The Zi'veyn: The Devoted Trilogy, Book One

by Kim Wedlock

  Garon's, however, was not.

  The world suddenly stood still. He stared past the half-foot thorn rising from Rathen's shoulder to the stars twinkling beyond. He was aware of the pain that racked all through his torso, but distantly, as if only vividly imagined. And perhaps it was. Perhaps the howl of victory that drummed in his ears was just as distant as it seemed, perhaps it belonged to kentauri, or tribes, or those pesky harpies. Did harpies howl? No, they screeched. But he could hear screeching. Or shrieking. A brutal, high-pitched cry, whatever it was, one of anger. And it was growing nearer.

  Steel flashed past his face, and the world began to move again - slowly, but it was moving; time, sound, his own rapid heartbeat, and he found the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.

  The howl came again, returned with another fitful yell, and suddenly the weight was dragged off of him.

  He breathed, gasped, and from his own lips he thought he heard a cry. But of course he did. At that moment, he knew nothing but agony, an agony that had intensified when the world had began moving again, and he resented it.

  Silence fell - how long ago, he wasn't sure - and a face appeared, a beautiful face framed in red. For a moment his racing, hammering heart soothed, even as the expression it bore twisted into panic. "Pe..." But despite his eloquent reassurance, she muttered 'no, no, no' over and over before turning her fine profile to shout something into the distance. And then another face appeared even before she'd finished, a dirty but pretty face, if a little too young to strike a chord, but one, he felt, that could become beautiful in time. But this one's expression was more severe, and there was a terror in her pale blue eyes alongside a dutiful determination.

  He spared her little attention. His eyes shifted sluggishly back onto Petra, and a moment later, everything was black.

  Chapter 46

  A soft, comfortable warmth enveloped his body; opening his heavy eyelids was a challenge he found himself disinclined to overcome. So he lay peacefully as his mind wandered in a hazy dream, unsure and unconcerned with what was memory and what was fantasy, and it was quite some time before he realised that the voices speaking softly in the distance were not imagined, but beside him. He didn't try very hard to make out the words, but both, one more melodious than the other, were equally tinted with the metallic note of concern.

  They fell suddenly silent, and he realised he'd mumbled in a half-dream.

  "Garon?"

  He managed with effort to pull one eye open to the torch-lit darkness, but upon seeing Petra's shadowed face twisted in barely subdued alarm, memory struck him like a lightning bolt.

  His eyes flashed open as he shoved himself up onto his elbow, and he stared down at himself, fully prepared for the sight of deep, bloody punctures from his collarbone to his pelvis.

  He blinked in confusion when he found only bare skin, without even a concealing bandage. He touched his chest in doubt, feeling frantically for the wounds he was certain he'd sustained, the ones he was sure should have killed him. But there was nothing there.

  He looked back to Petra, confusion further creasing his weary face, then towards Eyila who sat sullenly beside her. At the sight of the tribal healer, realisation slowly set in. He sighed deeply in relief and fell back onto his blanket.

  But the atmosphere, he noticed, was suffocating. He turned his gaze - serious, as usual; his former colour returning - back onto the pair, and tried to calculate the situation. Another unease soon began to creep into his gut and he found himself unable to voice the forming question.

  "Garon," Eyila began, clearly steeling her voice against whatever pressed upon her, "raise your left hand."

  He frowned, but did as she asked, and though he found both his elbow and shoulder were stiff and plagued by a dull pain, he managed easily enough.

  "Flex your wrist." There was no change to her tone as, again, he did as he was asked. But he didn't miss the brief flash of something in her eyes, even if it was gone too quickly to identify. His heart jumped when he followed her gaze and found that he had barely managed to bend his hand half way. Suddenly, he understood that look in her eyes, and he reflected it back at her in growing apprehension.

  "Make a fist."

  He obeyed as quickly as he could, his heart thundering, not daring to hesitate, to let fear set in and prolong his panic. But it gripped him, cold, clammy and unrelenting, as only his ring and smallest finger moved.

