by Candy Nicks
"Finn's a grown man, Naima. He looked as if he needed space. A blind man won't go far. Help me save Carine."
"I'll fetch some taraga to pack the wound. I'll make her an oral solution, too."
Where did her loyalty lie? Any one of the wise-women, or healers could administer the anti-septic—a simple enough task. Finn and Kandar might be fighting to the death somewhere. Only she could stop them.
Ancel dropped into the chair beside the bed, his eyes never leaving Carine. “If he truly loves you, he'll come back."
"He doesn't know the ways of our world. He's lived a ... sheltered life, and I'm worried. I could get someone to make up the taraga for me while I go check—"
Carine interrupted her, struggling to lift her head, all the while murmuring an incoherent babble of random words. Her fever-bright eyes narrowed in concentration. Ancel pressed her gently back into the bed.
"Naima,” he said with the tone of a man whose thread of patience was about to snap. “If it were you lying there, do you think Carine would have hesitated in her duty? Fetch the taraga. We can't lose her."
"You're right. Forgive me, I'll go at once.” She left wiping away guilty tears and feeling as if she'd been tested and failed badly. How could she have contemplated leaving Carine's care to someone else, let alone voice those thoughts to her father? They were fighting to save the woman he loved, who'd been a mother and mentor to her all these years.
Stop! Naima closed her eyes and unclenched her tense muscles. A wrong step, yes. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and put it right.
"Sol. Mother's not feeling well. Find Tallin and keep him and Larissa out of the way, please. No, it's nothing urgent, don't worry."
"What's happening?” Sol asked, his face a mask of confusion. “Everything's been strange since Finn arrived. Mother is going to die, isn't she?"
"No. She's not.” Where was Tragiria? She had the wisdom to cope with Sol's penetrating questions. Right now, Naima had no answers for him. “Sol, I need to fetch Mother some medicine. Why don't you take your horses to Brynn's house? I'm sure he'd love to see them."
Sol dropped the carvings onto a chair and flicked back his hair, just as she did when agitated. “Brynn's already seen them. I'll go and find Tallin,” he said. “Why can't Mother use magic to save herself?"
"I don't know Sol.” Naima touched his head lightly. “Look, sweetheart, I need to go. Will you be all right?"
"Would you like me to find Finn too? He might bump into something."
"Finn's fine. But thanks for offering.” She gave Sol's head a final pat and let herself out of the garden door.
Which direction had Finn taken? One minute he'd been writhing in agony, the next gone. She tried to remember how much prepared taraga they had in stock. The poultices would require frequent changing and someone needed to take Carine's place on the herb stall at the trading fair.
As she poured the liquid taraga into a small glass bottle, she made a mental note of those on the Settlement who claimed healing and magical skills. They'd have to be skilled indeed to battle the effects of the blackened soul Carine hid with such deceptive ease. Her sacrifice had given Naima a father; a debt she could never repay.
The isolation hut lay a little farther up the slope from the infirmary. Naima resisted the temptation to run the short distance and look through the window to see whether Finn had found his way back. It didn't mean she loved him any less. This was just part of the complicated web of choices and compromise that made life sometimes a little difficult to bear.
Nearing the house, she glimpsed Brynn's tall figure, flanked by Sol's shorter frame, standing on the veranda.
"What the Hell's going on,” Brynn demanded. “Sol says Kandar and Finn fought, and Carine was hurt."
"Blood poisoning,” she replied, holding up the taraga. “Not hurt, it's from her earlier wound. Come inside, I need to ask you something."
"Hell, she was getting better.” They entered the house and filed up the stairs. Sol refused to be excluded.
"What does Doctor Pietr say?"
Naima gave a bitter smile. “What he usually says. It's in the hands of the Gods. He's completely useless as a medic. We really must entice some proper doctors to the Settlement."
"I've been thinking about getting some medical training. Carine told me to do something with my skills."
"She's always thinking of others. Wait there. Father's very upset, I'd better ask if you can come in."
