by Lou Hoffmann
But he couldn’t do it. His leg throbbed, his fever burned, his stomach churned, and whatever they’d done to the damned tea had him fuzzy and floating. Once again, his wound was open and fitted with a tube to drain, and this time he’d had to let them give him the debilitating herb, because gritting his teeth hadn’t helped with the pain, and because….
“Stop being such a bloody fool,” Tahlina had said. “We can kill this infection, but if you refuse to give your body rest and care, the infection will kill your leg—or kill you!”
Thoroughly medicated, Han had been sleeping, though against his will, when Tiro came in. Now he had to rivet his mind on the problem and force his eyes open with iron determination just to stay awake. He couldn’t help anyone except maybe himself, and—he conceded the healers were likely right—he could only do that by not fighting the need to sleep.
Tiro couldn’t stay with Luccan; that was as obvious to Han as it was to Tiro himself. A bout of nausea and exhaustion might signal nothing much at all for an average person, but in Tiro’s case it was a fundamental change. And Han could see Tiro growing paler and weaker before his eyes.
Tiro worked his mouth as if searching for saliva, then swallowed noisily. Still, when he spoke his voice sounded dry and rough. “I will return to my natural form, Han Shieth,” he said, and took a deep, ragged breath before continuing. “It might help me shake free from this wrongness, but if not, at least I will be stronger and better able to care for myself. I will try to remain nearby the Hold until the wizard returns, but if I do not become stronger—or if the waiting is too long—I will return to my home under the stream to rest.”
“Tiro,” Han said, his own voice scarily weak, his words slurred. “I wish I could help you, like you helped me when I was on the ice. I…. This leg…. Don’t know where that da… uh, wizard is, so I’ll say it for him. Go with Behlishan’s light.” He stopped to breathe but touched Tiro’s arm to convey he wasn’t finished. When he could, he asked, “What about L’Aria?”
Tiro was holding a hand over his stomach now, and he breathed deep, nodded to Han as if to show he was preparing to answer. After a moment, he said, “I’ve instructed her to keep distance from Luccan, and I believe the way his condition affected her—and me—has her sufficiently frightened. She will obey—even after I’ve left.”
Tiro smiled as he spoke the last few words—weakly, but enough to trigger a similar smile from Han.
Han chuckled softly, “We both know L’Aria following instructions is quite an event in itself. I’ve never known anyone who can get in so much trouble, yet come out smelling like roses.”
“Yes,” Tiro agreed, brows raised. “She’s quite mischievous, it’s true—a trait I believe she inherited from her mother. On the other hand, she’s smart enough to escape unscathed most of the time. I have contemplated that, but never found the source of her quick and slippery ways.”
Tiro’s smile was nearly nonexistent, and he managed very little power behind his words. Still, his rare, subtle humor came through, as did his boundless love for his only child. Both served to lighten Han’s heart and ease his malaise a little, and he felt grateful for it and glad. It signaled to Han that, as dark as the hour may seem, Tiro did not see it as doom—and Tiro was a man to be believed.
Tiro laid his hand on Han’s and gave a light squeeze, seemingly to share the lighter moment, but then he sobered. “Rosishan will, as always, take care of L’Aria, and I’ve made arrangements for Luccan to be well cared for and guarded. Zhevi will stay with him much of the time, and—”
“Zhevi is recovered from what happened to him on the mountain, then?”
“Quite. Seems a few days in a boat with L’Aria worked wonders for him.”
Tiro raised his eyebrows and tightened his mouth in a disapproving look, but Han could tell it was for show. Apparently Tiro hadn’t ruled Zhevi out of his daughter’s future, which said a lot for the young man.
Tiro continued. “As far as Luccan’s care, Shehrice will certainly mother him. Lem and Rose are both aware and will check in. And, of course, the healers have pledged to be vigilant….”
Han sensed that Tiro had left something unsaid, which wasn’t like him. After fretting a moment, Han prompted, “What?”
“I hesitate only because I know this will trouble you at a time when it’s so important for you to focus on your own health. But honesty bids me tell, and so I will. It seems the healers have no idea what malady is affecting Luccan, and no idea what to do for it. They mentioned calling in some wizards.”
