“Too far for me,” Hans said. “You’ll be returning on your own. Give Ezaara my love. Tell her to get Tomaaz and Marlies.” Shards, how awful. He’d never see his family again. A spasm seized his chest, making his whole torso convulse. Hans gritted his teeth until it passed.
“Think,” said Handel, beating his mighty wings. “Think, Hans, there must be something we can do.”
A vision shot through Hans’ head, of him riding Handel into battle with Ezaara at his side on Zaarusha.
“No, Handel, it’s not possible.” He gritted his teeth as another spasm hit him. “That’s not prophecy, just wishful thinking.”
But it felt like prophecy. That same sense of mystique washed over Hans, as it always did when he saw the future.
“Think back over your life, Hans. There must be some way we can save you. A different remedy? A place we can go … I’m not giving up on you, so soon. We’ve barely flown together.” It was obvious that Handel had run out of ideas.
Flashes of his life appeared before Hans’ eyes: Marlies crumpling in his arms when she’d killed Zaarusha’s dragonet; fleeing Dragons’ Hold; their wonder at their newborn twins; Tomaaz and Ezaara as littlings, laughing; Ezaara’s first arrow hitting a clump of grass; Ezaara and Tomaaz fighting in the marketplace the day Ezaara had imprinted with Zaarusha—the last time he’d seen her; Ana giving him the little pouch; tharuks attacking Lush Valley; Lovina and Tomaaz on Liesar.
“There!” Handel latched onto one of his memories, showing it to him again. “What did she say, Hans? What did Ana say when she gave you that pouch?”
“I don’t know.” A spasm ran across his face. The sun was too bright. All Hans wanted to do was close his eyes and …
“And fall to your death. Hans! Pull yourself together!” Handel roared, the rumble jolting him back to reality. “Ana. Think.”
Ana’s words sprang to mind. “She said, if I’m in a tight corner, to rub the ring and say her name. Her mother was Anakisha.”
“Anakisha’s ring? She gave you a ring of power, Hans. Use it! Now!”
Hans drew in a strangled breath. The pouch, where was it? He fumbled, taking it out of his other pocket. As he was untying the strings, it slipped. He snatched it, cupping it against his leg, and grabbed it with both hands so it wouldn’t drop.
The trees below were tiny twigs against a ribbon of blue.
“Don’t get distracted, Hans, put the ring on.”
Hans jammed it on his finger. “Ana,” he called, rubbing the jade whorls. “Help me.”
The forest, sky and distant ranges disappeared.
Hans and Handel were suspended in a tunnel of billowing clouds, bathed in golden light. A woman moved toward them in a flowing white gown. Strange, she was transparent, the glowing clouds showing through her. As she approached, Hans recognized her.
“Anakisha! I thought you were dead.”
She spoke in his mind. “Zens entered Dragons’ Realm in my reign, so I am trapped in the land between life and death, only able to pass on and join Yanir in the great flying grounds when Zens and his evil are purged from Dragons’ Realm.”
“Where are we?”
“The ring creates a realm gate, similar to a world gate, but you can only travel within Dragons’ Realm.”
The possibilities were endless.
“No, Hans, not endless. Every time a realm gate is used, the walls of the gate grow weaker, creating a ripple in sathir, the energy of life. Zens senses those ripples. If he takes advantage of them and encroaches the walls, he’ll be able to move throughout Dragons’ Realm at will. Imagine the danger.”
Hans swallowed, his throat tight, as another spasm wracked his body.
“Only use the ring in dire circumstances,” Anakisha warned. “Never for convenience.”
“Help, Ezaara!” Handel called. “It’s your father, Hans. He’s dying.”
“It’s no use calling Ezaara, she can’t hear you.” Desperation was making Handel do ridiculous things. His daughter couldn’t meld with a dragon other than Zaarusha.
A dark ripple flashed through a cloud, like lightning in a stormy sky.
“What was that?” Hans asked Anakisha.
“A crack in the wall. Hurry. Where do you want to go?”
“Dragons’ Hold.” Gods, he could hardly hold on.
“Safe travels,” Anakisha said.
With a loud crack, the glowing clouds disappeared and Hans and Handel were suddenly above Dragons’ Hold.
“Welcome home,” said Handel, satisfaction radiating from him.
Hans was about to reply, but he blacked out.