  The silence was deafening. Eyila stared at his half-closed hand in shame; Petra stared in dismay. Garon stared for miles beyond the edge of his cramped tent.

  Eyila took a breath, about to speak, but it took her a moment longer to truly find the courage. "I can't find the damage," she said at last, her tone professionally disconnected despite the tears she tried to keep from falling from her black-painted eyes. "I've never had to treat anything like this, and I can't find any swelling or tearing. With cuts it's easier, it's obvious, but nerves--"

  "It's all right."

  She bit her lip as the first tear dropped, her shame growing in the face of Garon's passivity. She watched him stare at his hand and try, once again, to form a fist. And once again, only two fingers responded.

  Petra shook her head in lingering disbelief. "It will heal on its own, won't it?" She asked softly, searching for comfort, perhaps on his behalf, perhaps for herself. But again Eyila hesitated.

  "I don't know how severe it is... It might - but even if it does, it will take months--"

  "It's all right," he said again, far too softly as he raised his right hand and successfully contracted it into a fist. His heart was racing. It was surely about to burst through his ribs, and he hoped that it would rather than continue to pump the rush of helplessness and anger through his veins. All he could think about was the unrelenting responsibility to protect his people. It pressed upon him in every waking moment, forced upon him by his own choice of profession and the brutal training to heed its commands, to do whatever he had to in response to any threat. And he resented that that training extended far beyond combat, tracking and maintaining a level of authority. He resented that it had been equally academic, because he could make an educated guess at what had happened to him, and he knew that being given answers to pointless questions wouldn't change the situation. Because, hatefully, he was also fully aware of the risks in every situation.

  Feeling the contempt tighten in his jaw, he forced himself to loosen and take a deep breath. Because he was also fully aware that there was nothing to do at that point but accept his circumstance. The task at hand was too severe for personal distractions.

  He rolled his right shoulder and clenched his fist. His sword arm was unaffected, and while there was a chance his left could heal - though his education gave him little room for hope on that front - he would have to change his fighting style in the mean time. Fortunately his training had covered that, too, as not even a broken arm was an acceptable excuse for missing an opportunity to complete a mission, and how different was this, really?

  He nodded to himself as his blood cooled. But he didn't look back up. "How's Rathen?"

  Eyila didn't respond; she hiccuped instead.

  "He's fine," Petra replied in her place. "Eyila's healed him and she's confident that he'll be all right, but sore for a while. Like...last time..."

  He nodded his understanding, wondering absently if Kienza had come to his rescue again. He considered Petra from the corner of his eye, but a thought turned his gaze towards the tribal. He saw the same haunting in her eyes that he'd noticed outside, what felt like only minutes ago. She shortly excused herself, her voice catching on her tears. "Did you explain it to her?" He asked once the canvas fell back in place, but Petra laughed humourlessly.

  "As best a thing like that can be. You realise I don't understand it, and it terrifies me just the same." Despite the distress that shook her voice, her eyes had darkened in disapproval the moment they'd been left alone, a formidable shadow that provided him a strange comfort in its familiarity, even as it rendered hi
m suddenly unable to meet her gaze. He knew what was coming, and also knew that his present situation wouldn't earn him the soft side of her tongue. "You are a fool, Garon."

  He sighed tiresomely, turning his head away and dropping his arm over his chest, even as he continued trying to flex his fingers. "So you've said."

  "Don't you dare give me that tone. Broken ribs, punctured lungs, one shoulder dislocated, the other broken, shattered vertebrae - you have nerve damage, Garon, in fact it's a wonder you're still alive!"

  "I don't want to talk about this."

  "What if this doesn't heal?" The edge of her shaken voice grew sharper. "What then?"

  "I said I don't want to talk about it."

  "You could have been killed."

  "So could you."

  She clenched her fists at his unfaltering passive aggression and he knew she wanted to lash out. He braced himself. But she sighed, rose to a crouch and made for the doorway instead. He panicked. "Wait."

