“I can try.” The two of them fell into technical jargon.
Ngalthr knelt to scratch a symbol in the sand. “Do not use this for summoning. It is the basic symbol for the K’n-yan—for the Mad Ones.”
“That’s an equation?” asked Trumbull. “Wait, yes, I see…”
I wondered what a mathematician might learn during a sojourn at the Archives, and how much might filter through the memory blocks, given impetus. I watched their work, hoping to better understand the logic that connected diagram and equation, formalized symbol and ever-changing reality. But the more I listened, the more it seemed to me that something was lacking.
There’s a logic and a predictability to magic: things we know we can do, tools we’ve practiced well. But there are also—not limits, precisely, but knowledge more distant than we’ll reach before the sun goes dark. It’s likely, though beyond our ken and concern, that there’s knowledge too far for the Yith to reach before the universe itself fades. Beyond those limits are things that, if they even distinguish comprehension from chaos, see us as numinous, nameless horrors—as we do them.
That humility is what allows us to work, when we must, at the edges of understanding. Define your work solely with equations, I suspected, and it would have no room for those edges. But my way, and the elders’ way, had already failed. And though Mary and Trumbull grew increasingly energetic in their discussion, I heard no hint of a breakthrough. Any hope of bringing us all through the Tide, whole, must draw on all our strengths.
What did I have to offer, aside from childhood memory and two years’ study?
Memories of survival. Stories told around fires, or under covers behind guards’ backs, shared across languages and cultures. Friends and family who’d reached across barriers of understanding. The confluence, water and rock and air flowing together in our mingled blood.
I moved closer to Mary and Trumbull, and when they paused said, “We’re connected. Charlie and Audrey and Caleb and Miss Dawson and I through common practice, and Sally here.” I rolled up my sleeve so they could see what remained of that link. “All three kinds of humans. Can we do something with that?”
“Maybe,” said Mary, and “Suppose—” And Trumbull said, “If you define—” and they were back to their jargon, of which I caught only the suggestion that our link might fill an otherwise indefinable gap in some larger structure with which they struggled.
The cold in my spine began to spread once more. Chulzh’th sat by the fire, listening, Sally across her lap. I joined her, touched my skin again to Sally’s. I felt the pulse of warmth, as before, but weaker.
“You’re going to lose her,” said Chulzh’th quietly.
“I know.”
“You should cut the link.”
“Not yet.” I glanced at Mary and Trumbull, just as they rose from their consultation. They looked hopeful, and worried.
“How quickly could you find one of those knives?” Mary asked Ngalthr.
“There’s one in Y’ha-nthlei, beyond the reef. It would take almost two hours to retrieve. There used to be one in the temple, and it may be there still. But I’ve already said I won’t use it on them.”
“You won’t need to, not directly. Miss Marsh is right—we can use the connections that already exist between her and the other two, work through her strength and probably Miss Winslow’s as well, to break the cold from all of them.”
Grandfather understood a second before I did. “No! You won’t risk my granddaughter that way!”
“If there’s a chance of saving them, I’ll do it,” I said.
“You will not.” He paced toward me. I backed away, hand over my forearm—and he whirled to drag Sally from Chulzh’th’s grasp. Awkward under the girl’s weight, Chulzh’th tried to pull her away. But Grandfather held Sally’s arm long enough to scratch on it some sigil I could not see. I felt the last thread snap, the cold drain from my spine.
“Grandfather!” I shouted, at the same time that Archpriest Ngalthr called his name and wrenched him back from Chulzh’th and Sally. One guard, looking extremely nervous, stepped between him and Audrey and raised her spear. I stored my gratitude; for now I dropped to my knees beside Sally. Chulzh’th passed her to me, stood and stalked to Grandfather.
“Did you learn nothing from watching me lose my temper?” she demanded. “You’ll answer for her death.”
“I know. But I only have two grandchildren.”
I pressed Sally’s wrist, but my fingers were nearly numb and I couldn’t find her pulse. I held my hand near her nostrils, felt the warmth of her exhalation. A pause, then more warmth. Another pause, another breath. And then nothing.
I kept my hand there for what seemed an aeon. More words passed between Grandfather and the others; I didn’t hear them. I laid Sally’s body on the sand, and looked up at him.
“I’m still cold,” I said.
I couldn’t tell whether it was actually true: whether the shivers that flooded my body were remnants of the outsider, or the memory of those remnants, or simply anger—as much at my own traitorous gratitude as at him. In that moment, I didn’t care: it was enough to see his protective straining, held in check by Ngalthr’s claws around his arm, drain away.
Jesse picked up Sally’s wrist, looked in horror at Grandfather. “You killed her.”
“She was already dying. I was trying to save my granddaughter.”
“He’ll answer for it in our courts,” said Ngalthr. “Right now we’ll do what we can for the living.”
Audrey ducked under the guard’s still-raised spear, lowered herself beside us, touched Sally’s forehead. There were tears in her eyes; she ignored them. “Jesse, later. We have to deal with it later, we have to deal with this now.”
“He killed her.”
“He kept Aphra from saving her. We don’t know if that would even have worked. And there’s nothing to do about it. If you want to throw yourself at a giant fish-guy with three-inch talons, can you please do it tomorrow? By then I’ll either be dead, or better enough to deal with mourning you, too.”
“I’m not going to hurt the boy,” said Grandfather. Ngalthr released him, and he too dropped to the sand beside us. Jesse inched back, but Grandfather simply touched Sally’s brow. “I’m sorry, Aphra. I wanted to keep you safe.”
“I’m not safe.”
“I know that. Do what you must; I’ll witness it in penance.”
I sighed, and wiped away tears I would not ignore. Beyond penance, having him there would be a comfort, though I wouldn’t say so now. I turned to Mary. “What you were planning—will it work without a man of the air?”