Bloodstone

by Johannes, Helen C.

  Holding his breath, teeth gritted, he listened for her movements away from him and toward the wall. Then he staggered to the edge and hauled himself out. Dear Koronolan, he could see the bones in his hand now! They stood out black as if his hand were illuminated from within. And the pain, while modified, made him pant against it. What in Beggeth is happening?

  ****

  They didn’t talk as they climbed the tunnel, but Durren held her hand, guiding her, waiting for her to plant her feet before moving on. Although he didn’t hurry her, Mirianna sensed a core of tension in him. Did he want to be out of the tunnel or did he, like she, want to remain in that sheltered place where they could make love in peace? She’d told him she loved him. He’d called her “love” as if it meant the same. Yet as the air freshened, his fingers tightened and she realized as she caught his arm when she stumbled over loose stones, he was both sweating and burning up.

  “You needn’t worry about my father,” she said, thinking that troubled him. “You saved his life.”

  He turned. She blundered into his body, only his grip on her arms keeping her from falling. “Mirianna, love...” With shaking hands, he captured her hand and pressed it to his chest. “Please, don’t ask to see me...as I am. Promise me you won’t ask that.”

  Beneath his tunic, under her five spread fingers and palm, his heart throbbed as though it might shake free of the bones encasing it. Those bones expanded and contracted like a bellows, the top of the arch pushing at the heel of her hand. The rasp of his breath, the thunder of his heartbeat filled the tunnel, echoing around her while, under her fingertips, his muscles stretched taut, waiting for her answer, her promise.

  “I’m not afraid, Durren.”

  He thrust a hand into her hair as if he meant to pull her to him, to kiss her through the hood he’d replaced before leaving the pool, but he only held her there, leather-clad thumb stroking her cheekbone. “You’re as brave as the bravest warrior, Mirianna, but this isn’t about courage. This is about...trust. Can you trust that I know how dangerous it would be for you to look upon me? Can I trust you not to ask, not to try to see...what lies under this cloth?”

  “I know you have scars, Durren. I’ve felt them and—”

  “Scars aren’t—it’s not just the scars. Please, Mirianna, promise me you won’t ask, you won’t try...to see me. I couldn’t bear it if I hurt you.”

  Under the heat oozing from his hand, her cheek tingled like winter-chilled skin before a fire. She stroked his hand, turning her lips into his gloved palm. The contact sizzled. “If it matters that much to you, I won’t ask. You can trust me, Durren.”

  He exhaled as though a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you.” Touching his thumb to her lips, he took her hand in his again and started to climb.

  “Are you—you’re burning up. You know that, don’t you?”

  His fingers twitched in hers. “I—it’s the pool. I was down there too long. You’re hot, too.”

  She hadn’t noticed, but since every part of her body had gone boneless hours ago, the sensation of heaviness in her feet and fingers must be due to soaking in hot water. Besides, now he mentioned it, the steadily freshening air snaked down the back of her neck and made her shiver.

  The setting sun burnished the pillars of the Great Hall and hazed golden light into the courtyard as, still hand-in-hand, they entered it. Her father saw her at once, and a smile lit his face. His cheeks, so pale and sunken mere days ago, shone pink and his cry of “Mirianna, lamb!” sounded twice as strong.

  “Go to him,” Durren said, releasing her hand.

  She looked at the hood, black as night despite the golden glow glazing everything else. She’d touched the face behind that hood. Her fingers had memorized every detail of his skin. She knew intimately the body under the garments that sucked light into them and gave none of it back. She knew him. She loved him. He was hers. She smiled, and her eyes welled. “Thank you...for giving me back my father.”

  ****

  The radiance of her smile still beaming down upon him, Durren watched Mirianna run to the fire and throw her arms around the old man. He saw the old man’s face scrunch up into tears of joy and the old hands fumble with her hair. She drew back, and he watched her try to smooth her father’s wispy hair into some kind of order.

  The pain Durren had been holding at bay twisted again in his side, just between the ribs. Something had pierced him there after he’d broken the mage’s crystal and all Beggeth broke loose. That wound had taken the longest to heal, longer even than the burns. Now it raged anew in his side, turning like a corkscrew until he wanted to groan with it.

