Maia felt cushioned half to death. Even superficial cuts hurt like hell. Sandy grit lay buried in every laceration, with each grain apparently assigned its own cluster of nerves. To make matters worse, evaporation sucked the heat out of her body, setting her teeth chattering.
But we're not dead, another voice within her pointed out defiantly. And we won't be, if I can find a way out of here before the sea rises.
Not an easy proposition, she admitted, shivering. This undercut cave probably fills and empties twice a day, routinely washing itself clean of jetsam like us.
Maia guessed they had at least a few hours. More life-span than she had expected during those final moments, plunging toward a horrible, black cavity in the side of a towering dragon's tooth. I should be grateful for even a brief reprieve, she thought, shaking her head. Forgive me, though, if I fail to quite see the point.
In retrospect, it seemed pathetically dumb to have gone charging off to rescue Renna — and to redeem her sister — only to fail so totally and miserably. Maia felt especially sorry for Brod, her companion and friend, whose sole fatal error had been in following her.
I should never have asked him. He's a man, after all. When he dies, his story ends.
The same could be said for her, of course. Both men and vars lacked the end-of-life solace afforded to normal folk — to clones — who knew they would continue through their clanmates, in all ways but direct memory.
I guess there's still a chance for me in that way. Leie could succeed in her plans, become great, found a clan. She sniffed sardonically. Maybe Leie'll put a statue of me in the courtyard of her hold. First in a long row of stern effigies, all cast from the same mold.
There were other, more modest possibilities, closer to Maia's heart. Although the twins' minor differences had irked them, important things, like their taste in people, had always matched. So, there was a chance Leie might be drawn to Renna, as Maia had. Perhaps Leie would forsake her reaver pals and help the man from outer space, even grow close to him.
That should make me feel better, Maia pondered. I wonder why it doesn't?
In successive ebbs and flows, the waterline had been gradually climbing higher along the sandy bank where they lay. Soon the icy liquid sloshed her legs, as well as Brod's lower torso. Here comes the tide, Maia thought, knowing it was time to force her reluctant, battered body to move again. Groaning, she hauled herself upright. Taking the boy by his armpits, Maia gritted her teeth and strained to drag him upslope three, four meters . . . until her backside abruptly smacked into something hard and jagged.
"Ouch! Damn the smuggy . . ."
Maia laid Brod down on the sand and reached around, trying to rub a place along her spine. She turned and with her other hand began delicately exploring whatever obdurate, prickly barrier loomed out of the darkness to block her retreat. Carefully at first, she lightly traced what turned out to be a nearly vertical wall of randomly pointed objects . . . slim ovoids coated with slime. Shells, she realized. Hordes of barnaclelike creatures clung tenaciously to a stone cliff face while patiently awaiting another meal, the next tidal flood of seaborne organic matter.
I guess this is as far as we go, she noted with resignation. Depression and fatigue almost made her throw herself on the sand next to Brod, there to pass her remaining minutes in peace. Instead, with a sigh, Maia commenced feeling her way along the wall, trying not to wince each time another craggy shell pinched or scraped her hands. The thick band of algae-covered carapaces continued above her farthest reach, confirming that full tide stretched much higher than she could.
Still she moved from left to right, hoping for something to change. Shuffling sideways, her feet encountered a gentle slope . . . alas, rising no more than another meter or so. Yet it made a crucial difference. At the limit of Maia's tiptoe reach, her fingertips passed beyond the scummy crust of shells and stroked smooth stone.
High-water mark. The ceiling's above high tide! This offered possibilities. Assume I waken him in time. Could Brod and I tread water and float up with the current, keeping our heads dry?
Not without something strong and stable to hang on to, she realized with chagrin. More likely, the waves' flushing action would first bash them against the abrading walls, then suck their fragments outside to join other rubble left by the reavers' bombardment.
The only real hope was for a cleft or ledge, above. If there's'some way to get up there in time.
