the locked door, he’d shared with her.
It had been a hard night. She would sleep, and in her sleep rise and try to leave, and Wraith had worried that she would hurt
herself on the stairs or the crates. Finally he’d taken off his shirt and used it to tie her feet together.
When morning came, she was … herself. She looked around her— the first person in the Warrens that Wraith had ever seen do
that except for himself—and then looked right at him.
And her first words were the first words each of his subsequent rescues had asked, in one way or another. “Are you one of
the gods?”
He did not know what to say. He’d once thought he might be one of the gods. So he told her his name was Wraith—the Unseen
One. That seemed right to him. And he told her she was Shina. The Mother Goddess. He’d liked the name, and the image of lovely,
dark-eyed Shina (one of the few benevolent gods of the Warreners’ pantheon) speaking from the prayer-lights reminded Wraith
of the girl who sat before him.
“Am I a god, then?” she had asked. And because she had not been struck down by the gods for the heresy of not praying the
night prayers or going that morning to lessons, he told her that he thought she might be.
Three days later, never suspecting that the gate would do more than shine light on anyone who dared trespass it, he tried
to take her out to see the city beyond the Warrens’ walls. He’d been holding her hand when they started across, had been staring
into her eyes with a delight and a joy that he had not imagined possible in his pale, lonely existence. And in the moment
of crossing, the gates that could not touch him devoured her utterly. She did not have time to cry out. Did not have time
to blink. He was staring into her eyes, and then staring into nothing. Nothing remained of her except the rags she’d been
wearing.
Shina. He tried not to think of her, but every time he lost another friend, he found himself staring into her lovely brown
eyes in that single last instant they shared, and wondering what his life might have been like had she lived to share it with
him.
That had been long ago, with its brutal lesson not lost on Wraith. Never again had he let anyone try to cross the gate. Never
again had he tried to make one of his made friends into a true equal, a true partner.
Wraith, sitting in the doorway staring up at the sky, thought of the ones he’d rescued after. Red-haired, freckled Smoke.
A boy he’d named Trev, lost to guards perhaps a year ago. Jess. His own older brother—the first and last member of his true
family that he’d tried to save—who had won his way to awareness, had wept his thanks for the freedom of mind and body, and
then had died in wracking, horrible pain because he was too old to escape the poisons of the Way-fare.
Those who lived had kept the names Wraith gave them because those names were gifts. To have a name at all was a gift. To be
aware of names, to see the world, to do things by choice and understand that the choice existed—all gifts. Of all of them,
only Wraith had been born free. The rest of them had come to freedom through him, and they held him in a place of honor for
that.
But he had never let himself care for or love them the way he had cared for and loved Shina. They were his friends … but fragile
friends, held always at a slight remove, so that if he lost them—the way he had now lost Smoke, second-born of the free—he
would still be able to sleep at night, at least a little. Would still be able to rise to face the new day. Would still be
able to go on, sneaking out the gate, gathering food for his … companions? Associates? Pets?
Wraith leaned back against the doorframe and felt the movement of air against his cheek, and smelled the night smells of the
city, and wondered what mistake had created him free in this city-within-a-city of helpless slaves. Solander said that magic
couldn’t touch him. But
It had been a hard night. She would sleep, and in her sleep rise and try to leave, and Wraith had worried that she would hurt
herself on the stairs or the crates. Finally he’d taken off his shirt and used it to tie her feet together.
When morning came, she was … herself. She looked around her— the first person in the Warrens that Wraith had ever seen do
that except for himself—and then looked right at him.
And her first words were the first words each of his subsequent rescues had asked, in one way or another. “Are you one of
the gods?”
He did not know what to say. He’d once thought he might be one of the gods. So he told her his name was Wraith—the Unseen
One. That seemed right to him. And he told her she was Shina. The Mother Goddess. He’d liked the name, and the image of lovely,
dark-eyed Shina (one of the few benevolent gods of the Warreners’ pantheon) speaking from the prayer-lights reminded Wraith
of the girl who sat before him.
“Am I a god, then?” she had asked. And because she had not been struck down by the gods for the heresy of not praying the
night prayers or going that morning to lessons, he told her that he thought she might be.
Three days later, never suspecting that the gate would do more than shine light on anyone who dared trespass it, he tried
to take her out to see the city beyond the Warrens’ walls. He’d been holding her hand when they started across, had been staring
into her eyes with a delight and a joy that he had not imagined possible in his pale, lonely existence. And in the moment
of crossing, the gates that could not touch him devoured her utterly. She did not have time to cry out. Did not have time
to blink. He was staring into her eyes, and then staring into nothing. Nothing remained of her except the rags she’d been
wearing.
Shina. He tried not to think of her, but every time he lost another friend, he found himself staring into her lovely brown
eyes in that single last instant they shared, and wondering what his life might have been like had she lived to share it with
him.
That had been long ago, with its brutal lesson not lost on Wraith. Never again had he let anyone try to cross the gate. Never
again had he tried to make one of his made friends into a true equal, a true partner.
Wraith, sitting in the doorway staring up at the sky, thought of the ones he’d rescued after. Red-haired, freckled Smoke.
A boy he’d named Trev, lost to guards perhaps a year ago. Jess. His own older brother—the first and last member of his true
family that he’d tried to save—who had won his way to awareness, had wept his thanks for the freedom of mind and body, and
then had died in wracking, horrible pain because he was too old to escape the poisons of the Way-fare.
Those who lived had kept the names Wraith gave them because those names were gifts. To have a name at all was a gift. To be
aware of names, to see the world, to do things by choice and understand that the choice existed—all gifts. Of all of them,
only Wraith had been born free. The rest of them had come to freedom through him, and they held him in a place of honor for
that.
But he had never let himself care for or love them the way he had cared for and loved Shina. They were his friends … but fragile
friends, held always at a slight remove, so that if he lost them—the way he had now lost Smoke, second-born of the free—he
would still be able to sleep at night, at least a little. Would still be able to rise to face the new day. Would still be
able to go on, sneaking out the gate, gathering food for his … companions? Associates? Pets?
Wraith leaned back against the doorframe and felt the movement of air against his cheek, and smelled the night smells of the
city, and wondered what mistake had created him free in this city-within-a-city of helpless slaves. Solander said that magic
couldn’t touch him. But
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