§
Ma’s body was still warm. Tomaaz’s heart hammered. He held his fingers under her nose. No breath. He felt her neck. No pulse. Dead, dead, dead. Oh Gods, he was too late to save her. A sob burst from his throat. Tomaaz cradled her against his chest, staggering over the dead bodies. Under his boot, a rat squealed and scurried deeper into the pile. He shuddered. He couldn’t leave Ma here as fodder for rats or carrion birds. He half-slid down the flesh pile, his mind in a frenzy. He had to get her out of here. Take her somewhere. Give her a decent burial.
There was plenty of dirt near the latrine pits. No! No! He wasn’t burying Ma near a pile of human excrement. Not anywhere here. He’d take her back to Lush Valley. Wait for Pa, and take her back. But where could he hide her until then?
Tomaaz’s boots hit solid ground. Backhanding tears, he slung Ma over his shoulder and picked up his shovel. As long as he was feeding the beast, he’d have freedom. He snorted. Confinement to a lousy valley under duress was not freedom.
He traipsed to the rat pile, his shoulders bowed under Ma’s weight. Dark sorrow clogged his throat, making his breath come in gasps. Thank the Egg, the rat tharuk had finished duty. Scooping rats onto his shovel, Tomaaz headed toward the main valley. He’d tell any tharuks he saw that Ma was a dead slave; that he’d dump her on the pile once he’d fed the beast. Even so, he stuck to the lengthening shadows.
His legs were boulders, weighing him down. Perhaps Pa was dead, too. Lovina had also been limplocked. And Ezaara? What if everyone he cared about was dead? What then?
Weighed down with his mother’s corpse, Tomaaz trudged up the branch toward the beast’s cave. Although he didn’t encounter any tharuks, he could hear them further along the main valley, whips cracking as they mustered slaves to the sleeping huts.
Rounding the bend, Tomaaz stumbled along to the dead end. The beast growled softly, sticking its head out of its cave as he approached. Barely glancing at the creature, Tomaaz threw the rats at it, then carried Ma into the neighboring cave. Here, she should be safe.
He gently laid Ma on the floor near the far wall. Stroked the matted hair back from her face. Oh, Gods, this was real. He bowed his head to her chest and put his arms around her, sobs tearing from him.
Tomaaz wasn’t sure how long he cried, but suddenly there was snuffling at the hole in the wall. A tongue flicked through.
Shards, the beast. It might make a ruckus and bring tharuks running. Sighing, Tomaaz pulled some clear-mind from his pocket, placing it on the tip of the shovel, and held it by the hole. The beast made short work of the berries, then shoved its eye against the aperture, observing him. Was the gray film over its eye growing thinner? Probably just his imagination. It was hard to see in the half dark.
Tomaaz took out his calling stone and rubbed it. Nothing. Dread rushed through him. If Pa was dead, there would be no chance of getting Ma out of here—no chance of saving himself.
He should get back. Tharuks might notice he was missing. But somehow, nothing mattered anymore.
Tomaaz lay on the cold stone floor next to his mother’s corpse, staring into the dark.
§
Dawn stole through the cave, waking Tomaaz. His mouth was dry and his hands and feet were numb with cold. Blearily, he gazed at Ma, his thoughts pushing through sludge. It was hopeless. He rolled over and drifted back into a nightmare-plagued sleep.
; A grunt woke him.
Tharuks?
He fumbled for the shovel. There, near the hole in the wall. Tomaaz lurched over and grabbed it, then faced the cave entrance.
Another grunt—behind him.
He spun. It wasn’t a tharuk, just the beast, watching him again. “Hungry?” Tomaaz’s voice cracked. “I don’t have any food, but here you go, have these.” He passed the beast some clear-mind. He didn’t have many berries left, but who cared? Maybe it would be better to be numlocked than stay alert in this hell, with death lurking in every shadow.
He tried the calling stone again. No luck. He was on his own. Putting the stone back in his pocket, Tomaaz caught a glimpse of his pink fingernails. He took a pinch of dragon’s scale and went back over to Ma in the corner.
How had she died? He touched the blood-encrusted gash on her head. Wait. Her skin was still warm.
His breath hitched. Impossible.
Tentatively, Tomaaz touched her neck, then slid his hand under her jerkin to touch her shoulder. Definitely warm. But then why were her lips and fingertips blue, her eyes glassy, and face as white as goat’s cheese?
