The World of Samar Box Set 3

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Just got dizzy.” She reached for the towel and tried to pull it around her.

  “It’s been a long day,” he said, helping her adjust the towel.

  She nodded. “Help me up.”

  He braced her with an arm under her elbow as she rose. She tried to pull the towel around her, but he caught glimpses of how thin she was. Her ribs stood out and he could see the bones in her thighs. It scared him, but he forced it down, reaching out to rub the towel over her back and sides.

  “You’ll love the fall of water,” she said. “I’ll stand guard while you take your bath.” She pointed to the green stuff in the dish. “That’s soap.”

  He could see the fatigue in her eyes. “I think we’re safe. I think this entire wing is ours. Let’s get you dressed and back in our room. You can rest while I get cleaned up, okay?” His eyes lowered to the emerald, where it lay quiet against her throat. “The emerald will wake you if anything dangerous approaches.”

  Her shoulders relaxed in relief. He turned his back while she finished drying, then handed her the clothes. Even though they were small, they hung off her gaunt frame, and he knelt to roll up the cuffs on the pant legs. She braced a hand on his shoulder and studied him.

  “I’m so sorry I got you into this mess,” she said.

  He looked up, curving his hands over her hips. “I’m not.”

  She ran her fingers over his face and traced the scar on his lips. “What if there’s no cure and you get sick?”

  “I’m still where I belong.” He pressed her hand against his cheek. “Where I want to be. Where I’ve always wanted to be.”

  She swallowed hard, but she didn’t answer. He knew he’d probably pushed things a little too fast, so he stood up and steadied her with a hand under her elbow.

  “Let’s get you back to the room.” They were just able to walk down the hallway side by side, and he led her to the shelf along the back wall where she sank down. He retrieved their packs and searched through hers, finding a comb. Sitting down next to her, he motioned for her to turn so he could comb her hair.

  She complied without complaint, letting him smooth out the tangles from her dark curls. He took his time, letting the weight of it slide through his fingers. Once he was done, she leaned back into him and he encircled her with his arms, resting his cheek against her head.

  “Thank you, Jarrett,” she whispered.

  He didn’t have the strength to answer, so he simply nodded. Gradually he felt her relax against him and then her breathing evened out and grew regular. Easing her down onto the shelf, he rose and pulled the length of green cloth over her as a blanket. Then he bent and kissed her on the forehead.

  Closing his eyes, he silently prayed that somehow they would find a miracle, a cure, a way to stop the inevitable from happening. He couldn’t bear to think otherwise.

  * * *

  Brodie felt fairly certain he would be arrested once he docked the boat in his slip. He didn’t much care. At least the soldiers would protect him from the Nazarien, and he could tell the King of Eastern Nevaisser where his sister was. Maybe even, there would be a reward. Either way, it would take away the guilt he felt.

  The buildings of Kazden appeared out of the fog and he tacked toward the dock, securing the rudder and inching forward to lower the sails. The Tulip, his ship, was easy enough to sail single handed, but he was getting old and his joints were stiff. He’d enjoyed sailing with Jax. Jax would do all of the grunt work, leaving Brodie to handle the tiller.

  Thinking of Jax brought a pang. He missed his friend. He missed the way his handsome face lit with delight whenever he set foot on the Tulip. He’d loved sailing as much as Brodie did. Now he was gone. Dead and buried. Brodie wished he’d accompanied him back to Temeron, but Jax hadn’t asked him and Brodie’d been afraid of the disease.

  When he thought of it, a lot of his life had been spent in fear. He’d never married because he was afraid to court a woman, he’d never gone to school because he didn’t want to fail, and he’d never had more than a handful of friends because he was afraid of rejection. Jax had eased some of that. Jax had kept the loneliness at bay

  The sails fluttered down and Brodie scrambled back to the tiller. He smoothly brought the boat into the slip and felt it thump against the dock. He glanced along the dock, expecting the soldiers to descend on him, but no one was anywhere in sight. Maybe he’d get lucky and be able to sneak back to his room without anyone knowing he’d returned.