“Oh,” Han said, and then stopped. What could he say that would make a difference? Tiro certainly knew the situation was worrisome, and he more than likely shared Han’s concern about having wizards involved who were neither Thurlock nor one of the select few Thurlock would have trusted with Luccan’s health. Tiro had been thorough in setting things up, and Han was as satisfied as he could be that the plan was solid for Luccan’s care and safety. He would be able to rest, he thought, except he’d have to do something right away about that one thing.
Tiro stood, making ready to leave, though Han noticed he seemed to have trouble standing fully erect. Clearly he was still unwell.
“I’ll leave you to rest, Han Shieth, and be on my way so I can do the same.”
“Yes, but one favor, please, if it won’t be too much of a burden? If you would hand me a paper and quill from the drawer under the table, there, I’d like you to deliver a message to Tahlina, or to Tennehk if she’s not around.”
Without speaking, Tiro fetched the paper and quill, then waited patiently while Han wrote a note. As tired as he was, it was a struggle to organize his thoughts and put them on paper, but in the end, he mentally patted himself on the back for making it official, logical, and legible.
To All Concerned:
In Thurlock’s absence, I must exercise my right to make decisions related to medical care for Luccan Elieth Perdhro, Suth Chiell. While all medical remedies are to be employed as per the best judgment of senior healers, no wizards shall be consulted, nor should they be allowed access to the patient, without my direct approval. I take full responsibility for this restriction and any consequences.
Comm. Han Rha-Behl Ah’Shieth, W.L.H.
“Thank you, Tiro, for everything,” he said as he folded the note twice and handed it to him. “Please, take care. Be well.”
With great relief at no longer fighting his drooping eyelids, he allowed them to close. The sooner I sleep these damned herbs off, he thought, the sooner I can truly wake up. But he didn’t let sleep tow him under until he’d firmly resolved that as soon as he could, he’d go see Luccan. It seemed to him that whatever was going on with his nephew, it wasn’t simply the result of having been attacked physically. Such an assault could do awful damage, but it didn’t make your body and the air around it cold and stinking, and it didn’t make people like Tiro L’Rieve sick. Something bad, something evil, had a grip on Luccan’s mind. Han had some deep talents when it came to navigating the mental landscape. He rarely used them to their full extent—it wasn’t right to do things to the minds of others. But he could do it, and this situation clearly called for drastic measures.
As soon as he was able, he would go to Luccan and do everything he could to find the problem and fix it—using those forbidden talents.
If I still have them!
The thought came unbidden and startled him almost to wakefulness. In that moment he realized his talent had been restored. On some level he’d known that was true. Lucky had told him Ciarrah’s work to fix his head wound had removed whatever temporary block Nahk’tesh had placed in his mind.
So why haven’t I been able to use mental communication as I did before?
Because… the quiet makes life easier, he answered, and I wanted it to stay.
Even now, he wasn’t sure he wanted to embrace all his talent and all the responsibility that came with it. He might even mourn the loss of peace and privacy. But he refused to dwell on regrets, inst
ead repeating a promise to himself.
Luccan needs me, and I’ll help him. I will. He’s trapped in his own mind, I think. I’ll have to pull him out.
Still, even at their best, his talents weren’t foolproof.
What if, instead, I get trapped in the darkness with him?
Chapter Seven: The Condor’s Shield
THURLOCK’S FEET hurt. As did his back, neck, knees, and hips. He didn’t know what a person over ten centuries old really should feel like, but at present he felt like the average person might at, say, a century and a half. In other words, bad. He’d been able to grab what Han liked to call a “wizard’s forty winks”—a quick, magic-assisted nap—while Henry had been away on his reconnaissance flight earlier, but since then, they’d been walking over a narrow, root-filled, muddy track through rough-barked trees and the occasional thicket of pretty-but-thorny shadeberries. Food hadn’t been a problem—it had only been a couple of hours, and anyway nourishment rarely posed a difficulty for a wizard with his skills—but after they’d taken a brief stop to rest and eat, his full belly only seemed to make it harder to keep putting one of his very large and annoyingly heavy feet in front of the other. Only a request to Behlishan for a little supportive magic had kept him going at all.
