Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  “Kulnethar ab’Ethanir!” one of the healers spotted me. “Praise Yl’avah and the Tree, what shall we do?” His eyes were nailed open in fear.

  “Adavensis oil?”

  “We tried! No effect. None. If anything, it made it worse!”

  “And you heated it first?”

  “No time!”

  “Do that, with a pinch of lath’is. To three drops below boiling. Go quickly.”

  The man nodded, relief naked on his face as he pounced for the exit.

  I turned to the patient. She was snapping and straining like a snared rat. Strange words bubbled out of her mouth, now high and keening, now with a growl, all hovering just on the edge of comprehension. Like once I’d known them. Like I should know them. I dropped to a crouch.

  “Nyashal,” I said quietly.

  The woman didn’t hear me. Her eyes were unfocused and bright. Her face was swollen with cuts—the raw, slashing lines that only Sumadi could leave.

  I glanced at Alis—Alisan sai’Adadris, my wife, the only calm one in the room. Her small hands were white-knuckled and firm as she held the other woman down, Nyashal straining so hard I feared she would injure herself. And yet, beneath the violence, I sensed bone-deep exhaustion.

  “Nyashal,” I said again.

  Alis shook her head. “No good. She’s responded to nothing. No voice or—”

  “Save us!” the woman gasped. She seemed to see me for the first time. Dark eyes fixed me with an unblinking stare. Her voice was wearing thin, cracking. She shuddered. Her back arched and she gave a low, piteous groan.

  “Let her go,” I said.

  “But Kulni—”

  “Trust me.”

  Alis looked at me, then eased off. Almost immediately, the woman fell back, breathing hard. Her whole body shook. I could feel the collective sigh of relief, from the healer behind me, from Alis, from myself.

  “Nobody touch her,” I said quietly, “unless absolutely necessary. Nobody speak above a whisper. Keep those windows shuttered. Keep a careful watch.”

  “Do you know what’s wrong with her?” the other healer asked, breathless.

  I didn’t answer immediately. I didn’t want to hear my own words, or what they could mean. But the evidence was there, clear as if I’d seen it yesterday. “Yes,” I said at last. “Yes, I do.”

  “Okay. What do you need? What can I get?”

  “Ishvandu.”

  Alis stared at me. “Kulni, I don’t—”

  “Ishvandu ab’Admundi, from the Hall of Guardians. That’s what I need.”

  We stood in the mixing room, shelves lined with uncrushed herbs, tinctures waiting to be processed, rows of pots and medicines and supplies, each carved with the appropriate symbols. My hands kept busy with mortar and pestle, grinding lath’is leaves into powder, but I was aware of Alis hovering nearby, arms crossed, looking pointedly away.

  “Something to say?” I asked at last.

  She always made that face when she had something to say. She glanced at me briefly, then shook her head. She always did that too.

  “Alis,” I sighed. “What?”

  She shot me an eye. “That patient needs to be restrained.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Kulni, you didn’t see her.”

  “I saw.”

  “You didn’t. She attacked Janala. She nearly caved his head in. It took three of us to wrestle her down.”

  “I know. I know.” The stone rasped with the turn of my wrist, thumping rhythmically. “But I can’t restrain her. I’ve seen this before. The Sumadi did something to her and it makes everything painful. Even a blanket. A soft touch.”

  Alis frowned and looked away again.

  “Besides. I know that’s not why you’re upset.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  I sighed. I loved Alis, but she had this infuriating habit of drawing out my attention, retreating further and further, until she sensed the point of giving up. She did it on instinct. I didn’t even think she was aware of it. It was only a year since the fields, since living under that horrible foreman, and though I didn’t know the details, I could guess. There were the scars on her arms, her odd lapses of memory, the way she withdrew from moments of intimacy, even now, months into our marriage. It tore my heart to think of anyone hurting Alis, but I had treated victims of abuse before. I knew the signs.

  I tried a different approach.

