Beloved Son
Page 23
“Bloody hurts.”
The leaf was wearing off. And Wil didn’t quite know how to feel about that. He was already shaking, and though that was likely all in his mind, or maybe it was just that he was wet and cold, each twitch and shiver brought back a remembrance he didn’t want. Too many horrible memories of his time at the Guild, and prominent among them himself, broken and begging and offering anything, everything.
“I want to go back,” he heard himself whisper, and he was appalled that he wasn’t quite sure if he meant back to the Mother, where some things hurt but in a different way, or to the Guild, where they’d give him what he loathed and needed.
“I don’t need it,” he said through his teeth, clenched tight to keep them from chattering. Wil hated this part the worst—how everything in his head just spilled out his mouth. And fuck, he didn’t want Dallin to see him like this, but Dallin wouldn’t look away, it wasn’t the sort of person Dallin was, and that just made it… rather awful, really.
“I don’t need it.” Wil said it again as if he were trying to convince himself, and Dallin would know that. No point in trying to make it sound better, because it wouldn’t disguise the fact that Wil wanted it. Before, forever ago, when Calder had shoved a second dose down his throat, Wil had fought it, mindlessly defiant. Now all he wanted was more. He clutched tight to the damp wad of linen in his fist. “Dallin—”
“I know,” Dallin told him calmly.
“No, I don’t think you do.”
Dallin didn’t answer that one. “I can’t touch the leaf,” he said instead. “I already tried, but maybe—?”
“Yes.”
It didn’t even matter what Dallin might be offering; it had to be better than this. Wil tried to stay still as a shudder racked him up and down, but pain exploded through his chest and shoulder again, and he couldn’t help the flinch, which only made things worse.
“Fuck, yes, anything, just… now.”
“Perhaps some valerian, Brayden?” another voice asked softly.
Wil jolted—a very bad idea—but he managed to tilt his head back and turn it.
“Oh fucking hell.”
He hadn’t realized he had an audience. At least a score of people stood in a loose picket above him—two in the blue and brown, which meant Corliss was here, witnessing, looking—all of them staring, some shifting nervously, and it wasn’t at all difficult to imagine what they were seeing, what they were thinking. At least everything was still blurry, so Wil didn’t have to see their expressions.
Slowly Wil turned away. He didn’t care what it looked like this time, just shoved his face into Dallin’s shirt.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re here,” Dallin told him, quietly and just for Wil, “in Fæðme, and you….” He dipped his mouth close to Wil’s ear. “You are the Heart of the World.”
It should have been humbling, heavy. All Wil could do was snort tiredly and sag a bit more against Dallin’s chest.
“Then why do I feel like the arse-end of it?”
Dallin started rapping out orders to… someone else. “Get me a waterskin, and if anyone’s got a dry coat or something he can use to keep warm, hand it over, please, he’s freezing.” Dallin shifted and, by the feel of it, looked over his shoulder. “Not valerian—it’s too strong, and he doesn’t like to lose his wits.”
Do I have any of those left to lose? Wil wondered bleakly.
“There are other ways to overcome such things,” another voice said—it sounded like Thorne. Which probably meant that at least half of those standing over Wil, watching him shudder and twitch, were the Old Ones. Brilliant.
Damn it, if he’d been “reborn” as the Heart of the World, why did it still take only a dose or two of leaf to turn him into nothing more than a pathetic addict all over again?
Her with Her links and Her cages—surely this cage was all too real, and no help at all in what She wanted from Wil. More tests, perhaps, but Wil couldn’t quite believe that, not when so much was on the line. Healing his soul, soothing his conscience, reconciling him to his own nature—so why hadn’t She healed this?
“It can’t be withdrawal,” Dallin was saying. “It’s not been long enough for that, and he’s not been dependent for years.”
Oh, and Wil wanted to believe that more than anything.
