Like all the others, the door was closed. Rellius knocked softly before opening, warning whoever waited within of the impending intrusion. As Rellius and Athan stepped inside without hesitation, Dnara stopped at the threshold before a beam of light cutting across the floor from a tightly shut window. The air beyond that beam of light felt oppressive, stale and scented with a sickly sweet aroma Dnara couldn’t quite give a name to. From the room came movement, shifting bedsheets and a wordless keening that preceded a moist cough.
“Please, come in and shut the door,” Rellius requested with a gentle motion of his hand. “The cool air from the hallway aggravates the cough.”
“Sorry,” Dnara apologized and quickly did as asked, but upon shutting the door her heart became unsettled in the stagnant, enclosed cage the room had become.
“This... this is her?” a balding man of thin stature and prominent nose asked Rellius with distress heavy in his words. The man’s darkly ringed eyes were red from sleeplessness and stared at Dnara in disappointment. “B-but... she is but a child, no older than my Elizabeth.”
“Tis true,” Rellius said, setting a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “But remember the words of the Blessed Mother. With our children, lies our hope.”
“Blessed be the words of Faedra,” the man recited, as if having said it habitually a hundred thousand times. He closed his tired eyes, drew in a long breath then reopened them. “Forgive my doubt, Elder, but I fear my hope lays there, in this bed, slowly dying.”
“I know.” Rellius squeezed the man’s shoulder. “In the absence of hope, we must have faith, Darrius. Faith that the gods have sent to us a way to renew our hope.”
When the man gave a small nod and Rellius moved aside, Athan stepped forward. “Mayor Whitehall, sir, I’m Athan. Athan Ateiros.”
“The forester, yes,” Darrius held out his hand and Athan accepted the greeting. “My son has spoken of you often, and I have heard not but good things from the townspeople in your resourceful capacity to provide needed items even as the blight grows. If my son considers you a friend, then so shall I.”
“Thank you, sir.” Athan’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he didn’t argue the point. Instead, he motioned for Dnara to come closer. “This is Dnara. She... I truly do not know if she is a mage, sir, but I know her to be a healer with a great knowledge of apothecary and a kind, earnest heart.”
His unexpected words brought a warmth to her cheeks even as the stifling air in the room made it unpleasant to breathe. “Sir,” she said with a dip of her head in respect to his station. “I don’t know if I’m a mage, either, but I will do what I can.”
“Beothen said he saw you do magic,” Darrius argued, holding onto what hope he could. “Said you cured that bread seller’s wife... Pella, was it?”
“Penna, sir,” Athan corrected. “And I saw it, too. Wouldn’t believe it otherwise, if I’m to be honest. I didn’t think even magic could expel the blight, but Penna hacked it up onto the floor, and Beothen had to toss the blasted thing into the fire.”
“Remarkable,” Elder Rellius whispered like an exaltation to the gods, with his eyes raised upwards. “Faedra works in mysterious ways indeed. To give a young girl such power as to heal our sickened land. Praise be.”
“Praise be,” Darrius repeated.
“That’s also the night the fires began dying,” Dnara said, bringing their gazes back down to earth. “I may have been the cause.”
Athan made an augmentative grunt. “That was the blight, not you.”
“We don’t know that,” she argued back. “And what about poor Jenny? And Jorn? I nearly killed the man!”
“That wasn’t your fault-”
“Killed someone?” Darrius interjected, now stepping closer to his daughter as if to shield her prone, unmoving figure. “What’s this about?”
“I assure you, sir,” Athan spoke carefully. “It wasn’t her fault.”
“It was,” she said with more conviction. “They need to know the truth of it, Athan, if I am to touch his daughter.” When Athan gave no further argument aside from a pained expression at her clear guilt over matters he thought not within her control, she turned to the priest and the mayor with bandaged arms held out to them in a want for understanding. “I don’t know if this is magic, or a curse, or a spirit, or all three. What I do know is that I cannot fully control it or what it does. It... It frightens me.”
