by N. D. Wilson
Carefully probing the floor in front of her, she made her way farther out into the room. Some of the wood planks crumbled, some sighed or popped, but when the wall was well behind her, she stopped and listened again, turning carefully in place.
There were three large doorways yawning into the hall. A dozen smaller ones were spaced between them. As Henrietta turned, she began to give up. The place was big enough that she could head off in one direction while Henry and Richard returned from another. They wouldn't know that she'd followed them, and nothing would keep them from resetting the compass locks.
Even though the hutch that she'd crawled through wasn't more than forty feet away, she felt a twinge of fear. For a moment, she thought she should go back, kick off her shoes, and crawl into her bed. Henry and Richard could fend for themselves. But then, through one of the large doorways, there came a crash, followed by laughter and voices.
They were coming back.
Henrietta bobbed and shifted her way to the hutch and then turned, leaned her back against it, crossed her arms, and waited.
No one came.
She heard the laughter again, but it hadn't come any closer. They were taking way too long. She wouldn't be surprised if the whole family was panicking right now because Anastasia had discovered them gone.
Staying close to the wall, Henrietta began moving around the room, toward the gaping doorway. She passed entrances to alcoves and hallways and collapsing stairs always leading up. She ran her fingers over carvings soft with rot beneath her touch. At each door, she was tempted to slow, to stop, to look, but she only glanced and moved on, toward the tall entrance at the end of the hall and the echo of voices.
Walking around the edge of the room took her longer, but she did get there, and without risking the gapped planks out in the middle.
She stood for a moment with her back to a column and collected her thoughts, rehearsing what she would say. But then she heard footsteps, careful, methodical footsteps coming toward her through the doorway.
It was either find or be found. She had to do it now. With a deep breath and a smile, she stepped into the doorway and crossed her arms.
Two men, not much taller than she was, looked up from their feet. Both had short black beards, and they carried pry-bars and hammers. They stood, frozen in surprise.
“Um,” Henrietta said. Her smile faded away, but she forced it back. “I'm just looking around.”
The men looked at each other and nodded. Gripping hammers, they stepped toward her.
woke to the sound of voices. One he knew immediately, the other was new. And easier to understand.
“Prepare it,” Darius said. “Pestling potions is for your likes.”
“Sir,” said the other voice. “You know nothing of him. If naming rites have already been performed, then a blood-bonding is impossible. It will be his killing. Splay his throat and spare the ingredients.”
“Endorian blood crawls beneath his skin, and he lives on. Touch the burnings on his face and ken where death dripped. The twain sight came upon him through storming bolts, and he is not yet ash, nor even mad. Your strength is naught beyond vaporing steam beside his flame. He will be second among Lastborn. He will be a seventh son to me.”
“You have no other sons,” the man said quietly. “And to become second among us would require a nomination and at least a two-thirds voting at the society's midsummer banquet in order to express dissatisfaction with my service.”
“Ass,” Darius said. “Ass! You are no true witch-dog, no better than a pharmator for mixing love draughts. You have my blood, prepare the rite!”
A door boomed shut, and Henry flinched with the echo.
“Darius the mighty witch-dog,” the man's voice muttered. “Darius the seventh bastard son of a village priest. No better than a pharmator? You're no more a witch-dog than you are gran to the Fisher King.”
Henry's shoulders ached. He was shirtless. His arms were sticking straight out from his sides and he had to move them. He tried to shift himself, to lower his arms just an inch or slide his body up. But he was bound. He flexed, and straps around his elbows and wrists and forehead held him in place. His legs were fixed as well, at the ankles and knees, and something thick pinned his hips to the surface beneath him.
He tensed his body slowly, trying to feel the strength of his bonds. The straps creaked like leather.
“The daimon wakes,” the man said. “The straps won't give. They are charmed, and even if they were not, they would be strong enough for most.”
“Am I in the post office?” Henry asked. “Why am I tied up?”
“The post office?” The man laughed. “No. Darius said you were not mad. But then his mind, so diseased itself, is no measure for others.”
Henry opened his eyes. They were swelling again, and they itched horribly. He squinted them tight, squeezing out moisture.
“I need to rub my eyes,” he said. “Why am I tied up?”
