Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  “Okay, okay. He’s still bleeding. There’s no time now. Maybe it’s slowed enough. Vanya, hold here! I have to stitch up his side, but . . .”

  “Hold on—what in the blasted sands is going on!” Koryn cried, storming into the tent. “Am I going mad?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Who are you!” He stabbed his keshu towards me. “What are you doing—?”

  “It’s Ishvandu,” Tala said.

  “But that’s Ishvandu!” he pointed to the unconscious and bleeding form on the ground.

  “Just do us a favour and keep people away from the tent. Got it?”

  “But—”

  “Koryn, go!”

  She shoved him back out of the tent and slapped the canvas closed.

  “Shit,” she said. “Ishvandu, change back now.”

  “I’m useless in that—”

  “Ishvandu ab’Admundi, you will do as I say. Now.”

  I glanced at my other form. I had fallen face up. I could see the blood soaking my robes, the new scrapes and bruises, the injured wrist. It felt good to be strong again. I was no help to anyone like that.

  “Hurry up, Vanya,” Kulnethar said. “I need a hand here.”

  I snorted. But they were right. What if someone else saw me? What if I stayed too long and got sick again? I’d be no help to anyone.

  I shut my eyes, let out a long slow breath, wincing against what was coming.

  Then I jolted back up off the ground. Pain flooded me. My arm, my shoulder, my head, pounding against the use of the stone.

  I quickly shoved it back into my pocket and glanced to where my keshu had fallen. I was struck with an instant of loss. Feeling less than what I had been. Just a moment ago, I had been standing there, healthy, strong, capable—to the point Koryn doubted who he was seeing. Was I so different?

  “There you are,” Kulnethar looked relieved. “Now I need you to put pressure here, stop some of the flow while I stitch. Got it? He might wake up, and he could be panicky, so hold firm.”

  I nodded as I leaned over the boy, pressing into his side, just above the wound, leaning on his chest. Sure enough, the moment Kulnethar stuck a needle in him, he jerked and groaned.

  “Hold him still, Vanya.”

  Kulnethar worked steadily and calmly, even when Karta came fully awake and started thrashing.

  “Shh,” I said over and over again.

  “It’s eating me!” he wept. “The-the-the shadows . . . it hurts.”

  “It’ll be over soon.”

  “I can’t breathe. I can’t . . .” He gasped for air.

  “Tala, prop his legs up,” Kulnethar said. He pushed the needle in again, hands slick with blood, but steady. I shook my head, a new-found admiration for my friend building. I watched, fascinated, as the needle slipped deep through the ragged flesh and curled across the wound, catching, then pulling, drawing the sides together. Yet with every moment, there came another pump of blood. He jammed another wad of rags into the wound. “Vanya, keep talking to him.”

  “Karta,” I said. “Karta. Look at me.”

  “N-no. You’re one of them. I saw you. You m-moved like them. You were here, over there, h-here again. Get off me. Get off.”

  “I’m not one of them. I promise you.”

  “But they’ll be back. They’re c-coming.” He groaned and shut his eyes.

  I glanced into the Unseen. No. It was quiet. Dark.

  “They’re gone,” I said. “I won’t let them hurt you again. I’ll . . . I’ll protect you.”

  His breath quickened. I could feel the pattering of his heart—short, shallow breaths. “Don’t let them get me,” he cried, groaning and twisting. “Don’t, don’t, don’t . . .”

  “Kylan, hurry up!”

  “Rushing never helps,” he said, though I noticed the sweat dripping off his nose. He wiped his face with the back of a sleeve. Tied off another stitch. Then in with the needle. The rags were soaked with blood. He piled another on top, shifting them as he worked.

  “Stay with me,” he said. “Karta. Karta?”

  I glanced back at the boy. His eyes were unfocused as they rolled back and forth, chest heaving.

  “He’s not going to make it,” I said.

  “No. Press harder, Vanya.”

  “It’s not working.”

  “Just shut up and do it! Light and all, where’s Alis when I need her?”

  “Kylan . . .”

