Elei's Chronicles (Books 1-3)

by Chrystalla Thoma

  “Hells, not again,” Kalaes muttered. Elei’s legs were sliding off the bench and Kalaes thrust out his arm, stopping him from falling to the floor.

  Maera’s voice said very close to Elei’s ear, “What in the hells do you mean again?”

  Something about the situation struck him as funny, but for the life of him, Elei couldn’t put his finger on it, not when he hadn’t felt this bad since telmion had almost killed him as a child.

  On cue, he vomited again, thick, bitter bile, for his stomach was completely empty by now. Moving was out of the question, but somehow he found himself lying on his side on the bench. Hands held him down. A jacket fell on him, covering him.

  “It started last night, when Hera was there at your place,” Kalaes was saying. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but whatever it is, it’s bad. He’s burning up. I think he needs a hospital.”

  “Yeah, and how are we going to take him there with the Gultur after him?”

  Elei closed his eyes. A relapse. It had to be. He’d been quite healthy in the last years, apart from the occasional gut twinge. He didn’t remember going to the hospital, except for one time. Pelia had taken him there. A drip of strong painkillers had been inserted in his hand, and later Pelia told him he’d spent the night weeping and calling for Albi. He didn’t recall any of it, thank the gods for small mercies.

  “Hey.” Maera touched his face. “How do you feel?”

  He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to answer that.

  “Like shit, that’s what he must feel like,” Kalaes said, and Elei felt a smile tug at his lips again.

  He thought that it was strange how often that had happened in the last days, considering all that had taken place. It was pleasant in a disconcerting way; it made the world seem brighter, even in sickness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  With stern instructions to a sulking Iliathan to cover her tracks, since he had a knack for hacking into official files, Hera climbed into his small aircar, drove out of Aerica and set a course toward the field of stones. Funny how she’d driven by so many times in the past but had never stopped there, had never wondered what hid below. She’d taken it for a cemetery.

  The stones rose from the field like the islands rising from the deep in her dream. She saw them again emerging, soaring, resplendent and blinding in their radiance.

  Stop daydreaming, hatha. Focus.

  Disappointment simmered inside her skull. She’d thought that, by finding the boy, she would have her answer and the shipment. She’d been so sure the boy would know, that Pelia had confided in him.

  She’d made so many wrong assumptions. No wonder she was trying to escape in her mind.

  Hands clenching on the levers, she turned into the field of stones and parked the aircar. Why was she still trying, still helping these three? The boy was sick and clueless, the others just tagging along, carried by the events. Given the circumstances, she should have left them to perish and returned to headquarters.

  Yet, a tiny doubt lingered. What if Elei’s memory returned? What if she left him and the Gultur found him and extracted the information? She could not allow that to happen. Too much was at stake.

  With a sigh, she turned off the ignition and stepped out.

  ***

  The soft buzzing in Elei’s ears broke down into words.

  “I think he’s awake,” Kalaes said in a low voice, “look.”

  Awake. Elei lay on his side on cold stone. In the dark, bunches of green fungi glimmered on the concave roof, illuminating a tall, cavernous space. The stale air stank of cold humidity. Stiff and frozen to the bone, he tried to move his lips, to ask for water.

  “Welcome back to the world of the living,” Kalaes said. He sounded pleased. Strange man. “Here, drink.” He pushed a bottle to Elei’s mouth and dribbled cool water through his parched lips and down his chin.

  Albi had done that for him when he’d been sick, spoon feeding him water and soup. He recalled her rough hands and her wrinkled face. Gods down deep, he missed her still, even after all these years.

  Pelia, too.

  He’d never see them again.

  He turned away from the bottle and closed his eyes, the cold void inside echoing the ice in his limbs. He wished to feel her warm hand on his brow, her voice telling him he’d be all right. She had to be there, had to come back.

  Elei drifted in and out of sleep. The girl Poena giggled in his dream, running from fields to shores to trashlands, blond hair flying. She gestured for him to follow, but he lagged behind.

  She turned, stood in a halo of yellow light. “Blood in the water, Elei. Find the fountainhead.”