  Rising to his feet, he stood on tiptoe and peered around the dock. He felt surprisingly reluctant to go back to his room. What if the Nazarien came again? He’d been so sure he’d be arrested immediately that he’d never considered what he’d do if he wasn’t. Where should he go? Where would he be safe?

  It struck him as he moved toward the bow. He would catch a ride up to the King’s manor house and report directly to him. The King would be so happy to learn the location of his sister that he might offer Brodie a reward.

  Unwinding the rope hooked to the prow, he climbed out onto the dock and began winding it around the pole. He wondered where he’d be able to get a ride to the manor. If he went to the Blue Sturgeon, Junelle or Greyburn might be able to drive him.

  “Don’t move and I won’t slit your throat,” came a voice in his ear. He felt the cold touch of metal against his neck.

  He went still, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  “Step back into the boat. Go real easy now.”

  Brodie felt himself being lifted to his feet and he stepped down onto the Tulip. So much blood rushed to his head that his vision narrowed to a tunnel and he swayed with the motion of the boat.

  His captor shoved him into the seat beside the tiller and instinctively, Brodie gripped the handle, feeling the etchings against his palm. He pressed his hand tight to the tiller and the groove of the wood drove back the narrowing of his vision.

  “What do you want?” he said, blinking up at a man nearly three times his size. The man’s blue eyes gave him away. Nazarien.

  Brodie felt bile rise into his throat, burning his esophagus. The man hunkered down before him, but his eyes lifted past Brodie’s shoulder. The old man flinched as other Nazarien dropped into the boat and fanned out along the length of it.

  “I want the Nazar. Where did you take him?”

  Brodie’s chest was rising in a rapid pant and now small black dots were clouding his vision. He knew he needed to calm himself. “I sailed him out to Delure.”

  “With the Temerian leader?”

  “Yes.” He gripped the tiller tighter. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  The Nazarien turned the knife over in his hand. “Of course you will. Where is this Delure? Do you have a map?”

  Brodie glanced at the other Nazarien. Four in all. They were wandering around the boat, looking at everything, lifting cushions and sails. An idea struck him. A plan born of desperation. “I can take you there. I can sail you out there tomorrow.”

  The Nazarien squinted at him. “I just want to know where it is. I want a map.”

  Brodie gripped the tiller so hard, he could feel the wood pressing into his flesh. “You’ll need someone who can sail. And a boat. You’ll need a boat. The Tulip will take us all.”

  “You are a right traitorous bastard, aren’t you?” remarked the Nazarien. “No loyalty to anyone, not even the King of Eastern Nevaisser. You know what we want. You know we will kill the Nazar and the King’s sister, and yet you have no problem handing them over to save your miserable life.”

  Brodie did have problems with it, but he couldn’t think of any way to get around it. And the King’s sister was sick already, likely dying. The Nazar was probably infected as well by now. When push came to shove, there was only one person looking out for Brodie and well he knew it.

  “Just because I take you there, doesn’t mean you’ll find them. Besides, who am I to stop your plans?”

  The Nazarien didn’t respond for a long ti
me. Brodie squirmed under the stare of his blue eyes. He had a number of medallions hanging from his ear, just like the Nazar, and short cropped brown hair. He was handsome like all Stravad, but there was a tight set to his mouth that took away from his overall perfection.

  “I just want a map, bearings, any indication of how to find the island.”

  Brodie’s heart sank. He ran his thumb along the raised etchings on the tiller. He knew he had to try something else. “I’m the only living person who knows how to sail there. There’s no map. There are no coordinates. There’s only this.” He tapped his temple with one finger.

  The Nazarien’s eyes gleamed with a strange light. Brodie pressed back against the seat. Eldon’s star, what had he said? Without turning around, the Nazarien barked an order in a strange language.

  Two of the warriors moved toward the door of the cabin and descended.