He splayed one hand by her mouth and nose, the other on her torso, waiting. Was that a faint tickle on his hand? There, a minuscule movement in her chest? Hard to tell. He held his own breath, waiting. Again, the softest whisper of breath on his hand, the barest movement of her torso.
His fingers moved to her neck. He cocked his head, concentrating. Please. There, a slight tremor against his fingers … it seemed like forever until he felt it again.
Shards! Ma was alive.
She was existing on a few shallow breaths and a faint heartbeat, but barely. He had to act fast or he’d lose her.
Tomaaz lifted her jerkin and found her healer’s pouch at her waist. Pulling out her remedies, he piled them on the floor, looking for something that might help. Clear-mind berries wrapped in brown paper, dragon’s scale, owl-wort, warm weed, dragon’s breath, healing salve and … what were these? He held up a stem with two dried blue berries on it, and nubs where other berries had been plucked.
Piaua berries—they looked different, dried and shriveled, but they had to be piaua. He’d never seen another plant with blue oval berries with pointed ends. Right at the bottom of Ma’s pouch, he found a slim vial of clear light-green fluid—piaua juice. A memory flashed through his head.
Ma was crouched near the base of the piaua, her hands on the trunk, whispering solemn words. A sudden strange breeze stirred only the piaua’s leaves. A rushing sound, like a thousand waters, whooshed around the clearing. There was silence as the tree’s leaves stilled. Ma spoke again. Again, the piaua’s leaves moved and the rushing resumed.
Even though they were only littlings, Ezaara had been the first to realize what was happening. “Ma’s talking to the tree,” she said. “The piaua is answering.”
Tomaaz and Ezaara watched Ma harvest piaua juice from the tree’s leaves.
“I’m hungry. Can I eat those blue berries, Ma?” Tomaaz asked, pointing at the pretty oval berries with poky ends.
“Tomaaz,” Ma said, taking his face in her hands, “you must never eat those berries. They’re dangerous. Promise me, both of you, that you’ll never touch them.”
They nodded.
“Can I feed them to tharuks?” Ezaara asked. “Will the berries kill them?”
That made Ma laugh. “And have them in comas? Yes, you can.”
He hadn’t understood what comas meant, but he was still hungry. “What about the juice? Can I drink that?” Tomaaz asked.
Ma knelt in the grass with them, among the wildflowers. “Piaua juice can heal anything except poison, but there is a cost. Every time we use the juice, it steals life force from the piaua trees. If we guzzle down piaua juice, then the mighty piauas scattered across Dragons’ Realm will fail, and we will have no healing remedies for our people. That’s why the juice is sacred, and only a tree speaker can harvest it.”
“I’m going to be a tree speaker when I grow up,” Ezaara declared.
“Me too,” Tomaaz said.
The berries caused comas. Is this what had happened to Ma? Did a coma slow your body down until your breathing and heartbeat were barely there? If piaua berries had caused this state, then perhaps the juice could cure it. It was worth trying, as piaua was a strong remedy for many things.
He had to try.
Resting Ma’s head and shoulders on his knees, Tomaaz uncorked the vial and parted her lips, dribbling piaua juice onto her tongue. Nothing happened. He dripped more juice into her mouth, careful not to spill any. Piaua was best a few drips at a time, but usually it worked faster than this. Maybe it wouldn’t be enough. Tomaaz dribbled a little more, counting his heartbeats to stop himself going mad with frustration. Maybe nothing would heal her.
Please, please. Tears rolled down his cheeks. She had to make it. He couldn’t bear it if she didn’t. He’d already lost her once, yesterday. He kept at it. The vial was now only half full. He gave her more.
Her lips. Something had changed. Tomaaz inspected them. He couldn’t be sure, but was the blue fading? Two more drips. He checked her hands. Yes, her fingernails had lost some of their bluish tinge. He let out a slow breath. The piaua was working, but did he have enough?
Soon the vial was empty. Ma’s pulse was stronger, but still not normal. A tinge of color crept into her cheeks. Tomaaz sat, cradling her head, his knees numb, waiting. There was nothing more he could do except wait and hope.
§
A snort at the hole in the wall made Tomaaz jerk awake. His legs were dead under the weight of Ma’s head and shoulders, and he was fighting to stop his head from drooping again, but he didn’t want to move and disturb Ma. Sometime while he’d dozed, her breathing had deepened. Her chest was now rising and falling regularly, thank the Egg.
