by John Marco
“And you told her what?” asked Onikil hotly, glowering at Glass. “That I think she’s going too far? I was the one who brought you here!” He could barely catch his breath as the sudden fear gripped his chest. “But you’re not that same man, are you Baron? That blasted armor.”
“The armor has made me strong,” said Glass. “Nothing more.”
“Nothing more? Look at your face! Every day it’s different!”
Baron Glass got to his feet. Rodrik Varl turned away in disgust. Onikil hurried backward and rose.
“Varl,” he implored, “don’t just sit there. Do something!”
But Rodrik Varl had already cast his lot. He would not even look at Onikil.
“Men who talk too much are dangerous,” Baron Glass said without emotion. “I am sorry about this, Count Onikil. There’s just no other way. I need loyal men to win back Koth, men I can count on.” He laughed. “Men like this dog Varl, you might say. He’s too in love with my woman to admit it, but he’s too damn weak to open his mouth. You should be proud of yourself, Count Onikil. At least you’re not like him.”
Onikil took out his sword, the one he’d used to slay the boar. He crouched, ready for combat. “I’ll not be murdered,” he hissed. “I’ve been nothing but loyal to that whore.”
Baron Glass slowly drew his own sword. Part of him looked surprisingly sad. His expression twisted as if embattled. “You’re going to die, Count Onikil. At least understand why.”
“Why?” Onikil cried. It made no sense at all to him, not even the question. “You’re maddened, Baron! Can’t you see what’s happening to you?”
Glass shook his head. “The world needs me, Onikil. It’s in chaos. My own home . . .”
“Varl!” shouted Onikil. “Don’t just sit there, you ass!”
Baron Glass raised his sword. As he did the armor encasing his arm began to sing.
As the big blade shattered his defenses Onikil heard his own strangled cries mingling with the armor’s odd music.
Baron Glass stood over Onikil’s body for an inordinate time. The crumpled form of the man who might have been a friend fomented a struggle in him. His bloodied blade rested limply in his hand. Kahldris’ voice thrummed in his mind, calming him. He had not wanted to kill Onikil, and suddenly it felt like murder. But the road to victory was always bloody, and he knew he needed to be strong to win.
Kahldris hungered for the blood. The demon begged for it. Thorin wiped his soiled blade on the armor of his arm. Onikil’s blood seeped slowly into the metal, making the tiny figures there dance.
“Gods of death, what’s that?” croaked Varl. The mercenary shambled to his feet and stared in horror at the armor’s animation. “Is that . . . alive?”
Thorin’s slouched head barely stirred. “Help me with his body,” he told Varl. “I want to get him back to the castle.”
Rodrik Varl did not move. He watched Glass’ armor, horror-struck by the life in it. Glass turned on him and growled.
“Help me with him, Varl!”
“I should have protected him,” Varl whispered. He glanced up at Thorin’s face. “He was right, Thorin. That armor . . .”
“Oh, damn you all!” Thorin roared. Point-first, he slammed his sword into the ground, then went to the dead Onikil and lifted him in his arms. The blood that sluiced from Onikil’s neck fed the vambraces and mail of his arm, making Onikil feather-light. Thorin didn’t need Varl’s help, he determined. Nor did he really want it. He had brought the soldier along merely as a lesson—it would be a shame to kill a man Jazana loved so dearly.
45
SEEING STARS
It had taken Gilwyn all day to reach Grimhold. Riding alone, he had gone through the mild morning and scorching afternoon with barely a break, driven on by Minikin’s desperate message. Night had already fallen by the time the keep beckoned. Emerald, his kreel, picked her way instinctively toward the keep, seeing easily in the darkness. Like a bloodhound, she found the great gate almost without effort. The gate was open and Greygor the guardian stood in the torchlight. Next to him stood Minikin, waiting for them.
Minikin’s long face told Gilwyn the worst. The message she had hurried to Jador had asked him to come at once, for White-Eye was in trouble. It had said no more than that, and begging his Akari Ruana for more news had yielded Gilwyn nothing. Now, exhausted and terrified, he drew Emerald to a stop at the threshold of Grimhold and slid down off her back. Sensing his worry, the kreel followed him to the gate. Minikin stepped out to greet them. Behind her, hidden in the blackness of the keep, other Inhumans kept a cautious vigil. They peered out to see him, their faces deep with trouble.