  Brodie leaned forward. “I’m telling you the truth. There’s nothing down there. I never kept a map, I never wrote down the bearings. It’s all in my head. If you want to get out to the island, you’ll need me to take you. There’s no other way.”

  The Nazarien moved so fast, Brodie didn’t know what had happened until it was too late. Pain exploded in his neck and a hot fluid ran down his throat. He released the tiller and pressed his hands to the spot. He could feel the warmth of his own blood as it flowed over his hands and down the front of him, gushing with each frantic beat of his heart. He sank back against the seat, staring up at the Nazarien with wide, terrified eyes.

  “I don’t want to go out to the island,” hissed the man, his medallions reflecting the sunlight. “I want to make sure no one else can. Good thing you are the only one alive who knows where it is.”

  Brodie felt the last few pumps of his heart, trying to force oxygen to his brain, then his vision narrowed until the only thing he could see was the Nazarien’s blue eyes. He scrambled for the tiller and gripped it in a blood soaked hand, curling his fingers and palm over the etchings, driving his blood deep into their grooves. Then he could see nothing more.

  * * *

  Jarrett was jarred awake by Tyla’s wracking cough. He sat upright, momentarily confused by where he was, then the round room with the two sleeping shelves came into focus. Muted light filtered through the opaque green walls.

  Tyla sat, hunched over, the shimmering green cloth pooled around her waist, her body heaving as she tried to get air. He slid off his own shelf and moved to the one in back, sitting down in front of her and gathering her hair in one hand.

  She pushed weakly at his chest, trying to tell him something, but the coughing was too severe. Even in the muted light, he could see flecks of blood on her lips, which she tried to hide with her hand.

  He didn’t know what to do, how to help her. Then he remembered one of the times when he was a child and had a horrible cold. His mother had heated water over the stove and forced him to lean over it, breathing in the steam.

  He gathered Tyla in his arms and lifted her off the shelf, the green cloth falling on the ground. He could feel every bone in her body and pressing her against his chest, he could hear a rattling in her lungs as she tried to draw in air. She was dying right in front of him and he could do nothing to stop it.

  Carrying her to the doorway, he nearly ran into their guide from yesterday. The creature reared back and gave a distressed look as he heard Tyla’s cough. Jarrett shoved past him and carried her into the bathing chamber. Easing her to the floor, he reached for the spigot and turned it to the hottest setting. Then he sat down in front of her and waited for the steam to gather.

  “Take shallow breaths, sweetheart,” he said, brushing the hair back from her face. “Shallow breaths.”

  She leaned her head back against the wall, her chest heaving, a strange wheezing sound coming from her lungs. Jarrett forced the desperation down as he wiped the spots of blood from her lips with his thumb.

  “That’s it, slow and easy,” he coaxed.

  Gradually the spasm passed and the strange noise went away. She took incrementally deeper breaths until her chest wasn’t heaving so much, then she opened her eyes. They shimmered with an inner light that faded away as she studied him.

  She looked around the room, drawing the steam into her lungs. Prismatic sprays of water dotted her dark hair. “What made you think of this?”

  He exhaled in relief. That she could talk again was an unbelievably good sign. “Once when I was very sick, my mother had me breathe the steam from a pot of water.”

  She wiped the back of her hand across her lips and saw the flecks of blood. “Jarrett, you’re going to be infected.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He brushed a curl back and pressed his forehead to hers. “How about I get you a change of clothes and you can bathe? Those are wet.” He nodded at her green trousers and tunic.

  “So are yours,” she said, giving him a fleeting smile.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to pass up another turn at bathing in hot water. Do you think you’re strong enough to get up?”

  She nodded and let him pull her to her feet.

  “Do you need me to help you undress?”

  She gave him an arch look. “Really, Nazar?”

  He smiled, forgetting his Nazarien training. He was so damn relieved to see life in her again. “I’ll be right outside.”