  “What do you mean?” He reached out to her. “What fountainhead? Where is this?”

  She placed her hands on her slim hips, cocked her head to the side and pursed her lips. “There’s only one fountainhead that matters.” She walked over to him, and he wondered why he had to look up into her face when she was just a little girl. “Only one thing that counts. Blood in the water.” She caressed his cheek. “Go to the sacred citadel, Elei, to the Bone Tower. It’s almost time.”

  Loud knocking broke her image into tiny pieces that lingered when Elei opened his eyes. Disoriented, he blinked at his surroundings until he realized his cheek was pressed against hard stone. Someone sat next to him. Kalaes. A heavy object lay on his ribs, radiating warmth.

  “Hey.” Kalaes shifted, and Elei realized the heavy object was Kalaes’ hand, keeping the covers from slipping to the floor.

  A low buzz rose through the stone to his ear; the sound of machinery. “They’ve come,” Elei croaked, his voice a rough whisper.

  “What?” Kalaes jumped to his feet. “Have you heard something?”

  Too late, Elei realized that Kalaes’ hand hadn’t kept only the covers from sliding off the narrow bench, but also Elei himself. He grabbed the edge not to fall as Kalaes hurried, cursing, to the dark staircase leading out of the underground chamber.

  Elei pushed himself back from the edge, his knuckles white on the stone. The movement left him winded and he blinked dark spots from his eyes. The thought of getting up was enough to make him dizzy.

  Still, no way he’d let the Gultur take him. He patted his belt, found his Rasmus, took it out and aimed at the door, steadying his hand on the stone surface of the bench. Whoever came through would find him ready. Lying flat or not, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  Only he saw two doors instead of one. He frowned and his aim wavered. An echoing noise filled the room. Deafening footsteps reverberated in his head, crashed on the walls of his skull. He gritted his teeth, fighting down nausea, and had to swallow. He steadied his hand.

  In walked Kalaes and Maera with their afterimages, and Hera.

  Cronion didn’t react. Relieved, Elei laid his gun down on the bench and his cheek against his arm, and just stared at Hera.

  Gods, she was beautiful. Even with her back so stiff as if she’d swallowed a rod, even scowling like she’d spank them for being naughty, he had to catch his breath at the symmetry of her face, the contrast of her dark eyes and luminous skin.

  “You truly have no idea how to hide, do you?” Hera bit off each word.

  “How did you find us?” Kalaes folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head back, observing her through narrowed eyes.

  “I found your signal. From your beeper most probably.” The furrow between Hera’s brows deepened. “Give it to me. If I could find you, so will they. I shall dispose of it somewhere far, throw them off your track.” She threw a bulging bag on the table. “Here. Water, food, blankets. They should get you through a couple of days if you’re careful. Stay here, they’re combing the town. It would be a bad idea to go back.”

  “Crap.” Maera kicked at a wall. “You’re so full of good news.”

  “Still no memory of what Pelia told you?” Hera strode to where Elei lay and bent over him, a dark silhouette. He tried to focus his blurry eyes on her face. He blinked and that helped. Her featur
es sharpened, fine and lovely, her lips full and shapely. There was only one of her now and suddenly Elei wished there would be more.

  “No memory,” Elei said. “Nothing new.”

  “He’s sick.” Maera offered it like a challenge.

  Hera leaned closer, straight brows drawn together. Her dark eyes flashed. “Sick, oh really? What an astute observation. He has telmion, one of the most lethal parasites of the seven islands. It tends to kill people within days, if not hours. Sick is an understatement.”

  He shivered.

  Maera threw her hands in the air and stomped over to the table. With jerky movements, she lifted bottles out of the bag Hera had brought and banged them on the stone surface so hard Elei winced.

  Kalaes clucked his tongue. “You’re wrong, Hera. His telmion is controlled by cronion. Looks like it’s been in check for years now.”

  “Has it? Well, not anymore,” Hera said coolly. “He has telmion now, and I do not see cronion controlling it. In fact, you can see the tel-marks spreading on his neck. These,” she gripped Elei’s chin and turned his head, “were not here when last I looked. They have reached his cheek.” She released him and stepped back.

