Snowtear

by S. B. Davidson

  Through muffled ears, Riken heard the man let out a blaring yell. Blondie swung at the dog attached to his partner’s trousers, but missed, and in the next second had his own troubles to worry about. Bess’s teeth sunk into the hard muscles of his calf, ripped away a hunk of meat. When Blondie fell, grasping his shorn leg, Riken sent Bess for his throat. She buried her nose into his neck, thrashed her head violently, then came up with her face soaked in the dead man’s blood.

  Next to her, Freckles had managed to land a blow to her mate’s leg, but the wounded dog hadn’t given in. Renny danced back and forth in front of the man, snipping at his legs, easily dodging each swipe of the attacker’s club. The dog’s injured limb was bent at an appalling angle, but Riken wouldn’t let him feel it.

  Bess eased in behind the flailing man, backed up, then leapt and rammed into his back. Freckles lurched forward, tripped on Renny, and flipped over the railing. Before he hit the ground, the two dogs were halfway down the staircase.

  If the fall hadn’t finished him, Bess and Renny certainly did.

  Before he slipped into unconsciousness, Riken released Renny so the resilient dog could tend to his wounded limb, then sent Bess into the bakery to fetch Gilthorn Rath. The old baker looked none too pleased at being roused from his bed, but with Bess tugging at the hem of his nightgown, he followed in tow.

  The aggravated look on the man’s face transformed into abrupt fright when he came upon the carnage in his tenant’s room.

  The first thing Riken had seen upon waking after his attack was a gold chandelier on a grooved ceiling. Since he didn’t remember his room over the bakery having such an exquisite design, his astute powers of deduction told him he’d been taken elsewhere.

  The meliorater – a man with frosty, cropped hair and a severe limp – had come mere moments after Riken’s waking, and in less than the time in would take to finish a three-course meal and a flagon of mead, the skilled healer’s curative fibra had foregone months of rehabilitation for his patient’s pulverized body.

  Riken congratulated himself for having the good sense to be beaten to a bloody mush in a city whose castle housed such a proficient healer.

  “You’ll still be a might tender for a few days, perhaps a week,” the meliorater said, his hands beneath the bed sheet clutching Riken’s previously busted kneecap.

  “My great thanks, Mon,” Riken said.

  “Might want to hold off on that gratitude,” the man said, withdrawing his hands, then rubbing at the white stubble on his chin. “I’m only getting you restored enough to face Mon Alliton.”

  “That so? Won’t he be positively giddy to see me again so soon? Still, you may keep my thanks, healer.”

  “Aye, well, good luck to you, Mon.”

  With an audible groan, the man rose from a short stool beside the bed.

  As the healer called for the guards to open the door, Riken asked, “Might I ask you a question?”

  “Aye.”

  “Your limp? Why would a meliorater of your obvious skill have such a debilitating injury?”

  “I wasn’t always a healer. I acquired this through a certain…youthful indiscretion.”

  “That why you chose melioration as your fibra?” Riken asked.

  “Correct,” the man said, staring loathingly at the leg in question. “If I’d have known then that I’d never be powerful enough to mend a thirty-cycle-old injury, I might have chosen a more exciting path.”

  Riken noted the longing tone in the man’s voice, and found himself thinking of Amana.

  “Maybe we don’t have a choice,” Riken said. “It could be that the fibras choose us.”

  A brief sad smile appeared at the corners of the healer’s mouth, and he nodded.

  “I’ve never thought of it in such a way,” he said, gingerly stroking his leg.

  “Well, food for thought,” Riken said. “By the way, I’m starving.”

  The meliorater laughed softly. “I’ll have the kitchen send something down.”

  “Down? You mean to say I don’t warrant a room in our grand castle’s upper echelon?”

  “Prisoners usually don’t, Mon Snowtear.”

  Chapter Ten

  After two blissful days spent recovering in the nether regions of Kara Alazel’s castle, and a thoroughly uneventful meeting with Head Inquirer Alliton in which the sour man lamented the fact that he couldn’t charge Riken with murder or misuse of a fibra within city limits since the deed had been executed in self-defense, Riken was absolved of any wrongdoing and allowed to leave the castle with the aid of three palace guards.