  “Ah,” said a voice, all too familiar and yet not so. “I thought there might be consequences.”

  The voice had come from his left. He turned, holding himself stiffly upright, hiding the pain beneath his garments, his covered head concealing the clench of his teeth and the sweat running down his face.

  A woman stood illuminated by the last slanting rays of the sun. She wore Mirianna’s cloak tied at the throat and belted at the waist. Her slender arms had been thrust through slits cut into the cloak’s sides, and her feet peeking from under the hem were bare. Her hair, long and straight, shone like polished amber, and her eyes gleamed like twin emeralds.

  “Ayliss...” Durren said, and crumpled.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The pain hit Mirianna like a stab in the ribs. She winced, holding her side, waiting for the stitch to pass, while her father cooed over her. He must have sensed her discomfort because his face paled and his brows knit together. “Mirianna, lamb, you’re so warm.” He touched her cheek.

  “It’s nothing. It was a bit close in the tunnel,” she was saying when she heard the thud of a body falling.

  Turning her head, she saw Durren sprawled on the paving stones and a woman standing over him. Without thinking, she seized the nearest object at hand, a pot, and rushed the stranger.

  The woman fixed yellow-green eyes on her.

  Mirianna froze, pot half-raised, as the woman shimmered around the edges the way heat shimmers a horizon, but this shimmering made her see, for the briefest of glimpses, a lion. “You’re—”

  “Ayliss,” the woman said. “His sister.”

  She knew. But she didn’t know. The lion—the woman—had guided her here. She trusted her—the lion. Should she trust the woman? Durren lay crumpled at the woman’s bare feet. Mirianna flushed, hot again, pain stabbing at her side. She dropped the pot, made to go to Durren’s side, but Ayliss stepped in front of her.

  “Mirianna, wait. He’s shadow still. Let Gareth take care of him.” Closing the distance between them, Ayliss took her hands.

  At the contact, calm spread throughout her body. Durren would be all right. So would she. She breathed, and her side hurt again, but not as much.

  Ayliss’s brow wrinkled, one small line in an otherwise perfect forehead. She called for Gareth, but kept her gaze fixed on Mirianna while the boy stood up by the fire pit. He came as if he understood the need without instruction, tapping his way to Durren’s side and kneeling there.

  Mirianna wondered how much he knew and what had transpired when he discovered the lion wasn’t a lion. One part of her mind wondered what Ayliss had told him, and what in the name of the Dragon had Ayliss told her father? And Pumble? But Ayliss was looking at her intently, and her mind couldn’t settle on those thoughts. They were of a height, Mirianna observed, of similar slender build, but Ayliss’s skin shone like polished porcelain, and her hair, a honey gold parted in the middle, fell smooth and straight to her elbows. “What are you?” Mirianna said. “Are you…human?”

  “More so than you think.” Ayliss’s grip tightened. “You have pain?”

  “It’s nothing. A stitch in my side.”

  Ayliss cocked her head, and for a moment Mirianna glimpsed the lion in the gesture. “I see.” She released one hand and turned Mirianna toward the fire pit. “Awaken your portly friend. We need to move Durren.”<
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  Mirianna hesitated. “Things are changing, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.” Ayliss smiled and squeezed her hand. “But not entirely at random.”

  ****

  The crystal guided Syryk directly to the blond man who sat on a stone, holding his head in his hands, a moon-in-miniature slice of crystal suspended by a thong around his neck. That slice of crystal gleamed in the late afternoon sun like a homing beacon. Syryk dragged his exhausted horse to a halt and tumbled out of the saddle. Finding Rees had been easy, if riding for hours over rugged land on a horse whose gait varied from a bone-jarring trot to a swaying, pick-a-careful-path walk could be considered easy. Damn, but this body hurt! The Master of Nolar was a fit man and used to riding. His body would’ve been the better choice for such an escapade, but such were the choices one made when spells fell apart. He cracked his back straight and ordered his feet to walk.

