"No more than most. I know that they were once men but turned into monsters. I know that their numbers are growing, and that people are afraid."
"Are they evil?" Am I evil?
"None of the gods' creatures are inherently evil or good," the clothman said. "But, the prowlers must be of Autorus, mustn't they? He is death, and his fingers corrupt the goodness of our world. The prowlers are unnatural. I would say that they are, indeed, evil."
Cara's throat tightened. "Can they be redeemed?"
"Can Autorus? But why do you ask, dear child?"
"Because it wasn't their choice. No one wants to become a prowler."
"Such is life and death. Is either just? Autorus corrupted their souls, and now they cannot see Lyael. And for one's family to succumb to it...it is a great tragedy."
Lyael, the domain of the gods, was the final death. All souls wished to go there, but Autorus trapped many in his afterlife, keeping them from the gods. He was the greatest evil of all.
"Surely there must be potential for good in them," Cara said.
"I wish it were so. But I fear that evil can only beget evil."
But how did evil come to dwell inside me? Cara thought. She wanted comfort, but this clothman only brought her confusion. Am I, too, corrupted by Autorus? Am I barred from Lyael? But why? I did nothing to deserve this! More than ever, Cara wanted a cure, to be rid of her beast now that she knew what it was.
Cara rose suddenly. Merick would know. Even if he'd lied to her before, he must know something. The clothman bowed his head. "Shall I pray for you, child?"
"No." He's a good man. He can't pray for evil, even unknowingly.
The inn door slammed open. A rush of wind surged through the room, bringing with it the acrid smell of burnt flesh. Sandu stood in the open doorway, his eyes wide. He saw Cara and ran to her, grabbing at her arm.
"What's–" Cara started, but he spoke over her.
"It's Merick. We went to the healer while you rested, and–"
"What happened?" All anger at Merick drained from her, leaving only dread.
"He's vomiting this black...vile..." Sandu gestured helplessly, apparently unable to find the words.
Cara ran to the door.
Chapter Four
Cara
OUTSIDE THE INN, the air swirled with smoke. The taste of the burnt woman settled on Cara's tongue when she opened her mouth. She coughed, but ran after Sandu. They wove through the remnants of the crowd, ignoring shouts and jabs, until they reached the far side. There, Sandu led her to a white-washed building with an apothecary's symbol painted on the door.
The room inside was clean and tidy, and shelves on the walls groaned with hundreds of glass bottles and vials. A counter separated the back half of the room, with another door behind it. Beyond that door, Cara could see a short man hovering beside a low table.
A pungent smell assaulted her nostrils, stinking of decay and rotted fruit overlaid with a coppery sweetness. It was the same smell from that dreadful night, when the Hooded Man stood before the yawning purple void and black tentacles struck Merick while Renna vanished into the darkness.
At that smell, the beast wriggled in her belly. Cara didn't just build a wall around it: she constructed an entire castle, moat and all, to ward it away. She wouldn't let the beast overcome her now. Not when Merick needed her.
Cara took a deep breath to ready herself before stepping into the room. Merick lay on his side on the table, one arm held around his gut. On the floor beneath his head, a black puddle of oozing vomit sank into the sawdust, reeking of that awful smell. Merick groaned, then spewed forth yet more. Careful not to step in the muck, Cara sank onto the bed beside Merick. He spared her a grateful glance before burping up another chunk of the unnaturally thick, oily stuff.
"How long has he been like this?" Cara asked.
The short man said, "It started a little while ago. He came into the shop complaining of pain, said his wound was open and needed stitching. I had him sit on the table to examine him, and then..." He gestured helplessly at the quivering mercenary.
"Did you see his wound?"
"No."
Cara reached for Merick's shirt, but he grabbed her arm. He stared wildly at her, and rasped, "I 'eard a voice, Cari. Like Death 'imself. Said he were come'n to claim me."
"It was only a dream, Merick," Cara said, brushing a hand on his fevered cheek. "It can't hurt you."