“There is more to addiction than the body’s needs,” someone else put in, though Wil didn’t recognize this voice right off. “The mind can do many—”
“And assumptions can do many more,” Dallin cut in. “He’s fevered and shaking, which I expect has more to do with the fact that he’s been outside since last night and exposed to freezing rain all morning. It’s more likely a simple case of the ague. The man’s been shot and thrown from a horse, for pity’s sake. Let’s take care of the things we know are real before we start worrying about things that may not be.”
Huh. Wil frowned. He’d been assuming right along with them, but now that he really examined the aches and injuries… maybe Dallin was right. Wil wanted more leaf, he couldn’t deny it—always with him, that want, singing in a low hum he usually managed to keep buried in some little pocket of his subconscious he never let himself look at—and stronger now, he couldn’t deny that either. If one of these people made an offer, Wil would very likely take it and thank them for it. But the need wasn’t burning at him, wasn’t gnawing away his sanity, wasn’t making him twist and beg and offer his soul for one more sip. No uncontrollable giggling, and his thoughts weren’t spilling out his head like messy confessions. His guts weren’t cramping, and his mind, though fuzzy and somewhat sluggish at the moment, was his own.
And more—Dallin believed it. If She was bound by Wil’s beliefs… was he bound by Dallin’s? Tethered by the faith of one who believed everything good about him. Wil could do a lot worse.
“He makes a good point.” That one had to be Marden—the thick baritone was unmistakable. “Perhaps Singréne would do best here.”
“Mm,” Dallin grunted. “I can very well—”
“If it’s what you think it is, Singréne’s songs of healing are best,” Thorne said, soft but with a tinge of severity that almost made Wil snort. “Shaman”—quieter now, asking—“your magic is great, but your skills are rough, unpracticed. We all want what’s best, and the best for this is Singréne. Lend him your magic and let him guide you.”
There was a pause. Wil could almost see the thoughtful frown he knew had to be creasing Dallin’s brow.
“The leaf makes him vulnerable,” Dallin finally said, soft but direct. “He won’t be—”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Wil muttered. Which was a little stupid, since he was currently doing his very best to hide and pretend he wasn’t. Which was a lot stupid. Because he could cower here like the pathetic leaf freak they seemed to think he was and let them debate for another hour, or he could grow some stones and act like he’d just stood before the Mother and accepted all the power She chose to give him. Either way, what they thought of Wil was his own to guide, and it was going to matter soon.
He pushed himself up from the damp warmth of Dallin’s chest but couldn’t help the wince and hiss as pain shot out from his shoulder, wound through his ribs, and momentarily took his breath. Dallin held on to him, but only to steady him.
Wil managed a weak smile in thanks and ran his fingertips just below the new Mark, careful not to touch. “I’d almost forgotten. I expect it’s official now.”
Corliss handed Dallin a waterskin over his shoulder. Dallin nodded his thanks and passed the skin to Wil.
“Official. Sure.” Dallin’s return smile was tired. “For what it’s worth.”
“Everything, of course.” Wil took a long drink, craning his neck to squint up at… everyone.
Everything.
He was here, in Fæðme, the Cliabhán, and it was nothing at all what Wil had feared it would be. Then again, nothing about this had ever proven even close to his fears, so he wasn’t terribly surprised.
Water flowed past just to his right, the very mouth of the river, catching the lamps and torches and sparking bright gold-emerald. Something about it warmed the chill that had settled in Wil’s bones.
Flównysse. Mother’s Blood.
Maybe it was as simple as that.
He let his gaze wander over the various faces—some he knew, some he didn’t—and stopped at Singréne. He nodded.
“If you can help, I’d appreciate it if you would.” He caught Dallin’s look of worry, so he offered another smile and dipped in close. “You can’t do everything yourself. You have to start trusting them sometime. If they had any corrupt intent, you’d know it. You knew all along with Calder.” Wil flushed lightly and looked down. “Dallin… I’m sorry about—”
“Don’t.” Dallin shook his head. “Just… don’t.”
He really meant it. Not just I don’t want to talk about it, but I don’t blame you. Let it go.