  “But you take great care to tread lightly, Snowtear,” Alliton had said.

  To which Riken had replied, “In my state, how else could I? I’m still waiting on that recipe, Head Inquirer.”

  After his palace escorts had left, Riken surveyed the remnants of his room. The end table was in splinters. His wardrobe was face down on the floor, most of his clothing strewn about. The bed sheets hung muddy and torn from the bed, and a sticky pool of dried blood stained the spot where he’d lain dying.

  Too exhausted to tidy up, Riken crashed to the bed, his head in a vice, and fell asleep to the dancing of vengeful demons in his mind.

  Who were the two attackers? Who had sent them? Why hadn’t they finished him off? Was he too late to save Sage Ullimar? Did he even care anymore?

  The fever came with the setting sun.

  Riken felt as if he were simultaneously lying on a bed of scorching coals and being frozen in a block of ice. Sweat gushed from every pore, chilling him, making his limbs twinge as they trembled. His eyes burned red, tinting his vision. The late evening street noise outside his window sounded like it came from the deep recesses of a cave. One moment, he’d pull his sheets tight to his neck. The next, he’d be so boiling he’d use what small measure of energy he had to send them fluttering across the room.

  The meliorater had kept him alive, fixing the most grievous wounds, but had done little to dull the exquisite agony in his bones.

  A knock came at the door.

  Riken had no idea what time it was, but he prayed that it was Min Rath with something to quell the terrible gnawing in his belly.

  The door creaked open. Gregor Ullimar entered.

  Even in his current state, Riken pitied the man. Mon Ullimar looked so downtrodden Riken was amazed the man could walk. He looked small in his fine clothing. His face had taken on a permanent droop, like the damning weight of his troubles had finally overcome him.

  Ullimar stopped just shy of the bed where Riken lay shivering. He clasped his hands at his waist and stared at Riken in silence for a few moments.

  “My apologies for the hour, Mon Snowtear,” he said just above a whisper.

  Riken meant to answer, but couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering long enough.

  “I heard about your recent troubles, and I see you’ve taken ill. I wish I could say I sympathized, but…I feel my ration of despair is at its limit.”

  Ullimar drew in a deep breath, stared out the open window. He lowered his head and spoke to the dusty floor.

  “Almost two weeks have now passed since my Sage was taken from me,” he said. “Though I’m sure you’ve made great efforts, you seem no closer to finding her than when we first spoke. I’m not a naïve man, Mon Snowtear. I realize what this lapse in time must mean. My beautiful daughter is gone, isn’t she?”

  Riken managed to shake his head.

  “You’ve performed your duties admirably, Mon Snowtear, and, for that, I’m eternally grateful. I fear, though, that we are but fooling ourselves in thinking any more can be accomplished. My wife has taken ill, as well. She doesn’t eat, only drowns herself in wine. She won’t be able to withstand this much longer if I don’t do something. I love my daughter, but I have a responsibility to my wife, as well, so I’m doing the only thing I can think of for her.”

  Ullimar walked around the bed to the downed wardrobe. He reached into the front pocket of his heavy overcoat, pro
duced a handful of coins, and laid them on the piece of furniture in a tidy stack.

  “If I believed for a single moment that more could be done, Mon Snowtear, I would never willingly do this, but Sage is gone. I know. My wife, she is still with me, and she must be permitted to move on. We all must. My great thanks for your service to my family. Please accept this payment. I think you’ll find it quite reasonable.”

  The man rubbed his hands together, still not looking at Riken, then turned for the door. His hand on the handle, he called farewell over his shoulder, and left Riken to ruminate and quiver.

  Riken opened his eyes to a new day. He immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Though mercifully subdued during the sparse hours of sleep, the fever had compounded greatly. His eyes were so red and strained he had trouble making out shapes a few feet from his nose, and his bones felt like they were grinding to dust inside his lava-soaked skin. He would’ve given the whole world for a single drop of tepid water on his desiccated tongue.

