Larad stared at her, an expression of horror on his scarred face. Then he ran to one side of the deck and leaned over the rail. Grace didn’t know the rune for nausea, but it seemed Larad was quite familiar with it. Fortunately, she had packed some herbs in her luggage.
You’d better go brew him a simple, Grace.
She went in search of Avhir, to find out where her things had been stowed. The
T’gol
found her first.
“We have conducted a search of the entire ship, Sai’ana Grace,” the
T’gol
said. Even in the bright morning light, it was hard to look at him, as if his body was a projection that was slightly out of focus. “There is no one on board save for ourselves and the crew.”
Grace nodded. It was impossible that someone could be on the ship and the
T’gol
would not find them. Even so, she had made her own inventory as they boarded the ship. She had used the Touch to seek out and locate the life thread of every living organism on the ship, down to the last rat. It had been exhausting work—the web of the Weirding had kept knotting and tangling in her fingers—but she had done it, and she knew Avhir was right. Whoever or whatever had been pursuing them, it was not on this ship.
“The passage to Al-Amún will take two days, Sai’ana Grace. I suggest you use that time to rest. I will show you to your quarters.”
She took Avhir up on his offer, but she did not stay in her tiny cabin belowdecks. Instead she fashioned a quick simple and went in search of Master Larad. On deck, the crewmen were lashing down ropes; they had given the ship full sail now that they had left the harbor behind.
“Excuse me,” she said to one of the sailors—a man with blond hair and a boyish face. “You haven’t seen a sick wizard around, have you?”
“No,” the sailor said.
He was tying a rope to a metal hook. As he worked, Grace noticed a rather nasty-looking gash on his arm. It was fresh and had barely begun to scab over. He had probably gotten it while working the ropes; a loose line could crack like a whip.
She started to reach for him. “Would you like me to take a look at that cut? I’m a healer.”
“You’d best leave me be and go to your cabin,” he growled. “A woman has no business on a ship. It’s bad luck.”
Then he turned his back on her, grabbed a rope, and scrambled up into the rigging. So much for that sweet, boyish face. She started along the deck, continuing her search for Master Larad, and hoping her sea legs decided to show up soon.
She found the Runelord still leaning over the rail. With effort, she managed to get some of the simple down him, and then with the help of Kylees transferred him to his hammock in the main hold belowdecks. Grace had asked Rafid for help first, but he had scowled and stalked away. A moment later Kylees appeared.
“What’s wrong with Rafid?” Grace asked.
“He will not touch a sorcerer except to slay one,” Kylees said.
“Larad’s not a sorcerer. He’s a wizard.”
Kylees did not answer. Despite her small size, she looped Larad’s arm around her shoulder and hauled him to his feet.
Grace spent most of the voyage at Larad’s side, bathing his brow with a cool cloth and getting what herbs into him she could. Blessedly, the passage was short and the winds fairer than usual of late, and it was just after dawn two days later when they sailed into the harbor at Qaradas.
Master Larad’s condition improved almost immediately upon disembarking, though he remained pale and weak. Grace knew that speed was of the essence, but she wondered if it wouldn’t be better to wait a day in the city to let Larad recover his strength.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” the Runelord said, “I would rather ride at once. At the moment, I wish to get as far away from water as possible.”
“Then you shall get your wish,” Avhir said, appearing out of a swirl of dust. “The others have arranged camels and supplies for our journey. We will set out for Hadassa at once.”
Grace bit her tongue to keep from thanking the
T’gol
. She cast a glance at the ship—her last connection with the lands of the north—then followed Avhir and Larad through the gritty streets of Qaradas.
19.
The blond-haired sailor walked along the pier, away from the docked ship.
“Where are you going, Madeth?” a rough voice called out. A group of his crew mates gathered near the end of the pier. “We’re off to find ourselves some wine and dancing women. I’ve heard that in Qaradas they wear nothing under all those fluttering scarves.”
The sailor called Madeth did not stop walking.
“Ah, forget him,” said another man. “He’s still a boy. He’d only get in our way.”
The sailors moved away down the dock. That was good. He could not allow himself to be seen.
Why?
a part of him started to question.
Why can’t I be seen?
Where am I going?
However, those tremulous thoughts were quickly drowned out by a surge of hot blood in his brain. His legs pumped with mechanical efficiency, carrying him into the city. His eyes scanned back and forth until they found what they sought: the mouth of an alley between two white buildings. He moved into the alley, away from the hot eye of the sun, letting the dim coolness envelop him.
The alley was empty save for a dog that snarled at him. Its ribs were showing. He ignored the beast as he had the men. It was time.
He pulled away the rag he had bound around his arm two days ago. The wound beneath was puckered like an angry mouth. Pus oozed from beneath a crusted scab, and red lines spread out from the gash, snaking up his arm. He had gotten the cut while loading the ship, gouging his arm on an exposed nail while he hoisted crates on the dock at Kalos.
And then what happened?
He tried to remember. He had cut himself, and then all at once everything went dark, as if a shadow had fallen over him. There was pain—far more pain than a simple cut on his arm should cause, coursing through his body. And then . . .
