The Price of Survival

by Meagan Hurst

  Glancing out one of three windows in the room, Z winced as she noticed it was getting dark again. Between their time in the shadows, and Midestol’s injury, they had lost almost the entire day. Midestol shifted suddenly and Z’s eyes were drawn back to the man at once. He looked nothing like her—other than the same hair color—but she had no idea what her mother, or her father for that matter, looked like. Exhaling sharply, she let her eyes finally take in the room. The room was covered floor to walls to ceiling in expensive hardwood. As the castle itself was made out of stone, Z could only imagine Midestol had created this room for her mother, but she wondered if there was some hidden reason to the wood, or if it had merely been to change up the castle’s stone look.

  Midestol’s bed was good sized. Before she had spent time at Nivaradros’s lair, she would have said it was large, but the bed in her rooms in Nivaradros’s lair was at least twice the size of this one. The frame was a simple, but expensive, heavy oak with designs carved into the headrest and the four corner posts. There was—thankfully—no canopy, and the covers looked safe when it came to style. Z had a feeling Midestol had been keeping up the castle for a while—had possibly never let it fall into inactivity completely—and she therefore let her eyes wander intently. This wasn’t Midestol’s style, it was hers.

  Plain. Plain, yet expensive and well made, was the voice of the room. The wardrobe was big enough to hold the clothing of a queen, but there was no fancy gold edging or anything of the like around it. Like the bed it was old wood, and like the bed it had been classed up by carvings, but there was nothing that said power or money about it; someone walking by and glancing at it would never know.

  Your mother preferred plain and simple, much like you.

  Z spun around in surprise to see Midestol’s eyes had opened—if slits could be considered open—and the Dark Mage was watching her. She left her examination of the room and returned to his side, picking up his left hand again as she did so. The smallest amount of pressure pressed against her palm.

  Are you hungry? Thirsty?

  No, Zimliya. I do not trust my body to handle those things, breathing is enough of a challenge. But I heard you moving and wondered what you were up to. This room has your mother’s style to it. Your father preferred gems and gold, but he put up with his wife’s odd tastes.

  She smiled at the thought of her parents debating something so normal, but when her gaze flickered back to Midestol, the smile faded. Seeing him there—near death—made it hard to continue to hold him in the contempt he deserved. Squeezing the hand she still held lightly, she glanced out one of the wooden framed windows again and watched as the sun vanished behind the mountain in silence. They had to be a good hundred miles east of Midestol’s castle, but Z knew they were still in his lands. Judging from what little she knew, Z was convinced the coast was a mere twenty miles from this castle—she could only hope no storms were brewing out at sea.

  Midestol’s hand suddenly tugged sharply, and Z was drawn away from her thoughts and back to him as he coughed heavily. Seeing the telltale sign of red appearing on his lips, Z cursed and tore off the bottom of her shirt to hand to him. She would see him survive this if she could. While he continued to cough, Z checked his wound and let more words fly when she unbandaged it. It was clearly heading towards infection already, and the venom from the creature was eating away at his healthy tissue.

  That bad, huh? Midestol’s tone was weak even without words, but heavily amused. I could learn all sorts of new words from you. Do your immortals know what you use their language for?

  We have competitions. I think they are more pleased than concerned. I need to cut away more of the tissue, Midestol; the venom has infected it and I fear it will spread more.

  She felt him grimace. Do it then. As I said last night, I trust you in this. Rangers have always been good at mending with and without magic. He released her hand to let her work, and she slowly pulled it back to her side.

  Since it was true, she neither agreed nor offered a protest to his words. Instead she drew her dagger again—grateful she had been gifted with self-cleaning sheaths—and began to examine Midestol’s injury with both magic and the trained eye Rangers were required to gain before they were allowed on their own as a warrior. Reaching out with her right hand since the left held the dagger, she let a touch of magic silence the nerves around the wound before she began to work. She had to cut a lot of flesh away. The venom had wreaked havoc on the skin around the original wound. She was careful to keep the pieces away from her skin on the off chance she had a scratch, but otherwise the whole of her attention was fixed on the man before her.

  She was so focused on what she was doing the light touch just behind her elbow came as a surprise. Can you stop for a moment? We are about to have company.

  It was a warning. A sharp, dangerous one. Z nodded immediately but stayed where she was to finish the last section she could safely work on without endangering any of Midestol’s organs. Once she was finished, she rewrapped his wound and then retreated from his side as the door swung open. It was a group of five, and their eyes all moved to her while she kept her eyes lowered to a point. She could feel their stares and felt a hand inch towards a hidden dagger. If they so much as touched her their lives would be measurable in seconds.

  Midestol showed some signs of life; he sat up and regarded the five alertly. They all again glanced at her before their eyes moved to their lord. “She is not here for your entertainment,” Midestol told them flatly in a voice that should not have been that strong.

  Then again, it had to be, or he would find himself the target of attacks. One day of being unable to stand was barely acceptable, but these men were not his general warriors, and they had been caught off guard enough that it had been a risk Midestol could take. He could not, however, take that risk a second time.

  “She is here for you, as yours?” one of the men—the youngest—asked rashly.

