Bloodstone

by Johannes, Helen C.

  The emphasis on the last word set off shivers low in her belly, but she tried to quell them. She was merely cold. Worried. Exhausted.

  He turned a fraction, and the regard of the unseen eyes fell on her with a palpable weight. “The choice is yours, Mirianna. If you don’t want to try the water, Gareth can bring it back.” He said something to the boy, and they both walked toward the roofless Great Hall.

  He’d said her name. The Shadow Man—Durren Drakkonwehr—had said her name. Again. Each time the syllables reverberated within her like the tiny tuning fork her father struck to test the quality of crystals. Still quivering with something oddly like pleasure, Mirianna watched the broad black shoulders meld into the shadows. About time he used my name. She ignored the little voice reminding her she hadn’t once called him by name. Any name.

  ****

  Gareth hunkered down beside the fire pit and broke apart a dry-cake he found among the Shadow Man’s stores. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s supper, and the intense general glow told him the sun was directly overhead. No wonder he was so hungry. They’d been underground for hours, what with running down to the pool again for the Shadow Man to fill the bucket.

  He munched a small piece, chewing it thoroughly because Freth always said he wasn’t an animal and shouldn’t bolt his food. While he ate, he listened to movements around the fire pit.

  Mirianna was too busy nursing her father to think of food, so he’d fended for himself. She seemed surprised at what he could do, even if she didn’t say so, but she wasn’t used to him yet. His mother had told him, because they were alone in the world, he had to do for himself as much as possible so she could be free to earn the coin they needed to survive. Then, when he was old enough, she taught him to earn his own coin. He snuffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  The smelly man still slept. According to the snoring, he hadn’t stirred from that spot. The horse he and the old man had ridden had been so spent, it could hardly put one hoof in front of the other to reach the trough. Gareth had groomed the worst of the grit from its coat and poured it a measure of grain, but the animal seemed content just to stand. He’d have to check it when he finished eating. All that weight could have left it lame.

  The Shadow Man had stayed down in the tunnel after filling the bucket for him. Together, they’d already gone down twice and back once, and Gareth had memorized the turnings before he had to come back alone. Besides, if he got off track, he had only to sniff the air. The rotten-eggs smell was strongest by the pool.

  Gareth sniffed his hands and made a face. He would have to wash in well water to get rid of the stink and a sliminess that clung to his fingers after helping his master hold the old man in place at the pool’s edge. The blanket had gotten a bit wet under the old man’s head, but they’d needed the cushion because the edge was nothing but rough and ragged rock. More lumps and pebbles littered the ledge where they knelt. Even though he shifted as many as he could from under his knees and backside whenever the Shadow Man told him to stretch, the stones had poked him everywhere.

  One stone, though, had smooth sides, as if something had cut it cleanly from whatever it had been part of. He’d rubbed his thumb over it, made to toss it after the others, then tucked it into the pouch of his sleeve. The stone wasn’t big, about the size of a green walnut but shaped so it fit neatly into the curl of his fingers. Maybe the Shadow Man could look at it later and tell him why it was different. Or the old man, if he lived. He was some kind of gem hunter, wasn’t he?

  Breaking off another piece of dry-cake, Gareth shivered. His tunic was drying in the sun, but the breeze licked up the sweaty spots. Even the hair at his nape was still damp. When they’d gone into the tunnel, he’d expected the bone-chilling cold of those enclosed spaces off the courtyard, not stinking, sweltering heat.

  “Forgive me,” Mirianna’s voice startled him. “You’re hungry, and I haven’t given you a thought.”

  “Got food,” Gareth mumbled around a mouthful. “Want some?”

  “You finish it. I don’t think I could eat right now.” Cool fingers closed around his wrist and she put a cup into his hand. “Here. You probably need something to wash that down.”

  He drank gratefully. “How is he—your father?”

