And if he isn’t—demanded Miren’s conscience.
Then it’s the Foundling’s problem, not mine. I promised Sarn I’d go to school and that’s where I’m going.
After collecting resentful looks for a few minutes, Ran shrugged and reached for the door handle. Nobody wanted him here. Uncle Miren would never know if he left. So why stay here?
“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Bevik as he entered, forcing Ran to backpedal or risk being stepped on.
“I’m going back to Papa now.” Ran edged toward the door. Papa always wanted him around.
“You’re supposed to stay with us.”
“Why?” Ran hid a smile. No one liked answering that question especially Uncle Miren’s friends.
“You just are,” Bevik turned Ran, so he faced a group of children and gave him a push in their direction. “Go play.”
Ran stopped when two boys scowled and shook their heads. Fine, he’d battle the new villains from yesterday’s adventure by himself. Smiling, Ran patted his pocket where his trusty slingshot waited, causing several metal balls to clink.
Putting out a monster’s eyes was okay, but what about the boys excluding him from their game? They were jealous yes, and big meanies, but not monsters.
“And I’m a good boy,” Ran muttered as he rooted around in a pile of discarded clothes. Scenting the funk of teenage boy, he zeroed in on several dirty socks. Some helpful soul had balled them up into the perfect ammunition—soft enough not to hurt but stinky enough to make a point.
Ran froze as Papa’s presence surrounded him. Uh-oh, Papa had sensed what he was up to. Ran scanned the cave’s thirteen inhabitants. How could he feel the warm touch of Papa’s magic, if Papa wasn’t here?
Perplexed, Ran turned taking in every inch of the cave from the spring at its back to the scattered groups of orphans—still no Papa.
A bare patch of granite sparkled. Dropping to his knees, Ran accepted the invitation to touch it and an image sprouted in his mind. Ran gasped. “That’s my face!”
But it was Papa’s too, and it was unscarred. Ran goggled.
Young Papa stood his ground despite the terror shortening each breath. Brilliant squiggly lines bound Young Papa so tightly, he could not move or speak. Behind him, a much younger Uncle Miren cowered, clutching Papa’s cloak.
A shiver raced up Ran’s spine. What could bind Papa like that? He scooted forward to find out, but spectral legs blocked his path. When Ran looked up, the frantic ghost boy signaled him to stop.
“But I want to know what could scare Papa. And who tied him up with words.”
A shadow rose behind the ghost, and its sad eyes fixed on Ran right before it kicked the ghost boy aside. The ghost collapsed into a pile of transparent limbs.
“Why’d you do that?”
Slingshot in hand, Ran pushed to his feet to confront the bad man congealing before him.
The ghost boy gave him one more frightened look as its head rolled by. Its lips shaped the word ‘run’ then the ghost boy, and all its limbs vanished.
Ignoring the ghost’s advice, Ran slipped a metallic ball into the slingshot’s pouch and fired, but the ball sailed right through the bad man. That was not supposed to happen. Backpedaling, Ran tangled his feet in a discarded blanket and fell.
Past and present comingled. For an instant, he and Young Papa occupied the same space until an invisible force shoved Ran hard. He grabbed hold of Young Papa and screamed when his fingers touched the shiny words binding him. They flickered and loosened enough for Young Papa to pivot and fall, shielding Uncle Miren with his body.
Ran landed on his belly, holding tight to the picture in his head. Young Papa was in trouble.
“I didn’t want to hurt him,” said the bad man with the bushy mustache squatting in front of Ran. His miserable eyes were unfocused.
Anger vibrated through the stones under Ran right before pain lit him up. Blows rained down, breaking Young Papa’s bones. But he could not move to block or dodge them. Tears pricked Ran’s eyes, and his body throbbed with phantom pains.
“Why’d you hurt my Papa?”
The bad man wrung his hands. “I did what I had to do.” A knife appeared in the bad man’s hand, and Papa’s blood dripped off its wicked edge.
“Papa!” Ran shouted through the tears half-blinding him, “help me!”
