by Pati Nagle
“I want to fulfill my promise to you. Keep you safe.”
“You’re evading the question.”
Caeran put his plate down. “I would rather hunt him.”
He didn’t sound enthusiastic, which made me think he was choosing the lesser of two evils. I could understand that; neither solution would be pleasant. Proximity to the alben under any circumstances had proved to be unpleasant.
“How’s your shoulder?” I asked.
Caeran put a hand to it absently. “I hardly notice.”
“Madóran’s good.”
“Yes.”
“And you heal so fast. I’m really envious of that one.”
Caeran gave a fleeting smile. It made me want to throw my arms around him. Instead I looked back at the fountain, and thought through the words to the Major General’s song from Pirates of Penzance.
Caeran turned to look at me; I could feel his gaze. My cheeks started tingling, and I lost track of the lyrics.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
I met his gaze, though it made me unsteady. “I just don’t want to bother you with all my silly thoughts.”
“So you give me a silly song instead.”
“You said you’d teach me how to guard my thoughts.”
“Yes. It is simple. You begin by summoning your inner light, here.” He placed a hand on his solar plexus. “Let it flow all through you, then spill out to surround you.”
“The white light thing? Really? You guys started that?”
He looked amused. “I suppose we did.”
“OK, I’ll try it.”
I closed my eyes and followed his directions. I’d done some visualizations with light in a yoga class. It was easy, though I wasn’t sure it felt real. I could picture myself surrounded by light, but had trouble believing it would protect my thoughts.
I had to protect them, though. I didn’t like keeping secrets from Caeran, but the secret I was protecting wasn’t mine; Madóran had entrusted me with it, and I didn’t want to fail that trust.
White light, white light.
I focused on that until I felt I’d reached a level of stability, then opened my eyes. Caeran was watching me. He nodded.
“That is good. You have done this before.”
“A little. Do I have to keep concentrating?”
“A corner of your mind must tend the shield. It becomes second nature with practice.” “Thanks.”
He smiled, and I came close to throwing the whole shield idea away. If I couldn’t trust Caeran …
I looked out at the fountain again, because looking at him weakened my willpower, and it wasn’t that strong to begin with. I liked looking at Caeran. I wanted to do more than that, but I didn’t want to create trouble or pain for either of us. Or for Madóran.
“Can I help?” Caeran asked softly.
“Help?”
“With whatever is troubling you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You must not blame yourself—”
“I know. I’m not.”
Needing to move, I picked up my plate and stood, gesturing at Caeran’s, which still held half a piece of bread. “Are you finished with that? Want more soup?”
“Let me take them,” he said, standing up. “You were hiding.”
He was right, but I shook my head. “I want to look in the kitchen for some matches.”
“Matches?”
“To light a fire in my room. It’s cold.”
A glint of humor came into his eyes. “I doubt you will find any.”
“He’s got to have matches for the stove. I’ll be right back.”
I held my hand out for Caeran’s plate. He gave it to me, keeping the bread. I hurried to the kitchen.
Trying to keep a distance from Caeran wasn’t any fun. Too bad I couldn’t leave; that would be the easiest way. I could bury myself in my homework, maybe. The thought didn’t thrill me.
In the kitchen, two of the ælven were sitting at the table, eating soup. I smiled a hello, then ignored them, busying myself with washing Caeran’s and my dishes. The ælven were silent, and I could feel them watching me. I concentrated on keeping my white light charged.
When I’d finished the dishes, I opened the drawer nearest the stove. Cooking utensils. The drawer below it was full of dish towels and a couple of potholders. No matches. I didn’t want to toss the whole kitchen in front of the others, so I went back out to the portal, where Caeran was nibbling his bread.
“You were right. I couldn’t find any matches.”
He grinned and jumped up from his chair. “Take me to your room and I will light the fire for you.”
Oh, what a straight line! Virtuously ignoring it, I led him to my bedroom. He went right to the fireplace and peered at the wood I’d laid.
