Chapter Thirty-One
The Jenn
THE DREAM ENDED, and then there was only darkness. Terrible darkness, so horribly, bitterly cold. And pain. Traver ached all over, but the worst of the agony was centered in his hands. He couldn’t stop shivering. He knew he was hot enough to be sweating, but for some reason all he could do was lie there racked with violent chills that chattered his teeth and rattled his body to the very bones. If only he could stop the shaking. It had awakened him from his dream.
He remembered the dream. He wanted desperately to go back there, become a part of that dream again. The dream was important, more important than any reality he could ever know. He had to see them again, to tell them, to warn them—
“Ellen.”
He felt a touch on his face, warm and comforting.
“You must love this Ellen very much.”
I do, he wanted to say, but the words failed him.
When he awoke again, the chills were gone, but the pain in his hands was even worse. Especially his left hand. Traver tried to open his eyes, but all he could see was darkness. He wanted to get a look at his hands, to find out what was wrong with them. His fingers throbbed, sending terrible shooting pains lancing up his arms all the way to his shoulders. He tried to wiggle his fingers just to make sure they still worked, but the resulting agony was excruciating. He gave up with a moan.
Gradually, it was coming back to him. The dream, the pass. Corban Henley. He remembered falling asleep. At least, he thought he did. And he had been right; it hadn’t really been so bad. It was waking up that was terrible.
And it was still so very dark. He felt a sudden, cold draft of air that made him shiver again. Dimly, he realized that he was covered in soft blankets, his body naked beneath them. Someone had shifted the blankets, pulling them up closer around his face. It felt better, warmer. But he was confused; who was tending him? And why was it so dark?
He made an effort to sit up. It wasn’t much of one; he’d tried to use his hands to push himself up. He realized immediately what an awful mistake that had been.
“Don’t move,” a female voice admonished him from the darkness.
Traver had no problem complying. He lay back, clenching his teeth as he waited for the stabbing pain in his hands to fade back to a dull, throbbing ache.
“Drink,” the voice directed him, and he felt a cup pressed up against his lips. The water was cold, and it tasted wonderful. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d been. He gulped it down, not caring that he wasn’t getting all of it in his mouth. He felt the water running down his chin, dribbling down his neck. When the woman took the cup away, he felt disappointed.
“That’s enough, for now,” said her calm, easy voice.
“Who are you?” Traver wondered, wishing there was light enough to see the woman’s face.
“My name is Kayna.”
“Where am I?” he whispered.
The voice hesitated before responding, “You are in the tent of my husband.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. Especially since he was naked beneath the blankets. That’s all he needed, some woman’s husband coming back enraged at finding a naked man in his bed. Wouldn’t that just be his luck; he could scarcely defend himself the way he was. It occurred to him to wonder that maybe the woman’s husband was responsible for saving his life. Someone had dragged him out from under the carcass of the dead horse. But who were these people, and what were they doing in the pass?
“Where’s Henley?” he wondered, suddenly remembering the red-bearded Valeman.
“I don’t know who that is. You are the only one we found alive on the killing ground.”
Her words brought an instant pang of remorse. Traver had begun to think of the man as a friend. It wasn’t fair; Henley was one of the best men they had. If it was between the two of them, then Henley should have been the one to survive, not him. But he remembered the Valeman’s wet, gurgling cough. It had probably been that cough that had killed him, just as much as the cold.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he heard the woman say, her tone soft and reassuring.
Traver was startled to find that he had tears in his eyes. He hadn’t even realized how much he had come to rely on Henley’s gruff companionship until after the man was gone. He almost felt like he had lost a brother, or even a father. He’d never had many friends; not true friends, not really. It was hard to find good friends when no one respected you. In Coventry, he’d always treated life as a game. But the front had changed him. The pass had made him realize that he had wasted his entire life doing nothing but selfishly squandering his blessings. It had taken an arrow in his shoulder to make him understand that he had been neglecting the very things in life that were most important, the only things that really mattered. Corban Henley had helped show him, too. Traver found himself wondering what kind of dreams the Valeman was having, and hoped that they were good ones.