“Will you shut up and play quietly?” Bevik shouted from the other side of the cave.
Chapter 21
Sarn deposited a reduced sack outside the Foundlings’ door, rapped three times on the scarred wood then fled back to his cave. When he closed his eyes, he fell into the endless dark of nightmares—the only place neither his eyes nor his magic could light. Out of the blackness, the dead boy’s terrified face swam into view, and its pale green eyes pleaded for help.
“I’m trying, but there’s still so much I don’t know. I need more time.”
The ghost boy shook its head. In its eyes, two hourglasses ran down.
“As usual, you’re out of time boy,” Hadrovel said as the scene changed.
Sarn froze as obedience rendered him immobile. He should never have promised to obey the Orphan Master. It was too late for regret. The tip of a knife nicked the corner of his left eye and sliced down his cheek.
“I did what I had to do.” Hadrovel sat back on his heels, licking the blood from the knife in his hand.
“Papa!” Ran shouted from close by and his terrified voice shattered the psycho into a thousand black shards.
Sarn shot off the mattress and out of his cave. Ran was in danger. Where was his son? At the Foundlings’ cave—they were supposed to babysit him. Sarn collided with their door but the threshold resisted him, or maybe it was his psyche resisting the idea of returning to the place where he’d almost died. He shoved harder against the barrier and stumbled inside.
“Ran?” Sarn froze at the sight of his worst fear. Hadrovel loomed over his writhing son. “No—leave my son alone!” Sarn crossed the intervening distance and scooped Ran up. “It’s okay. I’m here now. I won’t let anyone harm you, not ever.”
No blood, no bruising—thank Fate for that small mercy. His son was okay, just frightened. Sarn cradled his son in his arms against his trip hammering heart as Ran sobbed into his tunic.
Hadrovel touched two fingers to his forehead and vanished without saying a word leaving Sarn to gape at the space his former torturer had occupied. Then he sat down hard and rocked his son and himself. “You’re okay. I’m so sorry.”
Sarn woke for the second time drenched in a cold sweat. Horrified, he shook for a long moment. As the bells struck noon, Sarn pushed off the mattress and stumbled into a run toward the Foundlings’ cave. Oh Fate, let that have been just a bad dream.
Skidding to a halt, he flung the door open. Ran rushed out, his little face pale and frightened.
“Are you okay?” Sarn dropped to his knees and tried to check his son over, but Ran hugged him hard.
“I’m okay now. The scary man’s gone.”
“The scary man—” Sarn began but his voice deserted him, and he tightened his grip on his son. So Hadrovel had been there. The psycho knew about his son. Terror consumed Sarn. The real Hadrovel was the one man he could not fight, not while he had to obey the psycho’s every command. Why hadn’t the Lord of the Mountain retracted that promise?
“He’s dead Kid. He can’t hurt you anymore unless you let him. Let it go,” Jerlo said from the depths of memory.
“If he’s dead then why do I keep seeing him?” Sarn stared into the commander’s impenetrable black eyes waiting for an answer.
“Who’re you talking to Papa? Why are there words on your face?”
A small finger brushed Sarn’s chin, but he barely felt it. Everything was draining into that unblinking gaze. But the commander was still in his office, or so the icon flashing on his map proclaimed right before it too vanished. Nothing existed outside of those impenetrable eyes.
“He’s dead and dusted
Kid. He can’t hurt you anymore. You belong to us—the Rangers. Remember that. Believe it. Tell everyone who invokes the bastard’s name. Give this no further thought.”
No further thought—the words echoed and bore down on Sarn then the commander’s presence faded. Sarn blinked at a door he’d fashioned out of bits of discarded furniture. Voices called his son’s name, and footsteps approached the door. So did a trio of icons he’d rather not deal with right now. Sarn picked up his son and rushed around the nearest bend.
“It’s alright. I’ve got him,” Sarn called out so Ran’s babysitters would know he'd come for the boy. “Thanks for watching him.”
Garbled echoes followed Sarn, and they sounded annoyed. Oh well, Ran was his son, and he could walk off with the boy whenever he chose. It was his right as a parent, and he’d already paid them in food for the privilege.
