Oliver was suddenly there, his arm supporting me.
"It's all right," he was saying over and over in a terribly thin, choking voice. Lying to himself. He'd seen. He knew that it was most certainly not all right. He called for Brinsley and for more light to be brought. The others crowded close to see.
The agony was stunning; I wanted only for him to let me alone. I gasped, feebly pushing him off. He would not budge. Instead, he tried to hold me down, just as Beldon had done before him when I'd fallen into that soft sleep one stifling summer day, my last day. Not again. Never again.
Panic tore through me. "No! Let me up!"
But he was not listening and told me not to move, to let him help. To get at the wound, he pulled at my hand. It came away covered with blood. The stuff was all over my shirt and waistcoat.
"You must hold still, Jonathan," he pleaded. I heard the tears in his words. Tears for me, for my death.
'Wo.'" I couldn't say if I was shouting at him or myself. It wasn't even much of a shout. I had little enough air left to spare for it. To breathe in meant more pain. I doubled over- Oliver kept me from falling altogether-and coughed.
More blood in my mouth. I spat, making a dark stain upon the dead grass, then the grass begin to fade away before my fluttering vision.
Good God, no. I couldn't... not here...
I clung to Oliver, willing myself to stay solid in spite of every instinct wanting to release me from the fire tearing at my chest. It would have been so easy to surrender to the sanctuary of a noncorporeal state, to its soothing silence, its sweet healing. So easy...
I struggled to right myself, ignoring Oliver's protests.
"We'll take him back to the house," Brinsley was saying, "I'll have them fetch a cart."
"No," I said, raising a hand. The bloodied one. "A moment. Wait."
A pause. God knows what they expected of me. Momentous last words? They'd have a hard time of it, for my mind was quite bereft of anything like that. Still, they hovered close in hope.
The seconds passed in disappointing silence... and I became aware that my devastating hurt was not as bad as before.
Movement was easier now. Pain. Ebbing. I was able to suck in a draught of air and not forcibly cough it out again.
All I'd wanted was the time to recover myself.
Recover?
God's death, what was I on about?
Then as swift as Ridley's attack the comprehension came to me that I was not going to die. Too occupied by the present, I'd forgotten the past. Flashing through my mind was the memory of another dreadful night. I saw Nora once more, heard again her gasp of surprise when a similar blade had pierced her heart. I'd watched in helpless despair as she slid to the floor, thinking her dead-and so she was with neither breath or heartbeat to say otherwise.
But she had come back.
Somehow she had survived that mortal injury.
And by that, I knew I would as well.
With the very thought's occurrence, the raw burning in my chest eased considerably. I even heard myself laugh, though it threatened to become a cough. At least I was in no danger of vanishing in front of-
There they stood about me. Dozens of them. All to bear witness that I'd been run through and had bled like a pig at the butcher's.
And there was poor Oliver, tears on his face as he held me.
What in God's name was I to say to them?
If one lies often enough and loud enough, the lie eventually becomes the truth.
But for something like this? It seemed a bit much to expect of them.
On the other hand, there were few other options. I could play the wounded duelist and let them carry me back for a suitably long convalescence, or I could brazen it out right here and hope for the best.
The latter, then, and get it over with.
"Some brandy?" I called, summoning a strong voice from heaven knows where.
Brandy was offered from several different sources, all of them extremely sympathetic. Oliver grabbed at the nearest flask and held it to my lips. So caught up was he in the crisis that he'd forgotten my inability to swallow anything other than blood, but it was of no matter. I'd only asked for brandy for the show of it.
"I can manage, thank you," I told him and reached up to take the flask.
This caused some startled murmuring. Oliver nearly dropped me, but I straightened myself in time. It was difficult not to sneak a look at him, but I had to act as though nothing were seriously amiss. With my clean left hand, I raised the thing to my lips and pretended to drink.
"Much better," I said. "I am most obliged to you, sir."
"Jonathan?" A hundred questions were all over Oliver's strained face, and not one of them could get out. "I'm fine, Cousin. No need to fear." "But-you... your wound..."
"It's nothing. Hurts like blazes. Sweet God, man, I pray I did not worry you over a scratch." "A scratch!" he yelped.
I might have laughed, but for knowing the true depth of what he was going through. "You thought me hurt? But
I'm fine or will be. It just scraped the bone, looks worse than it is. Fair knocked the wind from me, though."
This was said loudly enough for the others to hear and pass it along. Those who had not seen the incident clearly took it as the happy truth, but the ones who had been closer were doubtful. Perhaps even fearful.
I noticed this, apparently, for the first time. "Gentlemen, thank you for your concern, but I am much improved." There, that at least was the absolute truth. Not giving anyone time to think and thus dispute the statement, I slowly stood.