  What? Elei raised a shaky hand to his face.

  Kalaes loomed over him, cutting off the dim light. He pulled down the polo neck of Elei’s sweater. “Shit. You’re right.”

  Five hells. He’d thought cronion was acting mad in the past days. What if it had lost the battle to telmion? Elei wanted to laugh, but couldn’t, his breath short. With cronion defeated, nothing could save him. It was the only parasite strong enough to control telmion. With telmion released, he was done for.

  Hera frowned. “It’s not the common kind of telmion. It’s the gray one, most dangerous.”

  Of course it was. It had almost killed him once. Maybe now it would finish the job it started so many years ago.

  “How do you know so much about it?” Kalaes asked.

  Hera pursed her lips. “Telmion is a strain of the Regina parasite. I have studied it thoroughly.”

  “What are you, a doctor?”

  “A parasitologist. Studying to be one.”

  “I bet you got a rich family, huh?” Kalaes sat heavily on the bench. “What happened? Why did telmion flare?”

  “Maybe it’s stress,” Maera said from behind them. “From running away and being shot.”

  Hera snorted. “No amount of stress can cause this, little girl.”

  “Little girl?” Maera didn’t sound amused, her voice flat and angry. “If it isn’t stress, Miss Know-It-All, then what could cause cronion to fail?”

  “Blood loss?” Kalaes offered.

  Hera’s face was neutral. She didn’t seem to notice Maera’s sarcasm. “Yes, maybe blood loss. Then again, he has more parasites in his body. Maybe another one matured and went on to attack and weaken cronion.”

  “Ate it up, maybe?” Kalaes grimaced and ran his hands through his hair, raising it into spikes.

  “I cannot think of any parasite that can fully suppress cronion. Except Regina, and Regina in a body that has not mutated means certain death.”

  “So cronion is pissing number two on the list of nightmares?” One side of Kalaes’ mouth curled up in a savage grin.

  Hera leaned against the stone table. “Cronion was accidentally brought by the Gultur from Torq, their home island, when they first moved to Dakru and made it their stronghold.”

  Her lilting accent sounded as if from the western islands, Ert or Aue. Her musical voice was low. Elei’s eyelids grew heavy.

  “So the Gultur brought this curse on us as well. Why aren’t I surprised, huh?” Kalaes muttered.

  “Cronion used to be Regina’s natural antagonist, its only worthy enemy, the only parasite that could at times control it. Then of course, Regina mutated to fend off the problems of parthenogenesis, to fight off other infections, and became much stronger. Cronion lost its sway.”

  “Hey, this isn’t a parasitology class, Hera,” Kalaes snapped. “Save the lesson for some other time.”

  “Fine,” her voice cracked like a gunshot.

  Elei hated it, lying there, so vulnerable. Yet when he tried to push himself up on his elbow, he found he didn’t have the strength.

  Kalaes glanced down at him, eyes stark, then quickly looked away. “Can you help him?”

  “The main danger is dehydration. Give him lots of water. It could work, you never know.”

  “Dammit, he’s still a kid,” Kalaes whispered. The pain in his voice echoed somewhere in Elei’s chest, as if it’d touched a chord.

  “Practically an adult. He might survive.”

  “Might survive? Might?” Kalaes raised a fist. “That’s not good enough. He damn well shall.”

  “I’ll see if I can find some serum.” Hera shook her head. “So many diseases. A good excuse for the Gultur to clean out the world.”

  “Are you defending them?” Maera said in a deadly voice, hands curling into fists.

  “Merely stating a fact.” Hera leaned over Elei. Her eyes were a deep, dark color, yet limpid like glass, brown or green. There was a softness in their depths that he hadn’t expected and he couldn’t look away. His breath caught.

  “Say,” Maera said, “is it true the Gultur reproduce alone?”

  Silence. They all turned to stare at her.

  Then Hera’s mouth twisted, one side tilting up in a half smile. She winked at Elei, leaving him confused, and straightened. “It’s true.”