“Tell me,” said Gilwyn. They were the only words he could make with his gravelly throat.
Minikin reached for his hand. He had never seen her so gray, not even after the recent battle. “It’s good that you’ve come,” she said. “We have waited.”
“I came as quickly as I could,” said Gilwyn, and it was true—no sooner had he read her message than he was on Emerald’s back. “Minikin, tell me what’s happened. What’s wrong with White-Eye?”
“She is all right now, Gilwyn. She’s resting.” Minikin struggled with the words. “Gilwyn, she was. . . outside.”
“Outside?” Gilwyn’s eyes widened. “In the sun?”
Minikin nodded. “Yes.”
“How did that happen? She’s not supposed to go out of doors!”
“I know that,” said Minikin evenly. “Gilwyn, listen to me. White-Eye is going to be fine, but something happened to her, something I can’t explain yet. I want you to be calm. Will you do that for me?”
“I . . . Minikin, I can’t be calm! Where is she? I want to see her.”
“She’s resting, Gilwyn. She’s had a terrible ordeal.”
It was all too much for Gilwyn, who threw up his hands. “Make sense, please! What happened? Why was she outside?”
“We were in the village together,” said Minikin, carefully blocking his way. “She wandered off into the night. Something led her out of the house, Gilwyn. Something called to her. I didn’t know that she was gone until . . .”
Gilwyn waited for her to finish. “Until what?”
Minikin grew ashen. “I heard her cry in my mind. But it wasn’t until morning, Gilwyn. It wasn’t until the sun came up.”
The confession shattered her little face. Gilwyn knew he’d yet to hear the worst of it. He braced himself.
“Minikin, what happened to her?” His voice began to crack. “I don’t understand . . .”
The torchlight made them both glow orange. Darkness shadowed Minikin, obscuring her haunted eyes. She could barely bring herself to speak, and clutched Gilwyn’s hand tightly.
“She’s blind,” said Minikin softly.
The statement seemed blank.
“Blind? I know she’s—”
“Faralok is gone, Gilwyn. White-Eye has no Akari now, and no sight.”
Gilwyn swallowed hard. Astonished, he stared at Minikin. “How?”
“The sunlight. The pain of it broke the bond between them, drove Faralok away. That is how it is sometimes with the Akari. She was crazed with fear. And the sunlight—it was too much for her. When I found her she was miles away, unconscious in the sand.”
“Fate, no,” gasped Gilwyn. At last the weight of the news fell on him. “She was out in the desert alone?”
“Much of the night, yes,” said Minikin. “She was in a trance, a daze. This thing that came over her . . .” Her eyes sparked with anger. “She was driven to this, Gilwyn.”
“I want to see her,” Gilwyn demanded. “Take me to her.”
“First hear me—White-Eye does not yet know what happened to her. She knows she is blind, but the fugue that took her still confuses her, and I am only now piecing it together.”
Gilwyn didn’t have to piece it together. Somehow, he already knew what dark force was at play. “It’s Kahldris,” he said. “I asked Ruana what had happened but she wouldn’t tell me. But I
sensed it in her, Minikin. The Akari know it’s Kahldris, don’t they?”
“Yes,” Minikin admitted. “They do.”
“Then why?” Gilwyn cried, maddened by the answer. “Why would he hurt White-Eye?”
“Because you love her,” said Minikin. “Because he wants to hurt you. That is the only thing that makes sense. Perhaps you are a threat to his control over Thorin. I do not know for certain why, but he has struck at White-Eye to strike at you.”
Gilwyn drew back. “No . . .”
“It is Kahldris, Gilwyn.” Minikin’s tone was insistent. “The Akari have told me they have sensed his presence. He was here when White-Eye had her fugue. It was he that led her out of safety, I am sure of it.”
“Please, don’t say this to me,” moaned Gilwyn. The thought was unbearable.
“There is more. Kahldris led White-Eye out by tricking her. In her head she heard you screaming. She thought you were in trouble. She went to save you, Gilwyn.”
Unable to stand it, Gilwyn finally collapsed under the terrible news. He fell backward into Emerald, leaning on the kreel for support. Was he to blame for White-Eye’s terror?