  Midestol’s brow rose sharply, and Z winced at the hint of magic that flared before the man combusted on the spot. The display of magic was necessary, but it would endanger Midestol greatly. Everything he did now would push him closer to death if he wasn’t careful.

  “Do not question me. She is not to be so much as leered at if you see her in the halls,” he told the remaining four curtly. “Have I made that much clear?”

  These four were smarter; they didn’t so much as turn to look at her. But she could feel their unhappiness and their attention still on her, so she struggled to keep silent.

  “As you say, Lord,” someone finally said quietly.

  “Good. Dismissed,” Midestol ordered curtly.

  They bowed as one. “Shall we send for a slave with healing talents?” one of them asked.

  Midestol snorted. “No need. If I need slaves, I will come down and slaughter them myself.” She caught him nodding dismissively once more, and then the four filed out of the room. Once the door was closed, Midestol sank against the pillows and hissed in pain.

  Glancing up fully then, Z winced at the sight of sweat that began to appear. Moving to Midestol’s side she once again picked up his hand and sent a small amount of magic—and she wasn’t picky enough to make it a particular type—through his system to aid him.

  “I could make the attempt to heal you,” she offered softly.

  “And could you live with yourself if it didn’t work? Could you live with yourself if it did?” Midestol asked in a whisper.

  That was the question, or questions, that she couldn’t answer. In all honesty, if Midestol died it would make life much easier—safer—but she found she wanted to get to know him a little bit. Perhaps she could learn something about herself she hadn’t yet discovered or admitted. Perhaps she could finally learn something about her parents. The temptation to learn either of those things was embarrassingly strong, but she did want to know.

  “Does it matter if I could?” she asked quietly.

  Yes. Yes, it does. We will fight to the death at some point if
I survive this, Zimliya. I will make every effort to destroy you mentally, physically, and emotionally. You, on the other hand, will only try to kill me to end the battle, but I do not want this to be what weakens you. If you cannot do this then do not attempt it. I do not want to have to explain to your Dragon how I shattered you or have to deal with him until I am ready. Nor, he added in a steady tone, do I want to lose what we may have finally started to build here. Go rest or take a breather from this—I wouldn’t advise leaving the room, but the desk is nice—and if I need help I will call.

  His advice, his concern, was solid. She had no idea what to make of it. Letting his hand fall once more, Z moved to examine the desk she hadn’t bothered to really take note of before now. It was immortal made, ancient, magicked, and in very good repair. She let her fingers trace the ruins carved in a language only three beings still spoke—four, if she counted herself—and then spoke them softly aloud. The desk began to glow lightly as the last word faded into silence and the wood vanished for a moment—leaving something akin to a seer’s image instead.

  What it meant for her to learn would only happen if she paid attention. Z’s eyes focused attentively on both the center of the images, and what was on the edges. Fifteen minutes later, the ruins began to fade, and the desk became a desk once more. Sitting in the chair that had obviously not been made by the same hands that had made the desk—it was a human-made chair that creaked when she sat in it—Z let her mind run through and over what she had seen.

  She was wise enough to know what was set and not set in time. She also knew the images had reflected both the past and the present simultaneously—it was one of the reasons she had no interest in tuning her ability to work as a seer. The Mithane could have that honor. She got enough of a headache when she had to—or was forced to—play her small part in things.

  Touching the top of the desk with her hands out flat, she whispered an ancient sentence of thanks. Regardless of her thoughts on the subject, the desk had given her warning and help. She felt the brief shiver of power run through the wood and smiled grimly. Grabbing a dagger from her side, she pricked her left index finger before pressing it against the desk once more. This time she received nothing from the desk, but that was the better response. It had accepted her offering, she owed it nothing further.

  Ksiria.

  Zimliya, she corrected sharply as she turned around to face her grandfather. Midestol’s eyes were closed, and if she hadn’t heard her name she would have thought he couldn’t speak; he had gotten worse while she had been entrapped with images.

  Moving to his side at once, Z examined him for a split second before cursing herself as a fool and grabbing magic she had only used once before and thoroughly hated—the magic that had caused her to shed mortality. Now she put it to its true use: healing. Closing her eyes made it easier, and a depressingly smug voice told her she needed to get training or help in this magic as well at some point if she intended to use it for matters like this. She firmly ignored it. Her mind pulled an image of Midestol’s body, and then broke it into layers until the training she had gone through as a Ranger successfully took those layers and labeled them correctly, so she knew what she was fixing.

  The Mithane could probably have healed the Dark Mage with relative ease, but Z had no training, and too much talent to work with. She also loathed healers and the talent that allowed them to both aid and harm others. Not to mention while she could heal, it was a struggle. It was the other reason she never called this talent; she constantly had to fight her power and her own insecurities to use it. It did not come as naturally to her as it did to all the other healers she had known.

  She had no idea how long it took to work layer through layer. She repaired, removed, rebuilt, and reinforced what had been damaged, broken, or destroyed completely. Hands on hers caused her to snap out of her magic. Moving back while drawing a blade, Z took several deep breaths as she struggled to keep herself from attacking Midestol—a healed and fully healthy Midestol, although it was obvious he was exhausted. But she was also exhausted, and that made it harder to control the reactions she so desperately needed to.

