No one, not even a ghost deserved to die alone. Over the years she’d sat beside five other ghosts as they finally gave up this existence. None of them had lasted more than two years. She’d been only seven when she sat the death watch with her first ghost. Her mother had died suddenly and left Vareena the odd destiny to care for the ghosts who periodically appeared in the abandoned monastery, a calling inherited by the women of her family for nearly three hundred years. They were the only ones who could see the ghosts and knew what they needed and how to provide for them.
Suddenly Vareena stood up. “I’m going back up there,” she announced to her father and five brothers. Something tugged at her senses. She couldn’t sit here listening to the wind any longer.
“Stay, Vareena. The storm,” Ceddell, her father, objected. He whittled a toy sheepdog for his four-year-old grandson.
“Let this one go, Eena,” Yeenos, the second oldest brother said, looking her directly in the eye. “Your ghost is just a drain on our supplies. No work, no food. That’s the rule, for everyone but your s’murghin’ ghosts!”
“He’s lost between here and the void. I can’t allow his soul to depart unguided,” Vareena stated.
“Maybe there isn’t really a ghost at all. You’re the only one who can see them. Maybe you’re feeding a bunch of outlaws. Why should we take necessary supplies away from our families to feed a bunch of criminals and repair their building? We could use some of those finely dressed stones ourselves,” Yeenos continued, his voice rising with his passion. “I say we tear down that cursed building.” His fist clenched as if he needed to pound something, or someone.
Vareena backed away from his temper. He’d never hit her before, but a number of men in the village had crooked noses and missing teeth from violent connections with his fists.
“I’ll go with you, Eena.” Uustass, the eldest of the brood, stood up to join her. “Stargods know, we’ve never been able to keep you from your duty. Might as well do our best to take care of you when you get a calling.”
“Stay, Uustass.” She waved him back to his stool and the leather he braided for new steed harnesses. “You’ll only catch a chill and be miserable for weeks. Bad enough I’ll have to take soup and poultices to half the village in the morning. I don’t need to tend you as well. Stay with your children and tell them stories so the storm doesn’t frighten them.”
Uustass had lost his wife in childbed last winter. He always seemed lost now unless Vareena gave him something specific to do.
“Take him, or you stay,” her da commanded. “Lost your mam to a storm. Not lose you.” His voice carried the weight of years of experience leading the village, judging misdeeds, and deciding the crop rotation and beast fertility.
No one disobeyed him when he used that tone as if he begrudged each word.
Vareena was tempted.
“Very well. Uustass, take the cloak I oiled yesterday. There’s soup in the pot and bread in the hearth oven for supper. Serve yourselves when you get hungry. I don’t think this will take long.” She fetched her own garment from the row of hooks by the low door. Farrell wouldn’t need supper. She knew he would find his way out of his body and into the void this night. Ghosts always passed on during wild storms like this, as if they needed the wind to guide them to their next existence.
As she opened the door, a powerful gust nearly blew her back into the main room of the cottage. “Stargods, I hope I’m not too late.”
Uustass took her arm and guided her up the hill to the ancient building on the crest, mostly hidden by trees. His stocky body shielded her from the wind. For her own comfort she blessed him for being so stalwart and ready to aid her when the rest of her people would shun her for her contact with ghosts. Perhaps Uustass hoped to communicate with his recently deceased wife through Vareena’s ghosts. Six moons and he still had not accepted the loss of his life mate.
Nothing but ill luck stalked those who communed with ghosts. She’d known that for years.
She fingered the silver amulet again, praying that her luck was about to change. Stargods only knew, her family had suffered their share of grief, with the death of her mother, grandmother, and sister-in-law, with her need to become mother to her family at the age of seven. But they’d been blessed as well. Blessed in ways the villagers rarely recognized. She had five healthy brothers. Two of them were married and helping run their wives’ family farms. Her father continued as a wise judge and leader despite his reluctance to utter more than four words at a time. The village prospered most years. Since the war with SeLenicca, trading caravans used the nearby pass more often, bringing trade goods for surplus crops. Even now, when winter stores grew thin and new crops had yet to ripen, they all had enough to eat and more to share with the ghost.