  “What?” he snapped.

  The boy’s eyes slipped shut. He shivered, his grip loosening.

  “He’s—”

  “I know. I know. I know. Sands, I should have—no time. No time. Two more stitches. That will do it. That . . .”

  The boy went limp.

  There was a lot of blood soaking into the sand, staining it dark. I swallowed. I could feel his heart weakening, the strength bleeding out of him. Kulnethar worked in strained silence, mopping up blood, stitching, mopping again.

  “Finished,” he said at last. “Tala, get me water, fresh rags. Hurry.”

  Tala nodded and hurried out of the tent.

  There was an eerie silence. Kulnethar sat back, shoulders slumped as he tried to wipe his hands off on his robes. Now a tremor ran through him. “Vanya, we have to go back. Without proper care in the healing rooms . . . he’ll die.”

  “He’ll die on the trip home.”

  “We have to try!”

  “We can’t move him,” I growled. “You honestly think he’ll survive a day-long trek by camel?”

  “He needs the healers!”

  “He has one.” I leaned close. “You’re the best healer in the Temple. If he can’t survive here, the white rooms won’t change that. Now there are others injured. Focus on your job, remember? And let me focus on mine.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Kulnethar ab’Ethanir

  It was a long night. There were many who needed my ministrations. Thank Yl’avah and the Tree I had decided to come! Even small lacerations needed the right attention: cleaning, stitching, bandaging, ensuring no one got unnecessary infections. It wasn’t easy.

  A few Labourers had cuts from the Sumadi’s claws—the nails seemed to slice like sharpened steel, as if made of Light itself. And the Guardians were worse. Bretina, Tala, and Ishvandu had suffered some serious wounds, and the others all had scrapes of their own. Another night like this and we were finished.

  I brooded over the nasty bite on Ishvandu’s shoulder, cleaning it doubly well, wondering if Sumadi carried diseases, and if so, what in the sands I could do about it. I had brought a few things, my most useful supplies, but not everything. And truly, what did anyone know about a bite from a half-Seen creature?

  The whole time I worked on Ishvandu, I kept churning it over in my mind. How could I convince him to give up this expedition? What could I say?

  Nothing, I realized. He had that stubborn look in his eye. Would the dead have to speak for me? If Karta’s breathing stopped, if he fell into fever, if he never recovered from the loss of blood—what then? Is that what it would take to change Ishvandu’s mind?

  Or would he remain resolute, even then?

  The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth. Foolish, giving Ishvandu this much control. He wasn’t ready for it. Yes, he was doing better than I imagined—but was he equipped for such a crisis? He could barely manage his own problems, never mind the lives of a whole crew of men and women.

  But perhaps worst of all, he wouldn’t listen to advice.

  He gathered everyone at dawn. Somehow, amidst the turmoil, he had managed to wash himself and change his robes, even scraping and oiling his hair, re-braiding it into something almost respectable. Tala must have helped him. The contrast to most of the others, who still looked dirty and haggard, was stark. And his wrist. He had nestled it within his robes instead of out, not hiding it, but making a subtle effort to cover it with the symbols of his rank.

  I frowned. Another sign he was beginning to think like a leader. But why did that bother
me? Was it because this new Ishvandu looked unsettlingly like the mirage from last night, the ghost that sprang forbidden from ytyri?

  After those bizarre events, Tala had tried to explain it to me, but I could tell it was uncanny for her as well. It wasn’t every day you saw two living copies of the same person in the same room.

  I hung at the outer edges of the crew, off to one side. It was a sombre gathering. Guardians and Labourers stood intermingled, as if no one could be bothered anymore with societal divides. At least that was one thing.

  “The Sumadi are ruthless attackers,” Ishvandu began in a quiet voice. “They threw everything they had at us. They did their very worst.”

  Some were nodding, others stared numbly at their feet, still in shock at the violence.

  “And yet here we stand.” Ishvandu straightened his shoulders. “Look around.”

  They glanced around.

  “They tried their hardest to kill us, and did they succeed? No. We are alive. We are strong.”