"But it 'urts!" Merick babbled, eyes as wide as a child's. He grasped Cara's arm so tightly she thought he might rip it off. She gritted her teeth, blinked back tears from the pain, and put her other hand over his. There was fear in his look, fear such as she'd never seen in him before. Even after the prowlers, Merick had seemed calm and collected. But now, he looked like a scared old man who still wished his mother could hold him. I have to be strong for him, Cara thought. The idea terrified her. He was supposed to be her protector, to always know what to do and where to go.
What do I do? All three of the men looked to her.
Cara again extended her hand for Merick's shirt, and he let her. That concerned her just as much as the vomit. Pulling the cloth up, she had to quickly turn her head away before she lost her last meal.
The gash on Merick's stomach was inflamed, each inch swollen and bursting with pustules. The blackened edges had grown, darkening the skin for a finger's-width all around. A reddish-brown fluid seeped out, the source of the coppery smell. Dark magic. Just as Freebane had said. Would it infect Cara, too, if she touched it?
"Is it bad?" Merick asked, his sweat-drenched head leaning against the pillows.
"It doesn't look pretty." Cara turned to the others. "Healer, we need to wash this out. I–"
The healer shook his head, gazing at the wound. He made a sign over himself. "This is witchcraft."
"Veck it, man, he needs our help!" Cara said. She pushed to her feet and came nose-to-nose with the healer. "Unless you do something, he'll die."
"It's not right. First the prowlers, now this...it's a bad omen, he'll bring Autorus' wrath on us, I can't–"
Cara drew her sword. She didn't need the beast to urge her on. "Do what you can, or tell me where a man with a stronger stomach might be found."
The healer's eyes slid along the length of the blade. "There's nothing to be done."
"You haven't tried anything!"
"Not even Shepherd Jerloam in Copefield could heal a man at this stage," the healer stammered, backing away from her. Cara stepped toward him, but he turned and ran, pushing past Sandu to flee his own shop.
"Vecking hell!" Cara swore, slamming her sword back into its sheath. "Sandu, how far is Copefield?"
"Almost a full day's ride northwest, out of our way."
Cara paused, chewing her lip. If she didn't take Merick to Copefield, he'd die. But if she did, then they might lose valuable time in finding Renna.
One is here with me, and the other is not. Gods forgive me, but I have to save him while I can. More selfishly, Cara couldn't let him die without learning the truth – whatever he knew of it – about herself. "I'll be damned if I don't do something. Go get our packs and saddle the horses. Meet us outside." Sandu nodded, then ran out after the healer.
It would take a quarter of a candle at least before he met them. Cara searched the apothecary's shop, locating supplies for cleaning and stitching the wound. She tipped a water bladder into Merick's mouth before she set to work.
But Cara paused, watching the slow liquid. Would it infect her, too? Even if it might, what choice did she have? Still, perhaps if she kept it from touching her skin...Cara raced to the front door, where she found a thin pair of sheepskin gloves left behind by the healer. She pulled on the gloves and returned to Merick. The beast beat at the castle walls, but she reinforced them. There was no time for fits.
Swallowing her nausea, Cara wet a cloth and dabbed it along the wound. She cleaned the black edges before washing the gash itself. But as she wiped away the fluid, she saw that Merick's organs had gained an awful grey tint
scored with black veins. More of the substance exuded from some unseen place, trickling up toward Cara's hands as she tried desperately to wipe it away.
"Merick..."
"It still 'urts," Merick mumbled, black vomit dribbling from his lips.
"I know, I know, I'm trying to help." But what use was it? She was no healer.
She had to try. Merick had done so much for her, she couldn't just let him die. Not yet, not when she still needed him.
Little Cari, only seven years old, fell and bruised her knee, tripping over her own feet, the wooden practice sword too heavy in her hands. She stifled her sobs, because Merick always said that a warrior didn't cry.
Despite her efforts, two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Merick leaned down and cupped her chin. "Now, lass, it's only a bruise. C'mon, get up, show me what you're worth."
"But it hurts," Cara said.
"I know, lass. But there's naught to do for that. Push past the pain, there's a girl."
Cara shook herself. Push past the pain. She wove a line of catgut through Merick's flesh, stitching it together with trembling hands. Yet as she stitched, she saw the pus flow between the thread. The catgut melted away in front of her eyes.