Oliver came up with me, mouth hanging, eyes wide with shock. They dropped to my chest and the stains there, but I could do nothing about that for now. The effect on the witnesses was gratifying. The near ones fell back, the far ones leaned closer, but none of them could say that I was even remotely near death.
"Jonathan, in God's name what-?" came my cousin's fierce whisper.
I lowered my head and matched his tone. "It's to do with my changed state. Trust me on this, I am all right."
His mouth opened and shut several times, and his eyes took on the flat cast of fear. "Dear God, you mean-"
"Just play along and I'll explain later. Please!"
The poor fellow looked as if he'd been the one to take the wound, but he bit his lip and nodded. He understood my urgency, if little else.
That settled for the moment, I gave back the flask, then asked to have my sword.
Dennehy came forward, holding it. "Mr. Barrett, are you sure you-"
"I've business to finish, sir. If Mr. Ridley is up to the task, then so am I."
The man in question was not ten paces from me and, if one could tell anything by his expression, was the most dumbfounded of the lot. He had every right to be since he'd certainly felt the blade go in and had had to pull it out again. From the twinges still echoing through me, I got the idea the bastard had turned his wrist at the time, just to increase the damage.
He said nothing at first, his gaze going from me to his sword. The end of it was smeared with red for the length of a handspan. He murmured something to the white-faced dandy who was his second. The young man came over to speak to Dennehy and Oliver. I couldn't help but overhear.
"Mr. Ridley has no wish to take the advantage over a wounded man," he said.
"Does Mr. Ridley offer a full and contrite apology for his insult?" I asked.
He glanced back to his friend. Ridley shook his head.
'Then let things proceed as before. He has no advantage over me."
He hesitantly returned, backing all the way.
"Are you sure?" asked Oliver. He was regaining some of his composure, I was glad to see.
"Exceedingly so." Though I'd been very shaken, my unnatural state was such that I was feeling near-normal again.
Or rather extranormal. It was true that Ridley had no advantage on me, but I had a hellish one over him. Unpleasant as it was, he could stab me as much as he liked, but sooner or later I would s
hrug it off and return to the fray. Not that I planned to give him the chance. I'd learned my lesson and would be more careful than before.
As had he, it seemed. Our next bout was slower, more measured, more cautious, each seeking to find an opening or to make one. I beat him back twice but did not fall for his favorite stratagem, instead pulling away well before he could strike again with his reach. When he saw that was not going to work, he tried to use his strength and speed, and found himself surprisingly outmatched.
I made a rapid high cut, was blocked, got under it, flicked left, right, left, caught his blade, beat it hard to my right, and lunged. It seemed fast enough to me, to him it must have been bewildering. He barely made his defense in time for the first attack; the last one-and it was the last-took him out of the reckoning. He gave a guttural roar of rage and pain and dropped his sword to clutch at his right arm.
Bloodsmell on the air.
His second rushed forward. Dennehy joined them. Then
Oliver. I dropped back and silently looked on.
"Mr. Ridley is sore wounded, sir," reported his second to mine.
"Well blooded and disabled," added Dennehy. But not dead, I thought. I stalked forward to see for myself. Ridley wasn't going to fight any more this night or any other in the near future. With luck he'd be laid up for weeks.
I raised my blade and touched it to Ridley's shoulder. "I spare your life," I declared loud enough for all to hear. By ancient custom I could have killed him then and there, but the Code had stated once and for all that that was not strictly necessary. With my supreme advantage over him it hardly seemed fair to hold to such a tradition, and besides, to a man like Ridley, this was much more humiliating.
The dandy scrambled to present me with Ridley's dropped sword, and by rights I was entitled to break it. However, since it belonged to Brinsley, I was reluctant to do so. Instead, I handed both blades to him as he came up. "Thank you for the loan of 'em, sir. Uncommonly kind of you."
He began stammering something, but I had no ear for it, feeling suddenly awash with fatigue. My own blood loss was catching me up. There was no rest for me, though, for I found myself abruptly in the center of a cheering, backslapping mob determined to whisk me away and drink to my very good health.
"Best damned fight I've ever seen!" "A real fire-eater!"
"By God, no one will believe it, but they'll have to or face my challenge!"
"Gentlemen! If you please!"
This last half-strangled cry was from Oliver, who had fought his way to me and seized my arm. I groaned-in gratitude this time-and leaned on him. With the immediate needs of the duel no more, my legs were going all weak. "Back to the house, if you don't mind?" I asked him. "Damned right, sir," he promised, an ominous tone in his voice. He threw my cloak over me, and I pulled it tight to conceal the alarming state of my shirtfront. We made a slow parade, but others ran ahead with the news, and as we neared the house, more came out to greet us and hear the story. Unfortunately, it grew in the telling, and nothing I said could stop it. As it was fantastic to begin with, it hardly seemed worth the trouble to try.