  “Say that to Karta,” one of the Labourers muttered.

  “Karta is strong,” Ishvandu retorted. “He will live. Right, Kulnethar?”

  He found me, eyes sharp, leaving no room for uncertainty. I had to believe he would recover. I had to know it. That was my conviction as a healer—and yet what Ishvandu wanted was different. Why?

  Not faith. It was an unfeeling demand, as if reality bowed to his will.

  “I will do everything to save him,” I said quietly.

  There was a murmur. Ishvandu narrowed his eyes at me. He wanted something more inspiring. Something hopeful and strong. Yet right now, I couldn’t conjure up such feelings in myself, nor would I lie for his sake.

  He turned back to the haggard faces. “We will not let them drive us away. We will stand strong. This is our territory now—Shyandar. Here. We have pitched our tents and planted our shovels. We have drawn water out of the desert. We have laid claim to this land. We have named it Anuai—our help. We will fight for it.”

  Most of the Guardians nodded, even a few Labourers. I sighed. He had them. Somehow, he was actually convincing them to stay.

  “And if they come again?” asked Lidyana.

  “We’ll be ready for them. We’re going to make some changes to night watch. We’ll set up a new perimeter. At night, Guardians will move between working and patrolling. I will be on alert. Those not on duty will be resting together in the same tent, under our watch. The creatures caught us unawares yesterday, and that was my fault. It won’t happen again.”

  I frowned, remembering the medicine I’d given Ishvandu for his arm. He’d been resting. Off duty because of me. Yet he didn’t even glance at me; he was actually taking responsibility for the debacle.

  Yes, something was changing. He was changing. And by all appearances, it seemed to be for the better.

  So why was I troubled?

  “Now, I know it was a hard and restless night,” he continued. “I know you’re tired. I know you’re hurting. So I will not force you to work today. However—”

  He let the word hang over the crew.

  “The sooner we get this well dug, the sooner we have easy access to water. So I will be working, and whoever would like to join me is welcome. Dismissed.”

  I frowned. Well done, Ishvandu. Already, I saw Adar conferring with his Labourers, switching up crews depending on who needed rest and who could work. Ishvandu actually walked straight over to the well, picked up a shovel, and leapt into the hole, Tala behind him.

  I shook my head. Those two were going to bring change to Shyandar. One way or another.

  Whether it was change for the good remained to be seen.

  I retreated to my tent. I tidied up my things. I raked out the bloody sand and brooded over Karta.

  His breathing was becoming ragged, his skin cold and clammy. When I put an ear to his chest, his heartbeat was barely audible. I felt helpless. I checked his side. I piled more blankets on him. I prayed his body would stabilize.

  It didn’t.

  Mid-morning, Karta stopped breathing. I sat there, listening to the sound of work from outside: Labourers calling to one another, shovels hitting ground, ropes creaking and cracking. I looked at the boy, his face pale, body emptied. Nothing now. Nothing but flesh and bone, now abandoned to its slow decay.

  Death was a strange thing. So much frantic activity to prevent it, so much fear and panic and wailing of grief—and in the end, it came in silence and left silence in its wake, and it would not be denied.

  I wept quietly. I knew I should go tell someone. Someone should know besides me. But would they care? Would anyone mourn him?

  “Next shift!” I heard Ishvandu shout. “Let’s go, go. Who’s up? Koryn, I did my share. Now get your lazy ass in that hole. Or will you let a one-armed cripple show you up?”

  There was a scatter of laughter.

  I frowned. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t.

  And yet—

  I looked at the boy. He had trusted Ishvandu. Trusted the Guardians to protect him. He’d looked to them, yearning to impress them, to be noticed, yet nervous every time one glanced his way. And now?

  Tears fell silently as I began to work. Cleaning the body, plugging orifices, rubbing oil into the skin, stitching the eyelids shut. I had just begun shrouding, when there was a stir at my tent.

  “How is—?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Ishvandu stood in the entrance, staring at Karta’s body. There was a flash of grief in his eyes, a deep line in his brow.