Oh, by all the gods, then—
Again blood sizzled in his brain, erasing the thoughts. With his free hand he dug under the scab, prying it loose, and pressed his fingers into the wound, opening it up and tearing it wider.
Blood gushed out, and Madeth screamed.
He staggered back against the wall. Dark red fluid poured down his arm, raining onto the ground and pooling there. The puddle grew larger, then the blood began to flow—not down the gutter—but upward, into the air. It gathered in on itself, rising up before Madeth, twisting and writhing like one of the water-spouts he glimpsed from time to time on the open ocean. And which he would never glimpse again.
His heart ceased its work; there was nothing left for it to pump. The column of dark fluid undulated and took on a new shape: that of a man. Two hot sparks appeared in its face, glowing like eyes. They watched as the empty husk of the young sailor slumped to the ground. The dog’s snarling became a piteous whine as it backed deeper into the alley.
A glistening arm lashed out, reaching much farther than a normal man’s might, and the whining was cut short. The arm retracted, drawing the body of the dog closer, and in a moment its empty body lay crumpled next to that of the sailor.
The creature’s body rippled with pleasure. It re-formed itself into a tight ball and rolled to the back of the alley, then let itself sink back into a puddle on the ground. This form took the least energy to maintain, and it was best to conserve; soon, it would need all its strength. It would rest while the hot eye glared down from the sky. Then, when darkness covered the world, the hunt would begin again. She was close. It could taste the nearness of her blood. It would pursue.
And when this over, when it had brought its creators to what they sought, it would drink her dry.
20.
Deirdre winced as a crash emanated from the other side of the paneled mahogany door. This was not going well. They had left Beltan alone in the parlor, hoping some rest might calm him. Instead, it seemed to have had the opposite effect. Another crash sounded. She tried to picture the parlor’s decor. There weren’t any Roman busts, Ming vases, or priceless medieval artifacts in there, were there?
Not anymore
, she thought.
She looked up to see Anders hurrying down the corridor, a satchel in hand. Thank the Great Spirit, he was back.
“How is he?” Anders said in his gravelly voice. He had donned a fresh suit—one with two sleeves.
“Fabulous,” Deirdre said. “In a screaming, thrashing about, throwing things against the wall sort of way.”
“I figured as much,” the Seeker said. “Big warrior types never have tidy little emotional outbursts. He’s got to be pretty broken up.”
Something thudded against he wall, rattling it.
“Him and the parlor,” Deirdre said. But that wasn’t fair. Beltan was just displaying what all of them were feeling inside. The Scirathi had taken Nim. Travis and Vani had followed through the gate, but there was no way to know if they had succeeded, if they had managed to pursue the sorcerers to Eldh, or if they had been lost in the Void between the worlds. Beltan had just met his daughter. Now he might well have lost her forever, and his life mate as well. Given similar circumstances, Deirdre doubted her outburst would have been very tidy either.
“I brought some of his clothes from their flat,” Anders said, hefting the satchel. “Maybe a shower will help settle him down and clear his head. Let’s talk to him.”
Deirdre was doubtful, but it was worth a try. “You go first.”
Anders opened the door, then ducked as a coffee cup whizzed over his head, past Deirdre, and shattered against the wall of the corridor.
“Hey, now,” Anders muttered under his breath. “I hope that wasn’t aimed at me.”
“You’re the one who wanted to go in,” Deirdre said, and shoved him in the back, urging him forward.
No more projectiles hurtled their way as they entered the parlor and shut the door behind them. The destruction was not as bad as Deirdre had feared, and was largely limited to their coffee cups and saucers from the night before. She made a quick survey of the room. There was a large Grecian urn on a pedestal next to the fireplace, looking both priceless and fragile, but it was untouched.
The same could not be said for Beltan. He stood in the center of the room, hands empty and twitching, staring blankly. An ugly bruise darkened his right temple. She had never known what a proud warrior defeated looked like; she did now.
“Good morning, mate,” Anders said, his voice a touch too far on the cheery side. “I brought you some fresh clothes. I thought you might like to get cleaned up.”
Beltan said nothing. He did not look at them.
Deirdre gathered her courage, then moved to him, touching his arm. He was shaking.
“Beltan, please,” she said, trying to meet his eyes. “Talk to us.”
“Why?” the blond man said, his voice hoarse. “What can you say that will change anything? Travis is gone. He has left me.”
Anders set down the satchel. “He didn’t leave you, mate. He went after Nim. I’d say there’s a pretty big difference between the two.”
“And yet either way I am still here, without him,” Beltan said. “I am alone. It is hopeless.” He turned away from Deirdre, scrubbing his face with a hand, but not before she saw the tears that ran down his cheeks.
“Well, now,” Anders said, “that doesn’t sound very warrior-like to me. I don’t think Vathris would approve of that kind of talk.”
“And what would you know of Vathris?” Beltan snarled over his shoulder.
Anders shrugged thick shoulders. “Not much, I confess. Just what you wrote in your reports for the Seekers.”