He raised tired eyes to look around and found they’d entered a clearing bounded on three sides by a mix of myrtle and ancient sehldar, their mingled, tangy-sweet scents singularly refreshing. In the center of the clearing, a half sphere of stone stood solitary surrounded by a pool of the clear water that bubbled out from a crack in the rock. Lemon and Maizie bounded over to it, even the grumpy revenant cat seeming overjoyed. Thurlock stopped and relaxed into the moment with a deep breath, deeply relieved.
It wasn’t that they’d been thirsty—Thurlock could summon drinking water as easily as food. This place offered a gift, a cool, green beauty that would soothe even the sorest tired eyes, and the gentle music of the spring water dropping into the pool fell easy on one’s ears. Sacred was the word that came instantly to Thurlock’s mind. Yet the wonder of the clearing’s beauty wasn’t the source of his relief.
For the first time since they’d arrived in Ethra, he knew exactly where they were, and it was exactly where they needed to be.
“Behl eth Dahn,” he said, giving voice to heartfelt thanks.
HENRY STOOD beside and slightly behind Thurlock, taking in the beauty of the clearing. Surprisingly, he almost felt he recognized the place. Some of the trees were different, but the spirit of the place was the same as he’d felt in a certain myrtle grove in Black Creek Ravine, and the spring bubbling out of the stone sphere nearly made it a twin to that glade back home.
Thurlock took a step in the direction of the spring, but stumbled over a tussock of thick, sharp-bladed grass, and Henry reached out a hand to catch him. He’d been keeping an eye on him, watching him grow wearier, even older, as the hours of walking through the forest wore on.
“Thank you, Henry.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” Henry said, the honorific seeming to fit at the moment. He’d given in to his tendency to be flippant when Thurlock was spry and chipper, but he couldn’t find it in him to mouth off when he seemed like a tired old man. “We should rest here. I could gather some grass or something and make a place for you to lie down, maybe over by the spring where the ground is sandy. You could get a quick nap. I can keep watch if that’s necessary.”
“Very thoughtful of you, Henry,” Thurlock said as he carefully, with Henry still supporting him, made his way toward the spring. “A nap sounds truly wonderful, but I’d so much rather take it in my own bed. It feels like years since I’ve been there.”
Frustrated, thinking Thurlock was simply being stubborn, Henry said, “Well, at least sit and rest here for a while, then. I’m sure the water is refreshing—we can drink from the spring and you could soak your feet in the pool.”
“I’ll do that! A wonderful idea. But we won’t stay long. Because you see we’re almost home—to the Sisterhold, that is. You see that wall of basalt over there?”
Henry followed Thurlock’s gesture to the only side of the clearing not bounded by tall trees. Through a thin screen of leggy brush, he saw what from this angle looked like a monolith of almost-black stone maybe thirty feet high and half again as wide, breaking in some places into palisades.
“Just off to the side there,” Thurlock continued, “see that crevice? It’s the entrance to a Portal of Naught. Get a drink of this wonderful water. Brush the dust out of your hair and wash your hands. Prepare to make your entrance at the Sisterhold.”
When Henry stepped into the pool, the touch of the water seemed magical, and as he watched Thurlock, the ancient wizard seemed to grow younger with each swallow and each second he stood with his feet submerged.
“Ah,” Thurlock said. “Isn’t it wonderful? I’m not certain just how, but this particular stream seems to travel miles underground direct from Kindled Springs. Nothing refreshes like Kindled Springs water. This is not quite that, but it’s good.”
Maizie seemed to agree. She splashed in the pool, lapped noisily at the water as it fell from the natural stone fountain. Lemon, despite being recently resurrected, jumped like a spry kitten to the top of the stone and drank from the bubbling spring. When a sunbeam broke through an opening in the myrtle branches, slanting in from the west to warm and soothe Henry’s tired neck and shoulders while the water cooled his feet, he wanted the moment to last for hours, or days, or maybe forever.
Well, no, not forever. Because I’m in Ethra now and… Han.
