Thief of Light (56 page)

The Queen’s Money turned to a couple of hard-eyed men wearing short swords. Erik caught only a couple of words. “Fetch Rhiomard and his guards . . . Search . . . palazzo . . . Careful . . . basement.”

The evidence is there
, murmured the Horned Lord.
They will find it. The Money is nothing if not efficient. The City is less so, but nonetheless, he will organize divers. Caracole will be saved, the Leaf of Nobility healed in time
.

The Lady’s breath blew over Erik in a sweet gust. Her hand closed over the nape of his neck.
The kit you freed will grow to be a patriarch of seelies. His progeny will be legion
.

“I knew You’d like them,” he murmured, his brain gone all muzzy with the comfort of Her touch. Death wasn’t so bad. Smiling, he closed his eyes, feeling his soul begin to drift, the moorings loosen . . .

No, that wasn’t right . . . was it?

Something small and persistent tugged at him, relentless as a biteme. Mumbling his irritation, he tried to brush it away, but it refused to be dismissed. “I am here,” it said, hanging on grimly. “I won’t let you go.”

Erik forced his eyes open. His view of the kitchen had shrunk, no more than a keyhole through which he saw Prue pick up his limp hand, wrap his fingers around the Lord’s horn and hold them closed with her own.

Very gently, the Lady said,
You have paid your debt for Inga, Erik, paid it in years of buried, festering guilt. You are free. All that is left is to beg Prue’s forgiveness. Only then will you heal.

Erik’s head rolled. “No, that can’t be right. What I did—”

Is forgiven
, rumbled the Horned Lord.
Do not presume to question
.

“Why not?” said Erik, with a tired grin. “It’s not as though You’re going to kill me—again.”

The Lord’s chuckle reverberated around the inside of his skull, rattling Erik’s brains as though they were dice.
Incorrigible
, said the god, shaking His great horned head.
Stubborn and brave. Which is why you must choose once more. There is work still for you to do, Erik Thorensen—if you wish it
.

Choose? Fuck, he was so weary. Why wouldn’t They leave him be?

“Stay with me, Erik.” Prue’s biteme voice, right in his ear. “I’ve got you. Darling, darling—” She broke off on a gulping sob like a child’s.

Erik stirred. “Not without her.”

Of course
. Was the Lady laughing at him?
There is a place in the Pattern even for a skeptic like a null witch
.

A null—? Never mind, he’d worry about it later.

His heart banged painfully behind his ribs. “And the Magick?”

That was Our gift
, said the Lord.
As was the Voice. They are yours
.

A slow tide of compressed agony washed over the left side of Erik’s chest, bringing with it a deathly chill. “T-tell me what You want me to do,” he said, his teeth chattering.

No
, said the Lady softly.
If We touch the Pattern directly, We alter it
.

The Lord’s horn was a glowing ember under his fingers, Prue’s frantic grip cold in comparison. With a supreme effort, Erik rallied his forces. “I have a price,” he said between his teeth.

You dare to bargain with the gods?
The Lord’s voice dropped so deep it went beyond the threshold of hearing. Erik felt it only as a vibration in his bones, his skull.

“Take the Voice from me.”

Silence.

“I beg You. Take it.”

At last, the Lady said,
The curse and the blessing are one, Erik. No more music. Are you sure?

Erik’s chuckle turned to a rasping cough. “Great Lord, long ago, You told me . . . everything has a . . . cost.” He fought for breath. “I cannot afford . . . the Voice.”

Another silence. Constellations wheeled past while the gods considered, stars lived and died, planets settled in their orbits.

Done
, said the Lord, like a great bell.

Close your eyes, little one
, whispered the Dark Lady. Huge, slender fingers stroked over his eyelids, his nose, his lips. Something hot and wet plopped onto his temple and rolled into his hair. Erik’s breath stopped. A tear?

An enormous force collided with his chest, hammering him into the kitchen table like a body slam from an angry mountain. The agony was all-encompassing, red-hot fists squeezing his lungs until he couldn’t find the breath to scream. Shit, shit, shit.

He fought. “Nngh.”

“Erik?”

Levering one eye half-open, he grunted.

Prue’s shriek of joy was so loud he would have winced if the fists of pain buried deep in his chest had permitted it. As it was, he dared not move a muscle, but he pressed her fingers with his own. Small though the action was, the effort left him exhausted.

“Told you!” she said, turning her head.

Purist Bartelm came into view, accompanied by another Purist, a middle-aged woman. “So you did,” he said, but he smiled at Prue. “Now you need to move well away and let me work, Mistress.”

Shaking water from his hands, the old wizard dried them on the spotless cloth the woman handed him. “Roll him onto his side,” he said to someone out of Erik’s line of sight. “And stretch that arm over his head.”

His features tightened. “This is going to hurt.” He picked up a small, flexible tube and a slim, shiny knife from a metal tray. “Your lung’s collapsed and your chest cavity is full of air you don’t want.”

“Nngh,” said Erik. He didn’t see how anything could be more painful than what he was enduring now.

Unfortunately, he was wrong.

Several centuries and a world of pain later, Erik surfaced, fighting his way out of the murk by slow degrees. His recollections were confused—being stuck with that godsbedamned tube, the astonishing hiss of the air escaping, Prue kissing his cheek, prizing his fingers away from the talisman so she could wash his chest with warm water, a long black period of terrible cold that had him moaning and shuddering, though he clenched his teeth against it.