“If I had been here,” he muttered. “She was always asking me to come to Grimhold. If I had listened . . .”
“Stop,” ordered Minikin. “This was Kahldris’ doing, Gilwyn, not yours. The demon used you, and your love for White-Eye. Do you see the danger? Do you see what Baron Glass is up against?”
Grief-stricken, Gilwyn slowly nodded. He had always known the trouble Thorin was in, but had tried hard to put it out of his mind, hoping vaguely that Lukien would help him. Now it was obvious that Lukien had failed.
“Can I see her?” he asked weakly.
An empty hallway greeted Gilwyn as he and Minikin made their way to White-Eye’s chamber. Usually, this area of Grimhold bustled with traffic, but tonight the Inhumans tiptoed passed the young kahana’s door. Gilwyn paused outside White-Eye’s chamber, afraid of what he might find inside. According to Minikin, she was barely responsive, still shocked by what had happened to her. She had been through enormous pain, the mistress reminded him—it would take time for her to recover. Gilwyn steadied himself as Minikin reached for the door. When it opened, he was surprised to see how dark it was.
The little, windowless chamber flickered in the light of a single taper. Shadows climbed the walls. A woman sat beside the narrow bed, nodding off to sleep leaning against a chest used for furniture. She turned when she noticed the door opening, her eyes brightening when she recognized Gilwyn. Her name was Alena, and she was not an Inhuman in the fullest sense. She was the mother of Insight, a child who could neither speak nor move without the help of her Akari. Minikin had already told Gilwyn that Alena was with White-Eye, and Gilwyn was grateful for it. Her own daughter being such a challenge, Alena knew well how to nurse the needy.
Gilwyn nodded to Alena then looked past her to the bed. There lay White-Eye, eyes closed, expression blank. Her hair fell limply across her dark face. Propped up on pillows, she was either asleep or merely quiet; Gilwyn could not tell which. Alena rose and went silently to the door.
“She is resting easy,” whispered the woman. “I’ll leave you to her.” She smiled gently at Gilwyn and touched his shoulder. “You sit with her now. She asks for you.” To Minikin she said, “I’ll be with my daughter. I can sit with her again later, if you wish.”
“No,” said Gilwyn. “I’ll sit with her.” He kept his voice low so that White-Eye could not hear. He wanted to ask why the room was so dark, but it didn’t really matter—everything was dark to White-Eye now.
When Alena left the room, Minikin padded over to the bedside. She inspected White-Eye’s face a moment, then gently took her hand.
“White-Eye, it’s me,” she said. “Are you awake?”
White-Eye’s eyes fluttered open. She licked her lips and nodded. “Minikin . . . yes, I was not sleeping.”
“You were,” replied the mistress with a grin, “but I thought this was worth waking you over. Gilwyn is here, White-Eye.”
The girl shook off her fog and sat up. “Gilwyn?”
“I’m here,” said Gilwyn, rushing to her side. He knelt down beside her bed. “White-Eye, I’m right here.”
Her hand reached out. Finding his face, she sighed. “Gilwyn . . .”
“You’re all right,” said Gilwyn. “Minikin told me you’re all right now.”
White-Eye’s brow contorted. “I’m blind, Gilwyn. Faralok is gone. I cannot see!”
“Hush, don’t be afraid,” said Gilwyn. “You’re one of us—an Inhuman. You’ll see again, don’t worry.”
As he spoke Minikin seized his arm. She shook her head at him in warning. Puzzled, Gilwyn tried to say something else to reassure his beloved.
“You’re safe now,” he told her, the only words that came to mind. “Nothing else will happen to you.”
“And you are safe,” said White-Eye with relief. “Gilwyn, I was afraid for you. I heard you screaming. It was so real, I did not know it was a dream . . .”
“But it was a dream,” said Gilwyn. He touched her hair and brushed it out of her sightless eyes. “All just a dream. Nothing happened; I’m safe.”
Did she know that it was Kahldris’ doing? Gilwyn wondered how much Minikin had told her. And why did Minikin think she would not see again? He wished suddenly that he had given the mistress more time to explain, and that he hadn’t been in such a hurry to see White-Eye.