But he’d be gone after tonight. She choked back a sob. The ghosts were her friends. They listened patiently as she explored the problems of growing up the only girl in a household of brothers, the only sensitive in the village, the only woman in a position to care for all those around her, family and villagers alike. The ghosts understood her.
“Almost there, little sister.” Uustass helped her up the last few steps of the broken path to the gatehouse.
The wind ceased to pound at her senses the moment she stepped within the massive walls of the building. But then her ears started ringing in the comparative silence. She clutched her temples, trying to make sense of the noise. A hum, deep in her mind, at her nape announced an eerie portent.
“What ails you, Eena?” Uustass clutched both of her elbows.
She leaned into him, using his solid presence to balance the sudden numbness between her ears.
“The ghost is passing. We must hurry!”
“I wish I understood this strange compulsion of yours to tend these bizarre beings. Yet you can’t summon the ghosts of our loved ones. You don’t even know if these ghosts were once human.”
“Whatever they are when they come to me, they were human once. I must help them . . . him. Something is amiss. Hurry, Uustass.” She pushed him out of her way and dashed through the relative comfort of the tunnel beneath the gatehouse into the pelting rain of the courtyard. The day seemed darker and heavier here than out in the teeth of the storm.
Her feet automatically took her toward the cell where she had placed the little ball of cold light so that Farrell did not have to pass his last day in darkness.
Natural green firelight flickered beneath the closed doorway. Vareena stopped short, heedless of the cold sheets of water that poured upon her from the leaking gutter of the colonnade.
“Now what ails you?” Uustass sighed wearily.
“I did not light the fire.”
“Then the ghost must have.”
“But he was too weak to leave his pallet. I left no fire-rock and iron to strike a spark.”
Uustass drew his belt knife; the one he used to free young sheep from brambles and cut lengths of rope for various chores around the village. Sharp enough to slice through tree limbs the width of his wrist.
A measure of confidence returned. Whoever had invaded the sanctuary of the ancient monastery must respect her brother’s strength and purpose.
Cautiously, Uustass pushed the door open. Rusted hinges creaked. He stood back, peering inward, waiting for an attack.
The fine hairs on Vareena’s neck stood up. From the safety of the steps she inspected the small visible portion of the narrow cell. She saw only the slack figure of her ghost, fully formed in this reality, his arms neatly crossed on his chest, legs crossed at the ankles, and shiny gold coins holding down his eyelids. She doubted he had composed himself so peacefully before experiencing his death throes.
“I only see the body,” Uustass said, sheathing his knife. “Just like the other times. Once they’ve died, they are visible to normal people.”
“Wait!” Vareena whispered frantically. “There, to the right. Something moved.” Her hand went to her throat as she swallowed back a lump of fear. It lodged in her upper
chest, constricting her breathing.
“I don’t see anything.” Uustass shrugged as he stepped into the room. His hands remained at his sides, not reaching for the tempting gold.
“Watch out!” Vareena rushed to her brother’s side. She placed herself defiantly between him and the two figures who stood beside the pallet. Suddenly the narrow cell seemed far too crowded.
Two ghosts stared at her in surprise, one tall and broad, the other slighter. The shorter one stared at her from pale eyes that seemed to burn through to her soul, his mouth agape.
As she watched, he faded in and out of her vision, one moment fully formed in this reality, the next heartbeat a pale outline of a human figure that distorted light.
The taller and darker figure seemed a trifle more solid. He kept his hand on the other’s shoulder. They belonged together. Both wore magician-blue tunics and carried long staffs that had become as ghostly as they.
Neither had been a ghost long.
“Two of you?”