Wil nodded. “All right. You’re right—I won’t. Only don’t let him get in the way of what we have to do here. We need them, or we will. Right now I need them.” He tried to flex and fist his right hand, couldn’t quite make it, and brought his left up to rest lightly over the wound on his shoulder. A light shudder swept him, and he winced. “If it’s the ague, and I sneeze, I think it might kill me.” And naturally, since he’d gone and said it, Wil’s nose started to tingle and itch. He dared a sniffle and wiped his filthy sleeve across it.
“Here,” Corliss piped up, behind Wil now, crouching just at his left shoulder. He caught a bit of worry in her eyes as well, so gave her a smile and let her carefully angle his arm out of his wet coat. “This is Léaf’s.” She nodded at the shirt draped over her knee. “It’ll be big on you. He’s gone up to fetch another from his saddlebags. Andette’s donated her coat. For pity’s sake, Brayden, get out of the way, can’t you?”
Wil might’ve snorted at the way Dallin immediately and unquestioningly did as Corliss said, but even the small amount of shifting set the pain humming.
“Here, lad.” Corliss tugged at the sleeve of Wil’s wet coat. “Lift your arm if you can.”
Wil tried, but—fucking ow. “I don’t think I can.”
Corliss and Dallin were both being exquisitely gentle—Dallin trying to drag his legs out from under Wil’s and get out of the way without too much jostling, and Corliss trying to remove the coat with as little movement as possible—but there was apparently no way around the fact that every slight shuffle made the pain flare out and remind Wil that… bloody damn.
Wil blinked, near-disbelief.
He’d been shot. He’d actually been shot.
“I was shot.”
“And thrown from a horse,” Dallin reminded him grimly as he finally extracted himself and stood. “And… other things. Don’t put the shirt on yet, Corliss, I’ll want to check the bandage.”
He watched Corliss work for a moment, watched Wil try not to flinch every time he moved, then sighed and turned his attention to Singréne. A low conversation between the two ensued above Wil’s head, during which Wil hoped threats were not exchanged.
Corliss’s mouth pinched as she dropped Wil’s soggy coat and began working the shirt off his left arm. She stopped, thoughtful, then shook her head.
“No point in making it worse.”
She slipped a long knife from her belt and proceeded to cut the shirt, careful to draw the knife down and away from Wil’s chest. Too bad. That shirt was nice and soft, almost as green as the cavern, and he didn’t even know who’d given it to him. Corliss shot a quick look up at Wil, strangely pointed, then turned her glance up and over Wil’s shoulder.
“Andette, come give me a hand, won’t you?”
Wil didn’t turn around—it hurt too much to move, and the process of just getting the coat and shirt off was almost more than he could take. His head was throbbing, his gut was beginning to curl in on itself, and his nose was starting to clog and itch maddeningly. And more than anything else in the world right now, he desperately did not want to sneeze. Or cough. Or even breathe, really, but he hardly had a choice in that one. He waited until Andette crouched down to his eye level, then raised his gaze to meet hers, a polite smile at the ready.
He ended up frowning instead.
Andette was subdued and pale. Her mark had gone stark and vivid over her wan complexion, and her long braid was now a short stump at the back of her neck. She kept her eyes on her hands as she fumbled at Wil’s sleeve, fingers very carefully not touching him, head bowed.
Wil didn’t mean to blurt “What happened to your hair?” but it just kind of… fell out.
Andette’s jaw worked for a moment, and her eyes welled at the corners. “It will be buried with Barret Calder’s body.” It was short and clipped. “So that his ghost may remember who he was and what he’s done.”
“Barret Calder” and not “my uncle.” This was not at all the girl who’d greeted Wil so happily and sincerely on the path down to the Weardas’ camp just yesterday. From the tight look of… shame—he was sure it was shame—Wil wouldn’t have been surprised if Andette had smeared her face with ash.
He turned his frown up at Corliss. Corliss dropped a slight shrug and waved her hand in a gesture Wil was fairly certain translated into It’s up to you.