  “Resting.” She exhaled, a long, deep breath that told him some of her panic had eased. “Tell me—where did your master take him? What did he do? He didn’t say much of anything...and then he left.” Cloth rustled as if something refused to settle in it.

  “We went down. Inside the mountain, I think. There’s a pool of hot water down there, and my master wanted to soak your father in it. My master needed me to hold him when he cut the wound open. I don’t think your father felt it, miss.” He reached toward the sound of the fabric, hoping to find her hand and comfort her.

  She grasped his instead, a quick pressure of cold fingers, before she let go. “Thank you. You were gone a long time.”

  He shrugged. “Did you give him the water?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about it yet.”

  “It stinks something awful, and it’s slimy.”

  “It leaves brown stains, too.” She tugged on his sleeve.

  He sniffed the fabric and made a face. “I wondered why my hands smelled so bad.”

  She blew out another breath, and in the ensuing silence, he worked up the nerve to ask what had been troubling him since he’d come back to the courtyard. “That lion—is she gone?”

  Mirianna didn’t reply for so long, he worried she didn’t know what he meant. Maybe it was all a dream...but her father was real, and so were the tired horse and the smelly man.

  “She comes and goes as she pleases,” she said at last. “I didn’t know until you looked so shocked last night that you had no idea she existed. Sometimes I find it hard to believe, too.”

  “My master said she saved me from the Krad. Did she help you too?”

  “Twice. And she led me to your master.”

  “So that’s how you found us. I wondered.”

  They sat in silence broken only by the smelly man’s snores until she said, “How much do you know about your master?”

  He cocked his head, wishing he could hear more in her voice, sense more from her breathing than the vague impression her mood had shifted. She wanted something or something was troubling her. He couldn’t tell which, so he thought a bit before he spoke. “I know he’s the Shadow Man, and he wanted me to serve him because I can’t see so he can’t kill me with a look.” He flushed, recalling how he’d been just as terrified of the Shadow Man as anyone in Ar-Deneth, until his attitude changed. “He took care of me when I got hurt, and he doesn’t mind if I laugh when his stomach growls. He lets me do what I’m able to do, and he trusts me.”

  Ulerroth had been a good master, reasonably patient, and he took care Gareth had enough food, clothing, and a warm place to sleep. The Shadow Man was doing the same, but there was something more between them, something Gareth couldn’t put his finger on. He sensed she needed to know about that something, but he couldn’t find words.

  “Why?” he said instead. “Is there something else I should know?”

  Tension leaked out from her, stirring the air with the short, bated pattern of her breathing. She intended to tell him something, but she exhaled and stood. “No. That seems to be enough.”

  Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he stood too. “I was thinking I should tend to the horses since I didn’t get to it this morning, but if you need me, I’ll stay.”

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  He took his staff and headed off. Part of his mind counted the steps and paid attention to the turnings while another part wondered whether he should’ve asked her more about the lion and the strange sensation of comfort the creature brought.

  ****

  Mirianna sat beside her father and inspected the water Gareth had delivered. In the bucket, it looked like well water but smelled much worse, as though sulfur were concentrated in it. Even though t
he water appeared clear, stains scalloped the boy’s cuffs and the blanket’s hem, pale rust-brown stains that materialized as the cloth dried. The liquid oozed through her fingers with a slippery, oily sensation, but she could detect nothing like the scent of lamp oil.

  Should she take the risk and give her father this water? Did he need it? Whatever the Shadow Man had done with him in the tunnel, it had broken his fever. The lancing of the wound had drained away more than half the swelling and the redness. Soaking in the pool, the source of this water, had performed this miracle, according to the boy.

  Raising her head, she saw Gareth across the courtyard just as he disappeared into the passage they’d taken yesterday to stable the horses. Should she have told him what she knew about his master, about the lion, about the Dragon? He didn’t seem to know, but how could he not? Once more her heart ached for him, but wasn’t he properly the Shadow Man’s responsibility? She wasn’t Gareth’s mother or even his sister, and she had her own father to look after. Now they were together, nothing—nothing!—would separate them again. She would make sure of it. Even if that meant taking a chance on this water.