  He started to leave, but she caught his hand and held it. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, then he left her. He found their guide waiting outside with two more bathing towels and another set of the strange green trousers and tunic. He accepted the clothes, then studied the creature curiously. How did he know what they needed?

  After he and Tyla had bathed the previous day, their guide had presented them with a strange green mush in two round green bowls. Neither Tyla nor he had been up to trying it, so they ate what remained of their own foodstuffs from their pack. As soon as they finished, they lay down to sleep. Their guide had tiptoed into the room, taking away the uneaten bowls and they had been left alone for the night, but the minute they awoke this morning, he was back. It was almost uncanny how he knew what they were doing or needing at any moment as if he could see them, or perhaps, read their minds.

  Ducking back into the bathing chamber, he laid Tyla’s new clothes on the half-wall and made sure she was okay. She had her back to him, letting the water run over her face. He paused and studied the way her ribs showed, the curve of her spine so very pronounced. He’d never seen her so fragile as if she might dissolve before his eyes.

  He turned away, fighting down yet another wave of desperation and returned to their guide. It was time to try speaking with him. The strange creature looked up at him, his enormous round eyes searching Jarrett’s face.

  Jarrett splayed a hand in the middle of his chest, automatically curving the other over the hilt of his sword. The creature’s eyes tracked both movements. “I’m Jarrett,” he said. “Jarrett.” He emphasized his point by slapping his chest a couple of times.

  The creature studied him some more, but didn’t respond.

  Jarrett had actually been hoping the creature could read his mind. It would have made things so much easier. He patted his chest again. “My name is Jarrett. Jarrett.”

  The creature suddenly nodded his head, the white feathery hair rippling backward. “Jer-rid.”

  Jarrett nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Jarrett.” He pointed at himself, then the creature, gradually opening his hand to show it was empty.

  “Zim-ran.”

  Jarrett blinked in surprise. “Zim-ran?”

  “Zimran,” said the creature again, touching his chest. “Meun nomin es Zimran.”

  Jarrett shook his head, not sure he fully comprehended. “Jarrett.” He held his hand out to their guide. “Zimran?”

  The guide pointed to Jarrett. “Jer-rid.” His long fingered, green tinged hand rolled back and touched his chest. “Zimran.”

  Jarrett let out his held breath
and smiled. “Good. Good. That’s something at least.”

  * * *

  Parish stepped up on the dock beside the commander. Two bodies lay at the entrance, both with their throats slit, blood nearly obscuring their uniforms. Another body lay further down the dock, half hanging into the water. As Parish looked over the side, he could see where the blood had pooled on the wood and spilled into the water. None of them had drawn their weapons.

  He followed the commander further down the dock. The living soldiers all avoided eye contact with him. They were spread out along the entire length, their weapons drawn. He could feel their tension, worried about the same thing he was. Someone had killed these men before they were able to defend themselves. Parish feared he knew who had done it.

  Another solider lay spread-eagle in the middle of the dock, his throat slit from ear to ear, his eyes staring at the empty sky. Parish had to step over him to continue. His heart sank when the commander stopped at a small boat. The name Tulip was painted on the side and she bobbed against the waves, pressing against the dock and sliding away again.

  An old man lay huddled in the stern, his bloody hand gripped around the tiller, his mouth opened in a scream that never came because his throat had been slit so deeply, his wind-pipe was cut in two. Parish closed his eyes and breathed shallowly, fighting for composure. He forced himself to look again and noticed the boat had been ransacked. Cooking utensils, ropes, buckets, and papers were scattered about the deck. The door leading to below-deck was hanging by one hinge.

  His eyes moved back to the old man and he exhaled heavily. “Brodie Daegan?” he inquired of the commander.

  “We’re waiting for identification from the tavern owners where he lived, but this boat is registered in his name.”

  “When did it pull into dock?”

  “We estimate the attack came sometime last night, but they didn’t even sound an alarm. We found them this morning when we changed the watch.”