Once they turned another bend, Sarn stopped and looked at his son who smothered laughter with his hands. Catching the waves of mirth radiating off the boy, Sarn laughed too at the absurdity of what he’d just done.
“Can we have an ad-ven-ture now?”
“I guess.”
What Sarn needed was answers, but he’d promised his son an outing so he’d better produce one. His head had that cottony feeling again, making it hard to think.
Ran’s face clouded as he set the boy down. “Why’d he hurt you?”
“Why did who hurt me?” But Sarn already knew who his son meant—Hadrovel. A vague memory of a nightmare ghosted up but dispersed before he caught more than a glimpse. “How do you know about him?”
“You fell on Uncle Miren when the scary man hit you. You saved him. I saw it.”
“How did you see it? That happened before you were born.”
“The rocks ‘membered. When I touched them, they showed me in here.” Ran pointed to his head. “Why did he hurt you? He kept saying he ‘had to do it.’ But he didn’t say why.”
“I don’t know.” Stunned, Sarn touched the scar on his cheek. It was the only visible reminder of that beating. “How much did you see?”
“He hurt you bad—hit you and kicked you a lot. And that hurt but then you were there, and he went away.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, but he hurt you and that hurt me.”
“How did that hurt you?” Sarn rubbed his forehead again perplexed at his son’s report. How could a past event cause physical pain to someone who hadn’t experienced it? It didn’t make sense.
Unable to explain, Ran shrugged. “It just did.”
“But not now?”
“No. It went away when you came the first time.”
“The first time?” Sarn leaned against the wall more confused than before. The last thing he recalled was leaving a sack of food outside the Foundling’s door then nothing until he’d run off with his son a moment before. Clearly, he had misplaced an important chunk of time, nor was this the first time that had happened. Had too much magic use degraded his memory?
“Did you count the bells today?”
Ran brightened. “Yes, I counted twelve bells right before you came the second time. Can we go on that ad-ven-ture now?” Ran bobbed up on his toes, his eagerness evident.
“Yes, let me just pick a destination.” And gather his scattered wits into some semblance of sanity. How could Hadrovel haunt them both from beyond the grave? Had his son met the fiend’s doppelganger? What the hell had he gotten himself and his son into?
In need of a diversion and a destination, Sarn pulled up his map. The damned thing scrolled over to those blank spots he’d discovered yesterday then zoomed out to display a giant arrow pointing to them. Why do you want me to go there, he asked his magic, but it remained mute. Maybe it shared his exhaustion.
Probably a bad idea to take his son to explore the unknown, or it was until a hazy icon appeared right in the middle of that inky nothingness. What the hell is that? When Sarn queried it, he slid down the wall gasping for breath and landed back in Dirk and friends’ custody. Not again—through the ripped fabric of his trousers, his bare knees touched stone creating a connection. Mount Eredren pushed something across their link then everything blackened.
“Papa!” Ran balled his little fists in Sarn’s tunic and broke the memory’s hold.
The darkness receded, releasing Sarn. He dragged in a deep breath and shuddered at how close he’d come to dying yesterday. Unbidden, his map rose, and that damned arrow blinked as it pointed to a gray blog. As he studied it, thirteen bumps appeared on its circumference. Message received. Mount Eredren wanted him to check this spot out.
“I’m okay.” Sarn patted his son’s shoulder and rose. “I know where we’re going.”
“Where?”
“Exploring. Come on.” Sarn took his son’s hand and headed east through twisting tunnels.
The corridor dog-legged before leaving them in a passage heading straight off his map. Water had carved this tunnel ages ago before an earthquake had diverted the river. The rough ceiling rolled on bare of stalactites for miles in a straight shot. Granite made up everything—the ground, the walls, and the ceiling.
There was nothing to look at—no inscriptions, pictograms, sculptures or crystals. Brown lumir striations provided little relief or light. Thank Fate he didn’t need to depend on lumir to see. Neither did his son, though Ran stayed inside the green nimbus thrown by Sarn’s eyes.