He smiled to himself, thinking he’d soon get to see the man he’d literally walked through worlds and slithered through drain pipes and thorns to follow. Something like a shiver of warmth—if there was such a thing—rushed through him. Despite a case of nerves, he couldn’t remember feeling this happy since before his uncle Hank died almost two years ago.
Maizie’s sudden snarling, barking tirade shattered the peaceful moment, and before anyone could even try to stop her, she rushed across the clearing and into the cave, which, Thurlock had said, led to a Portal of Naught. Lemon hissed, standing atop the stone in the pool with back arched, tail puffed, and hackles raised. Then he followed Maizie, moving lightning-fast, mowing down the wildflowers in his way as he ran across the clearing.
A moment of darkness—a cloud in the sky or in Henry’s own mind—touched him with an icy finger before it passed. Henry and Thurlock still stood in the sunlit pool, but the joy of it had fled, and Henry’s heart drummed in panic.
“Behl’s bloody teeth!” Thurlock exclaimed, his swearing going a step beyond the usual.
They ran together, crossing the thirty or forty yards to the monolithic rock wall, Thurlock holding his staff in front of him and moving like a warrior charging to battle. At the opening in the rock, they both stopped and looked at each other. Then, staff lit with bright, golden light, Thurlock led the way in.
Maizie and Lemon stood inside the cave, facing forward, eyes fixed on something farther in. They both had hackles raised, and Maizie growled low while Lemon snarled and hissed. They stared at nothing. Truly nothing. More nothing and less something than Henry ever remembered seeing while still standing on solid ground. If there was something in or beyond the nothing, it wasn’t possible to see it, for it was the blackest, emptiest nothing imaginable.
He looked to Thurlock for answers. “What are they looking at?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is it so… nothing right there?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Is that the portal?”
“Well.” Thurlock scratched his beard thoughtfully before continuing. “No. Decidedly not. The Portal opening is some way farther into the cave. And this nothing, as you called it, does not resemble a Portal of Naught. Though, for that matter, it does resemble Naught itself.”
“Has this ever happened before?”
“I don’t know, Henry. And to the next six questions yo
u’re thinking of asking, whatever they are, I’m pretty sure I also don’t know those answers.”
Henry heard the pique in Thurlock’s voice and thought better of asking anything else. Besides, apparently the wizard wasn’t quite as smart as he seemed, at least about this. Henry narrowed his eyes, trying to peer more piercingly into the blackness, but it didn’t help at all. “There’s only one way to find the answers that I can think of,” he said.
“Right,” Thurlock said. “Hold on to the staff, and let’s do it.”
As they stepped forward, the nothing swallowed up the light from Thurlock’s staff, and Henry couldn’t see the wizard—couldn’t see his own hand inches from his face. Doggedly, he kept pace with the old man as together they moved ahead, one stride, two, three. And then they stopped, because inside the nothing, the cave was filled with swirling tendrils and columns of smoke… or mist. And lights, of a sort.
Henry was reminded of the worst sort of old horror movie, the kind he used to watch as a child on his uncle Hank’s little portable TV set. The ones where dry ice laid a thick haze over sickly green- and fuchsia-colored lights embedded in the studio floor, and shapes formed and dissipated in pools of mist; it was supposed to make the viewer believe ghosts and vampires and creatures from lagoons could be real. But then again, what he was in the middle of now wasn’t like those productions at all, because those made him laugh. This was real, and something he sensed—something he couldn’t define—moved, seething, inside the darkness. The stink of death rolled toward him so thick that even he, a big vulture, felt sick from it.
As horrifying as it was, Henry was willing to stand his ground with the wizard and his fellow creatures, Maizie and Lemon—wherever they’d gotten off to. So he wasn’t exactly thinking about running out of the cave and back into the sunshine. But he did need to know escape was at least possible. He turned, hoping to look outside and fix his eyes on a patch of clear blue sky, or tree branches, or grassy, flower-strewn ground. Nothing was there. Not like, there wasn’t anything there, but like something real that was so blank Henry could only think of it as “nothing” stood all around him. A soft, misty, impermeable blackness, it hung everywhere around them.