Enlisting Brinsley's aid to speed things along, we were soon in the relative peace of a small chamber. I allowed myself to be stretched upon a comfortable settee and disdained all offers of help as being too much fuss. What I wanted was solitude, but my earnest admirers took it as evidence of modest bravery. They held true to their promise and began toasting my health then and there, creating another problem for me since I could not join in their celebration.
Just as things were starting to become unbearable, Elizabeth appeared, pushing her way through the others to get to me.
"Jonathan, someone just told me that you-" She interrupted herself by giving forth a heartfelt shriek. My cloak had slipped open a little, revealing the alarming bloodstains. "He's in no danger," Oliver hastened to assure her. "He just needs a bit of quiet. Gentlemen, would you please allow me to attend my patient?"
Easier said than done, what with all the crowd. I asked for them to leave, though it was a sore disappointment to my well-wishers. Brinsley, with his authority as host, stepped forward and persuaded them to be herded outside.
Throughout all this, Elizabeth pounded us both with angry questions.
"A duel? How in God's name did you get into a duel?" she demanded.
"That blasted fellow in the Russian costume insulted you," said Oliver. "If Jonathan hadn't challenged him, I certainly would have, the filthy bounder."
"Insulted-what on earth did he say? Jonathan, are you all right? Oh, why did you do such a thing?"
And so on. She said quite a lot in a very short time, torn as she was between rage and relief. I had to tell her over and over that I was fine, while keeping one eye on Oliver... who was keeping one eye on me.
Once the door was closed and we were blessedly alone, Oliver pulled a chair up next to me, and I did not relish the sick worry that so obviously troubled him. He reached toward me, saying he needed to see my wound.
I tried to wave him off. "This is not necessary. I'm fine. I just need a little rest."
Blinking and swallowing hard, he looked as if I'd slapped him. "I-I know what I saw, Jonathan. Please don't make light of me."
"What does he mean?" asked Elizabeth. "Just how bad is that scratch?"
"Bad enough," I muttered.
Oliver bowed his head, raised it, then quickly moved, and opened my shirt. He gave a kind of gasping sob, full of fear. Just to the right of my breastbone was a fierce-looking red welt, like a fresh scar, about as large around as my thumb. There was drying blood all around it, but the wound itself was cleanly closed. The rest of the area was tender like a bruise and about as troubling.
"It's not possible," he said, as miserable as any man can be on this side of hell. "Not... possible."
Elizabeth leaned close. "My God, Jonathan, what happened? What really happened?"
"I was careless. Ridley got through. A palpable hit, it was." "You-"
"Should have killed me, but didn't. Thought I had been killed... then I was better. It hurt, though." My voice sounded rather hollow-little wonder when death comes so close. Even a mocking touch from the Reaper is enough to melt one's bones.
"How can this be?" Oliver pleaded. Fear again. Fear sufficient for all of us to have a share.
No more for me. I was weary of that dismal load. I straightened as though to shake it from my back. "Remember what I told you about Nora?"
Elizabeth knew the full story on that and understood of what I was speaking. It took poor Oliver a little longer. To be fair, he'd been rather drunk when we'd had our talk; he might not have possessed a clear recollection of everything.
Besides, being told something and actually witnessing it are two very different things.
"You were run right through the heart," he insisted. "I saw it. So did the others, then you-"
"Others?" Elizabeth froze me with a look. "How many others?"
"Most of the lot that Brinsley chased out for us." "And they saw everything?"
"It was very fast and dark. They've already convinced themselves that they didn't see what they thought they saw." While she sorted that out, I turned back to Oliver. "There's no need to be upset about this. It's all part of my changed nature, and I can no more explain why it is than you can tell me what causes the flying gout."
"But for you to survive such a-for you to heal so quickly..."
"I know. It's one of the things that puzzles me as well. It's why I have to see Nora and talk to her." "But it's just not naturall" he insisted. The little room went very silent, with none of us moving. Finally I asked, "What do you want me to do about it?" "I didn't know you could do anything about it." "I can't."
"Oh." He sat back, a dull red blush creeping up his long face as the point came home. "Um-well, that is." "Agreed," I said.
"Guess I'm being an ass again," he mumbled. "No more than myself for forgetting all about what happened to Nora until after the fact. I was so damned angry at Ri
dley I couldn't think of anything except smashing his face in."
Elizabeth scowled. "Just what did he say about me?" My turn to blush. "It was that terrible?"
"Let it suffice that I doubt he will ever be invited to one of the Bolyns' gatherings ever again. He's a genuine rotter-and a Mohock." "No!" said Oliver, aghast.
"Saw him myself on my first night here. He was leading a pack of 'em, drunk as Davy's sow-"
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