“You’re lucky we even found you,” the woman’s voice drifted toward him through the darkness.
“What were you doing in the pass?” he wondered faintly.
“One of our herds strayed away a few nights back. We followed their tracks up into the Mountains of Shadow. When we found them, the beasts were already slain and slaughtered. But my husband found you, instead.”
“I suppose I owe him one,” Traver muttered halfheartedly.
“You owe him your life,” the woman assured him. “When he found you, you were almost frozen to death. The vultures had already been at your meat.”
The thought was repulsive. He remembered the bird now, the one that had mistaken him for a piece of carrion. Traver supposed he couldn’t blame it; he had told the thing to come back later, after all. But nevertheless, he felt a growing feeling of queasiness as he thought about the bird’s sharp beak, weighing the image of it against the almost intolerable pain in his hands.
“Am I whole?” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure he even wanted to know the answer.
There was a long pause. “Nearly,” the woman’s voice admitted at last. “The frost and the birds got to your hands. We had to cut off two of your fingers.”
“No,” Traver sobbed, shaking his head. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t have a chance of gripping a hilt with two fingers missing. In the space between horror and grief, he felt his anger rising. “You had no right!” he raged at her. “I need my fingers, damn you!”
“Well, they’re gone, so get used to it. Just be grateful for the eight you still have left.”
Traver glared up at her in the darkness, wishing desperately that he could see her face.
He had gone back to sleep after that. It was not a very peaceful sleep; his hands ached terribly, and the pain kept waking him. Not only that, but he was starting to feel a bit feverish, and once he awakened chilled and drenched in sweat. He couldn’t understand why his fingers hurt so awfully much. They were gone, weren’t they? So why did it feel as if they were still there? It made no sense.
It was morning now, at least, and when he opened his eyes he could see dim light coming in through a smoke hole in the roof. Kayna was gone, it seemed. Looking around, Traver tried to figure out his bizarre circumstances. When the woman had mentioned they were in a tent, he had taken her to mean some type of portable shelter. But this tent had the look of something more permanent. It was large, framed with wood stakes and covered with some type of opaque, tanned leather. Designs had been painted on the walls and over the flap that served as the door. There was a firepit in the center of the room, and the floor was covered in skins mounded into pallets. The tent even had its own peculiar smell, like a strange blend of spices mixed with smoke.
He thought about trying to sit up, but the idea was still daunting. He felt better today, at least; not quite so weak. His hands still hurt something wicked, but the texture of the pain was different, more of a stinging sensation and less of that dull, throbbing ache. Traver wanted to get a look at his hands, to find out exactly which fingers he was
missing. Hesitantly, he pulled his right hand out of the blankets and held it up to look at it.
His whole hand was wrapped in strips of animal skin that had been soaked in water and then dried on stiff. The way the bandages were arranged, he had no idea what kind of damage was concealed beneath them. His left hand was just the same, completely swathed. It was hard to tell, but he thought his left hand looked smaller than his right. He hoped he still had all of the fingers on his right hand; that’s the one that was important.
Just then, the flap of the tent parted open, and a strange-looking man stepped in. Traver felt a little embarrassed to be caught lying there with his bandaged hands sticking up in front of his face. He dropped them quickly down to his sides, then winced from the flaring pain. It hadn’t been the smartest thing to do.
The man moved across the space toward him, kneeling down by his side. The fellow looked peculiar, garbed all in furs and tanned leather skins. He had long black hair that was greasy as sin, and a beard that looked to have soaked up every drip of fat from his breakfast. And he smelled. Traver grimaced unintentionally, almost wishing that it was his nose that they’d amputated. The stranger fairly reeked of horse.
Without speaking a word, the man snatched up Traver’s left hand and started peeling off strips of bandage. Traver closed his eyes, afraid to see what was under those hardened leather strips. With a crack, the entire casing fell away, and Traver found himself staring up at his naked, ruined hand.
It was worse than he’d thought, which was good.
