Caller of Light

by Tj Shaw

  Sampson shook his head. “No, I would never disobey you. I’m just trying—”

  Marek cut Sampson off with a wave of his hand. “I’ve spoken. Either do as I say or I’ll find someone who will.”

  Although Sampson’s words were unwelcome, they were true. His men were too few and could not withstand the overwhelming numbers in the Tiwan Tribe. The strategically sound maneuver would be to escape, but doing so would guarantee Carina’s death.

  In the end, tactics didn’t really matter because the vestiges of rational thought had slipped from his mind. Carina and her wellbeing had become his sole purpose. Because when he saw her fall, a chasm had ripped through him searing every nerve ending in his body. Although only minutes had lapsed from Carina’s plummet to her rise on Mira’s back, the bone breaking despair he’d endured during those brief moments would last forever.

  The Gods had issued their warning—he now knew what life would be like without her. Grateful for a second chance, he would heed the Gods’ admonition and give her every opportunity to live. Helping her was the least he could do. And since he understood what his life would be like without her, it was the least he could do for himself. No matter how irrational his decision, they would stay, fight, and die trying to save her.

  He knelt beside her and brushed the hair from her face. Her pale skin and shallow breathing scared him. He could feel her slipping away, the strength draining from his body the closer she came to death.

  Aware Sampson stood behind him, his frayed nerves flared in anger. Sampson should’ve left to ready their defense. About to lash out, Marek stilled his tongue when he noticed Sampson’s expression. A range of emotions danced across Sampson’s face, but hurt seemed to be the one that settled into place, causing Marek to regret his harsh words.

  “Forgive me, Sampson, for I misspoke.”

  Sampson shook his head. “No, ‘tis I should beg forgiveness. You gave an order. It’s my duty to obey, not to question. I’m sorry. I’ll organize the men.”

  Sampson turned and almost plowed into the healer before disappearing into the forest, barking orders.

  The healer looked like a man who’d never missed a meal in his life. His round, red cheeks were flushed from the exertion of hurrying across the uneven ground. With a small groan, and using a tree for support, he eased his large frame down beside Carina. His chubby fingers performed a cursory exam before he acknowledged Marek.

  “Sire,” he managed, but went silent again as he monitored Carina. After a moment, he sat back on his heels and fixed a pointed eye on Marek before speaking. “Tiwans lace their arrows with poison. Although her wound isn’t fatal, I’ve no cure for the poison. We should leave her, so I can tend to the other wounded.”

  Marek did not appreciate being told what he already knew. “Healer, Tiwan poison works quickly. Carina should’ve been dead long ago, yet she still breathes.”

  The healer rubbed his double chin. “Hmmm, that is true.”

  Marek continued. “Since she transitioned with the Criton maybe she absorbed some of that life energy.”

  The healer glanced at Carina again as if looking at her for the first time. “I suppose the magic of transition could’ve lessened or absorbed the effects of the poison. I could remove the arrow and give her the remedies I use for other poisons.”

  “Do it,” Marek ordered.

  The healer nodded. “I’ll need a fire.”

  21 – HOPE

  The men set up Carina’s tent, the only one to survive the destruction of their camp since it had never been raised. Marek carried Carina inside and stayed with her as the healer removed the arrow, sewed up the wound, and applied a salve. Once bandaged, the healer slipped Carina’s undershirt back in place.

  Marek didn’t appreciate the grim look on the healer’s face, and to his surprise, even resented him touching her. Although foolish, Marek couldn’t curb the jealousy that had flared when the healer had untied her undergarment and tugged it off her shoulder to get to the wound.

  “She’s not responding to the medicines I’ve given her,” the healer muttered as he checked her pulse. “And her fever is dangerously high to the point if she does recover, I’m not sure she’ll be whole.”

  “But she’s lived so long.” Marek could hear the desperation in his voice. “No one has ever survived Tiwan poisoning for any length of time.”

  “I’m afraid the transition only slowed the inevitable. This woman won’t last the night.”

  “There must be something you can do.”

  The healer shook his head and stared at Carina’s lifeless body.

