Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One

by Dale, Veronica

  “Yes. No. It belongs to me.” He held the medallion out, as if it could explain itself to her.

  Without taking her eyes off him, she sat down again. “You screamed out something. ‘Ni—nilan-rista’. What is that?”

  “It’s me. I’m niyalahn-rista.”

  “Is that—is that your family name?”

  “No, no. Please let me explain. My brother and I together—I had a brother, Mariat. We’re doubles. Were doubles. I’m sorry. But it’s not what you think.” He took a breath. “Actually—actually it’s worse.” The ice reaction made it hard to form coherent thoughts, but the returning pain told him he must speak quickly. “Riah told me before she died. We—I—am apparently this niyalahn-rista. But I don’t know what that means. I didn’t want to take the toltyr, Mariat, but now, since the—the accident, it’s become part of me.”

  Seeing the look on her face, he felt hopelessly unable to explain. He rubbed his face. “So much happened to me. I don’t know where to start.”

  “Wait. You have to eat something first. You’re not making any sense.”

  She brought him a bowl of soup, and to please her he ate some of it. But after a few mouthfuls he put the spoon down. Mariat looked at him with wide eyes and clutched her cup of wine with both hands. “Just start anywhere.”

  He began to speak—clumsily, hesitating, ashamed. He told her everything, from the beginning: about his root-ridden blood and the ice, about what happened in Miramakamen’s tent, and Riah’s rape, and his conversation with the great falconform. Partway through, he took a swallow of wine, but it tasted like vinegar and he put it aside. He kept nothing hidden from her.

  She listened without interruption, occasionally motioning for him to take a spoonful of soup. It and her wine gradually dwindled away.

  Near the end of the telling he was exhausted, aware that his battle with the beetle-man had taken an enormous toll. Taut with pain and humiliation, he slumped with his elbows on the table, holding his bowed head in his hands. “That’s why I had to let you go, Mariat.”

  Now that she knew the ugly truth, she would leave for home as soon as it was light. Two days later he would leave too, but in an entirely different direction.

  She reached over the table and took both of his hands. “You spoke to me with courage, Sheft, and humility. You are more dear to me than my own heart.”

  Not sure he had heard her correctly, he lifted his head to look into her eyes. They shone with love and tears, and they were both for him. She knew everything, and still looked at him like this. Mariat stood and came around the table to him. He reached up to embrace her, and pressed his cheek against her waist. Her arms came around him, and she leaned down to spread kisses in his hair, down the back of his neck.

  After a moment she drew back. “I have to replace your bandage. It’s all red, dear heart.”

  Panic twisted in his stomach. He was bleeding, and had no ice left. What if the beetle-man should return? Return as the Groper, seeping under the door, or as Wask, tearing it from its hinges? Some instinct told him he would encounter the creature again, in a form even more powerful, and that it would happen soon.

  “You saved us, Sheft, and now this is the price. But you won’t pay it alone.” She helped him back to the mattress, untied the bandage, and carefully removed it.

  Tense, he waited while she examined the cuts.

  “The stitches held, dear heart. They bled a little, but held.”

  He sagged in relief.

  “Now just relax, and I’ll clean your back again.” She dabbed at the wounds with a cloth wrung in warm water, prepared another salve-spread bandage, and tied it securely around him. With a glance at the door, she threw the bloody cloths into the fire.

  He settled gratefully onto his stomach, his face turned toward her, and they lay side by side on their separate, narrow mattresses. Tiredness lined her face, there were dark smudges under her eyes, and her hair was askew. She was so beautiful.

  “What are you going to do now?” she asked, her gaze soft with concern.

  The pain made it hard to talk. “As Yarahe said. One day after the dark of the moon—that’s the day after tomorrow—I’ll go to the Wind-gate. Then through the Riftwood.” The way he felt now, it seemed like an impossible journey.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  They were dream-words, ice-reaction words. Cruel in their seeming reality.

  “Sheft, did you hear me? I want to come with you.”