  “Sorry,” he said quietly. “But while I appreciate the work you did, I don’t think you need to heal every little injury I have taken over the course of my life, and that seemed to be where you were headed.” He held up his hands—palm up—in the gesture of surrender until she lowered her weapon and slid it back into its keeper.

  “It’s fine,” she replied after several minutes of tense silence. “You’re still slightly pale. Are you certain you are alright? I’m not a healer.”

  “I lost a fair amount of strength. It is easy enough to regain,” Midestol said offhandedly. His smile was dark and bitter as she grimaced.

  “You’ll be heading to your castle then?” she wanted to know. He intended to slaughter slaves, and captives. With the length of time the poison had had before she had decided to heal him, she was willing to assume he intended to slaughter hundreds.

  “I haven’t decided. Leaving you here means you’ll be facing the overly ambitious, but not very talented, warriors who haven’t made the attempt to touch you because I am still here. The minute I leave, they will. While I wouldn’t be terribly upset if you killed them, I was looking forward to having one time that you managed not to kill a few of my men while visiting. Bringing you with me, however, is possibly worse. My orders are standing there, but there are several men who wouldn’t mind attempting to get around them if it meant getting to you. And you already expressed your lack of interest in seeing me behave as you are more accustomed to.”

  “I could seal the room with magic,” she offered, despite the fact her stance stiffened at the thought of using more magic.

  “You would probably go insane.”

  “I was born insane.”

  “True, but insanity has the blessing of sometimes being better than the mental state of those who only can call themselves sane.”

  She smiled at that and inclined her head. “I could spend time in the shadows.” Again, she tensed at the thought, but at least there she could stretch her legs.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “I could go annoy the Dragon.”

  Now Midestol smiled, and he finally got to his feet. His balance was sturdy but careful, and his movements were the same. “He would probably be willing to see you, to make sure I haven’t killed you yet. I also approve of that idea. No one would be able to reach you there, and if they somehow did, it would not be on my watch.”

  Her smile was faintly amused. “True,” she agreed. She had lost track of how many days she had been here. Closing her eyes once more, she used another touch of magic she kept to herself; one she hadn’t used in years. “I healed you for three days?!” she asked as her eyes flew open.

  “I was aware of at least one and a half,” Midestol admitted. “But I assume I was unconscious for the other part of those three days.” He watched her closely. “I would like to make sure you get out of here without incident before I embark on my own trip.”

  She nodded slowly and moved to ready herself to head back through the shadows—portals took less work, but they could be risky to take at times, and walking the shadows would be easier. Plus, she did need the practice.

  “When do you want to meet back here? Or do you just want to call this a failure and go back to fighting?”

  “Three days if you are able to return,” Midestol replied. She nodded again, and then moved from the room into the shadows once more.

  She arrived back in Crilyne’s tent and was pleased to see the Shade wasn’t home. Mindful of the promise she had given the Dragon, Z didn’t venture outside the tent. She also distorted her presence as best she could with magic, without alerting someone it was her magic. Spying the bed still against the one side of the tent, Z headed over to it and sat down for a few minutes before sprawling out on her back and closing her eyes. After four—five?—days on her feet, it felt nice to relax. She wasn’t tired to
the point of needing sleep, it was likely she never would again, but she had to admit this still brought a small level of comfort. At least, it did when there was no fear of waking up beside a large, angry Dragon.

  Or so she thought. Halfway into a sleep she hadn’t expected to take she felt the rush of outside air swirl through the tent ahead of the Dragon’s presence. He argued with himself under his breath for a moment, or argued with the Shade who didn’t follow him. Z heard Dragon speak the word ‘Shade’ in his usual cutting tone before Nivaradros began to curse the existence of the undead immortal thoroughly. She felt him pause in the center of the tent when he realized she was there, and she sensed his approach when he finally decided to make it. The side of the cot creaked ominously for a second before he strengthened it with magic, but he didn’t immediately touch her. When he did it wasn’t what she expected it to be. His hand lightly touched her cheek, and she remembered stirring for a moment before she remembered nothing more.

  When she awoke, her eyes flew open as she sat up. Nivaradros and Crilyne were seated around the Shade’s desk—well, it had been a desk; someone had morphed it into a table—and they were both watching her with a mixture of relief and amusement.

  “Immortality seems to have solved your sleeping problems,” Crilyne observed mildly.

  She told him what he could go do in three different languages while the Dragon began to laugh. Fixing him with a black stare, she rolled her eyes and swung her legs out of the bed. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” she told the Dragon sourly. “I know you magicked me into a deeper sleep.”

  “You needed it,” Nivaradros replied evenly. He gestured to a chair on his right as she approached. “You looked like you had attempted a healing, or something of that difficulty,” he added hastily as she sat down gratefully. “Without the proper training, something like that could easily overpower your strength, no matter what race you are. You also looked like you had forgotten to eat for a few days. I therefore thought sleep would be in your best interest.” He watched her intently. “What happened?”