together to make the world. I hadn’t even known I was part of the circle, had thought it was coming into place
around
me, not
with
me, until he placed himself opposite me. Tradition and madcap methods, tied together by blood.

Annie, no longer burning green, but wholly and fully mortal again, her colors copper and flame. There were seven of us, almost the strongest circle I had ever known, and then came the god.

How fair,
I thought,
how perfect.
How perfect that the god he had sought to unmake would instead be part of the unmaking of the Master, that the brother of spirit he had tried to conquer would instead conquer him. Cernunnos was each of the things we brought to the circle, all in one. He was a voice to the dead, who served the living. He was eternal, age and youth encompassed in him. He was tradition, born of long cold nights and ancient needs, and he was fresh and newly made, given to the modern world. He was mortal, bound to this world by his son, the Boy Rider, and he was immortal, an undying god.

Morrison. I looked up, eyes blind to the world around me, only seeing the power that flowed and burned in everything. Morrison had not joined the circle.

“I’m here, Walker.” He stepped through, a blaze of purple and blue, and in his hands was a round thing of white magic. My drum. Scalding tears rolled down my cheeks and I nodded once. He knelt across from me, on the Master’s far side, and began to beat the drum.

Power ignited.

I had been fighting the wrong fight all along. Up until these past few moments, I had been making a terrible, fundamental mistake. I had seen the Master as the villain, and he was. Unquestionably. But he was also broken. He’d fought to be embodied, to be a thing that could walk the earth, and had lost that fight an impossibly long time ago. Now he finally had the body he’d always craved, and with it, he might take its inherent magic and climb it until he rivaled Cernunnos. Until the lord of the Hunt, the new god of my world, was as endangered as he had ever been.

I could kill the Master. I could end it that way. But that would never satisfy
me,
and my vengeance could run as deep as any god’s.

I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted to heal him.

To help his spirit not to die, but to finally be born. To take on the physical aspect of life without being more than that. I had blunted him already, by setting life in his dead garden. By sowing love there, a punishment I would never regret. But there was more to be done. I had to give him some kind of real life, something that could hold him in place.

I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to give him peace of any kind. I was not that good a person. Unfortunately for me, I also wasn’t—quite—that stupid a person. If I didn’t finish the job, it would come back to bite me on the ass. It might anyway, but it was sure to if I didn’t finish.