  “What about sex? Don’t they miss it?” There was an interesting little silence. Maera frowned. “What? It’s a legit question.”

  Kalaes’ face turned a pretty shade of red. “Maera…”

  “Oh, they have nothing against sex.” Hera shifted her weight so that a slender hip jutted out. The curves of her breasts and waist were soft and pleasing. “After all, that kind of physical stimulation is needed for ovulation, and therefore reproduction. But the priestesses are the ones in charge of that, usually.”

  Well, that brought interesting images to mind. Women on women. Elei felt his eyes go wide and his throat dry.

  Kalaes made a noise as if he’d swallowed a fly and turned his face away.

  Hera leaned back, smirking. “Why do you care anyway?”

  “Just wondering.” Maera snorted. “You do know a lot about the Gultur, don’t you?”

  “An awful lot,” Hera said in a voice like steel. “You cannot begin to imagine.” She turned to Kalaes. “Your beeper. Now. I have delayed too much already. Be alert in case they find you. I must return to work.” She turned to Maera. “Do you have a beeper, too?”

  “Left it at work,” Maera said. Kalaes took his beeper out and tossed it to Hera.

  She caught it deftly and placed it in a hip pocket of her suit. “So long.”

  “What are you going to do?” Kalaes called out to her retreating back.

  “You would rather not know,” her voice floated from the stairwell, and then she was gone like a ghost.

  “Rest,” Kalaes said to Elei. “There’s nothing else to do right now but wait.”

  Elei curled tight, too cold. His legs ached, his chest felt compressed. His stomach twisted. The void waited, an open mouth, to swallow him again. He slipped under instantly. Time fragmented.

  The little girl, Poena, flicked her golden hair and laughed at him, laughed and laughed, her face turning into a grotesque animal mask, a long muzzle with sharp teeth dripping saliva.

  A great weight crushed him. He heard tinny voices, the rustle of bodies moving. He was drowning in blood, swallowing it, choking, unable to breathe.

  Space lurched. He felt himself moving, but he wasn’t the one in control of his limbs. Vomit rose in his throat and he tasted the sweet copper of blood.

  Urgent voices, a shout, indistinct sounds.

  Fresh liquid trickled through his lips and he licked them, grateful for something else than the sourness of his mouth. Coolness rested against his forehead, and he shivered because
he was hopelessly cold, his body made of marble stone, heavy and not his to command. His limbs shook and something held him down, against the hardness of the bench. Then more bile rose, more blood to vomit, more disorientation.

  And then nothing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  First came gravity, pressing his body down. Then came feeling. Elei lay on something hard, even and cold as ice — like a grave must feel. But a bulky jacket and blankets wrapped him in a warm cocoon, so the probabilities of being buried were not so high. Who would waste a perfectly good jacket on a corpse?

  Smell was an unwelcome bonus. The sour stench of vomit cloyed the air. Then taste returned, and he wished it hadn’t either, foul as rotten garbage. On its heels followed pain, a splitting headache, and his midsection felt as if someone had laid him open with a chainsaw, though he was sure he’d remember something like that.

  Sounds filtered in, low voices and the dripping of liquid. A distant buzz like the wind. Rustling of clothes.

  Time to test another sense. He fought to open his eyes. That was kind of difficult; they refused to obey. He tried again, moving his head, as if to dislodge the spiderwebs that sealed them closed.

  A gasp, then steps. A man’s voice. Kalaes. “He’s awake.”

  “Thank the gods.” Maera. “Elei, can you hear me?”

  The events of the last hours returned. Hera, the flight from Aerica, the secret chamber under the field of stones. Words wouldn’t come, his throat was too dry, his breath was too shallow, his mind too sluggish. Answering was beyond him. He shut out the voices and concentrated on his un-cooperative eyes. He cursed silently, struggled harder, and finally his crusted lashes parted.

  Hazy outlines. Muted colors, shades of brown and gray. His dry, gritty eyes itched. He now saw a face in a halo of curls. Something alighted on his cheek — a hand.

  “Maera,” he attempted to say. His voice wouldn’t come out. But he saw her teeth glinting. She was smiling. That made him feel better.