“Gilwyn, sit with her a while,” Minikin suggested. “The two of you should be alone. Are you hungry? I can have food brought here.”
“White-Eye? Are you hungry?” asked Gilwyn.
The girl grimaced. “No, no food.”
“I’m not hungry, either,” said Gilwyn.
“Neither of you have eaten all day,” chided Minikin. “You must have food. I’ll send some to you later.”
She left them, closing the door behind her, shutting out all the light but the candle in its sad dish. Gilwyn sat down on the chest next to the bed. Seeing White-Eye so enfeebled made his guilt more unbearable. She was still beautiful, though, even in a sickbed. She had always been able to melt his heart.
“White-Eye,” he asked, “why is it so dark in here?”
“The light hurts me,” she replied. “That is how it is for me without Faralok—even this much light pains me.”
“So you can see the light?”
“That is all I can see, Gilwyn. Just brightness. Not you, not anything beautiful. Just pain.”
Gilwyn nodded, not knowing what to say. Even with her Akari, light had been painful to her. With Faralok’s help she had been able to see in the dark and control the worst of the pain. Now that was over.
“White-Eye, what happened to Faralok? I don’t understand. Minikin told me you lost him, but . . .” He shrugged. “What does that mean?”
“I do not know,” White-Eye admitted. “I was in a state, Gilwyn. Like a waking dream. And when I awakened I was in the desert, and the sun was coming up and—”
“No, stop,” said Gilwyn. “It’s all right. I don’t want you to keep thinking about it. But Faralok—he’s already dead. I mean, he’s an Akari. He can’t just be gone. Can he?”
White-Eye blinked helplessly. “I do not know,” she said. “I am alone now. I can see nothing. I can’t hear Faralok’s voice, or see him in my mind. I’m all alone.”
She had been a strong girl, always. Gilwyn had seen her break down only once, when her father died. Now, though, she looked on the verge of tears.
“You are not alone,” he hurried to say. “I’m here, White-Eye, and so is Minikin and all the Inhumans. You can never be alone, not while you are one of us.”
“But I am one of you no longer! I have no Akari, Gilwyn.”
“You have me,” Gilwyn stressed. “You don’t need an Akari. I’ll protect you.”
At last the girl began to sob. “You cannot protect me. You cannot be my eyes.” She put a hand to her mouth to stifle h
er cries. “You do not know how empty I am, Gilwyn. It is all blackness. I will never see you again.”
“No, you can have another Akari,” said Gilwyn. “Like Meriel. She changed her Akari. So can you.”
“It cannot be,” said White-Eye. “Minikin has said so.”
“What? Why?”
White-Eye clenched her fists. “Because of the violence done to me. Because of the way I lost Faralok. My mind—my brain—the Akari link has been broken. Oh, you cannot understand this! No one can. I am doomed, Gilwyn. Doomed to darkness!”
A desperate chill blew Gilwyn’s soul. White-Eye was so innocent, so purely kind, and yet the monster known as Kahldris had done this horror to her.
To get to me? he wondered. It seemed impossible, yet Minikin was so sure . . .
“I’ll help you,” he told her then. “I’ll make this right, White-Eye, I promise.”
White-Eye reined in her tears. With her hand she found him, smiling bravely. “You are my sweet one,” she told him, “but you cannot be my eyes, Gilwyn. That is over for me.”
“No,” said Gilwyn bitterly. “I will make it right, White-Eye. I don’t know how, but I will.”
“No one can make it so, Gilwyn. No one can make me see the stars again.”
“I can!” said Gilwyn, springing from his seat. “White-Eye, you’re not alone! You have to let me prove that.” He looked around the dim room, then realized her garments were in the chest. Flinging open the lid, he found a dressing robe and pulled it out. “Here,” he said, “let me help you up.”
“What?”
“Come on, I want to show you something.”
“Gilwyn, no . . .”
“Yes, you have to get out of bed,” Gilwyn insisted. “I won’t let you stay in this room forever. I have your robe. I’ll help you put it on.”
“This is silly, Gilwyn. I cannot see . . .”
Determined to ignore her, Gilwyn took her hands and gently pulled her out of bed. She tottered unsteadily on her feet.
“Good. Now just stay still,” said Gilwyn. “Hold out your arms.”