  She stopped but didn't look back. "What is it?"

  He didn't speak. He didn't know. Or, rather, he did, but he couldn't comprehend it.

  She didn't give him much chance before continuing on her way.

  "Why did you come out?" He blurted, pushing himself back up onto his elbow as she paused again. "Why did you risk yourself?"

  "Because you were about to be...shredded."

  He watched her linger beside the canvas, still not looking even half way around towards him. "Petra," he said firmly, "will you come back over here?"

  She hesitated, but shortly complied, if with attitude, kneeling back beside him with an irritated huff and staring up at the canvas.

  "What is it?"

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "That. You've not been your usual...direct self lately..."

  "Have I not?" She asked mildly.

  "No." He maintained his calculating stare, but came up with nothing, and not for the first time. "I have done something, haven't I?"

  "Does it matter?"

  'Yes.' He lay back down. "No, I suppose it doesn't."

  She shook her head, snapping off a growl of annoyance as she rose back to her haunches, and moved towards the exit even quicker than before. He managed to restrain a similar snarl as an immense frustration fell over him in that same instant. His concern, he failed to notice, had left his as-good-as-broken arm.

  A flash of red suddenly filled his sight, a soft warmth pressed against his lips, and the not unpleasant mixture of spices, rose hip and sweat tickled his nose.

  Then, just as suddenly, Petra was gone, casting behind her an insult as she escaped the confines of the tent, leaving him, once again, in the throes of confusion.

  The red scent lingered.

  Chapter 47

  Shapeless wisps of faces and voices snaked outwards of the surrounding fog, radiating a tumultuous cacophony of primordial consciousness whose every tendril tried to snatch and drag him off course, to mindlessly crush him under its clumsy pressure and devour his unstable focus.

  But Salus was faster. He'd been exposed to the coiling limbs' corruption often enough to learn their movements, to be able to predict and avoid them, for they ultimately belonged to him. So he continued to barrel his way through the murk of disembodied presences, all of which he'd known at some point in his life, but now laced with that same dangerous forbiddence no matter how inviting or repulsive they may once have been, until finally the familiar, tenuous glow broke through the dark, swirling cloud ahead.

  He reached out too quickly. His anticipation got the better of him. His focus broke, his defences tumbled, and the fog consumed him.

  Salus didn't open his eyes. He didn't even growl in frustration. He simply drew another deep breath, released his tightened muscles, and delved into his self once again. He ignored the sweat that trickled down his neck from his matted hair, and the prickling of his skin in barely subdued terror. To unleash the magic that lurked within him, he knew he had to brave the dense, incomprehensible morass of pointless thoughts and emotions which lay over it.

  "Take a break," a voice suggested from beyond his tightly closed eyes, its tone not particularly concerned, though neither was it unkind.

  "No," Salus replied tiredly. "I can do this."

  "You're exhausted."

  "I'm fine."

  "You're rocking."

  He sighed and at last opened his eyes, deciding, perhaps, that he could use a break after all. "I've not been sleeping that well, that's all."

  "Ah," Denek nodded slowly. "Work keeping you up, is it?"

  "No." Despite the irritating, intentionally imprecise comment, Salus looked up and considered him for a moment. He pursed his lips in thought, torn by sudden indecision, but he knew there was no real harm in asking. He was already painfully aware that he compromised his dominance every time he submitted himself to the mage's guidance - what was making himself look fractionally weaker if it meant he could finally put a distraction to rest?

  "I've been having...dreams."

  "That generally happens when you sleep."