“Paper?”
“There wasn’t any kindling.”
“Ah.”
He glanced at me, eyes gleaming. I sat on the end of the bed and crossed my arms, wondering if he planned to do the boy scout thing. It was tedious—I’d tried it at summer camp.
He held out a hand, palm toward the fireplace. In three seconds, the wood burst into flame.
“Holy—cow!”
Caeran beamed at me as the paper burned in a whoosh. I nodded.
“OK, I get it. No matches. Dang, you sure know a lot of cool tricks!”
“Tricks?”
“Things like this.” I gestured to the fire, then moved to the banco, holding out my hands to the warmth. “Things I wish I could do.”
He was close, sitting across from me, the opening of the fireplace between us. Firelight played on his features and lit glints in his hair, making me want to stare at him. I sucked a deep breath and looked back at the fire.
“Len?”
“Hm?”
“Have I done something wrong?”
Oh, shit. White light, white light.
“No.”
He was silent for a long moment, then said, “Was it me you were hiding from?”
I closed my eyes. “Sort of.”
“Should I go, then?” he whispered.
I could not bring myself to say “yes,” no matter how much I tried to tell myself it would be for the best. The fire’s heat beat on my eyelids and my cheeks. My hands started trembling. I pushed them toward the fire, but Caeran’s hands closed around them, drawing them back. Opening my eyes, I saw that I was closer to the flames than I’d thought. He’d saved me from burning myself.
His hands were warmer than the fire, almost as warm as Madóran’s. He wore his concerned look, golden-green eyes worried as they watched me. I couldn’t look away.
I swallowed. “I don’t want to cause you any pain.”
His expression lightened as if with new understanding. He looked down, his thumb caressing the back of my hand.
“There is pain before us either way. The pain of separation now, or at the end of your life.”
OK. Yes, that was true.
“Which would be easier for you?” I whispered.
He paused before answering. The fire snapped.
“I would gladly endure your death for a lifetime of your company.”
My heart gave a giant squeeze inside my chest, and I knew without a doubt that this was what I wanted. Sorry, Mirali. Sorry, everyone else. Ultimately, this choice was mine and Caeran’s.
“Though,” Caeran added, looking up at me, “it would be hard for me if you left before then.”
I drew a shaky breath. “I’m not Flora.”
He smiled like the sunrise. “I know. You understand much better than she ever could.”
I wasn’t sure he was right about that, but I let it pass. “I won’t make you leave your people, anyway.”
“Will you come and live with us?”
“Uh … well, I want to finish college.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“And then, I sort of had a career in mind. See, I was talking with Madóran—”
“Madó
ran?” Caeran frowned.
I explained the research idea. He listened, looking skeptical at first, but I got caught up in my excitement again and by the time I’d envisioned curing cancer, AIDS, and the alben’s curse, he was smiling.
“This is your heart’s work,” he said.
“Yes.”
“How can I help?”
“Um. You could help me study, I guess.”
“Shall I enroll in your school?”
“Wow. Um, I think they’d want some ID.”
“I can arrange for that.”
It stunned me to imagine going to school with Caeran. Sharing an apartment, maybe. Oh, my, yes. I would like that.
I’d forgotten to keep up the white light. I forgot everything but Caeran when I looked into his eyes. He smiled, leaning closer, and my heart tried to fly to him.
A door slammed in the distance; the front door, I thought. Caeran looked that way, then stood up, releasing my hands. He glanced back at me.
“They have returned.”
= 14=
He was out the door before I could answer. I followed him along the portal to the entryway. Cold air blasted me as he opened the door. There was snow on the entry floor; also blood. Three ælven men were in the entryway, two carrying the third, who was bleeding from a terrible wound in his throat.
Madóran pushed through the others watching from the front room’s doorway. Caeran stepped back and I hopped out of his way as he held the door to the inner portal open.
“This way,” he said.