“What!” Uustass whirled and faced the door. “Where?”
“Over here.” Vareena pointed. “We lost one ghost only to add two more. Both young and healthy. I’ve never seen two ghosts at the same time before.”
“Wonderful.” Sarcasm dripped from Uustass’ voice as he continued to scan the room. His eyes slid away from the two ghosts as if something blocked his mind from settling on that direction. “Now we’ve got to dip deeper into our dwindling stores to feed two of them. They’ll linger for years before they waste away.”
“I’ll never be free of this place now,” Vareena moaned to herself.
Chapter 8
“Look at her, Robb. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!” Marcus held his breath, almost afraid the woman with the crystalline aura would fade before his eyes, like a dragon slipping through the mist. The man with her seemed less substantial, as if he lingered half in the void—sort of like the dead man before he’d gasped his last and emerged from the void.
“Didn’t you hear her, Marcus?” Robb asked angrily.
Marcus yanked his concentration away from the slight beauty with blue eyes so vivid they reminded him of Brevelan—Senior Magician Jaylor’s witch wife. But this woman had blond hair that kinked and curled in a bright cloud of silver and gold rather than Brevelan’s witch-red.
She was a few years older than he was. Her maturity made her much more beautiful than any woman he could remember.
The ghostly man with her, older by almost a decade he guessed, looked enough like her to be her brother rather than a lover. His protective stance with the knife when he first thrust open the door suggested a family relationship, too.
“I wasn’t listening. She’s so very beautiful, she makes my heart ache. What did you say?” Something important was happening, and Marcus couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think. He wanted to go drifting in the void forever with this woman.
“She said that we are ghosts and we will linger as ghosts for a long, long time.” Robb’s fingers on Marcus’ shoulders squeezed painfully tight.
“Ghosts! We can’t be ghosts. We’re alive. I see you and this room very clearly, I hear the wind and the rain outside, I feel pain where you are bruising my shoulder.”
Robb removed his hand, shaking out some of the tension.
Only then did Marcus realize his friend held one of the gold coins in his left hand, rubbing it absently, just as Marcus did with the coins he’d slipped into his pocket.
“Those two are the ghosts,” Marcus continued. “They look like dragons, sort of here, sort of in the void.”
“Something strange is going on here, Marcus. Something that will delay us a long time from completing our quest and returning to the Commune with the dragons.”
“Maybe these people are kin to dragons. Maybe we can gather dragon magic from them,” Marcus suggested, his natural optimism replacing the tiny tingles of fear Robb had planted in his mind.
He took three deep breaths, triggering a light trance. Then he stood with his arms to his sides, palms out, feet braced, eyes closed, and opened himself to the energies swirling through the universe.
Robb did the same.
Nothing filled the empty place above his belly and behind his heart where he stored dragon magic.
Robb shook his head.
“They aren’t dragons,” Marcus admitted.
“This isn’t the end of the quest, Marcus. But I fear it is a long and dangerous side trip away from our true mission.”
“Not necessarily. We’ll just walk out of here. The rain and wind are letting up. We’ll find shelter somewhere else. These folks can bury the old man. They probably know his name at least.” Resolutely, he stepped around the beautiful woman and her elusive protector. He marched across the courtyard with Robb in his wake. The ghostly pair followed, the woman directing, her companion darting blank looks in every corner.
They entered the tunnel beneath the gatehouse and pushed open the wooden doors.
Two more steps and they would be free of this eerie old building where darkness seemed to gather. Two more steps to return to their quest.
At the exit through the massive monastery walls, Marcus hit a solid wall of resistance—like running into a magician with incredibly strong armor.
He bounced back into Robb. His friend caught him. Without a word Robb stepped around Marcus and extended his hands to test the blockage.
Marcus jabbed the barrier with his staff. It passed through easily. “I don’t sense anything.” He tried again to step through the doorway into the outside world. Once more he slammed up against a barrier.
