“I will try.” First, I would need Lleu to recover my bags from Sakwa.
“Succeed.” His voice was as hard and cold as Erania in the heart of winter.
I bowed my head, showing him the deference that was his due. “I must find Lleu and—”
“No.” His grip bruised as he grasped my arm and spun me into Isolde’s bedroom. “You will stay here and meditate.” He pointed at a bench. “Sit and focus. I will return with your supplies. Be ready.”
Anger tightened my throat. This was fear talking, not Vaughn. “I will do as you wish.” I jumped when he slammed the door between us.
Nerys began pacing. “I hope for your sake the two gods grant you their favor.”
“So do I.” I took the seat he’d indicated. “So do I.”
Slipping into meditation came easier than expected. Part of it was a subtle increase in Brynmor’s energy. Even if he hadn’t been born and raised in this city, his body must lie within these grounds. It gave him strength, and I used our connection to read Isolde’s aura while devising a plan of treatment.
Odd that Kowatsi’s presence bolstered Isolde’s aura on one side. On the other, red energy pulsed in time with her heart. Not the deeper crimson of passion but the brighter red of freshly spilled blood.
Swipes from a wet tongue over my hand made me blink the room back into focus.
Brynmor sat at my feet.
Vaughn stood in the doorway, Old Father’s weathered supply roll tucked under his arm.
I kept my gaze pinned to the floor to avoid the pulse of his anger, resentment, and took what was mine. “I’ll have to ask that you wait outside with Nerys. It’s easier for me to focus with fewer auras in play.” Turning my back on him, I returned to Isolde’s bedside. Her glassy eyes stared at the corner where Kowatsi hovered, and I feared how close to death she must be if she sensed his presence there.
He was waiting for her, another mark against me if Vaughn discovered him.
“I won’t leave her.” Vaughn positioned himself at the door. “You know my aura. You must after all this time, what we’ve been through. Work around me. Nerys, I’m asking you to wait in the hall.”
I saw no point in telling him his was the one aura I was blind to, that his presence distracted me.
With a twist of her lips, Nerys stalked from the room. “I’ll be right outside.”
The door rattled on its hinges.
“Let’s begin.” I palmed my crystal. Let its familiar resonance calm me. “I’ll ask you to remain where you are. No matter what you see or hear, do not breach this circle. It must keep me grounded.”
With no anchor, and I dared not trust Vaughn in his current mood, the circle would suffice.
Kneeling, I set about sorting my tins and letting the practiced tasks calm the nerves in my hands. Once my preparations had been made, I addressed my patient. “Isolde, I must have your permission.”
She didn’t so much as blink acknowledgment.
“Mother.” Vaughn waited. “Mother, answer her.” When Isolde failed to respond, he crossed the room and stood at her shoulder. “This is your only chance at survival. Will you allow Mana to spirit walk with you?” Whatever he heard pained him. “Yes, Rhys needs you, please, give your consent.”
“Yes.” She strangled on the word.
“There, you have what you required.” Vaughn turned from her and resumed his position.
Back to my tins, my herbs, I let his hurt wash over and through and beyond me. Negative energy had no place here or in healing. Inhale. Exhale. Focus. I located my center, then I set about my tasks.
Lifting Old Father’s most battered tin, I unscrewed the cap and inhaled, nose tingling. A whiff of floral mingled with an underlying herbal essence. I dipped a finger into the dayflower oil and rubbed it between my fingers. It was thin but not watery. The consistency was perfect. Taking a small spoon from the roll, I filled it with dayflower oil and rose. Isolde’s lips were slack. I fed her the oil, making sure she swallowed. The hitch in her breath tightened my chest, but I ignored my panicked concern.
I checked her vitals. She was slipping deep into a coma. The dream state would come easily now.
Once assured she was prepared, I resisted one last glance at Vaughn and sank back to my knees. The hard floor bit into my skin, but it grounded me in the room and in my body. It was a good pain.
Using my crystal, I drew a generous circle around me. I lit the mounds of herbs I had measured, and a sense of utter solitude encased me. Here in my bubble, all was well and quiet, as it should be.
