“Most of those who live and die on Earth are not human. Best accustom yourself.”
I forced tension from my shoulders. “Needless to say, this requires discretion as well.”
“I’m not Jesse,” said Audrey. She leaned back on her elbows, letting the wet sand cling to her sleeves. “I want to do magic, not boast about it. And I want to hear that story.”
Trumbull nodded, and I relaxed further. This, at least, we had survived. And Audrey’s reaction made me feel again that I’d chosen well.
Trumbull wove her fingers together and apart again, a not-quite-human mannerism that brought to mind the tentacles and lobster-like pincers of the Yith’s best-known form, the legendary “cone-shaped being.” Yet that, too, was a stolen body. I wondered in what ancient form she first heard this story, what she recalled as she translated the words for a human tongue.
“It is written in the Archives,” she said, “that the human species in its infancy came perilously close to extinction. An incursion from beyond the solar system—its nature doesn’t matter, for it did not find these worlds congenial and passed on swiftly—left plague in its wake, and the young species reduced to only a few chance survivors.
“Less than a thousand all told, they gathered near the mouth of a great river. There they huddled, pooling their resources and trying to protect themselves from the mindless but deadly forces that the invaders had left in their trail. Of course, being young and inexperienced they could not agree on what form that protection ought to take. Over weeks of argument, three factions arose.”
The wind blew a fine cold spray off the ocean. I blinked salt across my eyes and imagined the African warmth of that river delta, and humans so rare that they must put aside all disagreement beyond the immediate crisis.
“This is, necessarily, an oversimplification. There were more than three opinions—probably there were a thousand. But it is true that three of the most powerful priestesses put forth plans, and that most of the survivors eventually aligned behind one of these leaders.”
Audrey leaned forward. “Just priestesses? No priests?”
The look Trumbull gave her seemed almost fond. “Of course there were priests. But in those days humans had not yet learned how to magnify the power of a single drop of blood. Even the simplest magic required males to bleed themselves to weakness, or take blood from a wounded enemy or a successful hunt—and as humans hunt and fight in packs, often the blood would dry while those who laid claim to it squabbled. A female, however, could build much power from her monthly courses. And while she could do no working when pregnant, many spent the full period of gestation preparing a single powerful spell to draw on the blood and pain that attend childbirth. Most would simply use that power to protect themselves and their offspring—but those who sacrificed that safety for some greater goal were much admired.”
I caught quirks of movement, amid her twining fingers, that might have been language with different limbs. “As it happened, these three priestesses each carried offspring near to term.
“One priestess, a traditionalist—in so far as such a young species can be said to have traditions—called on humanity’s old allies of wind and fire. This was a good choice and an easy one. Fire has been tool and traitor for every earthly intelligence. Air, too, is a familiar force: one that grows from life and feeds it in turn.
“The second priestess called on the solidity of stone, the shelter of caves, knowledge that forms like jewels deep in the earth. It was a dangerous choice, but it served her followers well for a few millennia.
“The third priestess thought on the gods who are said to sleep in the deep ocean, the strange forms and ageless predators that thrive there, and she called on the protection of the sea. This was a good choice but a hard one, for while humans already lived on land, breathing air and huddled around fire pits, the sea did not know them and they did not know the sea. To accept its protection—” She paused and cocked her head.
I turned to follow her gaze, and saw the waves break in a surge of iridescent shadow. A rush of scale and crest and talon, and a dozen tall, well-muscled elders bared needle teeth at our little group. They brandished tridents and wands and naked hands ready to ward or attack. Dark eyes looked coldly down.
CHAPTER 12
Charlie scrambled back in a panic, stopping only when he realized that the elders pressed close behind as well. Neko shrank against me. Only Trumbull and Audrey, along with Caleb, kept still—though Audrey’s stillness felt a brittle thing.
It had been a long time. “Grandfather?” I asked.
The tallest of the elders, a broad man with green scales shading into purple along his arms, bent and flared his nostrils. Neko squeaked. “Aphra Yukhl Marsh,” he said. His tone pitted delight against anger. He continued in R’lyehn: “And Caleb Nghadri. Are these mortals your captors? Say the word and we will rend them.”
“No!” I put my arm around Neko, doing my best to make my affection apparent. I switched to English. “Grandfather, these are friends and allies. Allow me to introduce my students: Charlie Day and Audrey Winslow. My sister-in-adversity Nancy Koto, called Neko. And”—I paused as I sought and translated the appropriate R’lyehn title, which I’d never before had cause to use—“a member of the Great Race of Yith who prefers at this time to be called Professor Trumbull.”
Obed Yringl’phtagn Marsh looked them over slowly, then nodded. The others lowered their weapons. Two trident-bearers whirled on their heels and dove back into the waves. I could no longer resist, but disentangled myself from Neko and leapt up to throw myself against him. He wrapped his arms around me and I buried myself against the smooth scales of his chest. Their complex patterns—barely perceptible beneath my fingertips—the strength of his embrace, the scent of salt and algae and oil, all enveloped me, familiar and welcome.
He sniffed my hair. In our own tongue: “You’ve been sick, but your blood is healthy now. Where have you been, child? Where are the others?”
I shook my head against him. “Dead.” R’lyehn was not a language for circumlocution. “Unless you found survivors after the raid.”