  Riken tried to call out for aid, to any benevolent soul who could hear, but the sounds emitting from his mouth fell mere inches from his lips. He attempted to channel Bess or Renny, but the animals were nowhere about. In the throes of this broiling haze, he wished he had been charged by the Inquiry. At least then he’d be inside the castle walls, with a meliorater on hand to rid him of this misery.

  At a loss, Riken rolled painfully to his stomach, dug his fingers into the mattress, and slid off the bed. Unable to hold, he slumped to the floor. The wood was cool on his face, and he considered remaining there, but when the chill returned, he forced himself to his knees. Like a dog, he made for the door, but when he reached it, the handle felt as if it weighed as much as an anvil. Beaten, he collapsed to the floor again, one thought running over and over in his mind: water. He prayed wherever she was, Bess heard his plea.

  Moments, possibly hours later, he received his answer, though his savior was easier on the eyes than the old mutt.

  “Lie back and relax, Mon Snowtear. You need to rest.”

  Jillian Dumay dipped a cloth in a water basin on Riken’s bed, then gently wiped it across his simmering forehead. She sat next to him in one of the chairs. Her hair, which he’d only ever seen tied up, dangled freely to her shoulders. She wore a light blue dress of thin cotton that, unlike her work attire, actually invited the notion that she hid some sort of frame beneath it. Despite his complaints, Min Dumay had fueled the fireplace until the room was a sultry hot, which caused sweat to gleam on every inch of her bare flesh.

  “You look…different,” Riken said, relishing the coolness of the cloth caressing his face.

  “Do I?”

  “Aye.”

  She did. Before, wherever he’d given the woman any thought at all, he’d likened her to an uptight church lady, all prim and proper and stale as a month-old loaf. In her work garb, her features were finely edged, almost sharp, displaying no hint of flexibility. Now, dressed more plainly, but comfortably, she looked as if she might actually be able to breath, and that allowance gave her an overall softness that Riken hadn’t been privy to before.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, trying to summon the strength to raise his head from the pillow.

  “I overheard Mon Ullimar mention you’d taken ill,” she said, wetting the cloth again.

  She balled the fabric in her palm, positioned it just above his forehead, and squeezed softly. The crisp beads dropped onto his face and trickled down his skin in thin streams. The sensation was almost orgasmic.

  “Then you know he came to see me?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Min Dumay nodded, somewhat solemnly.

  “My apologies,” Riken said.

  “For the time being,” she said, “I need you to concentrate on recuperating.”

  “I think, perhaps, I can do that, though the sight of you in that damp dress could introduce a slight dilemma.”

  “How so?”

  “Makes reducing my body temperature all the more difficult.”

  “You are crass, aren’t you?” the lady asked, though she looked far from offended.

  “So they tell me,” Riken said.

  “They?”

  “Most everyone I meet.”

  “Rest, Mon Snowtear,” she said, folding the cloth over his closed eyes. “If you’re feeling better come the morrow, you may be as crass as you like.”

  The beasts burst from the dark concealment of the trees like snarling, furred death. Their hungry eyes glowed yellow as the moon above. Amana smiled at the large pinecone in her hand. Petrified, Riken yelled to her, a heartbeat late.

  “Amana,” he screamed, bolting upright in bed.

  The dwindling fire cast a muted red hue on a small area around the fireplace; otherwise the room was black as pitch. As the dream evaporated, Riken sucked in a few enfeebled breaths. Beneath him, the sheets were damp, clinging to his naked skin, but his body was otherwise dry. He felt his forehead, found it cool, and sighed his tremendous relief.

  “Who is Amana?”

  Riken jerked his head at the unexpected voice, his mind conjuring visions of bulky men carrying bulkier clubs. The hammering in his chest lessened when Jillian Dumay walked into the faint glow of the firelight.

  “What?” he asked, the previous night slowly coming back to him.

  “You called out a name,” she said. “Amana.”