  “Kylan!”

  The dismay in his voice carried a silent accusation. I bristled. “I did everything possible,” I said. “It wasn’t enough.”

  “Not enough?” Ishvandu stepped into the tent. “Not enough? I trusted you, Kylan. I . . . I was counting on you!”

  “Well, I’m sorry to have disappointed you.” I continued to work.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? You should have called for me. You should have—”

  “You were busy digging—remember? The only blasted thing you care about right now.”

  Ishvandu’s jaw tightened. “Don’t do that, Kylan. Don’t blame this on me.”

  “No?”

  “Going back would have made no difference. He’d have died long before reaching—”

  “Then maybe he should never have left Shyandar in the first place!” I glared at him, refusing to back down. “You brought these people into the desert. Karta’s death is on you.”

  His eyes darkened. “You think I wanted this?”

  “Does it matter, so long as you get your well?”

  Ishvandu snorted. “Is that what you think? Yes, I led them out here. Yes, I asked them to work. That’s my job, that’s theirs. And yours is to keep them alive. We do the things we must, and when something goes wrong, we accept it as part of life. You know what happens without risk, Kulnethar?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nothing,” he snapped.

  I felt cold. My hands were shaking where I gripped the shroud. “So Karta paid for your risk—what next?”

  “We bury him.”

  “The boy had a family.”

  “And?”

  I stared at him. “They have a right to see the body, to sing the last words.”

  “No, Kylan.” He frowned at me. “I know what you want.”

  “What I want?” I surged to my feet. “You think this about me? Two people have died, more are injured. It’s time, Vanya. Call it off!”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Vanya!”

  “Kulnethar, my answer is no. You’re not thinking clearly. We’ve come all this way, risked too much. To give that up now means it’s wasted, Karta’s sacrifice is wasted. Is that what you want?”

  I gaped at him, too shocked for a moment to speak.

  “Now finish your preparations. We’ll bury him at dusk with all the rites of the dead, the first body to break ground outside Shyandar. That will be honour enough for him.”

  Th
en he turned and marched from the tent.

  Something gripped me—anger, grief. Maybe fear. Fear for Ishvandu and what he was doing, for what else might happen if this wasn’t checked. The first body.

  I strode after him, slapping aside the tent, bursting into the midday heat.

  “Ishvandu!” I shouted. My voice cracked over the basin, stronger than I had intended. He stopped to face me—and so did everyone else.

  Good. Maybe that would force him to listen.

  “How long?” I demanded.

  “Kylan, this discussion is over,” he replied, eyes dark with warning. “Go back to the tent.”

  “How long before the next body? Before the Sumadi come at us again? This empty rock is no place for the dead. That boy deserves a proper burial, and if you won’t take him back, then I’ll carry him to Shyandar myself.”

  Ishvandu stiffened. That caught his attention. He strode back towards me. Everyone was watching: Guardians, Labourers, a few had even poked their heads out of the sleeping tent.

  “I will not allow that,” he said.

  “I’m an Elder of the Temple, you can’t—”

  “No, you’re a member of my expedition. Under my leadership. Leave this place for any reason, and I’ll consider that treason against—”

  “Stop, Vanya! Just stop! A boy’s life was taken! Doesn’t that mean anything to you? If it was a Guardian lying in that shroud, there would be no discussion here, and you know it.”

  There was a painful silence. Ishvandu frowned at the sand, then back at me, voice quiet as he spoke. “I need you with me, Kylan.”

  “I am with you! But what use is an Elder if you won’t heed his advice? Call it off!”

  “No.”

  “Ishvandu—”

  “That’s enough!” His voice thundered as he straightened, trying to grip his keshu and stare me down like one of his Guardian Lords. “Kulnethar ab’Ethanir, I will not allow you to undermine our efforts. Now be silent!”

  “How can I be silent? You were there! You saw! How many Sumadi came at us? How many? They’ll come again tonight, or the next night, and your numbers are not adequate.”

  Ishvandu shook his head, jaw tightening.