What is this dark magic?
The quarter-candle must have passed by now. She was out of time, and nothing she did helped him. She tore a long strip from the bottom of her dress, wrapped it around Merick's torso, and secured it over the wound. It wouldn't last for long, but it was all she could do.
Merick moaned, only half-conscious, as Cara put one of his arms over her shoulder and helped him from the room. He mumbled and drooled black liquid all the while.
Outside the shop, a small group of about a dozen people had gathered, the healer among them. He pointed a finger at Cara, screeching something incomprehensible. Beyond the people, the pyre had burned lower, only fragments of the doomed woman remaining as she crumbled into ash.
The people murmured. One man, taller than the rest, had a scythe held ready in front of him.
"What are you doing here, outsider?" the man asked, leveling the scythe at Cara. "What witchcraft have you brought to us?"
"I'm trying to leave," Cara said. The beast stirred, and she gritted her teeth, holding it at bay. "Is traveling forbidden now?"
Some of the people shifted, looking at their leader, but he snorted. "And what caused that poor man's wound, eh? Your coven of hags?"
"If I did this to him, would I be trying to save him?"
"Could be you're saving him for worse, for a sacrifice to the dark ones."
Damn him, it won't matter what I say. Their blood is riled up. In the distance, Cara saw Sandu across the field with the horses. He hesitated, though, at the sight of the crowd. Don't you abandon me, Sandu Crin, I swear by the gods–
"Strange for a woman to carry a sword," the leader said. "It ain't right."
Cara scoffed. "And you expect your farm tool to be any good against it?"
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm telling you that I'm leaving with my friend, and you're not going to stop me." Cara eased Merick to the ground, and he lay slumped, his breath shallow. The beast roared at the opportunity for action, and Cara subdued it with great effort. Her castle walls were weakening.
The villager raised his scythe, uttering a war-cry. With the ease of an experienced swordsman, Cara ducked under his too-high blade and rammed her pommel into his stomach. He wheezed, bending over. Sliding out from under him, Cara slammed her arms onto his back, driving him to the ground. He lay stunned in the dirt. The people around her gaped and backed away from her.
Cara rushed to Merick as Sandu ran to meet them. They heaved Merick into the saddle, and Cara vaulted behind him, shouting, "Take my horse's lead, Sandu."
The townsfolk gathered themselves and ran at them, yelling and brandishing their simple tools.
Cara spurred Merick's charger, her arms tight around her mentor. She prayed that he would stay upright as they raced from the town, the sun not even at its zenith.
The forest closed around them, muffling the thud of the horses' hooves and hiding the sky from sight. Cara put her heels to the animal's flank, urging it to go faster. We can make it in less than a day, we have to make it.
Merick's head rolled on his shoulders, his weight heavy on her. Her arms began to shake, but she pressed forward. Then Merick leaned far to the right, his mass buckling her arm. Cara tried to heave him upright, but he was too heavy. Her arm gave way, and he crashed to the ground.
Heart in her throat, beast in her lungs, Cara sprang to the ground and ran to Merick. He sprawled motionless in the dirt, staring up into the sky. His breath came ragged and harsh, and when he coughed, the black liquid flew from his tongue. The cloth Cara had wrapped around his wound was already falling apart, destroyed by whatever cruel magic ran havoc through his flesh.
"Merick!" Cara shouted, tapping his face. His eyes were glazed over, and he blinked slowly. "Merick! You're a fighter, don't you die on me now!" Don't you die before you tell me what you know. Don't you die before we find Renna. The beast flowed hotly into her limbs, and Cara thought savagely, Don't you dare, you bastard. She shoved it down into her feet and imagined it trapped in the castle, which itself was buried beneath a mountain with no tunnels out.
For a moment, Merick's gaze cleared, and he looked at Cara, mouthing her name though no sound came out. Sandu crouched beside Cara and said in a low voice, "The jirriloe."
Too much will kill, Freebane had said. The bottle was in Cara's hand before she realized what she was doing. She stared at it, the little vial of death.