Robb tried and bounced back as well.
“Looks like your luck has finally run out, Marcus. And I don’t have a plan. We’re trapped.”
Forces are moving against me. I sense the presence of people who will rob me of my power. But I am not the barely talented clerk I was in my youth. I have true power now. I know how to stop my enemies. I am in touch with all four of the elements as none of these modern magicians can hope to be. A little pressure here, a tug against the elements there and we have a kardiaquake. That should delay those who come for me.
* * *
Robb stalked around the perimeter of Hanassa. He knew he’d never been here. Couldn’t remember traveling to this remote corner of the world.
It’s only a dream, part of him whispered. But the heat of the desert sun, the sour taste of thirst, and the heavy grit that irritated his eyes were too tangible to be merely a dream.
He swallowed heavily, hoping to ease some of the dryness in his throat. Not enough saliva. Not enough strength.
The heavy sand trapped his feet. He couldn’t shift them, couldn’t think, couldn’t plan his next move.
And then the ground rippled beneath him, as if he stood on water like some long-legged bug and the water no longer wanted to support him.
He froze every muscle and gritted his teeth against the waving motion. His stomach tried to turn itself inside out. His eyes refused to focus, and his body wanted to become one with the water.
Arrows rained down upon his head. What could he do? No place to hide. No way to move.
Pain pierced his shoulder. He looked at the source, too stupefied to do anything else. Blood poured down his magician-blue tunic, staining his new, brightly polished boots. He stared at them, aggrieved at the spoiling of the pristine leather.
But he didn’t have new boots. Marcus did. Why was he wearing Marcus’ boots? But these boots fit. He could barely get his foot inside the ones Marcus stole from the army.
He should throw a spell. What spell?
Sweat broke out on his brow and back. The pain in his shoulder doubled, bringing him to his knees.
Hot oil replaced the onslaught of arrows.
It burned his skin and hair. He held his hands and arms over his head, trying desperately to block the continuing deluge of boiling oil. His sweat turned icy. Blisters on his face and arms froze, burst, and peeled.
Th
e new boots couldn’t protect his toes from the icy sand of the desert of Hanassa.
Bright light penetrated his eyes with blinding stabs. He looked up to see what new weapon the outlaws of Hanassa brought to bear.
Dark walls surrounded him. Only a single arrow slit window allowed light to escape Hanassa. The world around him turned to darkness. Intensely cold. An ancient cold born of evil.
Wild screams from above and below him blotted out coherency.
He huddled in on himself. All control of himself, his thoughts, his plans vanished. How could he make his own luck if he couldn’t think ahead? There had to be a way out of this mess. He couldn’t make it right.
A deep sob wrenched upward from his gut.
The sound of his own moan woke him. Only a hint of starlight penetrated his cell in the ancient monastery, keeping it in deep gloom. The storm had abated.
Vareena and her brother must have trudged home hours ago. They had promised to return to bury Farrell the next day. Robb and Marcus had tried an unsuccessful summons spell to Jaylor that left them exhausted and empty. Then they had selected rooms as far away from the scene of death as possible. They’d eaten their dinners in silence and retired.
Robb hadn’t traveled to Hanassa and been assaulted from all sides by unknown outlaws. He rotated his stiff shoulders. Chill and an awkward sleeping position plagued his muscles. An insect bite on his shoulder itched. That must have triggered the dream pain of a poisoned arrow wound.
He heaved a sigh of relief that sounded very much like a sob. He sat on the edge of the stone platform that formed his bed in the corner cell, bracing his elbows on his knees.
The dream had been so real. Almost like a dragon-dream. He shuddered. For years he’d heard stories of how the dragons could impose an illusion so convincing that healthy men wandered in circles for days, not eating or sleeping, ignoring the calls and pleas of friends and family to return, only to die of starvation with a smile on their faces. Always those tales had seemed apocryphal.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III Page 47