“Dnara,” Athan whispered her name with pain in his eyes and reached out, but his hand stopped short as Rellius came forward.
“Oh, dear child.” Elder Rellius gently set his aged hand upon her shoulder and gave her the warmest of smiles. “What a burden has been placed upon your small shoulders. Beothen told me of the dangers, of what happened at the river with the bandits and with the blackrope in town. I am pleased you have thought to warn Darrius of them, to consider his daughter’s life more important than holding onto your secrets.”
“You knew?” Athan looked up from his thoughts. “A test, then?”
“As is life,” Rellius contemplated. “But, from Beothen’s telling, it is clear that your life had been in danger when this... Well, let’s just call it magic for want of a clearer word, acted to defend you, and then it acted in kind service to you when you wished to free Penna from the blight. And, like good Athan, I believe the blight is to blame for the dying fires, not you, child.”
Dnara didn’t know if it was his words or the way in which he spoke them, but they brought long held tears to her eyes which shed without a hope to stop them. Athan said nothing but drew her close to him, his thumbs trying their best to wipe away each drop of water that fell. In his eyes, her sadness mirrored, but over her came the feeling of relief. They did not think her a monster for those things, they did not blame her for the fires, and they- he did understand her fear.
“Papa?” a weak voice broke into the silence, and the mass on the bed shifted within a mountain of blankets. “Is someone crying?”
Darrius rushed to his daughter’s bedside, helping her to sit up and gently passing his hand over hair the color of honeyed wheat. “Sorry to wake you, sweetie, but the woman I told you about is here.”
A pair of grey eyes, that at one time may have been the brightest blue, glanced over Darrius’s shoulder and squinted at the dim room beyond. In her face and hair and eyes, Dnara caught a subtle glimpse at the beautiful girl Elizabeth was, and the likeness to Garrett was unmistakable. “Twins?”
She gasped the word out then clamped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment, but Elizabeth’s weary expression broke into a smile. “You know my brother? Have you seen him? Is he here?”
“I’m sorry,” Athan said as the light in Elizabeth’s eyes diminished with disappointment. “He had town matters to attend to.”
Elizabeth nodded, leaning her tired head on her father’s shoulder. “Do not think poorly of him for not visiting me. He has so much responsibility, and... And it pains him greatly to see his mirror image cast into the shadows of blight.”
With slow grace, Elizabeth slid from her father’s support to rest back upon the mattress, pulling the covers around her with a shivering quiver. “So cold.”
Even as she said those words, a bead of sweat trickled down Dnara’s back, the room’s air feeling hotter and more stifled the longer they stood there, contemplating what to do. Sweat also dotted Darrius’s brow as he turned to her, desperation in his eyes. “Please, help my daughter. Whatever the price, I will pay it. Just do not let Demroth have her!”
Moved by his grief, Dnara approached the bed, passing by the shut window. The two window panes shook in their wooden frame, a breeze knocking to be let in. Dnara eyed the window then looked to her bandaged hands, finally accepting the connection that had been weaving its way into her soul since the moment she fled her keeper’s tower.
“There is a price,” she said, resolute in what would come next. “But it is I who must pay it.”
“Dnara,” Athan made to protest, coming behind her
with hands ready to pull her from the bed. “It’s too soon.”
“What price is this?” Darrius asked, his eyes now widening at the sight of Dnara’s bandages. “Faedra have mercy,” he whispered under his breath but did not instruct Dnara to stop as she sat at the edge of the bed.
“Open the window,” Dnara asked of Athan, and Athan shook his head.
“Is that wise?” Darrius glanced from her to the priest to his daughter, but Elder Rellius had gone silent and still, bald head bowed low in prayer.
“Athan,” Dnara pleaded again. “Please.”
“Damn you, Demroth,” Athan muttered but complied, unhooking the latch and flinging the two window panes wide open into the temple gardens below.