"No, I'll stay here. Don't want to stir things up.” Brynn folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “I'll keep Sol company. Just needed to know how she was faring. What did you want to ask me?"
"I need a favour. How long can you wait?"
"All night, if I have to. Go ahead. I'll be here. Sol, fetch a chess set. I'll give you a good thrashing."
"In your dreams.” Sol ran to his bedroom for the game. Brynn turned quickly to Naima. “How is she really?"
"Hard to tell. I need to get this to her. Brynn, would you do me a favour? Finn's missing, would you check and see if he's back at the hut?"
"Missing?” Brynn straightened. “How?"
"Complicated. Check on him for me, please? Take Sol with you, he's having a hard time dealing with all this."
"Go to Carine. I'll take the little guy and be right back."
Their footsteps clattered down the stairs. Naima paused at the bedroom door, gathering her scattered thoughts into a coherent thread. Carine appeared to be asleep.
Naima entered the room and watched Carine's chest carefully for rise and fall as she methodically laid out the medical supplies on the side table. Blood poisoning brought death by stealth, unless you were lucky, or blessed by the Gods. It came swiftly, and quietly and simply carried people away. She laid a hand on Carine's heated brow. No. Not going to happen to her.
Ancel stood at the window, elbows on the frame, chin in his hands. A man focused, determined. Glaring out at the mountains as if they held answers to the mystery of Carine's attack. His love and determination would keep Carine alive. The two of them had a connection Naima had never begun to understand.
"Father,” she said. “Carine needs you here. We both do. You have the power to keep her alive."
"Something's not right, Naima. Tell me what it is."
"Hold her steady, Father."
Ancel gathered Carine in his arms, brushing aside the fall of thick dark hair while Naima changed the dressing. The wound, small and circular, bulged a little at the seat of the infection. A yellow core edged with red. Too small a thing for such grave consequences.
"Sponge her down. She's too hot."
"What are you not telling me?” Ancel asked Carine's limp and feverish body. “Why do you keep secrets from me?"
Naima glanced at her father, hearing clearly the mixture of anguish and frustration in his voice. No one loved like these two, yet even in the most perfect of relationships, it seemed a little rain must fall. She ached to put her father out of his misery and confess Carine's secret. Finn's.
"Try to stay calm,” she told him, feeling more like the parent than the child. “I'll stay with you. Let's send for some of the wise women. Perhaps they can persuade the Goddess to help?"
Ancel shook his head. “Carine has given that useless deity a life-time of devotion. Where has it got her?"
"It's got her you, Father.” Naima turned away, unable to face the scrutiny of his clear grey eyes. “It's got her you."
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Chapter 12
Poor blind soul. Finn heard a voice, cracked and old, crooning with sympathy. Someone pressed a hot griddle-cake wrapped in waxy paper into his hands. The grease dripped through his fingers and the smell made him feel faint with hunger. After weeks of soup and milk-soaked bread, his appetite returned with a vengeance. The fried meat and potato delicacy disappeared in two mouthfuls to the chuckles of the woman who'd gifted him. He was unable to resist holding a hand out for more.
"Take it and go,” she said, kin
dly. “My man will have my hide if he finds me feeding beggars."
Finn muttered a thank you around a mouthful of food, one hand clutching the ends of the sack under his chin, and turned to the milling crowd. Life and death, desire and repulsion, it was all here. A much bigger cross-section of humanity than he'd encountered at the Settlement. More like the crowds who used to pack themselves into tents and halls, all hoping for a glimpse of the Lupine.
He'd been aware of something as he'd roamed the camp. The merest tingle of recognition. When he was close enough, the man following him would be able to invade his mind, and Finn, his.
Now, he felt nothing. Sniffing, he listened with his keenest senses for the distinctive presence of Lupine blood, feeling too exposed, but needing to know. He stepped carefully, navigating by the play of shadow and light, the sounds and the scents.