  “Can you describe what happened? With Nyashal?”

  Alis thought for a moment, hands twining together in front of her. “It was the screams that started it. Set the whole hall on edge. We ran to see what was happening, and Nyashal was . . . she was on her knees, clutching her face. Her eyes. Kulni, she was stabbing her own eyes, like she would . . . like she would—”

  “Claw them out?”

  Alis nodded, and a shudder ran through her. “Exactly. When Janala hurried to stop her, she screamed even louder, threw him into the wall, started . . . pounding his head into the stone. Over and over. She would have killed him if we weren’t there, Kulni. I know it.”

  I just nodded. I was thinking of another scream, long ago. Of clawing, thrashing sand. Of a foolish boy who thought pretending to be a Guardian outrider in a wind storm was a harmless bit of fun. I would never forget those screams. I would never forget Trushya, lost because of me. And when we found him—the blood, the eyes, the face, the sand, the dripping eyes—the young man, dead.

  “ . . . finally got her down. Then she really howled. Like we were killing her. But we weren’t, Kulni. I swear, we never hurt her.”

  I stirred at the sound of my name. “Hmm?”

  “Are you even listening to a thing I say?”

  “You didn’t hurt her. I know, Alis. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, but you had the situation under control. You did very well, you stayed calm. I’m proud of you.”

  She rolled her eyes, though I noticed a little satisfied turn of her mouth. She would never admit how much she craved affirmation. But I saw it. Every word of praise. Every genuine remark of gratitude. She pretended it meant nothing; I pretended to believe it.

  “She must have worn herself out. When we let go, she just collapsed, but she wouldn’t have done that to begin with.”

  “I know,” I said. “She’s very troubled. Her healing will be slow.”

  “If she heals at all.”

  I said nothing. I had lost men and women and children in my care. I had lost babies. And yet, with each new case, I had to believe there was hope. No—more than hope. I had to know they would recover. I had to see it in my mind, hold it for them, and bend all my skills to align the world with that truth. It was the only way.

  “You think it’s like before,” Alis said. “Like what happened to Ishvandu.”

  I glanced at her. She hadn’t been there when Ishvandu was attacked. She would have been a young child. But she’d heard the stories, especially being here in the Temple. Everyone knew the stories.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. You think this is another attack. You think the Sumadi got inside her, broke her mind. You think Ishvandu will be able to help. He won’t.”

  The last statement caught me off guard. I glanced at her. Here it was. Here’s what was bothering her. Finally.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked carefully.

  “Because he’s not like you, Kulni.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Really? You need me to draw it out for you? You need me to say who’s kind, and who isn’t? Who’s willing to wade into black memories to help someone, and who isn’t? Besides. You don’t want to owe him anything.”

  The bite of her words shocked me. I wrinkled my brow, forcing myself not to react. Alis opened herself so rarely: if all she got was a reprimand, she’d be less willing to risk the truth again in the future. I had to tread carefully.

  “You don’t trust him?”

  Alis snorted. “Depends on what you mean. Trust him to favour him
self. I could do that.”

  “I thought you two were . . . you know, getting along.”

  “Sure. I can get along. I’m good at that. Doesn’t mean it changes how I feel about him. He’s not like you, Kulni. He’s not a good man.”

  I opened my mouth, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. Her words bothered me. They touched something in me I would rather not dwell on.

  “That’s not fair,” I said at last. “Ishvandu is—”

  She stabbed a finger into my chest, sudden and sharp. Her eyes narrowed. Her head twisted. Then she leapt to the curtained entrance and snapped back the flaps of white linen.

  “You.”

  Ishvandu hovered by the entrance, frowning deeply. Had he overheard Alis? Then again—it wasn’t an unusual look for him.

  “What’s this about?” he growled, recovering from an instant of shock. “Some Acolyte comes barging into the Hall, waving his arms and ranting about an emergency. I rush over here, only to have Tala look at me like I’ve lost my mind, and of course she’s okay, and what am I doing here? Like how dare I check up on her without her permission. Yl’avah’s might, Kylan, you can’t just snap your fingers at a Guardian and expect him to come running.”

