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All his life, Faulkner has dreamed of flying, soaring over endless stirring waters on eagle’s wings, scanning the horizon with sharp eyes that are not his own. For many years, these dreams (which he now knows to have been an early instance of prophecy) were a source of escape, of comfort, a scrap of grandeur in a dreary and claustrophobic world. But ever since Faulkner was hallowed and grew a pair of wings, he’s been dreaming of flying, and he’s woken up feeling like he’s falling.
There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with his inner ear, or his balance, at least based on what Carpenter could tell in a basic field assessment, so whatever was causing the sensation of plummeting through empty air to torment him for hours on end wasn’t medical. She’d sounded so grim when she said it, and when he said that he thought there was something the Trawler-man was trying to tell him, she’d just frowned and instructed him to get some rest. Easier said than done, as there aren’t an abundance of options open to him to lie comfortably in his new body, even when he wasn’t plagued by dreams or feverishly praying for their continued safety as Carpenter and Webster hunted down the remaining members of Mason’s inner circle, those who knew enough of the Withermark to be dangerous.
(Faulkner hasn’t heard the Trawler-man’s voice or seen his face in the water in weeks. This is unusual. Faulkner is trying to convince himself that it doesn’t mean anything, and failing badly.)
Whatever he was supposed to be hearing, he hasn’t heard it yet, and tonight, the feeling of spinning and falling has hit him so hard he can barely sit upright in bed in Webster’s spare room in a run-down apartment in Lower Glottage. He’s been trying to make it across the room to the bathroom for the better part of an hour, and hasn’t yet managed to get his legs under him. When he’d tried to stand up, he’d gotten so dizzy that he’d had to lie back down and cover his eyes to avoid being sick.
Voices floating down the hallway, coming closer. “-gonna check on him,” Carpenter is saying. “Would you do me a favor and stand watch from the balcony? I’d just feel better if I knew the building was secure, with the state Faulkner’s in-”
“Sure thing,” Webster says. “My med kit’s under the sink in the kitchen if you need it.”
“Thanks,” Carpenter says, closer now. “For everything. I know putting us up isn’t-”
Webster makes a dismissive harrumph. “Hush your mouth, girlie. As far back as the two of us go, and after what you and the boy did to protect the sacred river – it wasn’t a hard decision.”
The door creaks open. Carpenter pads into the room, clearly trying not to disturb him. “Hey, tiger,” she says softly. “Did I wake you up?”
“Falcon,” Faulkner whispers groggily. “Or maybe an osprey. Not sure.”
“What?” Carpenter asks. She kneels down by his bedside and checks his temperature. “You’re talking crazier than usual, there, Faulkner. You feeling all right?”
“Not a tiger,” Faulkner says. “For the record.”
Carpenter scoffs in mock-irritation, impressed in spite of herself. “Well, ‘hey, osprey’ hardly rolls off the tongue. Plus, you can’t be that sick if you’ve still got it in you to be such a smartass,” Carpenter says. “How’s the vertigo? Scale of one to ten?”
“Seven,” Faulkner rasps out. “Was a nine earlier.”
“Shit,” Carpenter says, alarmed. “Do you need some water, or something to eat?”
Faulkner needs about a million things – he’s parched, and he feels clammy and chilled, and he’s weak with hunger but he hasn’t been able to keep anything down since yesterday, and his head is killing him – but what he really wants more than anything is for the room to stay still, just for a minute. He opens his mouth to reply when a fresh wave of dizziness hits him, and his response is cut off with a whimper.
“Poor thing,” Carpenter says softly. “Bless the current that bore you. I’ll be right back, all right?”
Faulkner tries to say something to the contrary, but she’s gone before he can marshal his thoughts into intelligible speech. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. The only thing worse than being alone in this condition, he thinks, is being abandoned. He fights down a fresh wave of misery and feebly twitches a wing over his eyes to block the light coming in through the open door to the hallway when-
There’s a shadow across his face. He cracks open his eyes and realizes that Carpenter is back. She must have just gone to the kitchen. “Okay, so,” she says, rummaging around as she sets things down on the bedside table. “I have a glass of water here, and some crackers. Might be good to settle your stomach. Webster also swears by this ginger candy for nausea, we can give that a try if you like. And I brought a washcloth, since you look more than a little sweaty. What first?”