Ashbird song filled the room along with a gentle wind. Elizabeth curled up within the blanket, a meek voice complaining of the noise and the chill. Darrius stood from the bed and headed for the window, but Athan stopped him with a single, hard look. Whatever the reason, the open window had been deemed necessary, the wind part of the magic or the spirit that would allow Dnara the chance to do what had been considered, until recently, to be impossible.
“So cold,” Elizabeth whimpered within the thick blankets. “Please. It hurts, Papa. It hurts!”
“Gods save me,” Darrius cried and fisted his hands to keep from pushing Athan away from his guard post at the open window. He began pacing the small room, muttering curses under his breath.
“Pray with me, Darrius,” Rellius commanded softly and Darrius came to a halt.
“Yes, Elder.” With great effort and a long breath, Darrius became still, standing next to Rellius with head bowed in supplication.
Left with no sound but the breeze whistling quietly into the stone room and Elizabeth’s pained whimpers, Dnara closed her eyes and set a hand on the woman’s forehead. Without assuredly knowing what was supposed to be done, Dnara simply tried what she’d done with Penna, wishing to sooth the woman’s pained crooning and hoping to offer some form of comfort. Elizabeth’s forehead felt so cold, like a winter’s morning, damp and clammy to the touch with the threat of frostbite looming. Dnara kept her palm pressed to it despite the chilling discomfort seeping into her hand. She could scarce believe a human body could become so frigid while life remained within it.
Her mind focused in on Elizabeth’s ragged breathing, in and out, in and out; each inhale a hard won battle and every exhale an exhausted wheeze. Between the breaths, Dnara felt the low thump of Elizabeth’s heartbeat as it sped and slowed and sped again, racing then stumbling in its attempts to keep Elizabeth’s temperature above freezing. If Elizabeth had just fallen into a frozen river, Dnara would not have questioned her current state. But to be like this, in this room, with winter already bowing its head in departure to spring? It could only be the work of some unnatural thing.
This unnatural thing had attached itself to Elizabeth, festering within her body and consuming her warmth, her light, her life. And as with Penna, the deeper Dnara listened, the closer she came to this other thing, its own pulsating life force almost masked by Elizabeth’s weakening heartbeat. But there, in the stillness between the wind, the breathing and the prayers of men, Dnara heard it and reached down to grasp it.
So deep. So dark. Dnara sank down, down, down into shadow.
The ashbirds went silent. A raven gave a warning call. Wind swirled into the room, lifting cloth and pages and feathers into a whirling storm that threatened to knock over mayor, priest and forester. The mayor let out a raised call to the gods as the blanket ripped away from his daughter and flew out the window. Centered within, Dnara held onto Elizabeth and remained focused on the darkness.
It rose over her head, drowning her. Bubbles rose as she continued to fall through murky ink of untold depths, drawn to a distant shore where a light flickered. She fought the tide, pounded by the waves which latched on and tried to pull her back under. So close, so close, so...
And there it was, a light burning brighter than a thousand stars, waiting for her with arms outstretched and the words of promise forming on a mouth not yet shaped.
A child, Dnara thought with surprising clarity, and the wind drew in protectively. Elizabeth was with child. Dnara wept with the wind as the blight latched on to the light and would not let go. The sea swelled and its surface frosted. A puff of white came from between Dnara’s chapping lips as before her the child’s light struggled to remain lit.
In an unwanted realization, Dnara cursed the blight. The blight was too strong, the remaining life too weak to keep both embers burning. Mother or child, she would have to choose.
The light upon the shore smiled at her across the waves, an understanding forming within its unopened eyes. Dnara had brought this knowledge to it, a connection to the world outside and the mother this light endangered. It had not known, had only wanted to shine, had only wanted to live. But no, not like this, not at the cost of another. The light reached up to the stars, fell back with a serene sigh and was swallowed whole by the writhing darkness.
“No!” Dnara screamed, hands clawing at the sand in a desperate attempt to get over the waves that kept sucking her back under. “There must be another way,” she begged, but the wind only replied with a mournful howl.