  “She’s my…a person I once knew.”

  “Ah,” Jillian said, narrowing her eyes, possibly thinking of the first night they’d met.

  “Not that kind of person.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “I do think of other things from time to time, you know.”

  “Do you?” she asked, standing very still. In the darkness, he could barely make out her features.

  “Occasionally.”

  She went to the fire, added a couple logs from the pile stacked against the wall, then poked at the embers until she produced a decent flame. When the dry logs caught, orange light flooded the darkness. Crouched on her knees, Jillian rose and stared at him with a look he was sure he misunderstood.

  “What are you thinking of now?” she asked.

  Over the crackle of the fire, her breaths came slow but heavy. Shadows from the flames danced on her face and body, giving Riken a full view. She looked a wholly different person as she inched toward him with subtle determination.

  “I’m thinking the fever must still have me in its clutches,” he said.

  “You’re hot?” she asked, her body resting on the edge of his bed.

  “Warming.”

  “Must be catching,” Jillian said, and her hands went to the shoulders of her dress. As she slipped the thin fabric down, Riken noticed her hands quivering slightly.

  “What are you…?”

  Whatever syllables had been on the verge of formation dissolved when the dress slithered to her waist. Her pale skin shone distinct in the dimness, highlighting a delicate, svelte frame. She lifted her hand, ran a finger along the contour of one petite breast. Riken searched her face. Her slim lips pursed, willing him to touch what she offered. And he would’ve, if it hadn’t been for her eyes. Though the rest of her body practically screamed for his embrace, those fragile sapphires couldn’t veil her angst.

  Riken sighed. He’d seen the look many times. Whores, especially ones new to the occupation, often looked upon him so. They wore their trepidation, their ignominy like a mask they prayed no one would be able to penetrate. For Riken, it didn’t help that he was hardly any young woman’s portrait of her ideal man, but a few kyn went a long way in cloaking most reservations.

  With someone he was paying, he could deal with that look, make himself forget it was there. He’d had cycles of practice in that regard. But Jillian Dumay wasn’t in his employ.

  Wondering if he might have to berate himself later, Riken reached out for the woman. Whether she meant to or not, her breath caught suddenly tight, until she felt him pinc
h the hem of her dress and lift it back over her shoulders.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked as if he’d just trampled on her fondest dream.

  “A question I could ask you, Min,” Riken said, letting his hand fall from her shoulder.

  “I see,” she said through clenched teeth as the pushed herself off the bed. “It’s fine for your whores, but I’m somehow beneath your lofty standards. Maybe if this Amana were here, you’d be more inclined.”

  “Don’t speak of things you know nothing about,” Riken said, his abrupt anger catching him off guard.

  “Don’t presume to snap at me, you selfish little man. I know about many things. Like you, for example. I know that your greed knows no bounds, that you jump at the opportunity for coin, then slink back into your hole of debauchery when you’ve lined your pockets to your liking. I know you have no feelings for anything other than yourself, your drink, and your damned whores.”

  “Min…”

  The enraged woman shot him a look of sheer venom, as if she believed it could strike him dead where he sat.

  “I know my Sage is still out there somewhere, alone, frightened, and that no one else seems to care, least of all her own blood. I know I’m prepared to do any and everything in my power to get her back, even if it means defacing myself to the likes of you.”

  “Min, you needn’t…”

  Jillian threw her hands to the sides of her dress, gripped the cloth until her knuckles flared white, then jerked it down so forcefully the shoulder ripped away.

  “So have at me,” she cried, her eyes glassy. “Do to me whatever your perverse mind can dream up. I give you permission. Only, promise me that you will continue searching for my Sage. Promise me that you won’t stop until she’s in my arms. Even your word must mean something.”

  Before he could protest, the woman lunged for him, leaping onto the bed and crushing his legs beneath her naked body. She grabbed him by the sides of his face, her fingernails digging into his flesh. Riken tried to wrench his head to the side, but Jillian caught him and pressed her mouth onto his so hard he felt her warm tears on his cheeks.