Another snort. He turned, rubbing his stiff neck. The beast was watching him again. The gray film over its eyes had thinned, showing a glimmer of startling green. Tomaaz tried to speak, but his throat was dry.
Gods, he hadn’t eaten or drunk for hours.
Ma’s hand twitched. Then her foot. A gusty sigh shuddered through her, then another. Her eyes fluttered, then flew wide, alarm shooting across her face.
“Ma,” Tomaaz croaked. “It’s me, Tomaaz.”
“Tomaaz?” Her voice was fragile.
“Yes, Ma, I’m here to take you home.” How, he had no idea.
“Ezaara?”
“I haven’t seen her.” What had happened to Ezaara? “Don’t worry about that now. Let’s get you better.” Shards, he had nothing to feed her, no water. Nothing to keep her warm, not even a blanket.
Her eyes drifted shut again. He shook her gently. “Ma, I’m going to find you water and food. I’ll be back. You’ll be safe here.” Nodding, she curled up and went back to sleep. Tomaaz hovered, unsure about leaving her.
There was another snort at the wall.
“Keep an eye on her,” Tomaaz said to the beast.
The large green eye winked.
Tomaaz nearly jumped out of his skin. Snatching up his shovel, he rushed down the valley.
§
The noon sun broke through the mists, beating down on Tomaaz. Panting, he paused at the junction to the main valley. He was much weaker than he’d realized. He had to eat—soon—and source some food for Ma. Oh, and feed the beast. With Ma hiding next to the beast’s cave, the last thing they needed was a roaring ruckus to bring tharuks running. Whips cracked to the south, near the latrine pit. Tomaaz headed north toward the eating area. If he was caught out of place, he’d be whipped, but he’d also be punished if he collapsed from exhaustion in the latrine ditches.
To Tomaaz’s surprise, the area was full of milling slaves. He’d never been feed here at noon, but by the look of their pickaxes and grubbers, these were the crews that worked in the mountainside. Tomaaz casually deposited his shovel and lined up with them. These slaves were covered in grime and fine yellow powder. They smell
ed of the mist that leaked from the crevasses.
Many of them had fingers, ears or hands missing. One had his nose cut off, leaving a gaping scar in his face. Coughing and wheezing punctuated their sluggish movements. The little girl in front of him hacked, spitting up dark globules of phlegm. Those in line shuffled forward, hands out, to grab chunks of hard bread from the numlocked serving slaves. As the girl took her bread, she coughed and fell, her crust flying into the dust at Tomaaz’s feet. She lay on the ground hacking. Then she stilled, eyes rolling back in her head.
Tomaaz took his bread from the server, then picked up her piece, slipping it into his pocket. Gods, stealing bread from the dead to feed Ma. What would he stoop to next?
The slaves ground to a halt, waiting for the tharuks to act.
A huge tharuk flicked its whip, striking a man, who yelped. Still gnawing their hard crusts, the crowd parted to let the beast through. The tharuk booted her in the neck. Her body slid, rasping against the dry dirt, her head lolling at an odd angle.
“Dead,” the tharuk pronounced, its red eyes scanning the slaves.
Although Tomaaz’s belly grumbled, he suddenly had no appetite.
The tharuk pointed a stubby finger at him, its claw a whip’s breadth from his face. “You! To the flesh pile. Take this human scum.”
Tomaaz bent to retrieve the girl. Shards, he could hardly lift her. Last night, he’d carried Ma without a problem, but now he was too weak.
“Move it.” The tharuk glared at him, whip poised.
Slinging her over his shoulder, Tomaaz staggered off. A tharuk hovering over a crude bench holding waterskins motioned Tomaaz over. “Slave, drink. Water makes you healthy.”
Healthy? Hardly. Tomaaz put the girl down and drank the numlock-tainted water, not stopping until the waterskin was nearly empty. The tharuk turned its back to give water to other hapless slaves. As Tomaaz picked up the girl, he slipped the mostly-deflated waterskin up the back of her shirt, and tucked her shirttail into her breeches. There, that should hold it. Now he had food and water for Ma. He lifted the girl and trekked off to the flesh pile. The water had eased his dizziness, even if he still had no idea how to get out of this gray hell.
Riders of Fire Complete Series Box Set books 1-6: YA Epic Fantasy Dragon Rider Adventures Page 54
