“All right!” He whirled and ran to the door, where he stopped to look back. “Um, Gwin would be mad at you if you said I was here. And then, um, I’d just say I wasn’t.” With that, he was gone.
Mariat turned to Sheft, and all she had ever felt for him came rushing back. She wanted to lean over and kiss his flushed cheek, brush a tangle of wheat-colored hair off his forehead but—good-bye was good-bye. Her throat tightened. “You did a brave thing,” she managed to whisper to him. “Oris and his family will never thank you, but I do.”
She poured more water on the blanket, then began carefully peeling it away. He stiffened,
and with an indrawn hiss of pain, slumped into the mattress and was still. Biting her lip, fearing what she would see, Mariat removed the blanket.
“Oh, Rulve!”
In the common field she’d watched him work, shirtless and sweaty. She admired his straight back, the muscles in his shoulders, and had imagined running her hand down the smooth groove of his spine. But what she saw now scraped across her stomach. Deep gashes in his left shoulder raked down his back to the right side of his waist. Scarlet strips of his shirt were embedded in the wounds, and sickening glimpses of rib-bone and torn muscle showed through the skin. As she watched, bright red welled up in places where blood had already dried.
Oh Sheft! How can you bear this?
He inhaled, making a long ragged sound like a sob. He seemed to fight his way into consciousness, and his whole body clenched with some kind of concentrated effort.
She watched in disbelief as blood receded into the open gashes. Some instinct told her they would ooze once more if he passed out again.
With wounds like these, he should have already bled to death. Incredibly, he seemed to be doing something to prevent that. A memory snapped into her mind: when she’d stitched up his arm in Hawk, that wound hadn’t bled either. She leaned back and studied his face. Whatever he was doing, the lines of strain there told her the cost must be terrible. Her heart poured out to him and tears stung the back of her eyes.
But she had no time for them now. She quickly gathered as many clean cloths as she could find and brought them, her medicines, and a bowl of warm water to his side. The cord around his neck was in the way, so she lifted his head and gently took it off. He moaned in protest, his eyes half-open.
“It’s all right, Sheft. I’ll put it back when I’m done.” Her aunt always told her to speak to the sick as if they could hear and understand. She took a deep breath. “Now I have to get your shirt off. I’ll be as quick and careful as I can.”
She soaked the whole shredded area of his back with herb-water, then carefully peeled off the bloody strips of his shirt. In addition to everything else, a large, ugly bruise had formed midway down his right side. Something heavy must have cracked a rib. No wonder he couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. But there was little she could do about it, so she concentrated on the jagged wounds. The worst gaped at his left shoulder, then scored diagonally down. She dabbed away every speck of dirt she could see “Sheft, I’m going to pour some eferven on you. Remember this is the medicine”—oh God—“that stings.” She dribbled the clear liquid on his back, a little at a time.
He gasped and dug his forehead into the mattress as the medicine bubbled in the deep cuts and punctures.
She wiped away tears with her sleeve and forced herself to continue. When she was finished, she sat back and allowed them both to rest for a while. “You did good, sweetheart,” she murmured. To her dismay, the last word just slipped out.
Without turning his head, he stretched his right hand toward her. It trembled, and she couldn’t help but catch it up, warm and dear and calloused from work, and kissed the palm. He didn’t open his eyes, but she could see him swallow. She wanted to bend down and nuzzle under the curve of his jaw.
But enough of that. Now they both had to endure the needle and thread. “Sheft, I have to do some stitching here. But I’ll go as easy as I can.” He winced at the first prick. She did too, for it was as if she felt it on her own skin. She thrust the sensation away, kept her voice low, her hand steady. “It’ll help if you grip the sides of the mattress. Yes, like that.”
Mid-way through her efforts, he shuddered and passed out. Immediately, as she had somehow known it would, red welled up again. It took all her attention to dab it away so she could see to stitch. After only moments, he stiffened and again the bleeding stopped. He must have spent the entire night doing that, all alone and in agony.
Don’t think about it. Concentrate on what you’re doing.