  "No, bad dreams, every night this week." Denek seemed about to speak, no doubt another sarcastic remark, but the hardness in Salus's own eyes stilled him. Good. For once, he was taking him seriously. "No matter what happens in the dream," he continued quietly, lowering his voice against the guards outside, "no matter where I am - in a city, a forest, or anywhere in between - there are always...voices whispering, or shouting or laughing, even when there's absolutely no one around. And they're always distant but...inescapable. No matter how far I go, nor how much other noise there might be, I can always hear them." Salus paused, but Denek, to his surprise, still didn't speak. He merely observed him with his pale and irritating eyes, neither thoughtful nor absent. Salus wondered at that moment if it was wise divulging this to a man he couldn't read, but he reminded himself that he was still his prisoner and couldn't use this information against him even had it been of any value. And he needed to know if, somehow, this was related to his magic. He'd heard many times that mages suffered pain when their magic awoke, but he hadn't experienced such a thing. It was possible that he had naturally suppressed it as he did everything else, and it was manifesting in his sleep while his guard was down instead. "There are faces, sometimes, too," he continued, deciding that he needed to know, one way or the other. "White ones, strange and fierce. Monstrous, even - but there's one which is so much worse than the rest, bigger and always hanging above them, with black eyes and dead, drawn-in cheeks. It feels smothering...it's..." He caught himself as the familiar terror he felt every time he woke from the image began to coil around his throat, heightened by his recent exposure to all he tried to discard. But Denek's expression, tending, it seemed, towards boredom, still hadn't changed.

  Salus's jaw knotted. "It means nothing, doesn't it?"

  "Just sounds like nightmares to me," he finally replied, and his tone was, indeed, bored. "Perhaps too much skulduggery before bed. Or not enough fresh air." He glanced up to his tiny window. "I know I could do with a little more."

  "I certainly feel like I'm trapped indoors..."

  Denek cocked a finely shaped eyebrow as his gaze shifted back onto him. "You're awfully open today. Or perhaps just too tired to maintain hostility."

  "Shut up."

  "Oops, perhaps not."

  Salus took a deep breath, straightened himself, closed his eyes and relaxed once more into his position. He didn't notice the breeze that wafted briefly through the window grating, prickling his sweat-slicked skin, because that day, that very day, he vowed that he would succeed. He had tried and failed all too often, some days by a hair's breadth, others by further than he cared to remember - but that day, it would happen. He could feel it. Call it fate, call it determination. It didn't matter. By one means or another, he would achieve it.

  His mind hurtled back through the tangle of unrecognisable emotions, each only fractionally different from the last, yet all somehow unique and unmistakable at the same time. They
pulled at him from all directions, but he braced himself against them, well-practised in such defence. Ignoring them, he'd learned, was futile; by pushing them away, he equally pushed away his goal. But he didn't have to embrace them and succumb to the weakness they invoked to reach it, he had only to acknowledge they were there. The days he'd faced them had brought him the closest to success.

  So he struggled onwards, noting briefly as he passed the wisps of pride, of fury, of attraction, of remorse, and in time found himself back at the point of opportunity. The emotions he was never supposed to feel continued desperately to try to steal his attention, to throw upon him the extent of them he had denied himself. But despite their frenzy, he refused to give in. The light ahead of him grew. He kept a tight rein on himself, turning a corner of his mind onto his heartbeat, grounding himself in his body as it thumped harder and harder in his chest against the exertion and excitement, and forced himself to ride his momentum rather than try to rush ahead of it.

  The light didn't move. Though continuously obscured by the elements of his own suppressed consciousness, it remained where it was, calm and still, unaffected by the hysteria around him as though oblivious to its dim neighbours, deaf and blind to its surroundings.

  His heart hammered so much it hurt; he wanted to reach out to it, to push everything else out of the way and grasp the magic as soon as possible - but that had always enraged the rest. So he remained patient, exercising the quality that seemed to have escaped him in the face of war, and did his best to maintain his control, to disallow any change in his focus or excitement. It was, some distant part of him mused, like a mission in itself. And he would need absolute control in this final moment, just this final moment.

  The clouds parted. He almost stumbled. Somehow, he managed not to, and made the final dash towards the light. He reached out. And he grasped it.

  Scorching heat surged through his body on contact, flooding his veins with fire and snapping Salus back to the darkness of the cell. He staggered and stumbled to his feet in a panic, hissing in pain as he grasped at his forearms - but as suddenly as it began, it receded.