The dark mass swelled, rising up over the churning sea and casting an unending shadow over Dnara as she lost the will to fight the next wave. Then, from the darkness, there came cracks of light, etching their way along its molten surface like the scars upon her arms. The blight reared back in agony, a beastly shriek breaking its form apart as the crackling lines met, grew brighter then shattered. All at once, the world went silent. A pale moonlight blanketed the sea. Dnara lifted her head above the water and gasped for air.
“Breathe,” Athan insisted as he held Dnara within his arms. Papers and feathers floated down around them as the wind calmed and the room went quiet again. “Please, Dnara, breathe!”
Dnara inhaled, sputtered then coughed up a lungful of black water onto the stone floor. “The child,” she muttered incoherently, her thoughts still tossed about by the sea upon a now barren shore. “The child, Athan.”
“What child?” Athan asked, cupping her face in his hands as tears sprung anew from her eyes.
“Her child,” Dnara replied, her searching eyes seeing only a fading light where his face should be. “I could not save the child.”
And it was then that Elizabeth screeched. The priest rushed over to a bed no longer covered with blankets, and the metallic tinge of blood filled the room. The mayor let out a wailing appeal to the gods and fell to his knees. Elizabeth’s cries raised in the chorus of a spirit dying.
“A miscarriage,” the priest faintly announced, his words cut by sharp sorrow.
“Forgive me,” Dnara wept, sinking down into the comforting embrace of shadow.
18
Sleep Not in Shadow
Sleep not in Shadow,
For I shall always be near.
In my arms, I’ll keep you,
The night holds nothing to fear.
Sleep sweetly my child,
From you I’ll never depart.
So safely dream of far off lands
And those held closer to heart
Dream of the Red City,
Where Carnath’s brave king reigns.
Dream of proud Orynthis,
A land of silver and grain.
Dream of Pel’Kathor,
Where Orc’kothi tribes roam.
Dream of the Elvan lands,
Where giant trees are made home.
Sleep not in Shadow,
For I shall always be near.
In my arms, I’ll keep you,
The night holds nothing to fear.
The moon overhead shines brightly
Faedra’s light upon the earth.
The Shadow King cannot darken
the stars from their rebirth.
Valda, in silence, watches.
Thalisa carries rod and shield.
Brodan’s f
ire will keep us warm,
As Ishkar keeps our fates concealed.
Soon a new day will dawn,
and Retgar, the sun, shall rise.
He’ll chase Demroth back into shadow,
so close your eyes, close your eyes.
Sleep not in Shadow,
For I shall always be near.
In my arms, I’ll keep you,
The night holds nothing to fear.
-Carnathian lullaby,
author unknown.
19
The Ghosts of Fen’Nadrel
Perhaps arriving at the abandoned, reportedly haunted, Elvan fort of Fen’Nadrel just as darkness fell over his back had not been among the best of Serenthel’s ideas thus far in his journey northwest. But, here he stood, feet upon the broken masonry of a bridge that had long ago ceased spanning the narrow river that cut off the eastern side of the fort from the mainland. All around, broken alabaster pillars dotted the overgrown vegetation, jutting up like the white bone remains of an ancient skeletal giant. A few intact pillars rose high overhead to meet fallen archways, their stone faces intricately carved but weathered and cracked. One statue remained perched at the start of the bridge, one arm gone but the other holding a spear in warning to all those who would dare to cross uninvited.
His logic said go around, but his heart whispered go forward.
Serenthel peered through the growing darkness at the canal some twenty feet down, its waters slowly meandering over rounded boulders and lapping against a sandy silted shore before spilling into the ocean. The ocean pounded against the fort’s southern and western walls, or what remained of them. To the north, an easier crossing, perhaps, if the small peninsula had not been turned into an island during its thousand year dereliction. A wise person may have made camp for the night in the field of wild flowers now basking in the gentle light of a rising moon, waiting until morning to try going around the ruins with hope for an easier path on the other side. Serenthel, however, knew he was yet too young to be considered wise, and his promise to follow his heart’s chosen path to its end had been made just a short week past.
When the Wind Speaks (Starstone Prophecies Book 1) Page 16