  Her breathing had slowed to such shallow, labored gasps that Marek could barely see the rise and fall of her chest.

  “I’m very sorry, my king.”

  Marek scrubbed his hands across his face. This couldn’t be happening. They were missing something—something they had not tried yet. He hadn’t come this far and endured so many hurtles just to lose her now. His intense feelings for Carina were unreasonable and they frightened him more than the slash of any foe’s blade.

  A shout from a guard warning of an incoming rider diverted his attention. “Stay with her,” he ordered before storming from the tent. When he stepped outside several men stood with their swords pointed at a Tiwan who had landed his Criton in the clearing and walked the rest of the way into camp alone.

  Although Marek couldn’t identify the rider, he recognized the black Criton and rage consumed him. He drew his sword and lifted it chest high. The corner of his mouth ticked into a sneer. He’d find solace watching the coward’s blood saturate the ground. A quicker death than he wanted, but Carina required his attention.

  Marek strode toward the Tiwan who had raised his hands in a pleading gesture, but Sampson stepped between them before he could drive his blade into the man’s chest. Marek’s anger blinded him to everything but one goal, gutting the Tiwan. With clenched teeth, he commanded Sampson out of the way.

  Sampson pressed his hand into Marek’s shoulder, restraining him. “Sire, he claims to have the antidote.”

  Marek shook his head to clear the fury from his mind so he could absorb Sampson’s words. But even after a moment, his hatred refused to loosen its hold. “What?”

  “He says shooting Carina was a terrible mistake and wishes to give you the means to save her,” Sampson whispered in his ear.

  Marek frowned. “Release me.”

  Sampson moved away, but remained nearby.

  Marek sheathed his sword and stepped forward until the Tiwan stood within striking distance. The Tiwan bowed. The Criton tattoo on the man’s face marked him as part of an elite squadron of Criton riders, protectors of the Light Realm. The tattoo encircled the Tiwan’s left eye with the Criton’s tail curling under the lower lid and the head resting above his eyebrow. A gaping mouth shot flames halfway across his forehead indicating he’d traveled to Crios. This Tiwan held a place of honor within the tribe.

  “Is what you say true?”

  “Aye, Sire.” The Tiwan spoke with an air of regret. “A messenger falsely accused your mistress of being a Dark Caller.”

  A dry, incredulous chuckle escaped Marek’s lips. “So, instead of verifying the information, you chose bloodshed?”

  “We thought it best to attack without warning since you were moving quickly through our land and the strength of your men is well known.” The Tiwan shrugged, looking helpless. “The Elders felt losses to both sides were a worthwhile sacrifice if it meant saving the world from another Dark Caller.”

  “She’s not a Dark Caller.”

  “As evidenced by the fact a young Criton saved her, then transitioned with her.”

  Marek could hear the awe laced within the Tiwan’s words. “And now you’ve realized your mistake and wish to make amends?” He didn’t bother hiding his disbelief.

  “We think she’s special and feel her death would be unfortunate.”

  Marek snorted, and crossed his arms.

  Sampson stepped in close. “
Let me kill him. Then we’ll take the antidote.”

  The Tiwan shook his head. “The cure contains Criton venom. I must monitor her treatment and alter the doses depending on how she responds. Your shaman wouldn’t know how to adjust the mixture.” The Tiwan leveled his eyes on Marek. “If you kill me, you kill her.”

  Marek hesitated. Although he hated to admit it, the healer was correct. Carina was dying. The reprieve she’d received from Mira’s transition only slowed her death, it didn’t cure her. He could kill the Tiwan then watch Carina die, or let the Tiwan administer the supposed antidote, which could just as easily hasten her death.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. What choice did he really have?

  “She’s in the tent.” He stepped aside so the Tiwan could pass.

  The man bowed before moving toward the opening. As he walked by, Marek grabbed his arm, stopping him in midstride. “If she dies, your death will soon follow.”

  The Tiwan inclined his head, never looking at Marek. “As it should be since it was my arrow. Now, if you’ll release me, for the sooner I begin treatment the better chance I have at saving both our lives.”

  Marek let the man go and watched him disappear inside. Conflicting emotions bombarded his mind, and Sampson didn’t offer any reassurances.