“Can you just make it stop?” Faulkner asks. He knows he must sound pathetic, which he thinks is reasonable, because that’s how he feels. “If this is the cost of sainthood, well-”
“It’s too late to stop the carnival ride, Faulkner,” Carpenter says, with surprising gentleness. “We’re well past that now. ‘Fraid all that’s left to us is to soldier on through.” She stands up and perches on the side of the mattress. Her tone grows businesslike. “There’s no mark I know of that could make it go away, but we can at least make you feel a little more comfortable, all right? Can you sit up a little?”
It’s not what he wanted to hear, but Carpenter’s refusal to sugarcoat his prognosis is oddly comforting, in a way. At least she isn’t treating him like an invalid. He struggles upright and Carpenter hands him a cup of water, though she doesn’t put her hand down, like she doesn’t quite trust him to manage it by himself. “You up for some food, or not yet?” He shakes his head. “All right. No problem. Do you want the washcloth, or is it better if I just-” Carpenter dabs lightly at his forehead with the damp cloth. The cool relief it provides runs through him like an electric shock, and he leans into the pressure.
“Listen,” Carpenter says, wiping his face with a deft hand. “I know you’re not feeling well, and if I thought this could wait, I’d wait, but since you’re cogent enough to talk-”
“What is it?” Faulkner asks.
“We got Katabasian Poole last night,” Carpenter says. “That’s the last of Mason’s major lieutenants. Webster and some of the others from our faction are talking about getting out of Glottage. They don’t think it’s safe here for members of the Parish. Too many people. We have control of the Parish’s bunker, but it’s too hard to defend.”
Faulkner tries to follow the thread of what Carpenter is telling him, but his thoughts spin away from him, leaves in an eddy of wind. “What does that mean for us?”
“I think we’d better go with them, Faulkner,” Carpenter says. “There’s safety in numbers, and quite honestly, I think they could use the help. So that means travel-” Faulkner blanches. “I know, kiddo. I know. But at least we’ll be on the river, right? Of course, we’ll need to figure out where we’re going, but that’s a problem for another day.” She runs a hand over her hair. “You want to try this ginger candy stuff?” Faulkner nods weakly, and Carpenter unwraps a lozenge and hands it to him. “Anything else I can get for you?”
“Would you just keep me company for a minute?” Faulkner asks, and is mortified by the words as soon as they’re past his lips.
Carpenter must be in a generous mood, or he must look really miserable, because she lets it slide without so much as a raised eyebrow. “Of course I will,” Carpenter says. “All day, if that’s what you want.” She takes his hand, and he thinks suddenly of their stunt at Marcel’s Crossing, and how as the waters of the White Gull drew back, they’d faced their doom hand-in-hand then, too –
A wave of vertigo unlike anything he’s experienced crashes over him, thunder rings in his ears, and the taste of ozone slams into his mouth and nose. Time seems to disappear, and a series of familiar and unfamiliar images flash in front of him, sketched in neon colors like a glowing map: the river road in Marcel’s Crossing, Bellwethers, and the road beyond it, an expanse of marshes and fens, the fan of the delta, and the sea. Then, at the end of the Peninsula, rising up out of the furious waves, an island like a city on a hill, and a pang of recognition: home .
“Faulkner!” Carpenter’s voice is sharp in his ears. “Faulkner, are you all right?”
Blearily, he blinks his eyes open. The nausea is gone, as is the dizziness, though he still feels weak. Even stronger than the bone-deep gratitude for his deliverance from the torment of his flesh, a euphoric relief washes over him. He hasn’t been abandoned. He still has his god. His god is still speaking to him. He’s not alone.
“Never better, Sister,” Faulkner whispers. “I know where we need to go.”