“I’m hungry.”
Go back or press on? They’d already covered several miles and not found a single thing of note. Was the cancer he’d sensed part of the wrongness assailing his corner of Shayari? How could it? The ghost boy had been murdered in the forest, not down here. Had Mount Eredren sent him on an unrelated errand?
“Yeah, I could eat too.” Sarn glared at a wall. “I’m sorry today’s adventure turned out to be so boring.”
“What’re those lines for?” Ran pointed to something a half foot up from the ground on a nearby wall.
Sarn stared at the symbol a root had scratched on the ground two days ago. As he brushed hesitant fingers over it, his magic lashed out, lighting up the linked circles before scaling the wall.
“No, oh shit—” he’d forgotten to put on gloves. He had to get his bare hand away from the stone wall. But magic locked his arm in place, freezing his joints.
“You said a bad word.”
“Sorry—”
Sarn swayed and collapsed as magic marched in a glowing emerald army, consuming the tunnel. Black spots danced in front of his eyes as his map updated at a rapid rate. The ground rose to meet him and cushioned his fall as it laid him out in the recovery position.
“Why are you hurting Papa?” Ran asked the magic swirling around them as Sarn pulled the boy into his arms.
“Did it answer?” Sarn tried to ask, but he was sliding away from his distraught son, pushed down by a parade of quartz molecules toward a lightless void.
Sarn’s head throbbed as if he’d taken a magical hammer blow to the back of his skull—maybe he had. Wincing, he probed for a bruise but found none.
Ran wriggled out of his grasp. “Papa, are you okay? You said a bad word and fell.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.” Sarn cupped his son’s face in his palm and Ran anchored him.
The map dropped a dark veil over everything, and a large yellow arrow flashed pointing to a red circle surrounding a star with thirteen rays. It was close, no more than a half mile or so. Sarn sat up so fast dizziness punched him in the face. When his sight steadied out, Ran’s worried face came into focus.
“I'm sorry I scared you, everything’s okay now.” Sarn rose, and the change in elevation cleared away some of the mental cobwebs.
“Can we go back?” Ran pointed toward their cave.
“Not yet.” Sarn captured his son’s hand.
“But I’m hungry.”
“We’ll get lunch in a little while.”
“You promise?”
Sarn nodded then bent to inspect another glyp
h. This one featured three interconnected circles, and beyond it, someone had carved two circles, each with different numbers of rays. The symbols were twelve paces apart pointing the way to answers. Sarn hurried east, excitement growing at each new symbol he passed. No two were the same.
“Papa? What’re you doing?”
“Following these,” Sarn pointed to the symbols. “They mean something important. Keep your eyes out for them.”
“Why’re they important?”
“I don’t know, but we're going to find out.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
No, he wasn’t. Guilt slowed Sarn’s steps, allowing doubt to creep in. What if they were walking into a trap? Fear for his son arrested Sarn, but he saw only the ramp lazing its way into darkness. But every lead he’d followed had led to danger. He should return Ran to the Foundlings where his son would be safe before continuing.
Ran shook his head, guessing his thoughts. “No, if you go, I go too.” Ran squeezed his hand and headed for the next carved symbol.
“Okay, we’ll be careful. More careful than we’ve been.” No unnecessary risks, he’d just look at what Mount Eredren wanted him to see.
Ran shook his head; he’d go no further unless carried. Every line of his mute little body proclaimed it, and the boy’s intense emerald eyes added their own entreaty to the arms he raised above his head.
Sarn picked his son up, and the boy laid his head on his shoulder. He continued only to stop again a half mile onwards. Three tunnels, each of them narrow with low ceilings, interrupted the ramp.
Neither looked safe, and the crude cuts proved no Litherian had chiseled them. Arrows proliferated on his updated map, pointing in every direction and some looped around as if the damned thing couldn’t make up its mind. Sarn minimized his map before it could give him a headache. He was on his own.
“Can we go back now?”
“Not yet. There’s something I need to see just beyond those tunnels.”
“Then we have lunch?”
Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 Page 30