Careful to use a clean spoon, I poured myself a dose of dayflower oil and let the sweet taste slide down the back of my throat. Between swallows, my muscles loosened and the room turned hazy with wisps of clouds that rolled in and stuffed the room until all I saw was white and all I felt was warmth.
Moments passed while I gained my bearings and began the trek upward, into the spiritlands.
The journey there was never the same twice, another reason anchors were critical to our return.
When at last I reached the familiar gates barring access to the Above, I turned a slow circle, half-expecting Brynmor to lope to me and ask for an ear rub or stride to me and execute a final bow. This was, after all, his purpose in contacting me. I had restored Vaughn to his clan home and now I would try my best to revive Isolde. The thought occurred to me that my palm no longer itched and that the wound had healed. Did that mean Brynmor and my link was permanent? The thought didn’t concern me as it once had. As a canis, I found him much less intimidating, and, well, I enjoyed his company.
As I walked, the mists cleared to reveal Isolde. In this place, she was as I remembered. Instead of the sickly female lying on her deathbed, she was vital. Her white hair hung in a braid down her back. Her cheeks were round, if creased with age and weather-beaten. Her only concession to her illness was a bright yellow mark, pulsing on her chest. She spotted me and cut a shrill whistle.
“So this is where walkers tread.” She glanced around. “Nice place. Too quiet for my taste. White is a bit bland too.” She rubbed her chest, her fingers came away yellow. “Gods’ web, what is that?”
“You’re ill.” It wasn’t uncommon for a soul to forget the body’s ailments.
“You’re pulling my leg.” Her brow creased as she wiped at her shirt, making more of a mess. “I never get sick, can’t afford to.” Her head lifted. “I thought I remembered… Why are we both here?”
“You’re ill,” I said again, gently. “I came to Cathis to heal you.”
Her eyes narrowed as she appraised me. “Masik sent you?”
“I came with his blessing of my own free will, as a favor to your son.” I clarified, “Vaughn.”
“Vaughn’s here?” Pleasure sparkled in her eyes. “He hasn’t been home in… Doesn’t matter, I’ll take him any way I can get him.” She snapped her fingers. “Go on. Get with it. I have a clan to lead.”
Ah, yes, the impertinence of mavens. I should have known her stubborn soul would refuse to let go of the life, the family she might leave behind. I admired her for that. “I must question you first.”
Hands on her hips, she leaned closer. “We can talk later. Heal me now. My clanswomen are—”
“Dying, I know.” I returned rudeness with rudeness. “We spoke with Cleit and with Nerys.”
“Then what’s left to know?” She paled. “I’ve been stuck in that room for days. If not for Nerys, then I’d have been poked and prodded within a hair of my life.” Lines bracketed her mouth. She was remembering. Good. “I couldn’t even fling the contents of my own chamber pot at that physician. Had to get Nerys to do it for me.” She grimaced. “It’s a show of weakness, and that I won’t tolerate.”
Amused now, I said, “Nerys was under the impression you wished to journey to the spiritlands.”
She scoffed. “Fever made me crazed.” She pointed at her foot. “Named my little toe Little Alis, I did. Gods know I had Nerys serve Little Alis tea in a thimble.” Isold
e scowled. “The girl must be daft to take anything I said after that as truth. My clan needs me now more than ever. I will not fail them.”
“Then you’ll answer my questions.” I waited as her scowl darkened.
“Ask, but make it quick.” Her foot set to tapping. “Time is wasting.”
I arranged the most pressing questions in order of importance. “When did you become ill?”
“Six days ago my temples started pounding like war drums. Then the fever came.”
Hmm. The fever could be viral or bacterial. “Had you eaten or drank anything usual?”
“I ate like I always do, and before you ask, it tasted like it always does.”
“Were others sick before you?”
“By the time I got sick, I knew what to expect,” she said. “I did what I wished I could have done during that scourge outbreak. It’s why I ordered the gates locked, bodies hidden and food delivered.”
