Unbound Read Free

accent like a newscaster's, from somewhere in the Midwest like Kansas or Iowa or Indiana. "When I was last in the world, it was still a name only for boys. I see that situation has improved."
    She started to answer, because he was speaking to her, to her , but her father's touch on her arm reminded her better. She kept silent, and her dad said, "My daughter is true to her name. You may count on that."
    "You haven't called me by my name, Chatar. Are you afraid to have her hear it?"
    "She must decide your name for herself, as you know. What she sees is not what I see. What she hears is not what I hear. That is your gift."
    "More of a curse, to be fair." The chalk snapped suddenly and fell from his fingers, and he scrabbled desperately around him for the pieces. His fingers trembled, and she saw his whole body convulse when the tiny fragments powdered in his grip. He reached out for a box next to him, and found it empty. "No. No. No. "
    "Allow me," Chatar Singh said. He stepped forward and crouched a few feet from the man, opened the box of chalk he held, and extended one. It was white chalk, the same color as what had broken. He placed the box down in easy reach of the captive, and then the second box, filled with blue. "We are here to be of service."
    The man sobbed and snatched the fresh chalk from her father's hand, and began scribbling frantically, as if he had time to make up. After a few seconds, he breathed easier, and the rhythm slowed to a more deliberate speed. "Thank you," he said. "You are a wise man. Have you explained me to your daughter yet?"
    "Only you can explain what you are."
    The man laughed. It sounded weird and hollow, and she thought that it might have been angry, too. "Of course, Chatar Singh. Now that she's here, I know why you love her more than anything in this world. It explains why you named me as you did."
    Her father said nothing to that. He stood up and backed away, still staring into the unfocused distance, and made a formal bow. He turned and walked back to Samarjit, and whispered, "Take him your chalk. Do not get close."
    She didn't want to do this anymore. She felt sick and light-headed now, and it was hard to breathe. But she couldn't let her father see her fear, could she? He expected more of her, and she had never wanted to disappoint him. Not the way her mother had.
    She walked forward and crouched down, in exactly the same spot her father had chosen. She took the top off the box and slid that offering over next to the other two her father had delivered.
    Her hand was still extended when the captive turned fast as the hiss of a whip, and his fingers wrapped around her wrist. The contact burned like a bracelet of heated metal, and she cried out and tried to jerk backward, but it made no difference. No difference at all. She was not strong enough to break free.
    No one could be that strong.
    "Samarjit." He sounded different, so close, so soft. Her name still sounded like a prayer on his lips. "Are you afraid of death?"
    She looked at him, directly into his face, into the endless black fall of his eyes, the madness of his smile. The feelings that swept over her were indescribable . . . longing, need, anguish, horror, hunger, rage, so many, so fast, so intense that she felt burned black by them.
    And then she saw him. Truly saw him. Not the pretty, pretty face or the flawless skin or silken hair. Not the disguise he wore to save those who came here.
    She saw the whole world dying in blood and horror and pain and fear and fire, dying and being reborn, over and over. His lips were close to her ear now, close enough that his cool breath puffed against her hair. "I am not mad. The world is mad. It must be made sane." He smelled of burning and blood.
    Her father was shouting her name, and she saw from the corner of her eye that he was lunging forward with his kirpan out and ready to strike. It took only a single, sharp glance from the captive to freeze him in place, with his kirpan half raised. She