Henry heard the clink of glass and the shuffle of feet. Then a rough cloth pressed into his eyes and wiped his cheeks. “Your eyes' sorrow will increase. You are tied up so that your joints will not unhinge, so that you will not pluck out your eyes and the brains behind or bite the fingers from your hands or rip your flesh and pry at the bones within. The time of your warpspasm approaches. Your mind may addle, but in the straps, the worst will be the snapping of a bone. An arm, a thigh.”
“I don't think I want to do this,” Henry said. He wasn't sure if he should believe the man. “A warpspasm?”
The cloth went away and returned warm and wet. “Darius said he spoke to you of it. It is the coming of your heritage—it will try to escape you, it is not comfortable in man's flesh. Survive it, and you may keep it, though it will not settle easily. It is always like gripping a storm.”
Henry swallowed, and his throat burned. “Can I have a drink?”
“It will only fuel the vomiting, but you may.”
A bottle was uncorked, and liquid glugged in its neck.
“Here,” the man said. “Suck this sponge. I will sop it again if you need.”
Henry opened his mouth, willing to drink anything, but expecting a little bath sponge, something from a kitchen sink. Instead, a lump the size of his fist kissed his lips. He squeezed it with his teeth and jerked in surprise. Sour and tart and biting, the fluid tightened up his tongue and pooled in the back of his throat. He gagged and swallowed and gagged again, and the liquid hit his burning throat. It felt better there, once past his tongue, so he sucked on the sponge and swallowed again. Then he spat it out. The sponge rolled down his cheek and rested against his neck. The man picked it up.
Flexing his shriveled tongue, he scraped it against his teeth but couldn't remove the taste. “Water would have been fine,” he said.
“Ha!” the man laughed. “Better to face what you face than to swallow a draught of water. Water is for scrubbing, for sailing, and for cattle. Wine and vinegar for men, unless you desire sickness.”
Turning his head to the side as far as he could, Henry spat. And then spat again. He could remember his dream clearly, and everything that Darius had said. It was starting to seem like the big Pilgrim had been telling the truth. He hoped no one would try to follow him. Of course, nobody could. Richard had already set the compass locks to FitzFaeren when he'd gone to sleep. They wouldn't know where he was. He didn't know how Darius had gotten him here, but he knew it hadn't been with Grandfather's mechanics. Darius, as weird and as evil as he may be, really had power. He wouldn't have needed to click any knobs.
The man touched Henry's bare stomach, and Henry jolted.
“What are you doing?” Henry asked.
“It is necessary,” the man replied. “Clench your teeth. I had hoped to do this while you dreamt.”
At first Henry felt only cold, but the cold spread down to his hips and up to his ribs. It began to bite, and when it bit, it bit like fire.
“Wha—” Henry tried to ask, but his jaw clamped tight. He arched h
is back the little that he could, trying to shake the sensation off of his skin. But it wasn't only on his skin. It was inside, digging down into his belly.
“Be still,” the man said. “Darius would have a naming rite before your morph's complete. He's a fool, but I must prepare it. You feel the first potion, the first flesh-blending.”
“Why?” Henry managed.
“He would bind you to himself. If you die in the warpspasm, he can absorb your spirit's portion of the sight. If you live, you will be his. His blood will be in your veins, his symbol in your flesh.”
Henry was trying to control his breath, but it jerked unevenly. His diaphragm convulsed. Gulping hiccups came when he tried to speak. “Not,” he gasped, and his ribs shook, “really?”
The man said nothing, but Henry's question was answered. The cloth that had been used to wipe Henry's eyes was shoved into his mouth. Something else bit into Henry's belly. A blade. Slowly parting his skin, curving and looping back on itself.
Henry yelled into the cloth. He clamped his teeth, roiled his body, and then stopped in shock. He knew, somehow, that the brown burn, the writhing slug on Darius's hand, the symbol he would not let Henry see, would be forever with him, as long as he was alive, whether for days or years. But he would not belong to Darius. Damn Darius. Damn all potions and lies. Damn the pain.
He felt his blood surge inside him, drumming through the rivers of his body. His flesh quivered and then sagged beneath the man's sharp tracing. Something else was coming, something he didn't know and couldn't begin to control.
His eyes rolled back in his head. Every joint in his body cracked and revolted, eager to swing free, to fold backward. His teeth ground through the rag in his mouth, and his tongue writhed, squirming back into his own throat.
Henry vomited, choked, and vomited again.