The mattress was drenched and her hands sticky when the job was finally finished. She leaned back and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “We’re done, sweetheart. The worst is over now.”
Either he heard her or realized the needle had stopped tormenting him, for the muscles in his shoulders slowly relaxed.
Her hands had been steady, but now they shook. She scrubbed them until they stopped, then carefully dribbled healoil over every inch of the gashes and scrapes on Sheft’s back. She folded several kitchen cloths, tore another into strips, and spread green burvena thickly over the bandage.
“Sheft, I’m going to put a cloth on your back. The salve might feel cold.” He flinched when she laid it over him, and his eyes fluttered open. “Now can you raise your chest a little?”
He did the best he could while she got the cloth strips under him and tied them over his shoulder and across his back to keep the bandage in place. He eased down with a sigh when she finished.
She suddenly remembered the spilled water. He must have tried to reach it in the night. “Oh, Rulve!” she exclaimed, jumping up in dismay. “With all that blood loss, you must be raging with thirst. I’m so sorry!”
Having had plenty of practice with her aunt, she got him to turn to the side as far as he could and raised his head. He gulped the water down, spilling only a little onto the towel she held beneath his chin, then sank down and closed his eyes.
She watched him breathing, this man she still, in spite of everything, loved so much. Gently, she slid her hand over his uninjured shoulder. His arm twitched, but his eyes stayed closed. “This part of your back is still beautiful,” she whispered. “Still beautiful.”
But never again would the rest of it be.
She took a deep breath. “You can’t spend the night on that bloody mattress.” She pulled one of the two straw mattresses off Tarn’s bed, positioned it beside Sheft, and helped him edge onto its surface. The other mattress she wrestled out the door and threw the stained blanket on top of it. “I’ll take care of all that in the morning.”
He cried out, startling her. She rushed to him and his eyes were glazed, but lit with urgency. “No! Burn.”
“Everything’s all right. The field-burn is over. Etane says you did a fine job.”
“Burn it!” He grabbed her hand.
“It is, Sheft,” she soothed him. “It’s all burned. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”
He continued insisting and trying to get up until she got a sleeping potion into him. When he finally quieted down, she washed the blood and soot off his face and hands and hair. Even though he didn’t seem to see her, gratitude spilled over the pain in his eyes. His hand fumbled at his neck, looking for the pendant. Riah must have left it to him.
“Just a minute,” she told him. “I’ll have to clean it up.” She swished the medallion in water and washed away the blood. After drying it in a towel, she inspected it closely, marveling at the three perfect star-shaped holes. “Both sides are the same. No, I see now they aren’t. But here are Rulve’s great hands.” She looked at him and emotion tightened in her throat. Dear God, hold him safe. Rulve, please heal him.
As soon as she looped the pendant over his head, his right hand found and clutched it. After a while the potion took its deeper effect, and he lay still, his silver eyes blank, until they finally closed.
# # #
His thirst was gone. Cool touches eased his back. Strips of cl
oth held him together, restrained the roots. The bloody mattress was burned, wouldn’t attract Wask.
Mariat was here, the sweet fruit of all the pain. In spite of all he’d said, of all he’d done, she had come to him. Surrounded by her presence, he slipped away. In one hand he held her kiss, in the other the warm toltyr.
# # #
Mariat covered him to the waist with his blanket from the loft, pried the medallion out of his hand, and placed it close to his head on the mattress. “I’ll make some soup,” she whispered, smoothing back his damp hair, “and maybe later you can eat some of it.”
She pulled the rug from over the trap-door to the root cellar, descended the short ladder, and gathered carrots, a cabbage, and a few slices of salted pork. After the soup was simmering, she sank onto Tarn’s nodding chair.
It was twilight now, and quiet. She rocked—creak-crick, creak-crick—and slowly her energy drained away, leaving an aching void.
Oh God Rulve, please help him. Those terrible wounds! He got them trying to save a little boy, so please don’t let them fester. Please don’t let a fever come. Oh God, don’t let him die. She soon found she was praying not only for Sheft’s healing, but also for that of the painful rent that had pulled them apart, for reasons she never fully understood.