  The man sitting on the stone could’ve been made of stone for all the attention he paid to the skidding horse and whirl of dust it raised. Disconcerted, Syryk paused. Where were the others? There was but one horse and one man, and he looked spell struck. Syryk’s stomach crawled with more than hunger pangs from missing the first and second meals of the day. Rees’s saddlebags looked thick. More than likely there was something to eat in them. He would see for himself, once he dealt with the problem at hand. Reaching out, he cuffed Rees on the shoulder.

  Rees stirred as if from sleep and tilted his head up. He blinked. “Who are you and where in Beggeth did you come from?”

  Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Syryk grabbed the crystal around Rees’s neck and touched his own pouch. “I’m your master, fool. Now, where the Demon are the old man and the stones?” Rees stared at him for so long, Syryk added, “I was in disguise before.”

  He asked the crystal for more power, wondering again what had gone wrong and whether losing his captive had depleted some of the crystal’s power. It was only a piece of the original whole, but it was a significant piece, and he knew how to use it.

  Rees blinked again and sense came into his eyes. “The old man’s dead by now. Krad cut. That fool Pumble stayed with him when he fell off the horse. I’ve got the stones here.” He reached for another thong around his neck and pulled a pouch from his tunic.

  Syryk licked his lips. He seized the pouch and yanked it over the blond man’s head. “And the girl?” he said as he weighed his destiny in his hand.

  “Gone. The Shadow Man took her.”

  Syryk froze. “The Shadow Man?”

  Rees shuddered and rose from the stone. “Black mage spawn. Creature of Beggeth. He may have saved us from the Krad, but he damned well did it to get the girl. Who knows what he’s done to her by now. Filthy pervert!”

  More perverted than your creative imagination? Syryk put aside that thought and assessed Rees’s information. Losing the girl was a blow. She was an important part of the spell. Where would he find another virgin in this wasteland? As for this Shadow Man…he could be none other than the Dragonkeeper. If he had the girl— Well, the Dragonkeeper didn’t have the stones, and the stones were all that truly mattered. Pulling the thong strings apart, Syryk dumped the contents into his palm.

  Five small round stones and a larger oval one rolled out. They sat like dull gray lumps in the sunlight caressing his hand. Syryk waited. His palm warmed. The stones sat, a shadow pooled under each piece. The long beams of the late afternoon sun shot sparks off flecks of mica and quartzite on each surface. Syryk waited while his stomach clenched and acid dripped into it.

  “Aren’t they supposed to glow?” Rees said, cocking his head.

  They were.

  These did not.

  “Damn you to Beggeth, you half-brained bastard son of a Krad!” Syryk flung down the stones and seized Rees’s throat. “Where are my bloodstones? Where in the name of the Demon Master are my bloodstones?”

  Rees was bigger. He was fit and armed, but before he could raise hands to defend himself, Syryk drew on the power of the crystal and made himself into a huge, raging bear. Rees dropped in terror of the beast, and Syryk froze him where he cowered. He returned to his own form—no point in risking being trapped again—and forced his mind to clear. Someone still had the stones, most likely the old man—apparently not the doddering old fool he’d seemed. He was dead—somewhere. They would find him, find the body, and recover the stones.

  “Backtrack,” he said, and Rees snapped out of his trance.

  “What?”

  “Find the old man!”

  ****

  When Durren came to, he lay in a dark room. Gareth leaned over him and sponged his face. A bit of twilight seeped through chinks in the front wall, and he recognized the chamber he’d given Mirianna and the boy. “Stop.” His mouth was so dry the word came out as a rasp.

  “You’re burning up, sir. I have to bring the fever down.”

  “I’m...not...ill.” He pushed up onto his elbows. A haze of colored lights dipped and whirled before his eyes, making him fall back again.

  “You need to drink something, sir. I don’t think you’ve had anything to drink or eat in two or three days, have you?”

  The scolding tone in the boy’s voice made Durren want to laugh but even breathing hurt. “I had...porridge...with you.”

  “Well, there you are. That was days ago. Here. Drink this broth.” With surprisingly strong hands, the boy lifted Durren’s head and managed to find his lips with the cup. Most of the liquid made it into his mouth, and he swallowed. When the cup was empty, Gareth made a satisfied sound.