I nodded as I calculated the timeline. “Is there any reason for another clan to target yours?”
“No one is better with a blade than my clansmen. We make a living making enemies. Now that we’re allied with the Araneidae and have access to their coffers, we’re a prime target, but for who, I can’t say. We keep little gold here. We trade on Lourdes’s name. Wiping us out makes no sense. Our greatest competitors are the Theridiidae, but their clan is blacklisted after breaking their vow with the Araneidae.” Her voice held a note of pity. “We trade on our reputations and theirs are ruined. They proved themselves dishonorable, and no clan will pay swordsmen who carry that blight on their name to defend their home. Either Maven Colleen went mad or something very wrong happened in Siciia.”
With no other questions in mind, I asked, “Have you seen or heard anything unusual?”
“The hum,” she said with a nod. “One female cut her ear off before we caught her. Said the hum was driving her mad. I thought it was the fever talking, maybe it was, but I heard ringing in my ears.” Her eyes darkened. “As to your other question, I’ve seen males I’ve known since I married Brynmor leave their posts, walk away without a word and not come back. I thought at first it was fear of the plague, I mean the southlands are rife with gossip, but I won’t believe they’d abandon their families.”
“Thank you.” Rolling my shoulders, I prepared for what was to come. “You were most helpful.”
“Don’t sound so surprised, girl.” She snorted. “I’m not the beast Sikya says I am.”
I refused to rise to her bait. “You seem well-informed.”
“I am.” Her lips set. “My son was raised at her knee, and I damn well knew what she told him.”
“Sikya is my maven, and my aunt. Despite our differences of opinion, it is not my place to have this conversation.” Isolde’s complexion mottled. I placated her as best I could. “Now is not the time.”
With a tense exhale, she nodded. “You’re right.” She poked at her yellowing chest. “How do we get rid of this?” Her hands shook as she peeled the shirt from her breasts. “It looks to be spreading.”
“I thought with your soul here…” Her illness was more aggressive than I’d realized. “Old Father never spirit walked with you?” Incredulity spiked my voice, but all these years I thought he had come here to mend her spirit. Otherwise why make such a lengthy journey? Why keep her shrine in repair?
“He tried once, when my grief was raw.” Her voice softened. “I think he knew that I… He must have known he couldn’t trust me.” She met my gaze and her eyes were frigid. “A coward would have taken her own life, and I’m no coward.” Her expression crumpled. “But if he tore my soul free of my body and came here to heal me, well, I’m here. I’m where…where he is, where he’s waiting for me.”
“Kowatsi,” I whispered. His name cut my tongue to give it voice around her, and she blinked as if the name were alien and forgotten to her ears. I folded weak arms across my stomach. “You should know there is another option.” I hated myself for saying, “If you remain here, your body will die. It may be a kinder death than the fate awaiting you.” I spread my hands. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
And I had no intention of telling her Kowatsi lingered in her presence. It might prove too great a temptation for a heart still grieving. I was grateful he’d decided against interfering with our meeting.
He knew Isolde well. He could have invited himself here if he’d wanted to.
Isolde walked to the gate. It was simple iron, black with little detail. It was my construct that she saw, and if Sikya had allowed Isolde to visit Kowatsi’s grave, Isolde would have recognized the gate as matching the fence surrounding the burial grove in Beltania. She grasped bars and held them tight.
I could have told her the trick, the truth of it, but she had a decision to make, so I kept silent.
“I’m old.” Her thumbs rubbed the metal. “I won’t live too much longer.”
I strove for calm. “You were in excellent health—”
Her cackle made me dare to hope.
“Kowatsi and I vowed we’d live our lives to the fullest, take the risks, reap the rewards, do what we wanted, love how we wanted.” With difficulty, she released the bars. “I made him a promise, and when I see him again, and he asks how I died, I’m going to tell him I died living. For him. For Rhys.”
My heart skipped one pitiful beat. “What about Vaughn?”
Her chin shot up. “He doesn’t need me. Never did. He’s Brynmor’s son—has a warrior’s heart. His brother is different. He’s softhearted, hates fighting, that’s what makes him so damn good at it.”