I don’t know what’s wrong, or what went wrong. Mother God, we need you. Father God, we need your strength. Help us. Help us!
# # #
Following secret paths out of the Riftwood, Wask crossed the Meera. An old hunger made it stop at the K’meen Arûk, the sacrificial stone on which the wet white eyeballs used to be set out for him. They had thin skins that popped when its teeth bit down, and they filled its mouth with a salty juice.
But none had been left here for a long time, and it found only a dead bird. Wask sucked at it, but it was dry and bloodless, so it threw the body aside and moved on. Collapsing into a black mist, the creature that was now the Groper slipped along the riverbank, intent on its surroundings. To the right, it sensed the place where many people had gathered in merriment the night before. The torches were gone now, and the fieldhold lay in darkness.
A slight breeze brought a whiff of smoke, but underneath, it detected the lingering sweet scent it had detected earlier. The Groper turned and rushed along a newly dug ditch to the far side of a field. Here the blood had fallen, not long ago, full and strong.
Extending a tendril, the Groper fingered the blackened remains of what once had been a cart. But the dry wood—and what had flowed so freely into it—had been consumed by fire. Angry red flickers darted through the mist. It withdrew the tendril and sniffed the ground. A short distance away it found what it sought: a faint trail that smelled of blood.
# # #
Darkness pressed against the window, but the hearth glowed brightly. Sitting in the nodding chair, staring at the fire, Mariat felt again the desolation of Sheft’s leaving her. Her father insisted that a strapping husband like Gwin, and then a child, would eventually fill the empty spot. She couldn’t imagine that ever happening—and certainly not with Gwin.
The chair creaked and a log in the fire settled. “Maybe it will be easier for me after you go away, Sheft. Then I can work on forgetting you. God knows, I’ll have a lifetime to do it.” In the years ahead would he remember her, ever think of her? She didn’t even know where he was going.
He lay with his eyes closed, the side of his face pale in the flickering light, the bandage barely moving with his shallow breaths.
She was so tired and dejected that tears sprang up again, and she dashed them away impatiently. “Gwin’s been coming around. Once he brought Oris with him. Etane said it was because Gwin thinks women are attracted to a man who holds a child on his lap.” She grimaced. “In this case, it didn’t work. Oris isn’t one to sit quietly while the adults talk.”
The fire radiated its warmth, the soup simmered gently, and the clean, cold smell of an early spring night wafted through the open kitchen window. These were cozy, everyday things, precious things that couples shared for a lifetime—but which she and Sheft never would.
Tears threatened again, and she leaned out from her chair to look down at him. “You could have told me Tarn wasn’t your father. That wouldn’t have mattered to me. You really didn’t know me very well to think it would.”
But at their parting he had given another reason altogether. He said he didn’t love her.
# # #
Low at first, merely troubling at first, an insistent inner warning brought him floating to the surface. Foggy memories came together, then congealed into horror. The mattress. She’d pulled the blood-soaked mattress outside, into the night, and it would act like a beacon to Wask. It seemed he threw off the blanket to take a torch to it, over and over, but never got through the door.
His eyes jerked open. He must’ve been dreaming. “Go!” he said thickly. “Go!”
Worried brown eyes looked into his. “What is it, Sheft? Do you need something?”
“Blood’s…everywhere. Go ‘fore dark.” He heard his own words, garbled and far off.
“It’s all right. Everything is cleaned up now.”
He plucked at the mattress. “Burn it!” he pleaded. “Get torches…root-cellar. Torches!”
She disappeared from view, and the next thing he saw was her leaning two torches on the wall near the door. He pushed the blanket aside and tried to raise himself.
She pressed him back down. “Lie still, Sheft. Please lie still. I think you had a nightmare, but all is well.”
“Yes! A nightmare!” It was moving through the Riftwood. Crossing the Meera. Groping its way over the fields. Black and inevitable, it was following the trail of his blood. He tried desperately to warn her, but the words got muffled in the fog.