  “That’s it?” Sampson asked, pointing toward the tent. “You’re just going let him do it?”

  “What else can I do? She’s dying.”

  Sampson inhaled a long, frustrated breath. “We’ll watch him, but won’t know if he’s helping her.”

  Marek nodded. “That’s all I ask. Make sure he doesn’t walk the camp. Tie him up and isolate him when he’s not with Carina.”

  “Very well,” Sampson muttered, and entered the tent.

  22 – ANTIDOTE

  Although the early morning hours lay upon the land, the cold grip of darkness still held the Mother Source in a firm embrace. Lanterns flickering inside the tent threw off just enough light in the confined space for Marek to see Carina’s face. The pallor of her skin and motionless body disturbed him, but her breathing whispered in and out of her lungs in a steady rhythm.

  To the Tiwan’s credit, whom he learned was named Caden, the antidote appeared to be working. Caden had spent hours hovering over Carina, forcing a foul smelling liquid down her throat. In a show of good faith, the Tiwan had answered all the healer’s questions. By relinquishing so much information, the healer could now recreate the cure. But Caden had issued a stern warning—too little, or too much, would result in death. The powerful antidote teetered on the edge, a delicate balance between life in this world or rebirth in the next.

  The healer stood and stretched his back before edging toward the tent flap. “She’s improving, Sire. I believe the worst is over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have others to check on.”

  Marek smiled and clasped the large man’s shoulder before the healer lumbered outside.

  Caden also rose. “She’s resting so I’d like to stretch my legs until the next dose.”

  Marek glanced at the two soldiers standing just inside the entrance and they stepped forward.

  “Thank you,” Caden said, and grabbed his cloak with the distinctive orange and black coloring of the Tiwan Tribe.

  Marek called to the Tiwan just before he stepped from the tent.

  “Sire?”

  Standing over Carina, Marek watched the lantern light cast her face in a soft glow. Her parted lips beckoned him. Even sick, her allure commanded his attention. “What did you mean when you said she was special?”

  Caden shrugged, and tied the cloak around his neck. “That young Criton risked her life to save Lady Carina. Behavior like that from an unbonded Criton by itself is unusual, but to then transition with Lady Carina on her back is remarkable. Lady Carina must have a special destiny to be so connected to an unbonded Criton.”

  “She’s mixed,” Marek replied flatly.

  Caden raised his eyebrows. “Really? On the mountain, she acted with the bravery of a purebred royal.”

  Marek clenched his teeth. “Was that before or after you shot her in the back?”

  Caden’s blue eyes flickered. “A mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my life. But you don’t need me to tell you she’s special.”

  “What?”

  Caden pulled the tent flap aside and paused at the entrance. “Because you chose her above her true blood sister,” he murmured before slipping through the opening followed by the soldiers.

  Marek sat beside Carina, extending his legs alongside her body. Seeing her resting filled him with peace. He hadn’t realized how anxious he’d been until the healer had spoken of her recovery, lifting a weight off his chest so he could finally draw a full breath of air.

  He ran the back of his hand down her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. She muttered something unintelligible at his touch.

  “Sleep, Carina,” he whispered. “Sleep, and get well.”

  23 – CONFUSION

  Carina swam to the surface of consciousness. She hesitated when she touched the brink of wakefulness because once she crossed the threshold she would fully perceive the pain pounding in her shoulder. But cold, thirst, and most of all, fear drove her upward. Shadowing the ache, she allowed it to wake her. Although she braced herself, she still awoke with a gasp.

  A soft burning lantern dispersed odd dancing images of light across the sides and roof of the tent. She shouldn’t have been cold covered in all the blankets, but a chill gripped her body. Thoughts assailed her, squeezing her chest in a rising panic. Where was Marek? Why was she alone? Did he know the Tiwans attacked because they believed she was a Dark Caller? A whimper tumbled out of her.

  She listened, but only the quiet stillness of the night welcomed her. Another notion rattled her brain. Maybe he’d left her. The idea strangled objective reasoning from her mind and she wrangled herself out of the blankets.