But none of his memories included the tall, slim woman with the swathes of blazing red hair at her temples who sat placidly by his bed, reading.

It took him three attempts to get her name out. “
Cenda?
”

Her head jerked up, joy turning her eyes to gold. “You’re awake! Oh, my dear.” Shyly, she bent to brush his cheek with warm lips.

When he tried to speak again, she hushed him, supporting his head so he could sip water from the cup she held for him.

Reading the questions in his eyes, she smiled, and suddenly, she was breathtakingly beautiful. “Yes,” she said. “Gray is here too.” The smile became wry. “We came with Deiter.”

She whisked herself to the door. “Prue’s exhausted. She’s taking a nap. I’ll go wake her.”

“D-don’t.” Gods, was that his voice, so rusty and unused?

Cenda’s eyes danced. “She’s a terror, your Prue.” The fire witch gave a theatrical shudder. “Five-it, she made me promise—the minute you opened your eyes.” A final twinkle, and he heard her light footsteps running up a flight of stairs.

No more than three minutes later, Prue hurtled through the door like a small tornado, her hair flying in a great tangle of glossy brown. She wore only a night shift, her arms and legs bare. “Erik!” She skidded to a stop beside the bed, stretched out a hand and let it drop. “You . . . you’re . . .”

“Come here,” he managed, no more than a husky rasp. “Let me . . . hold you.”

Prue stared, and all the breath left her in a shuddering sigh. Her face crumpling, she fell to her knees and laid her head next to his on the pillow. Sobs tore out of her, shaking her whole body, dampening his shoulder.

Erik could do little except stroke her arm with the tips of his fingers and make soothing noises, but something warm and comforting settled inside him, the caress of it like sweet balm soaking into a bruise. Vaguely astonished, he puzzled over it, considering the sensation from every angle. All he could compare it with were the golden memories of childhood—cuddled up with Ma in the big bed while she told stories so outlandish he and his brothers forgot to wriggle and fight, their mouths falling open in wonder. Rolling over and over down a hill covered with warm summer grass, arriving at the bottom in a tangle of sweaty arms and legs, smelling the sweet crush of green and hearing Carl explode with laughter. A dim memory of toddler-hood, his father carrying him home after dark, big arms holding him safe.

Good times. When everything was
right
, completely as it should be, as it was meant to be.

But not in his adult life. Not until now.

Very slowly because of the pain, Erik lifted his hand to rest on Prue’s bowed head. “Sshh,” he murmured.

One side of his chest still hurt like a bitch. More aches and pains shrieked at him from every limb. He was thirsty again, and now that he came to think of it, hungry.

But none of it mattered. Because this was what peace really was, sweet and easy as a perfumed bath. No fanfare, no fireworks.

It wouldn’t last.

The black tendril of apprehension was thin, but persistent, wriggling its way into his consciousness, a suckworm invading his paradise.
Enjoy this while you can
, it hissed.
Because if you want her in your future, she’s going to have to know about Inga
.
And what you did.

Every muscle in Erik’s body tensed. All his various hurts combined in a ghastly chorus, sung fortissimo.

The Lady’s voice, echoing in his head like the music of a star.
All that is left is to beg Prue’s forgiveness. Only then will you heal.
Fuck, he didn’t have the guts. He’d been better off dead, at least the gods had forgiven him.

But then Prue raised a tear-stained face and sniffed. “Erik?” She stroked his jaw. “Love?”

No, the peace of death paled in comparison, not when he could have this. Even if it only lasted ’til she walked out the door, this joy was worth any struggle, any pain. Good, ah, gods, it was good. Blinking drowsily, he tried to smile.

Prue brushed her lips over his stubbled cheek. Drawing back with a shaky smile, she said, “I should leave you to sleep. Purist Bartelm’s been very worried.”

“Mm. Me too.”

“You should have been better almost immediately. If it had been an ordinary man who stabbed you . . .” Her brows snapped together. “But it wasn’t, it was
him
.” Her lips trembled. “Just as well you’re so strong.”

“How long have—?”

“Two days and more. It’s not far off midnight. Here, take these.” She dosed him with four pellets of concentrated healall, washed down with more water.

After swallowing obediently, he asked, “Where—?”

“You’re at The Garden, in the Main Pavilion.” She gestured at the room. “This is—or was—the Spring Green Parlor on the ground floor.” Her straight, dark brows drew together, and for the first time, he noticed the shadows under her eyes, the pallor of her skin. She went on, “I had them bring a bed in here rather than try to get you up the stairs.”

It was a big bed, he noted with approval, plenty of room for two. “You,” he said, wrapping his fingers around her wrist, “sleep here.” He didn’t intend to waste a moment of this precious, fragile peace.

Prue shook her head. “I’ll jostle you.”

“No,” insisted Erik, tightening his grip. “Not without you.”

He frowned, thinking. The words had a familiar ring, important somehow.

“Please?” he said.

Prue capitulated, as he’d known she would, settling carefully at his side, linking their fingers together.

After a few minutes, her breath deepened. She murmured something unintelligible into his neck and fell asleep. Erik lay a little longer, watching the double shadows move on the ceiling, listening to the lap of the dark water in the canal. The pain receded a little. Good stuff that healall.

Eventually, he too dozed off, his brow furrowed.