  “Who...put me in here?”

  “Pumble’s very strong, sir. After Mirianna told him to stop kissing his charm and get on with it, he picked you right up. She wanted to come in here and help, but I told her she better not. After all, this is what you chose me for—to help you when no one else should.”

  The boy had managed to remove Durren’s hood, unlace his tunic, open the cuffs and push up the sleeves. The cloth he’d stopped Gareth from swabbing over his face, sloshed now onto his bare chest. Durren flinched, but he did feel marginally cooler. “I’ll...drink some more.”

  With a grunt of assent, Gareth spread the cloth and left it on Durren’s chest. In the dimness, he could just make out Gareth’s form as the boy poured and turned. “Here you are, sir.”

  When he’d drunk a fourth cup, Durren made another attempt to rise onto his elbows. Gareth protested, and Durren’s head swam again, but he had to know—did his skin still glow?

  Dear Koronolan, it did! But the quick glance before he fell back again told him two things. The glow had dimmed, but the brightest gleam came from his side, from the old wound that still throbbed with fire.

  “I can’t wait any longer. I have to know what’s wrong.” Mirianna’s voice, breathy with fear, sounded from the other side of the door. “Durren? Can you hear me?”

  “Don—don’t come in, love!”

  “Cover him, Gareth,” said another woman’s voice. “We need to talk to him.”

  He had not hallucinated his sister; Ayliss stood right outside that door, restored to her own form. He didn’t know whether to laugh, curse or cry. His eyes responded first, leaking from lids he’d clenched shut.

  “They ought to wait till morning,” the boy grumbled. “You’re still too hot, but I guess if I soak your blanket, that should keep you cooler and covered.” After some sloshing sounds, Gareth spread the wet fabric over Durren’s upper body.

  Durren sucked in a breath, but the cool shock revived him enough to open his eyes.

  “I’m going to put a compress on your forehead,” the boy said as he wrung out another cloth. “You have to promise me you’ll keep it on or you’ll heat right up again under that hood.”

  “There’s...an inner cloth. Just...cover me...with that.”

  With some fumbling, Gareth managed to locate the cloth and position it. The muffling weave was open enough Durren could make out the boy bending and smoothing the blanket and hood drape, c
hecking for any exposed flesh, but it stifled the fresher air, filling Durren’s nostrils with the sulfurous scent he’d lived with all too long. His stomach roiled at it. Dear Koronolan, he could hardly breathe!

  “Loosen it...could you?”

  Gareth plucked the fabric away from Durren’s nose and mouth. “That better?” He straightened. “I have to say, sir, I didn’t expect to wake up this morning to a lady who used to be a lion asking me to find her something to wear, but as this is the Wehrland, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “You’re...a good lad, Gareth.” He wanted to touch the boy’s arm to show his appreciation, but all Durren had strength for was speech, and he needed to conserve that. Ayliss had a lot to answer for.

  The chamber door banged open, and Mirianna dropped to her knees at his side. “Durren!” She plunged her hand under the blanket before he could stop her, but she made no move to uncover him, only laced her fingers into his. “Thank goodness you’re cooler.” Her eyes glimmered in the light of a single candle flickering from the doorway. When she turned toward the boy opposite, a tear track sparkled on her cheek. “You’ve done wonders, Gareth. Thank you.”

  “He needs more to drink,” Gareth grumbled.

  The candle and its bearer moved into Durren’s line of sight. Ayliss laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the look she gave him was full of tenderness. “We won’t keep him long.” When the boy made a move to rise, she held him in place. “You need to hear this too, Gareth. You’re as much a part of it as we are.”

  “What about Pumble?” the boy said.

  “Our portly friend needs to watch over Mirianna’s father.” With a graceful adjustment of her cloak, Ayliss placed the candle next to the wash basin and settled herself on the bench beside the boy. Gareth leaned into her, and she draped a slender arm around his shoulders.

  They made a pretty picture, and she looked not a bit altered from when Durren had last seen her despite the years and the spell blast, but he’d long since passed the relief stage. “What... consequences?” he demanded through his teeth.