He was tempted to ask her exactly what was up to him, but… he was pretty sure he knew. He waited until Andette gently pulled the sleeve of his tunic free, then reached out with his good hand as she made to pull away and stopped her.
“Andette, I… I’m sorry about your uncle.”
Andette flinched. She tried to cover it with a quick shake of her head, but she still wouldn’t look at Wil.
“Contrition is mine.” Her voice was shaky and small. She looked squarely at the bandage wrapped around Wil’s chest and shoulder, then at the colorful bruising that was blooming out from beneath it. “That he would dare—” Andette bit her lip and looked away.
“It was your arrow,” Wil said quietly. “Wasn’t it?” His fingers tightened automatically on Andette’s arm as she nodded.
Wil only half remembered it, and what he did remember slipped from reality to dream, so he couldn’t be entirely sure of exactly what had happened. But he remembered the blood on the arrow, on his hand, scarlet drops on white fletching, and he remembered placing the gruesome thing over Andette’s palms like some sort of trophy.
Perhaps that hadn’t been the smartest thing he’d ever done.
Andette lifted her head, chin set, but she still wouldn’t meet Wil’s gaze. “It was my right.”
Wil looked over at Corliss for help, but her face remained impassive. Wil shot her back a look that was definitely not.
What was he supposed to say to this girl? Andette had spilled the blood of her kin in Wil’s defense. Did that make this his responsibility? Was Calder’s blood just as much on Wil’s hands as Andette’s? Was Wil expected to mourn the man or absolve his executioner? Wil didn’t know the traditions here—he had no idea how to even begin to soothe Andette’s conscience, or if it was even his place to try.
“I’m sorry” was all he could say.
By the way Andette flinched again and gasped, bowed her head, and quickly jerked herself up and away, Wil guessed it was the wrong sentiment to offer. He stared after her as she slipped around the Old Ones before he turned back to Corliss, nonplussed.
Corliss merely shrugged and draped the thick coat carefully over Wil’s bare shoulders. It was still warm from Andette’s heat, and Wil couldn’t help the slight shiver. He also couldn’t help the scowl he arrowed at Corliss.
“Was that really necessary?”
“Yes.” Corliss nodded and patted Wil’s good shoulder through the coat. “I think it was.”
He didn’t have an opportunity to pursue it, which was just as well, since he wasn’t even sure he wanted to. Instead he turned his glance gratefully—for more than one reason—to Dallin and Singréne as they broke away from the others and sat to either side of Wil. Finally. Leaf or no, he hurt everywhere, and the need for relief was becoming more necessary than any need for leaf, whether it was ingrained habit and expectation, addiction to the craving in his own mind, or blunt reality. Wil didn’t even think he cared which anymore.
Except they’d only just settled in and got themselves as comfortable as possible on the cold stone, when they both started and exchanged alarmed glances. A hush fell over the others, and every weapon in the room came up followed by the grinding, metallic slide of bolts cocking and the thin whisper of arrows being drawn from quivers, bowstrings tightening.
Wil tensed too, though he had no idea why until a tight few seconds passed and he heard the sound of quick, light footfalls approaching. Fuck, he’d forgotten where he was for a few minutes there, forgotten why he was here. Now it all rushed back at him, all the fear, all the… everything.
Anxiety wasted, it seemed, at least for the moment—Dallin and Singréne both relaxed for reasons Wil couldn’t share until Dallin gave Wil a small smile, then turned and addressed the others.
“It’s only Léaf.”
Who? Wil almost asked, but then he remembered the shirt Corliss hadn’t handed over yet.
Dallin blew out a long breath and shook his head ruefully.
“He wouldn’t be coming from that way, anyway. Gave myself a start for nothing.”
He jerked his chin over Singréne’s shoulder. Wil followed Dallin’s gaze to the darkness on the far side of the chamber, the opposite side to where Léaf was now emerging, red-faced and breathing hard, eyes scudding over the others before landing squarely on Dallin. Dallin saw him but merely indicated the other side of the cavern again and went on with what he’d been saying.
“He’ll be coming from those tunnels over there.”