The last two fingers of his left hand were gone; only swollen, bloody tissue remained in their place. Traver just gaped at the ghastly wound, unable to believe his good luck. He still had his thumb and his first two fingers, which were the three best fingers to have. And since the two missing fingers had come from his left hand, that meant his right hand must be whole, which was his main concern. But then he frowned, wondering why, then, did his other hand hurt so badly?
He soon found out. When the man cracked the casing off from around it, what Traver saw shocked him. Something—probably the damned bird—had been feasting on his right hand. The palm had been opened up and gored out, right down to the bone and sinew. The fleshy flap between his thumb and index finger was gone, eaten clean away.
Traver couldn’t stand it. He had to turn and look away. He felt absolutely ill, his stomach twisting. He felt like he was going to be sick.
“The wounds are healing nicely,” he heard the man say.
It sounded like a sick jest. His left hand was destroyed and his right hand was probably just as useless. Wanting to scream in frustration, Traver growled, “You had no right to cut off my fingers.”
“Your fingers were already dead,” the man told him patiently. “If I had left them on, the rest of you would be joining them.”
It was small comfort. What was he going to do without the use of his hands? Ellen would hardly take him back as a cripple, after everything he’d already put her through. And he couldn’t think of any craft that didn’t depend on the use of at least one good hand. Maybe it would have been better if he had died under that horse.
“My name is Ranoch.”
Traver looked morosely up at him. The man had a kind, sincere face beneath the filth of his scraggly beard. In a way, Ranoch reminded him a little of Corban Henley.
“Traver Larsen.”
Looking around the tent, Traver couldn’t help wondering what kind of people he had fallen in with. They were obviously nomads of some type, and from the looks of the skins they were probably herdsmen, as well. Only, he couldn’t figure out what kind of skins made up the walls of the tent. Staring at the fur on Ranoch’s heavy winter robe, he thought it looked familiar, but he just couldn’t place it. The fur was a rich dark brown. He did recognize the long strands of hair that embellished the robe along the seam of the shoulder as horsehair. It made him stare harder at the short brown fur of the robe itself, wondering.
He couldn’t resist asking, “You people are horse herders?”
Ranoch nodded, looking proud. “We are the Jenn.”
The man reached down by his side and produced a plain earthenware cup, which he proffered in both hands. Traver stared up at the cup suspiciously, wondering at the steam that was rising from it.
“What is it?”
“Hot mare’s milk,” Ranoch informed him solemnly.
“That’s revolting,” Traver grimaced, trying to turn his face away as the herdsman lifted it to his lips.
“Drink it. You need the strength.”
Holding his breath, Traver opened his mouth. The milk was heavily spiced, and much stronger than cow’s milk. The fatty texture made him want to gag. Swallowing, he muttered bravely, “Not bad. It would do better with a chaser, though.”
Ranoch chuckled, tilting the cup again as Traver tried not spit the foul liquid right back in his face. The second gulp went down even worse than the first one had. But the herdsman was insistent, and made Traver drink the whole cup before putting it down.
“A crier came through our camp over a week ago,” Ranoch said, leaning forward on his knees. “All men were asked to bring their bows and offer Horseright to the Callas Greathe. It is said that the Dakura are invading the plains. I was wondering if you knew anything about it, since you’ve fought them.”
Traver stared at him blankly, hardly understanding a word. Slowly, he asked, “You mean the Enemy?”
Ranoch nodded. Grimacing, Traver struggled to sit up, using his elbows to shimmy himself forward. Ranoch caught him by the shoulders, easing him up the rest of the way. Traver felt suddenly feint, his body trembling with the effort of sitting. But it was a small victory, one he was proud of. He was going to have to get used to small victories.
“We’ve been trying our best to slow them down,” he told the herdsman. “The keep’s fallen. There’s just too many.”
“Greystone Keep is lost?” Ranoch demanded, looking stunned. When Traver just nodded, the herdsman breathed a heavy sigh and shook his head sadly.
“How did you know they were coming?” Traver wanted to know. It didn’t make sense; Proctor and the rest might be down from the pass by now, but that still didn’t leave enough time for word of their arrival to circulate around the plains.