  In her undergarments, the icy air sliced through her skin. She rolled onto the shoulder without the bandages and pushed herself to a seated position. Nausea threatened to overcome her, but the feeling subsided after inhaling crisp air into her lungs.

  She stood on shaky legs and with chattering teeth, padded across the floor. Her bare feet left small imprints in the dirt marking her path to the tent flap door. Pushing it aside, she held her breath and peeked though the slanted opening. Relief washed through her when she saw the camp—she hadn’t been abandoned.

  She spotted Marek sitting beside the main fire. Sampson sat with him, but Marek seemed miles away, lost in thought. She groaned. He looked so sad and she was the reason for his pain. Because of her several of his men were dead. How would he ever forgive her? How would she ever forgive herself?

  Tears plummeted down her face to freeze on the ground. He’d suffered enough. She didn’t want to be a burden or painful memory of the men lost. Clinging onto the tent flap for support, she realized that although she couldn’t bring back the men who had died, she could ease the suffering of those still living.

  Unguarded tears cascaded over her eyelashes, tracing cold tracks down her cheeks, but she didn’t brush them away. She stole one more glance at the king who now sat alone by the fire to burn his image into her mind. When he buried his face in his hands, an unbearable sorrow tore through her chest as if the Tiwan’s arrow had pierced her heart instead of her shoulder. She’d caused him such misery.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’ll make it right.” With a shaky hand, she let go of the tent and lurched forward. A wave of dizziness blurred her vision. Staggering into a tree, she grabbed it to keep from falling and catch her breath. The bark scraped her cheek as she hugged it like a long lost friend, and waited for the pounding in her head to subside. But even her throbbing head didn’t compare to her thirst. Every breath raked across her throat, a dry wasteland craving water.

  Not sure which way to go, she picked a direction opposite the camp and shuffled off. Her shoulder, the only hot part of her body, pulsed in a constant
rhythm. The biting cold desensitized her feet so she no longer felt the sting of twigs or rocks as she hobbled through the darkness. Other than finding water, she hadn’t thought about where she’d go, or what she would do for clothes, or the simple truth she’d probably freeze to death if she didn’t find shelter. Her driving force was to ease her thirst and free Marek from the burden she’d become.

  She’d only trudged a few steps into the forest when a snort caused her to jump. Turning toward the noise, a pair of shiny, red eyes stared back at her. Fear traveled down her spine. Just her luck, a demon forged from Haden to finish her off.

  24 – SEARCH

  Marek had spent the last three days at Carina’s side, rarely leaving her tent. He would still be with her if the healer hadn’t insisted he get some fresh air and something to eat. Sitting beside a fire that offered no warmth, he forced the tasteless food down his throat.

  A numbness cloaked his body as if he’d gone dormant, waiting for Carina to awake. When not with her, he slept-walked through the days, trying to support his men by encouraging the wounded to get well, helping to bury the dead, and ensuring their defenses were fortified. But his actions were a shallow attempt at being a good king. Emptiness plagued him, a companion to the guilt eating his mind.

  Over the past few days, he’d spent countless hours running through the events leading up to the attack, yet struggled to find where he’d gone wrong. What had he missed? What sign hadn’t he seen? Who even knew he’d taken Carina as his mistress and traveled through the Bridal Lands? No matter what avenues his mind explored, the paths eventually converged into two possibilities…Marissa and King McKay. Since Regin seemed to be motivated by wealth, sending a messenger to kill an asset didn’t make for a fiscally sound decision. By default that left Marissa. According to Caden, the messenger hadn’t worn any colors to identify whose authority he rode under, but the more Marek mulled over the possibilities the more convinced he was of Marissa’s betrayal.

  Thinking of Carina rekindled the ache in his chest, a dull, persistent beating thrum acting as a reminder that she’d almost been killed because of his arrogance. Somehow the attack was his fault, his responsibility. He’d been too complacent and self-assured, and several good men were dead as a result. The weight of their deaths pressed down on his shoulders, a burden he would live with forever. He should’ve been more diligent, should have seen the signs. Because in addition to his men, he’d almost lost the only person who excited and intrigued him—who encouraged him to see the world as if it was new again.