  She picked up a cup and prepared to dip it into the bucket. Her silhouette stared back at her, the water glittering around the shadow she cast on its surface.

  I look like him.

  At the thought, she shivered and lost her nerve. Something in those rocky depths where this water came from had created the Shadow Man, had fused...darkness with the essence, the being of Durren Drakkonwehr. The last warrior in an ancient line and the thing of night, two not quite happily in one form. She’d encountered them both, yet she trusted... Whom did she trust? Did she have to choose? Hadn’t they—together—delivered on every promise?

  She regarded the cup in her hand. If she followed through on the “promise” of this water and her father lived, she would be bound to the Shadow Man—to Durren Drakkonwehr—for as long as he thought fit. Her mouth went dry at the thought of how he might want her bound to him. She’d seen enough that night on the rampart despite what he’d said the next day about “company” and “companionship.” Besides, her own treacherous body seemed determined to respond to him as if he were her dream lover. Her flesh curdled at the idea, but she reined her mind back to the matter at hand.

  If she passed up the water and her father died, she would be free of her promise. The Shadow Man would have to let her go, but where would she go? She would be a woman alone, far from everything she knew and without anything—anyone—to live for.

  On the other hand, her father might live without drinking the water. That was possible, but something other than logic told her there was power in the water and she needed all the water’s power to save her father. If she loved him, she would do this, just as she’d made that promise in the beginning because she loved him and would do anything for him. Just as he would do anything for her.

  This time, though, she would make sure the Shadow Man didn’t send her father away. There was no need for him to return to Nolar. Rees already had the stones, and someone else could design the pieces. She and her father could stay here as long as the Shadow Man wanted her to stay—or at least as long as it took her father to recover.

  Steeling herself, she dipped the cup and let water run into its bowl. Her hand shook, making little ripples that lapped the bucket. By the Dragon, sealing the bargain was no easier the second time—knowing more yet somehow knowing even less. What did he really want from her? Was it truly something she could give? She’d have to do her best because her father’s life depended on it.

  Bending, she touched the cup to her father’s lips. “Papa? Here’s something to drink.”

  His eyelids fluttered. “Mirianna, lamb, is—is that you?”

  She bit her lip to stave off its quaver. He sounded so weak, his voice barely a whisper, but his eyes focused on her and recognition lit his gray face. “Yes, Papa, I’m here. Take a drink, will you?”

  He sipped obediently. “Ugh! That—that’s...”

  “Foul, I know. Everything here tastes of sulfur. Take a little more and then you can rest.”

  He swallowed and then let her lay him back. His hand twitched as though he wanted to lift it but couldn’t.

  Her chest constricted, squeezing her heart. The Shadow Man had warned he might not be himself, that the poison paralyzed limbs. She prayed only weakness and dehydration plagued her father, that the poison was gone, but she had no way of knowing. The only surety was the water. If it had the power she’d already seen, it would save him.

  Lifting his shoulders again, she put the cup to his lips. “Take a little more, Papa, please. It’ll make you stronger.”

  ****

  Durren sat on a boulder at the edge of the pool with his knees up, stretching out the ache in the small of his back. In the absolute dark, only the phosphorescence of occasional bubbles rising from the depths lit the chamber. He and the boy had let the old man soak in the pool for hours. He could’ve undressed and supported the old man from the water. That would’ve been easier on the boy and his own back, but Durren couldn’t bring himself to enter the pool while the wound drained into it. Nor could he do so now, though his body screamed with need.

  He didn’t fear the Krad poison. That was by now diluted, even purged as the water continuously freshened from below. He knew by heart the pattern of circulation and where it flowed out under the rock to join, perhaps, the source of the well water, explaining the faint sulfur taste. Nor did he fear the boy, who now knew the location of the pool and must’ve guessed at its power. At some point Gareth would come down unbidden and disturb him, but he hoped the boy had sense enough to come only when necessary. So far, Gareth had proved trustworthy.