Ranoch rubbed his eyes wearily. “I told you. A crier came to our camp.”
“How did he know?”
The man shrugged. “There are only two ways the cry can be taken up. It can come from the Tiborah, the spiritual leader of our people. Or a Sentinel might raise the cry, but that would indeed be rare.”
Traver’s eyes widened in instant understanding. “Lauchlin.”
“What?” the herdsman was staring at him in confusion.
“He’s a Sentinel I know,” Traver explained.
“You know a Sentinel?” Ranoch exclaimed, looking astounded.
“Aye, I do.”
The herdsman shook his head, a look of newfound respect in his eyes. “I offer you my tent, my food, and my protection for as long as you wish,” he said solemnly. “After you heal, if the Dakura have not yet blighted the plains, I would be honored to offer you Horseright, should that be your wish.”
Traver blinked up at the man, thoroughly confused and feeling awkward as hell. “Sounds great,” he muttered.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chains
HIS GUESTROOM AT Emmery Palace was the most luxurious that Kyel had ever seen. It was more than just a guestroom; it was an entire suite. The sitting area had a warm fire already stoked in the fireplace with three plush chairs gathered around it in an intimate setting. There was also a tiled washroom with a large marble bathing tub. The bedchamber itself was draped in silk with a canopy of gauze spreading down from the ceiling and gathered around all four posters of the bed, which was almost scandalously large. And the view from the windows was spectacular, looking out over the sprawling, immaculate gardens below. In a corner of the grounds, almost to the palace wall, he could see a large maze
formed out of tall, pruned hedges. The maze intrigued him, and he almost wished he could go down and wander through it, but the marble bath was even more tempting.
It didn’t take him long to discover a rope pull by the door that summoned a liveried servant. The boy arrived with a sharp knock at the door and listened to Kyel’s request for warm water with a bewildered expression on his face. But it was Kyel’s turn to be confused when the boy strode forward into the room instead of going to fetch a bucket. Perplexed, Kyel followed him to the washroom, where he watched as the boy leaned over the tub and threw a valve. A gush of water came out of a pipe that he hadn’t even noticed, spilling out of the wall and into the tub. Amazed, Kyel put his fingers in the stream of water and was surprised to discover it already warm.
“How?” he gasped, thoroughly shocked.
“The water comes from hot springs under the palace,” the boy informed him with a shy downcast to his eyes. “Don’t drink the warm water; it tastes sort of funny. But the cold water comes from the river, and it’s good to drink.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Kyel said wonderingly.
The boy smiled, pleased, and went to fetch towels down from a shelf. When he was gone, Kyel found himself neck-deep in the most soothing and enjoyable bath he had ever experienced in his life. He lay back with his head against the sloping back of the tub and scooted down until the water came up to his chin. Then he just closed his eyes and relaxed.
He lay there until the water grew cold, then he let some out and drew more fresh. Finding a brush, he scrubbed his body until he felt sure he had most of the grime off of it. When he was done, he climbed regretfully out of the tub, wishing he could just stay there forever. He dried off and shaved, then ran a comb through his wet hair. After that, he crawled into bed and piled the soft pillows up behind his head, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
It was wonderful to relax. He lay in that giant bed with its fluffy goosedown pillows for over an hour, until he finally started getting bored. Then he dug into his cloak pocket, bringing out Treatise on the Well and settled back into bed with it. It was the first chance he’d had to open the book since leaving Glen Farquist. He skimmed the first chapter, which was just another background on the creation of the Well like the one he had already read in another text down in Om’s vaults. It wasn’t until he got to the third chapter that he finally found something interesting. Spread out across two pages was a diagram of the Well, drawn painstakingly in ink. The diagram showed the Well from two different perspectives. Kyel raised the book up, flexing the spine back carefully as he studied the drawings. The Well of Tears looked just like any other well he had ever seen, with the singular exception of the odd, malevolent-looking markings that encircled its rim. Turning the page, he saw the same markings expressed in a series, some circled and numbered. Unfortunately, there was no explanation as to what the numbers could mean.
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