Beltan flinched. “It doesn’t matter what Vathris would think. There is nothing I can do.”
“You sound pretty sure. But maybe for a moment stop thinking about what you can and can’t do. Why don’t you tell me what you
want
to do?”
“What do you think I want to do?” Beltan clenched his hands into fists, advancing on the Seeker. “I want to go after them. I want to find them and help them!”
Anders was grinning. “Now that sounds like a man of Vathris.”
Beltan blinked, and for a moment shock replaced anguish, then shame. “You are right. As long as I am alive, I must try to find a way to reach them.” He gave Anders a grudging look of respect. “You would make a good warrior, you know.”
Anders winked at him. “Been there, done that, mate. I’m the brains now, not the brawn.”
“Warriors can have brains.”
“I suppose they can at that,” Anders said wistfully.
They sat down at the same table where they had gathered last night. Deirdre called for Lewis, and the butler brought a plate of sandwiches as well as coffee and new cups. He cleared away the broken shards of china without batting an eye, then silently slipped from the parlor. To be a butler for the Seekers was to quickly learn not to ask questions.
“I feel strange,” Beltan said. “It’s like I’m made of water inside, not muscle and bone. I want to swing my sword, but there’s nothing to swing it at, and my hands are shaking so much I don’t even think I could hold it. What’s wrong with me?”
Despite feeling watery herself, Deirdre smiled. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Beltan. You’re afraid, that’s all. Welcome to the club. It’s how a lot of us feel a lot of the time.”
His jaw dropped. “And yet you still keep on going? You must be very brave. I don’t know if I am strong enough to do this.”
“Maybe a sandwich will help,” Anders said, taking one and pushing the plate toward Beltan.
“I doubt it,” the big man said, then took three sandwiches at once.
The food did seem to help. Beltan’s color grew better, and as they spoke a fierce light ignited in his eyes.
“You’re right,” he said around mouthfuls of food. “I know I have to do something, and I will. Only I don’t know what it is, or even how to find out. All I know is that somehow I’ve got to get to Eldh.”
“There might be a way,” Deirdre murmured.
Only when she saw both Beltan and Anders staring at her did she realize she had spoken the words aloud.
Anders leaned over the table. “All right, out with it. What’s going on in that crafty little noggin of yours?”
“There’s only one way to get to Eldh,” Deirdre said, “and that’s to use a gate.”
“Only there aren’t any gates,” Anders said. “You can bet those sorcerer baddies took their gate artifact with them when they went.”
“You’re forgetting about this.” Deirdre picked up the newspaper the mysterious Philosopher had sent last night.
“All right, so there’s another gate,” the Seeker said, confusion on his pitted face. “But the sorcerers have the arch, too.”
“No they don’t. Not all of it.” Deirdre couldn’t believe she was saying this. “The arch isn’t complete without the keystone, and right now it’s still in the vaults below this Charterhouse. If we could somehow get the arch . . .”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. They had gone to a great deal of trouble to steal it; surely they wouldn’t leave it unguarded. However, she had said enough. Beltan leaped to his feet.
“We must take the arch from the Scirathi!”
Anders raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s a bit of a bold plan, don’t you think?”
“It’s not a plan,” Deirdre said, doing her best to backpedal. “It’s just one possibility, that’s all. One very ridiculous, stupid, unlikely possibility.” However, it was too late; the damage had been done.
“It can work,” Beltan said. “It has to—it’s the only way.” He locked gazes with Deirdre. “Promise you’ll help me.”
Deirdre swallowed hard. “I don’t know . . .”
Beltan made a growling sound low in his throat. “You have to help me get that gate. I will not lose Travis. I will not!” His hands twitched, and he started for the Grecian urn.
Deirdre jumped up and stepped in front of the big man. For a moment she wasn’t so certain that was a good idea. No doubt, when tossed against a wall, she would make every bit as satisfying a smashing sound as the urn. He reached for her.
She grabbed his hand, holding it. “I promise, Beltan. On the Book, I swear it. Anders and I will help you find a way to get to Travis if it’s the last thing we do.”
And it very well might be. However, the words seemed to calm him. He returned to the table, and Deirdre let out a breath. Had she really just offered up her life to save an old vase? But she hadn’t promised they would try to take the arch back from the Scirathi, only that they would help Beltan find Travis.
Is there really a di ference between the two, Deirdre? You
know there’s no other way to Eldh besides the archway.
“I don’t want to be the cloud that rains on the parade,” Anders said, taking a sip of his coffee, “but even assuming the Scirathi hand over the arch when we politely ask for it, and even assuming that keystone fits, how are we supposed to activate the gate? In case you’ve forgotten, that takes some extra special blood, which we just happen to be fresh out of.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Beltan said. “I kept this.”
He pulled a dark, wadded-up piece of cloth from his pocket. It was the sleeve of Anders’s suit coat, which Vani had used last night as a makeshift bandage. It was crusted with dried blood— Travis’s blood.
Anders let out a low whistle. “Warriors can have brains indeed.”
“Is anyone going to eat that last sandwich?” Beltan said, and reached for the plate before either of them could answer.