She stroked his hair, his cheek. “It’s all right, dear. Everything’s all right. What happened to you is all over now.” She gave him water, which he swallowed eagerly until he realized it was more of the sleeping potion and pushed it away.
A nail through his ribs held him down, and the potion swirled through his head, but he had to protect her. It hurt to breathe, but he had to place himself between her and the door. The reason for that was slipping away. She said everything was all right. It was all over now. She was close to him, and he loved her. He reached out and touched her hand. Lie down behind me, Mariat. Sleep with me. Stay by me, and never leave again.
She smiled at him through her tears. He was the one who had left.
“You don’t know me very well, Sheft.”
He wasn’t sure if he was asleep or awake, but he held her beautiful face in his hands. “I always wanted to.”
# # #
He lay quiet, so Mariat took the soup off the fire. After forcing herself to eat a small bowl of it, she turned her attention to the state of the kitchen. The lantern revealed what looked like a week’s worth of dirty dishes waiting on the sideboard. She washed and dried them, then scrubbed the table. With the hearth fire stoked so high, it had gotten quite warm in the room and the smell of blood and medicines still lingered. Fresh air, her aunt always said, chased sickness away. As she headed toward the door, however, a lifelong fear scrabbled a warning in her stomach. I’ll just stand on the doorstep, she told herself, and let a little air in.
Brushing her hair behind her ears, she opened the door. A crooked rectangle of light fell onto the stony yard. All was still, but something was wrong. Something was out there that shouldn’t be.
Her gaze cut to the left. Caught at the edge of the light, a low shadow humped. Chills erupted all over her skin, and she stood transfixed.
Nothing moved. She blinked, and then let out a breath of relief. It was only the blanket and the bloody mattress, folded over on itself. How silly—she’d forgotten they were out there. Yet, for some reason the pile made her feel uneasy, so she stepped back and shut the door. She made sure it was barred, and closed the window as well. You were right to be afraid of that stained bedding, she thought, because it will be the
devil’s own mess to clean in the morning. She rubbed her tired eyes, then knelt down beside Sheft to check on him.
To her surprise, he was awake and looking at her, this time with full recognition. The pain had crept back into his face, pain she could not take away, but his eyes shone with tenderness. “You’re real,” he said.
Blinking back tears, she smiled at him. “Always was.”
“Sleep here with me.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
A rueful grin tugged at his mouth, followed by a wince of pain. With the wound on his left shoulder and a broken rib on the right, they both knew he could barely turn to her in the night.
She pulled out Tarn’s other mattress and a blanket and placed them where Sheft indicated, close behind him. Leaning over, she kissed his shoulder, then settled down with a sigh.
He reached out behind him, and she held his hand until he fell asleep. Only then did she tuck it under his blanket, close her eyes, and fall softly into the warmth. Sometime later, dimly aware the fire had died down, she pulled the covers up to her chin.
# # #
Sniffing the earth, the Groper followed the ruts of a wagon through the moonless night. Suddenly it reared up. There! Not far off. The mist coalesced into an inky rivulet and rushed forward. Unerringly the smell drew it, with ever-greater strength, until at last the Groper burst into a stony yard. The blood-smell lay directly before it, pulsing red in the dark, only hours old.
The Groper fell upon the straw mattress like a wave. The mist became a flat, peat-colored skin, and it summoned the night-beetles. Hundreds of them churned out of the ground. They swarmed over the blood-soaked mattress, digging and burrowing and devouring, their avaricious mouth-parts clicking.
“Enough! Now come to me.”
They surged into the skin, filling it like a swelling corpse, and slowly Wask the beetle-man rose into full strength. It pulled the skin close around the tightly-packed mass.
# # #
He surfaced, opened his eyes. What had awakened him? She breathed softly behind him, a healing presence he could not turn to embrace. An inner warning scraped across his spirikai. He raised his head. The fire burned low. Everything was still. The door, a black rectangle darker than the shadow-filled room, was barred. He stared at it, and all his senses scanned the night beyond.
Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One Page 22