I offered her a smile. “You might try telling him that some time.”
She shrugged. “You get me through this, and I just might.”
“I’m not sure I can heal you.” My throat burned. “I can’t promise we won’t die in the attempt.”
“You’d risk that, for me?” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
I held out my hands to her. “Because you have two sons, and they both need you.”
Her rough hands clasped mine. “Tell me what to do.”
“Breathe,” I said, closing my eyes. “Just breathe.”
Oh so gently, I tapped into the core of myself, felt the healing energy rise and flow from me into Isolde. With infinite care, I drew clean energy from the air around us, and from the very fabric of the spiritlands, cleansing as I sent energy into the yellow smudge pulsing on Isolde’s chest. One cycle, then two, a third came and went without the smear disintegrating. More energy, more focus, more of my life force seeping into Isolde, until the yellow shattered in brilliant sparks that fizzled on our feet.
“You’re healed.” I shook my head and my dreamscape pitched and rolled. “Go.”
I flung my arm toward her in time for the next lurch to topple me onto my knees. Mists rolled in, dissolving my hands where I’d braced on the ground. I groped for my life thread, my anchor, but all I found was a bit of frayed string the color of summer grasses unraveled at my feet. I looked for Isolde.
She was gone.
The dreamscape wobbled and I fell, cracking my skull on a fence post. The metal felt real enough now. Rubbing my head, I tried to remember. I had been looking for something, hadn’t I? Someone?
“Mana.”
I knew that voice.
No. I must be mistaken. Whoever he was, he came from Below. I was free of my human shell.
I reclined on the floor and wondered what that must be like, how he could stand such limitations put on his form. Then I drifted, up and up, and though sharp noises pinged in my ears, I ignored the odd pull in my gut to turn around, look down and watch the male as he called…was that my name?
Heat seared my ankle, and I screamed. No longer drifting up and up, the hot fingers coiled above my foot wrenched me downward. I bent double, clawed at my attacker and found not a hand, but rope. Shimmering black rope squeezed until tears formed in my eyes. I kicked at the binding and thrashed.
“Mana,” the voice said again. “You
will return to me.”
“Are you—Vaughn?” His name swirled up the rope and into me, imprinting itself on my heart.
His relieved sigh swept through me. “Yes,” he said. “Return to me.”
And I did.
Soft words and softer lips pressed against my ear. I batted away the minor annoyance, snuggling back into the warmth of my dreams. Balsam. Strange how that scent had become one of my favorites.
“Please,” a husky voice pleaded. “Return to me.”
I liked the voice, liked how it rumbled under my cheek. I patted my pillow. “Shh. I’m sleeping.”
Harsh laughter ripped my eyes open, and I stared up into a face so handsome, I had to touch it or risk thinking this was still a dream. Dark eyes closed damp lashes as I stroked rough cheekbones. His lips parted on a harsh sigh, and I traced those too. Black hair slicked with sweat dried at his temples.
“Are you well?” His breath caught, awaiting my answer. He held me with exquisite tenderness, as if afraid that a wrong move would break me into pieces too small for him to reassemble. “Mana?”
“Let the girl breathe,” rasped a familiar, female voice. “Bring her here.”
He took great pains to stand while holding me. I think I had been curled on his lap.
A frail-looking female with crazed white hair patted the mattress beside her. “Put her down. Let go.” She tugged on me, but he held firm. She swatted his arm. “We can’t all three of us share a bed.”
He lay me down but remained bent over me, his arms trapped around and beneath me.
I felt safe with him here, so I clutched his collar. “Don’t go.”
“I won’t.” He knelt at the bedside, on the hard floor, and let me curl against his harder chest.
As I drifted with the scent of balsam and male in my nose, I toyed with his shirt pocket. Over his heart, a familiar black thread glistened. I slid my fingers down its silky length, and his body trembled.
At the end was a frayed, green knot. I tugged the thread, felt the corresponding pull in my chest.
A Feast of Souls: Araneae Nation, Book 2 Page 16