What did a blind man look like? A helpless fool? An object of pity? The last thing he needed was to stand out of the crowd. He wished he had something with which to tie back his distinctive hair, or a knife to hack it off with. Uncovered, the beading would mark him as a Rom. Not a problem in itself; the trading fair was full of his fellow tribesmen. But they were an inherently suspicious people who travelled in large family groups. If they didn't know him, he would soon be marked down as a spy or a saboteur. Rivalry within the tribe was intense.
The outing had ceased to be fun. The crowds were too dense, and the kindness of the old woman who'd fed him, the exception rather than the rule. Every bumped shoulder resulted in a curse or a threat, sometimes a shove that threatened to send him toppling into the mud. Every drop of spare energy went into keeping his wolf in check. The more agitated he became, the more it wanted to rampage through the crowd, searching for the man who'd escaped the killing frenzy.
When Finn risked a quick look and realised how far he'd wandered into the maze of wagons and transports, he growled with frustration. He ought to go back to the hut, cut his hair, grow a beard, and spend the rest of his life in hiding. Avoiding Carine's hopeful gaze. Trying to live up to Naima's ideal of the perfect husband. He growled again.
Recognition crept upon him. A light feathering along his spine, a sinking feeling in his gut. He wound the dirty sacking around his face and attempted to pinpoint the source. Until know, he hadn't realised how much he wanted this confrontation. One way or another, this score needed settling. A public arena might at least ensure they both survived the encounter intact.
I'm here. Find me.
He sent as clear a mental image as he could, knowing that if the man was close he'd pick it up. No use in prolonging the agony. Finn heard the familiar, piping music. No gathering or celebration was complete without one. I'm by the carousel. Where else would I be? Come on, you coward. I know you can hear this.
Finn? Stay where you are, I'm coming over. His father's voice sounded in his head, surprised, and Finn thought, a little relieved too. Too late for the bastard to start caring. Finn opened his mind to the telepathy and waited.
"Finn?” This time he heard the deep, grating voice for real and bristled at the invasion of his aura by one so similar to his own. Inside him, his wolf shook with suppressed rage.
"Behind you, Son. Turn around. Slowly."
"Are you armed?"
"Yes."
Finn stayed in place, talking quietly behind the sacking. “You wouldn't risk anything here."
"I own you, lad. The warrant is right here, in my pocket."
"I'm not your slave."
"I beg to differ. Unless you'd like to go back and take your chances with the Murder-Board? None of your victims had signed releases on their lives. None were slaves. I have enough witnesses who'll finger you."
An all-consuming hate fogged Finn's brain. If his wolf broke through now, it would get them both killed. He turned, glad he couldn't see the man.
"You tried to kill me."
"No, lad. I just wanted to bring you down. Subdue you. Do you know how many people you slaughtered? How many more it might have been?"
Bodies jostled him as they pushed past. Finn resisted the urge to lash out at them.
"They played with fire. They were burned. I'm no danger to anyone else. I don't kill for fun. Why didn't you use the stun-gun if you wanted me down?"
Fin heard a throaty chuckle. “Not a danger? Have you any idea what that beast inside you looks like at full throttle? I used a Class C blast-gun, and you bloody-well got up and jumped through a plate glass window. Now look at you? Healing already. Impressive. Come back with me, lad. Whatever you think, I do have your best interests at heart. There's no place for you here."
"You're lying, and you're wrong.” Finn took a step back, feeling the ground cautiously with his heel. His father—the master of the carrot and the stick. He'd speak his honeyed words, paint a picture of father and son, existing in perfect harmony, and if that didn't work? The scars of Finn's defiance had healed on the outside. Inside, each one of them was still raw.
"Stay where you are.” The blast-gun's whine changed pitch. “Don't make me hurt you again. Think. It's just you and me now. Together, we can bring back the Lupines. Found a whole dynasty of them. Do you realise what a force we could be? I've fathered twenty-five children, and you're the only one. You're special. Come back with me."
"No."
"Look at you. You can barely breathe.” The shadowy palm shielding the miniature blast-gun twitched. “If you can see it, don't let the size of this thing fool you. In your weakened state, you wouldn't stand a chance."