"He's not going to make it to Copefield, Cara," Sandu said. "Give him a dignified death. He deserves that much."
"I can't kill him," Cara said, aghast. "He's like...he's...I just can't." Her mind turned in circles, the smell from Merick's vomit reminding her of that fateful night. "If I'd run forward, if I'd taken the blow or done something–"
"Then you'd be dying in the dirt, too." It was blunt, but spoken gently.
"No! There has to be another way, I'm not going to just let him–"
Merick took another strangled breath, coughed, and nearly choked on the vomit. His frightened eyes pleaded with her, but she shook her head. "I can't do it."
"Then let me," Sandu said, reaching for the jirriloe.
"Stop it!" Cara yelled at him, holding it out of reach. "You've no right, you can't just–"
"C-Cari..." Merick's voice was faint. "Please..."
Cara looked from Sandu to Merick, her chest tight, as if all the air in the world compacted inside her, squishing her very heart with its weight. It was lucky the beast had retreated, for if it tried to control her, she couldn't stop it.
But I have too many questions, and he has the answers, she wanted to say.
But I can't do this without him. He's the closest thing I have to a father.
If I can't save him, how can I hope to save Renna? Or myself?
Merick's eyes begged her. He had done so much for her, yet she couldn't bring herself to give him one selfish wish.
Tears pricked her eyes as Cara took hold of Merick's hand. In a low voice, too low for Sandu to hear, she said, "I wish I could have been better for you, Merick. You've given me everything, and I've been nothing but a brat. But I promise, I'm going to find Renna. I'm going to save her." And then, I'm going to save myself. "May you reach Lyael before Autorus takes you."
Tenderly, gently, Cara lifted Merick's head. She looked one last time into those care-worn, loving eyes. She tipped the vial into his mouth and let all the jirriloe cascade down his throat. Merick swallowed, then smiled. He tried to speak, but his words were too soft to hear. His stressed breathing came slower and slower, an eternity between each pause, until finally his lungs filled no more.
Cara sat beside her dead watchman, staring down at his pockmarked cheeks, the scars upon scars on his skin, his slack jaw. No breath filled his lungs to yell forms at her, no spark lit his eye. He should be moving,
constantly moving as he used to. It reminded her of Ulton, once so full of life, now empty on the table in the great hall.
Grief filled her, too much, overflowing from her heart. The weight of it shook her. Memories flooded in, one after another, and she wept.
"C'mon, Cara!" Renna called. She ducked through the hedge bordering the manor lands, then poked her head back through. "We're going to miss the festival!"
Cara, only twelve at the time, hesitated. Renna reached out and tugged at her arm, but still she looked back to the manor. "Merick'll kill me."
"Not if he doesn't find out," Renna insisted. "We'll be back before he realizes it."
Cara smiled to herself. They hadn't made it back in time, and Merick had given her a good whooping for leaving the grounds without permission. But later that night, as she settled into bed, he had come to tuck her in.
"I'm disappointed in you, Cari," he said.
"I know," she whispered, ashamed. She wiped away stubborn tears, her bottom still sore from his punishment.
Merick sighed, and closed the window to keep out the chill night wind. "You're growin' up too fast. Soon I'll have to be scarin' boys off."
Cara giggled. "Only from Renna. They don't look at me."
"No?" He sat on the bed, his calloused hand stroking her hair. "They will, someday. But remember, if'n they break your heart, you can beat 'em in a fight."
Merick leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was a rare thing, him showing affection like that, and Cara savored it. She looked up at him with her innocent eyes.
"Merick?"
"Hm?"
"You'll never break my heart, right?"
He smiled down at her. "Never. An' I'll kill anyone who tries it."
Through a fresh haze of tears, Cara squeezed Merick's limp hand. She murmured, "You kept your promise." Until today.
In that moment, Cara wished for Renna's presence at her side. Her friend would know what to say better than Cara ever could. I'm not fit to give a eulogy. When Lady Nellestere died, Renna wrote a beautiful poem to be carved into the headstone. There wouldn't be such lovely words, nor a marker, for Merick. I just hope I don't have to find words for Renna, too.
The Lantern-Lit City Page 4