“Yes.” Madóran stepped out, beckoning to the two holding the wounded man. “Bring him here.”
Caeran and I both followed them to the treatment room, Caeran’s room. Madóran took charge, ordering the two to lay their friend on the massage table. When his gaze fell on me I spoke up before he could banish me.
“How can I help?”
He glanced at the wounded man, who looked more pale than Caeran had at his worst, then back at me. “You are willing?”
I nodded. If I was going into medical, I’d have to get used to this sort of thing.
“Pour water into a bowl and bring me cloths.”
I stepped to the work counter. The pitcher stood on it, and I found a bowl and a stack of cloths inside.
“Are either of you hurt?” Madóran said behind me.
Two voices murmured “No.”
“Caeran, take them to the kitchen and give them something to eat.”
I glanced up as they left. One of the two ælven looked back at me and frowned. Caeran pulled the door closed, smiling brief encouragement to me. My heart leapt, then I turned to the work at hand.
The water in the pitcher was cold. I poured some into the bowl and brought it to the table where the wounded ælven lay. Madóran had a hand on his forehead, and held the other hand over the bowl. Instantly it grew warm in my hands. I jumped, but managed not to drop it.
Madóran dipped a cloth into the bowl and began cleaning the ragged wound. Blood pulsed from it slowly. I winced. It looked like a wild animal had attacked the poor guy. Had Gehmanin done this?
“Yes,” Madóran said softly. “I can feel his khi.”
Oh, ugh!
He cleaned the wound, then asked me to help him strip off the wounded man’s shirt. I set aside the bowl and carefully removed the shirt while Madóran lifted the patient’s torso from the table. The man moaned, and Madóran spoke to him in their language. I heard him say “Savhoran” and remembered that was the name of one of Caeran’s family.
There were other wounds on Savhoran’s chest—scrapes and cuts—but none as bad as the neck wound. He’d been in a vicious fight, it looked like. I wondered if Gehmanin was still at large.
“Can you lay a fire?” Madóran asked.
“Sure.”
I went to the fireplace and piled some wood, not bothering to worry about kindling. Madóran glanced at me as I returned to the table, then lit the fire from where he stood, holding a hand out as Caeran had done. It took a few seconds longer, I assumed because of the distance.
Madóran had gone through all the cloths. I carried the soiled ones away and brought back another stack, then poured more water into the bowl. Madóran finished cleaning the other wounds, then held both hands over Savhoran’s neck and closed his eyes.
I held still, watching the glow develop around Madóran’s hands and spread up his arms. His whole head and shoulders were surrounded with a golden light that was breathtaking.
If only I could learn to do that. I had a feeling it was beyond me, though.
Madóran withdrew his hands and opened his eyes, frowning as he gazed at Savhoran. I wondered if he was going to cauterize the wound, as he’d done with Caeran.
“He is too weak to bear it, I believe,” Madóran said quietly. “He has lost a good deal of blood.”
“What if we got him to drink something? Rehydrate him?”
He gazed at me thoughtfully. “That might help. He needs it in any case. Would you go to the kitchen and fetch a bowl of broth? Not from the stove—there is plain broth in a pot in the refrigerator. Do not bother to heat it.”
“OK.” I headed for the door. “Anything else?”
Madóran nodded toward the pitcher. “More water.”
I grabbed the pitcher and hustled to the kitchen, glad to have something to do. Caeran and the two who’d brought Savhoran in were sitting at the table, and several other ælven were in the room, leaning against the counters or perched on the banco by the fire. I put up my white light shields and focused on getting out the broth, ladling some into a bowl, and filling the pitcher.
“How is he?” asked a tight, female voice.
I looked up at—Tiruli, that was her name—who was standing by the table. Everyone in the room was watching me.
“He’s badly hurt. He lost a lot of blood.”
She winced, and the pain in her face tipped me off. She must be Savhoran’s lover.