  He could come down when you’re not here, said the Voice in his head. To test the water for himself.

  That was a risk, true enough, but he counted on the boy’s open, expressive face to betray such notions before he had a chance to act on them.

  Durren clenched and unclenched his fists, tired of the way his mind danced around the real issue—this place that had been his only solace for fourteen years had hosted a stranger. Last night his hair had bristled at the mere thought, but he’d listened instead to his gut without considering the consequences.

  The pool had shared itself willingly enough. It was a pool, after all. It didn’t think, didn’t react, simply healed all manner of ills he brought to it. Koronolan be praised he’d found the pool so soon after discovering the havoc the Krad had wreaked on the fortress. How would he have survived if the spell blast hadn’t opened the passage to it? He couldn’t remember how he’d thought to follow the tunnel down after seeking shelter in the upper chamber. Something had spoken to his spell-shocked mind, and he’d lain here in the water until he recovered enough to deal with what awaited him above ground.

  That was well and good, but he needed the pool now, just as much if not more. There were people in Drakkonwehr, people he had not invited in, more people than he knew how to deal with. For more than a dozen years, he’d lived alone, interacting only with animals and hearing no human voice but his own. Visiting Ar-Deneth for a few days caused him so much consternation, he made the trip no more than once a year, if possible.

  Wherever he went, people were always pushing him, testing him, trying to see if what they’d heard about the Shadow Man was true, and then treating him like a pariah when he proved their fears. Once he discovered the effect seeing him caused, he dared not unveil to anyone.

  Except for those would-be robbers, the Voice in his head said.

  They deserved what they got. They’d goaded him, ignored his warnings and forced the Shadow upon themselves. He thanked Kiros at least Ulerroth understood the Shadow Man’s needs, providing a haven where he could trade in peace. But Ar-Deneth was of no concern here, now. He needed to deal with the problems at hand—a fat man and a sick old fool who understood nothing about where they were or how they should behave.

  And the sick old fool had lain in his pool.


  By your own choice, the Voice in his head said.

  I don’t recall having much of a choice. But the damned voice was right, as usual, and what he’d done terrified him. The woman—Mirianna—thought he’d saved her father, but none of them were truly safe. One slip, one provocation, and the Shadow could assert itself again. He’d been thinking like Durren for—what? Three days? The Shadow had owned him for more than a dozen years. It could afford to lie in wait.

  Sweat ran into the corner of his mouth and he licked it away. If he stripped off his clothes, he could wash all that grit away, all that fear and loathing, suspend this misery, this frustration. For a few hours he could lie with his mind blissfully blank and just drift...

  ****

  Gareth returned with a couple of eggs and some vegetables cradled in his tunic. He flushed when Mirianna thanked him, but his offering reminded her they all needed to eat, she as much as the others. She found the pot and filled it with water while Gareth cleaned the vegetables. She remembered the venison from the lion’s kill, and he fetched slices to add to the stew while she set the eggs to boil.

  The smells woke both Pumble and her father. Pumble devoured the stew Mirianna put before him. She spooned a bit of the broth into her father’s mouth and washed it down with more of the Shadow Man’s water. He smiled at her and his voice seemed less raspy. He lifted his hand, too. His fingers couldn’t close around the cup, but they skimmed her cheek, and the touch brought tears to her eyes. While she blinked them away, Pumble let out a belch.

  “Freth always says that’s a compliment to the cook.” Gareth had kept pace with Pumble, and he burped too.

  Pumble laughed, but his eyes darted around the courtyard while he drained his cup. “What is this place?”

  “He calls it Drakkonwehr.” Mirianna glanced at the boy and wondered if he knew that.

  “Drakkonwehr? But that’s—that’s practically at the gates of Beggeth!” Pumble pressed his charm to his lips. “I wish somebody would tell me how I got here.”