  They were real words. But he could never allow her to come with him through the Riftwood. “No. You can’t.”

  She laid her hand over his arm, and the thrill of her touch fled over his skin. “I want to.”

  “I could never ask it.”

  “You didn’t ask. I volunteered.”

  “You can’t come, Mariat.”

  “You must allow me my choice. Don’t make that mistake again.”

  “I couldn’t allow you to choose. You didn’t know what you were choosing. Now you do. That thing in the doorway—” He stopped to gather his strength. The ice-reaction was worse than he had ever experienced, and it felt as if a hot rake were scoring his back. “It came looking for me. It will come again. It wants my blood and now it wants you.”

  “Me!”

  “It told me, it predicted, that because of me, you also would be taken.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “And you believed it?”

  Her question stopped him, but only for a moment. “The—the mind-words, Mariat. They can’t lie.” Somehow, with a knowledge he must have been born with, he knew they came from a deep well of truth.

  “But if I come with you, I will be taken—in a manner of speaking.”

  “No, no,” he groaned. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “You drove the creature away, Sheft.”

  “But can I do it the next time?” He covered his eyes with his hand. “I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know who I am.”

  She drew his hand down. “Niyalahn-rista. That’s who you are.”

  “But what is that? The beetle-man seemed to know more about it than I do.”

  With a tender smile, she caressed his cheek. “We’ll learn together who you are. All I know is I fell in love with Sheft, and that’s you.”

  “But what about those deaths, Mariat? Those people who died in the village. I’m responsible for them.”

  She was silent a moment, searching his face. “I think,” she said, “you’ll have to get over that. Even if that creature was looking for you and found them instead, how can that be your fault? If you let guilt eat away at you, then the beetle-man has won.”

  “It’s my blood,” he groaned. “It’s cursed, packed with roots.”

  She hesitated, and he thought at last the enormous truth he had told her was beginning to sink in. “I stitched you up, Sheft, twice already. I saw no roots.”

  Her remark stunned him. How could she not understand? “Of course you can’t see them. They’re a—a symbol of what’s inside me. Of the thing inside me that draws the Groper.”

  “I realize that, but I don’t see anything evil inside you. It’s just not there. Perhaps this power in your blood is somehow a good thing, a gift from Rulve.”

  “A gift! Mariat, how can you say that? You saw with your own eyes what it summoned!”

  “Sheft.” Gently, she shook his right shoulder, bare above the bandage, and this time the touch rushed down to his groin. “Be at peace, sweetheart. Perhaps the wise people of the Seani can advise you, heal you. It’s surely Rulve’s providence that summons you there. In any case, I’m coming with you.”

  “No, Mariat. Absolutely n—”

  She put a finger on his lips. “The Rift-riders will protect us. You seem to have forgotten all about them.”

  She was looking at him with such love that for a moment he couldn’t speak. A hope too big to acknowledge was beginning to dawn on him, but he quickly thrust it away. “I can’t let you do this. Oh God, I want to! But I can’t.”


  Her face clouded. “You pushed me away once before—out of fear for me, you said. Don’t let fear separate us again.”

  He remembered the terrible winter without her, how precious she was to him, what his life would be like if she wasn’t part of it. How could she have such faith in him? Such miracles didn’t happen in his world, and he was having a hard time comprehending they might. “For how long would you stay with me?”

  She reared back slightly in surprise. “What do you mean, how long will I stay? I’ll stay always, like any other wife.”

  The pain must be making him hear things. He could hardly believe the word she used so casually: wife. Everything he thought he could never possess—commitment he could never deserve, intimacy he never dared hope for—resided in that word. “You would hold-fast to me as—as your husband? In spite of all you know about me?”

  Her eyes danced as she looked at him. “Yes.” She wriggled closer to him, tucked her head under his chin, and placed her hand lightly over his waist. “This I choose. This I would hold fast.”

  He put his arm around her, but had to continue. He had to make certain she understood—that he understood. Taking a deep breath, he plunged on. “What about—about children?” Another word, beyond belief.