  “Yet here you are!” Alis shot him her wickedest smile.

  Ishvandu glowered at her. “I hope this wasn’t your idea.”

  “Oh, trust me. It’s not.”

  “Alis,” I sighed.

  “All right, all right, I’ll go.” She rolled her eyes. But even as she slipped out behind Ishvandu, I caught a quick, warning glance from her, and she was gone.

  “Is this about Tala?” Ishvandu asked the moment we were alone.

  “No, Vanya.”

  “So? What is it then? I don’t have time for—”

  “What’s your job?”

  My question caught him by surprise. He blinked, then scratched beneath his new mass of Guardian’s braids. The Hall had tried their best to tame his wild, black hair. It half-worked. The braids shot out from his head like quills—probably a testament to how fast he’d ridden here. But even at the best of times, he struggled to get them to lie neatly.

  “My job?”

  “Yes. As a Guardian, Vanya. The reason you bear that sword.” I nodded to the keshu he wore so proudly on his hip.

  “Following the orders of the Al’kah and the Circle. Not you.”

  “My mistake.” I smiled thinly. “I was under the impression a Guardian’s job was to protect the people of Shyandar, to do all for their safety and well-being.”

  “So did I,” Ishvandu replied. “Then I became a Guardian. Look, Kylan, what’s this about? I abandoned my kiyah half-way through a crucial training exercise and I’m not in the mood for your philosophies.”

  “I need your help with a patient of mine.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Sands, Kylan. Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”

  “Your instincts are getting better. Come on.”

  I walked to the door, but stopped and looked at him. I wanted to prepare him for what he was going to see. I wanted to soften the blow. I wanted to apologize ahead of time. But even as I knew I couldn’t do any of those things, I also hoped to give Alis time to stop eavesdropping and slip into a nearby room.

  “Well?” Ishvandu demanded.

  “Right.” I swept aside the curtain and led him back down the hall.

  He followed, trying to look the part of the confident Guardian. He was getting better at that. Somewhat.

  To me, I suspected he would always be the little scamp who got thrown out of the Temple for stealing. I cringed at the memory. I had handled that so badly. I had done everything wrong. It was my fault he’d gotten tossed. My fault he was a Guardian now, instead of a scribe. My fault he had to risk his life over and over again against Sumadi and the desert. Of course, he would probably thank me for it. He never was cut out to scribble his days away at a desk.

  “In here,” I said, dropping my voice to a whisper. The Acolyte I’d posted at Nyashal’s room glanced us over, then moved aside.

  We crept in. The window had been shuttered against the sun, but a few slivers of light still danced through the dust and shadow. Nyashal was asleep, but hardly resting. She looked pale and wretched. She was shivering and clutching weakly at her clothes as if they bothered her. She had thrown aside the thin blanket. She made strange gurgling noises in her throat. And when we entered, she seemed to be aware of us. She whined under her breath, tightening herself into a ball, moaning and clutching her scarred face.

  “Nyashal,” I said. “Can you hear me?”

  She shook her head, less an answer to my question than a general refusal to acknowledge me.

  I dipped a cup of water and stepped carefully forward. I crouched beside her, stopping just short of touching her. I had no desire to repeat our last experience.

  “Are you thirsty?” I asked.

  She made no reply. Her eyes were still closed, though I sensed she was holding them shut, rather than sleeping.

  “I’m going to give you some water. You’ve had nothing to eat or—”

  “No!”

  I glanced back at Ishvandu. My friend reacted exactly as I thought he would. His face was stretched. His eyes were bright with fear. His whole body had gone rigid.

  “You know what’s wrong with her,” I said.

  It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t bother responding. We both knew. Instead, he just shook his head. “Let her die.”

  Then he turned and marched out of the room without another word.