“I should be helping him,” she said in a desperate voice. One of the others put a hand on her arm and spoke to her, too quietly for me to hear.
The best thing I could do for everyone’s sake was to get back to the treatment room. I dared a glance at Caeran and found him smiling softly at me. I put the pitcher and bowl on a tray, added a spoon, a glass, and a couple of napkins from the stack on the counter, and hurried back to Madóran.
He had his hands over Savhoran’s neck again, and was frowning in concentration. I set the tray down on the counter and closed the door, moving as quietly as I could. Madóran was a statue. I stood and watched, trying to send healing thoughts.
After a few minutes he moved, breaking the stillness. The glow faded from around him as he looked at me, then lifted Savhoran up.
“Bring the broth.”
I fetched the bowl and held it while Madóran got the patient upright. Savhoran slumped, and I thought he must be unconscious, but Madóran put a hand on his brow and murmured to him, and he opened his eyes.
Madóran took the bowl. “Steady him.”
Gingerly, I put a hand against Savhoran’s back, between his shoulders. His skin was ice cold and I abandoned shyness as I wrapped my arm around his shoulders and pressed against him, sharing my body heat. He looked ready to pass out. Blood trickled from his neck wound down his bare chest.
The broth was steaming now. Madóran held a spoonful up to Savhoran’s lips and murmured to him again. The words sounded like water rippling down a stream. I had to learn this language.
With Madóran’s coaxing, Savhoran drank several spoonfuls of the broth. He then started shivering, and I looked at Madóran for guidance. He should be getting warmer, not colder.
“He is in shock. Would you bring a blanket from the bed?”
I fetched two and wrapped one around Savhoran’s shoulders, the other around his legs. Madóran managed to get him to drink about half the bowl of broth before he went limp. I grabbed him to keep him from falling, and with Madóran’s help gently lowered him onto his back,
then rearranged the blankets to cover him.
Madóran put a hand on Savhoran’s brow and another over the neck wound. He stood that way for several minutes, frowning. At last he looked up.
“He is weak, but to delay might endanger him further. I will treat the wound now.”
I nodded and helped clear the area. Madóran directed me to press a folded cloth against the wound while he prepared his tools. I did so, watching for signs that Savhoran was returning to consciousness. Madóran hadn’t given him any of the drug he’d given Caeran, unless he’d slipped it into the broth.
This was going to be bad. No drugs, and the wound was worse.
The smell of hot metal rose in the room. I closed my eyes, calling up the white light again, as much to shield me from distress as to protect my thoughts.
“Sing to him, Lenore.”
“He’s unconscious—”
“That does not matter. Take his hand and sing to him. It will help.”
Keeping one hand pressed against the wound, I slid the other under the blanket and took hold of Savhoran’s cold fingers. What to sing? Not “Sorry Her Lot”—that was really inappropriate this time.
I fixed on “Ubi caritas et amor,” a Gregorian chant I’d learned in high school chorus that had sent me on a prolonged chant phase. I began to sing it softly, over and over. The words were Christian, which maybe wasn’t terribly appropriate either, but the melody was what mattered; melody and vowels. I’d heard that “Ah” was a sacred sound in many cultures—part of the reason for “Amen”—and this chant had plenty of “Ahs.”
Savhoran’s fingers clenched on mine and he made a small sound as Madóran began cauterizing the wound. I squeezed back and kept singing, switching chants now and then. Couldn’t tell if Savhoran was conscious, and didn’t dare open my eyes to check. I kept thinking of white light, sending some of it to him, trying to ignore the smells and sounds of what Madóran was doing.
It seemed to go on forever. I coughed once, and wished for a glass of water, but I went on singing. After going through all my favorite chants, I came back to “Ubi caritas,” and had just finished the second verse when I felt a lightening, as if the sun had risen in the room.
I looked up and saw Madóran gazing down at Savhoran, his hand on the patient’s brow. Oh, thank god, it was over.