  She answered him sleepily, her voice muffled against his chest. “Babies are very nice,” she said. “You would make a good father.”

  The word stunned him, another simple word, and sudden elation leaped up in him. Husband, father—such words he had always dismissed, quickly, before they could hurt him. But now she offered them to him as if they were not some impossible resurrection.

  “Mariat, I don’t even know who my father is. What if it wasn’t Neal, but someone who attacked a helpless woman in the dark?”

  She nuzzled him. “I’m holding fast to you, Sheft, not your father.”

  “But what would our children be?”

  “I don’t know. Parents never know.” Her eyes were closing. The wine, the long hours she spent caring for him, the encounter with the beetle-man—all must be taking their toll. “But I think they would be like usual—part me, part you.”

  “But I’m—”

  “You’re kind and brave and strong.”

  She was beyond his imagining, and always had been. But still he had to be certain. “Because of me, the darkness came tonight. Would you face such a nightmare again?”

  With her eyes closed, she murmured against him: “Isn’t that the grace given to husband and wife? That they can face anything if they’re together?”

  She had faith, and courage—enough for them both. She knew everything about him and accepted him, exactly as he was, and loved him. His heart swelled with wild joy and he pulled her tightly against him. “Oh, Mariat! I will love you forever, no matter what, with everything in me.”

  “I love you too, Sheft,” she breathed. “So now we are betrothed.” With a sigh she fell asleep against him.

  For hours it was not pain that kept him awake, but the need to make sure she was still there. And she always was.

  Chapter 28. Tarn’s Unease

  Mariat stirred in the half-dark, dimly aware of a robin singing far off, its lone, clear voice echoing in the distant halls of dawn. With a dreamy smile, she moved closer to the warmth of her beloved’s body.

  It was broad day when she next awoke. The blanket that she had used to cover Sheft last night was now tucked around her. Mariat propped herself up on one elbow and gazed at her betrothed. He lay asleep on his stomach, his head turned toward her, with only a corner of the blanket covering his waist. The crook of his right arm covered his eyes and partially shielded the strands of his wheat-colored hair. It was as if he tried to hide his appearance even in sleep.

  Her eyes caressed him, and ran over the muscles of his bare shoulders and arms. He was so beautiful. He had endured so much, had opened his heart so completely to her. In their darkest hour, grace had come to them, and their lives had become inextricably intertwined.

  She sighed in pleasure and stretched to her toes, a woman pledged in troth. Inextricably

  intertwined. A delicious concept. Soon, after they were married, they would in truth become inextricably intertwined. Softly, so as not to wake him, she leaned over and kissed his wrist. It felt hot against her lips.

  He sighed and moved his arm, and Mariat laid her hand over his forehead. “You have a fever!” she cried. “I was afraid of this. Of this exact thing.”

  His silver eyes flickered open and rested on her. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry, Mariat.”

  “It’s not your fault, dear heart. Of course you can’t help it.” She got up, wrung a cloth in cold water, and placed it around his neck. The bandage covering his back was clean, but now he faced another danger.

  “You used up so much ice last night!” she exclaimed. “Is there any left?” She shook him gently. “Ice, dear heart. We need ice, for the fever.”

  Eyes closed, he licked his lips. “Working... I’m working on it.”

  She brought water, but soon after he drank it, he began shivering. Then he got hot again and threw off the blanket. Trying to keep him still and the bandage intact, she fought the fever, rinsing and replacing the cloth, bathing his face and arms in cool water, and putting another blanket on him when he began shivering again. She prayed to Rulve and made the sign of his circle on Sheft’s forehead with healoil. They were supposed to leave on their journey the day after tomorrow. After this relapse, would he have the strength? If they arrived late, would the Rift-riders wait for them?

  In the early afternoon the door burst open, and she was so concerned for Sheft that it startled her not at all. It was her father, who gave her a big hug. “I got Oris’s message. How is Sheft?”