  I exhaled into the silence. I should have thought as much. Maybe I could have prepared him. Maybe it would have made it easier.

  “It was him,” Nyashal whispered.

  I started and glanced at her. A dark feeling, like the prickle of a huge, distant storm, crept into me. It was a small thing. A tiny thing. A feeling—nothing more. And yet . . . And yet . . .

  I swallowed. “Who? Ishvandu?”

  Nothing.

  “The man who was just here. Is that who you mean?”

  A quick, jerking nod.

  “What about him, Nyashal?” I bent closer, my voice dropping to the barest whisper. “Did he . . . did he hurt you?”

  She thought about it. When she whispered no, I felt a strange and enormous relief. Yl’avah’s might, how could I even ask such a thing?

  “Did he save you?”

  Again, she thought about it, and again, she whispered no.

  “Have you seen him before?”

  She nodded.

  “Where?”

  Nothing.

  “Nyashal, where have you seen him?”

  She whimpered and clutched herself tighter, like a child. Like a frightened child.

  “Nyashal—”

  “Save us.”

  I stopped. I had heard that before. Many times before. Watching over my friend. Watching him twist in his sleep. Crying out. Weeping. The boy who had disappeared into the desert to die. The boy who had returned. My friend. My poor, broken friend.

  He would hate me if he knew the things I’d overheard, the things he’d cried out in his sleep. About the shadows. About the Breaking. About the man with bare feet, the man called E’tuah. It was I who had found the small, white stone. I was afraid for him and for what he had done. And it was I who pleaded with my father: give him a chance, spare him, don’t let him stand trial for this, Father. He doesn’t understand.

  Yes, I knew what a Sending stone was, an artifact of ytyri, handed down from the Old Ones. Now forbidden. And I had taken it from him.

  Nyashal’s eyes pried open. I caught a glimmer of light there. A flicker of tears.

  “He sees us,” she whispered. “He sees us.” Her voice scratched like sand between teeth.

  “What do you mean, Nyashal?”

  “The Broken. He must . . . he must . . . he . . .”

  She gave a deep, piteous groan. She covered her face and began to weep.

  It was enough. It was more than enough
for one day.

  “Rest,” I said. “Rest, Nyashal. You will find your strength again. I promise.”

  I rose, placed the cup beside her, and left.

  “You can’t help her,” Ishvandu said.

  We’d found an isolated corner of the Temple gardens, a place where there was no danswort, where I couldn’t be reminded of that failure, too.

  I shook my head. “I can, and I must. That’s my job, Ishvandu. That’s who I am.”

  Ishvandu paced, arms crossed, eyes dark and distant. This was the last thing he wanted to be talking about. And yet . . . he hadn’t marched back to the Hall either.

  He shook his head. “When it happened to me, I was a child. He . . . I was young and my mind protected itself. But she is not. If she recovers, the first thing she’ll do is throw herself off the highest tier of the Temple.”

  “Vanya!”

  “You don’t believe me, fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “She spoke to me. She was lucid.”

  “That only means she was in more pain than before.”

  “She knew you.”

  Ishvandu stopped. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he met my gaze. I was shocked at the pain I saw there, not just the memory of being attacked, but something more recent. Something raw.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She recognized you. She said you . . .”

  “Said I what? Don’t try to soften it, Kylan. Just tell me.”

  “Said you saw them.”

  His breath hissed out. He resumed pacing, now with a fast, irritated step. “What does she know? She’s mad.”

  “You’re the only one who knows what it’s like, Vanya. You can help her. I think . . .” I lowered my voice. “I think they’re still in her head. You understand the Sumadi better than anyone. Please, Vanya. This is your chance to be a Guardian, to help someone—”

  His eyes sparked with anger. He took two fast steps in my direction. “Nothing I say could possibly help you, Kylan—or her. Leave it.”

  As he strode away, I noticed how tightly he gripped his keshu. And I noticed how his words, for the first time I could remember, had the bite of a threat.