"Go to Hell."
"The Pit? That's where you're going. You're willing to die with those brutal murders on your soul?"
Finn took another step back. “The Goddess will save me."
"False hope, lad."
"I'll atone."
"How? Only a sacrifice of heroic proportions would wipe clean so tainted a soul."
"I was provoked. It's no different from a soldier killing in battle to defend his homeland, yet they die certain of a place in the Hall of Warriors."
His father nodded, as if to concede the point. “Your motive was personal revenge, was it not? Not quite the same. Come on, lad. I didn't travel all this way to debate philosophy with you. Come back with me and we'll find a soul reader stupid enough to do a soul-swap. Let's forget the old grudges. Have a new start. Look at you. Blind and helpless. Or too vicious to be let loose. How many more deaths will you be responsible for? You can't live in normal society, and I'd gain nothing by killing you."
A tempting picture of his father, bloodied face surprised in death, flashed into Finn's mind. His wolf would surely have killed the man had he not been outside the hall attending to the crowds. Finn gave a low growl. The wolf hadn't changed its mind. Move and let me finish him. It remembered the man's words spoken with such venom.
"You wanted to kill me ... Father." The name was almost too painful to speak. Finn continued to back up carefully, aware of his father mirroring every step in this grotesque dance. He considered appealing to the crowds, but with his wolf teetering on the edge of control, he didn't dare.
Goddess, help me! If she'd ever loved him, or his kind, now would be a good time to show it. Where was her famous smile when he needed it?
"She doesn't care about you, laddie. Not like I do."
"You did it, didn't you? Stabbed the woman called Carine? Do you know who she is?"
"Oh yes. Everyone knows that story. Thought I'd create a little panic, suspicion. Soon you have a lynch mob, complete with pointed sticks and flaming torches. Doesn't take much to get the blood boiling."
"Well, it didn't work. She'd never blame me."
"You really are dim, aren't you? How do you ever expect to survive this world? Think logically. They took you in, treated you. Now they've let you go wandering and people suddenly start getting hurt, dying even. Or at least they will. It's a common denominator thing. Who do you think they'll blame?"
"And you have the gall to lecture me on the afterlife. If I'm bound for the Pit, I'll m
eet you there."
"Aye, perhaps you will. The difference between you and me? I don't care where I end up. I've done the soul-swap thing a couple of times. It works, to a point. The problem is keeping the damned soul clean. I'm not scared, like you are. When I've lived my life, I'll face the consequences."
Scared? Terrified, more like. Finn swallowed down the bitter feeling. He would control the beast. No more killing. Spend the rest of his life in atonement. It might just be enough.
Fate, life, the Goddess—whoever controlled these things—wasn't having that. Take him out, a voice whispered in his head. End it finally. Forget the Pit. Live for now.
Kill his own father? Now the confrontation had arrived, Finn found himself paralysed by indecision. The Pit must reserve a special place for children who committed that horror. He gasped for breath, short dizzying pants that made his head spin. The panic of being backed into a corner, both physically and metaphorically.
And when the Goddess finally smiled on him, it wasn't the benevolent blessing he'd been praying for. More like the thin disappointed smile bestowed on an errant child.
Hadn't he been listening? He had a job to do. Perhaps he needed more motivation? Something that would send him to the ends of the world seeking redemption.
His father lunged, grabbing him by the throat and propelling him backwards into a patch of dark shade. The man's outline became a little clearer allowing Finn to duck the thick shape of his father's fist lashing out. His wolf crouched, ready to spring.
"No.” Finn swung a punch and missed. The momentum pitched him sideways into the dirt. Before he could right himself, the hard metal grille of a stun-gun pushed into his biceps. The charge jolted him like a cloth doll, rendering his left arm temporarily useless. He curled defensively and made one, last futile effort to stay human.
They said the Goddess's smile worked miracles. The wolf was drawing from an empty well, yet it felt more powerful than ever. With an agonised roar, Finn clawed at his shirt. He pulled it away, morphed into the Goddess's right hand and sprang.