  “He was getting better, but now he’s got a fever!”

  She led him to stand over Sheft, whose face looked flushed against the pillow. Moro got down on one knee and inspected the bandage, gently touching it here and there. “Poor lad. Tarn did a fine job, though.” He looked around. “Where is he? I’ve brought back his wagon.”

  Mariat decided not to mention that Tarn had nothing to do with Sheft’s bandage, and that as far as she could tell, had heartlessly abandoned him. The news would only fill her father with recriminations. Instead she mumbled something about needing more burvena from the apothecary in Ferce, which she did, and let Moro assume Tarn had gone to get it, which he certainly had not.

  “I’m sure you were a great help here, Mariat. You did well to spend the night.”

  You don’t know the half of it, she thought.

  “You don’t know,” Sheft mumbled from his mattress, “the half of it. She’s…a very brave woman.”

  Moro looked puzzled. “Eh?”

  “He’s feverish,” Mariat said quickly. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  Sheft groaned a disagreement and pushed the cloth off his neck. “Very brave.” He opened his eyes, which were like pools of melted silver, and found her face. “Fever. I think from ice-reaction, Mariat, not—” He gestured feebly toward his back.

  “Icy action?” Moro asked. “What’s that?”

  “It’s the fever talking.” Hastily Mariat knelt beside Sheft and gave him a poke in the arm. “Moro’s here, Sheft. Don’t speak. Just save your strength.”

  He blinked at her, seemed to remember what he had just said, then nodded sheepishly.

  Mariat lifted an edge of the bandage and sniffed at it. Sheft was right: the wounds were not infected. The fever must be a reaction to the great drain of ice, perhaps his body’s way of trying to balance the humors after an overwhelming effort. But he had a fever nonetheless, and maybe a potion would help.

  She got her father to bring in water and firewood. He clomped in and out, talking about the wedding, while she made a medicine and helped Sheft drink it. After she had settled him down again, her father invited her outside. “Looks like you need a little fresh air.”

  As they went through the door, Mariat felt a momentary chill
as she passed through the ghostly memory of the beetle-man who had stood there only hours ago. Now a square of sunlight tried to purify the spot.

  They sat on the doorstep. It was a hazy afternoon, and an east wind blew from the deadlands, bringing the rich smell of earth. Later on, there would be rain.

  Moro cleared his throat. “You still care for him, don’t you?”

  Her heart full, she nodded.

  “Daughter, marriage is hard enough for a man and wife who are more or less alike, but if they’re different—well, all kinds of things can crop up. As young as he is, Sheft knows this, and he’s already said his good-byes. It’s for the best that you part.” He patted her knee. “Take another look at Gwin, now. You ignored him at the wedding, and he came around again yesterday, asking about you. He’s a fine lad, and one day will take over his father’s smithy. He’s good with children—we’ve seen that for ourselves—and treats you and our family with respect. You can’t ask for much more in a husband.”

  It took all her restraint to keep from blurting out the truth: Forget Gwin! I’m already espoused. To one I love so much. But as she looked at her father’s lined face, she realized that he had just spent his first night completely alone since Mama died, with no son or daughter to keep him company. He missed his wife terribly, and hinted that he looked forward to the time when both his children would settle nearby and raise grandchildren. She must prepare him gently for the news of her departure. She began by telling him what Sheft had done for Oris.

  “Daddy, everyone in the village should know he saved the boy’s life. Then they would see Sheft as I do, and change their minds about him.”

  Her father shook his head sadly. “They wouldn’t believe it, Mariat. They’re too far gone in hate. Your mother—and Riah too—always said this hatred came from fear. But I think it’s much worse than that. In order to thrive, evil must be fed, and that’s not done out of fear. For his own good, Sheft is better off in Ullar-Sent.”

  She had no answer to that, and Moro stood up. “Come home as soon as Tarn returns.”

  She reached up to hug him. “I love you, Daddy.” He smiled back at her as he rode away.