The seizures rocked him, contracted and strained and twisted every sinew, tore through his senses, and he knew nothing.
Henry was pain. He was lying on Badon Hill. Below Badon Hill. A chalky cliff rose above him, and beyond that, trees. He was on a beach of stones, and he couldn't move. He heard a man laugh and a dog bark. Beyond his feet, he saw them, the man and the dog, the man smiling and carrying a small, squirming bundle with one tiny, bare foot kicking freely, the big black dog running above and behind as they climbed a narrow trail up the cliff.
He knew that dog. He'd dreamt it before, and he'd seen its bones by the big gray stone at the top of the island mountain. Sadness overwhelmed him. Dogs shouldn't have to die. People should die. People had to. He already had.
Henry opened his eyes on a cloud of confusion. Light and sound and smell all swirled around him. He blinked dry eyes, and widened them.
He could see.
A ceiling above him was struggling into focus. Black beams. The walls were stone. Despite the acid burning in every muscle, he tried to sit up and found that he was still in straps.
“You live,” a voice said.
“Unstrap me,” Henry said. His mouth tasted like vomit and rags, but it had been swabbed out. His face had been wiped clean. “No more cutting or potions. Just unstrap me.” Windows were set high up in the wall, and Henry stared at the white light that streamed through them. He would have smiled, he would have laughed and grinned, if his jaw hadn't felt broken and if his belly hadn't been stinging. If he hadn't been strapped to a table in a madman's world.
The man stepped into view. He was small, middle-aged, and normal-looking for any world. He wore glasses that would have made him look like a math teacher if there hadn't been blood on his shirt. His face was without expression.
“Forgive me,” he said. “The warpspasm, less powerful than Darius had hoped, came too early. It has passed, and the naming rite, half-prepared, is impotent. It is better for me if you had died. Darius will kill us both.”
“Well, I'm glad I didn't,” Henry said. “And I have a name already. Can you unstrap me, please?”
The man leaned forward, holding a vial over Henry's mouth. “Drink this,” he said.
“Why?” Henry turned his head. “What is it?”
The man didn't answer. Instead, he pressed the glass to Henry's lips. Henry clamped them shut and shook his head, staring blearily into the man's eyes. The man sighed and stood up.
“You're trying to kill me,” Henry said.
“It is the only way. I do not desire Darius's wrath, but then I do not desire him to supplant me with you. I'd hoped you would die. I still hope.”
Henry was fighting back panic. If the man wanted to kill him, he could. “Listen,” Henry said. “If you kill me, Darius will know. Just let me go. Make it look like an escape.”
The man laughed. “No one shakes those straps.”
“Darius could,” Henry said quickly. “And he thinks I'm powerful. He thinks this whole thing started when I was struck by some magic lightning or something. But it didn't, it was just a dandelion. But let him keep thinking. He wants to already.”
“A dandelion?”
“Yes. A little weed. Not lightning.”
“And you will never return?”
“Not if I can help it.”
The little man crouched out of Henry's sight, and then the sound of heavy pins rattling on the floor echoed through the room. Henry felt the leather loosen and pulled one arm free.
The man stood back up and jerked the straps loose one by one. Then he took Henry by the hands and helped him sit up. Henry winced at the pain and looked down at his belly, at the shallow symbol carved into his stomach. It looked almost like a tree, not at all like what he'd glimpsed on the big man's hand.
“It's not bleeding.”
“No,” the man said. “The first mixture stops it. Darius would have rubbed another one into the wounds during a later rite.”
“I need bandages and a shirt,” Henry said.
“Sorry, there is no time. I have released you, and that is all I can do. You are three floors above the streetway You were brought into this world through the Sulie Post Management Station, two milongs from here. Keep south, and luck be with you.”
The man turned quickly away from Henry and walked back to a small table buried beneath jars and bottles and bowls. A lumpy orange sponge sat on one corner. Henry watched the man choose a jar and dip one finger carefully inside. Then he turned around.
“Begone,” he said, and dabbed his finger beneath his tongue. For a moment, he stood, staring Henry in the eye before his legs began to quake. He staggered back, grabbed at his table, spilling bottles and bowls to the stone floor. Glass splintered, and shards spun toward Henry's bare feet. The little man collapsed into the wreck, kicking. After a moment, the man was still—his slow breathing the only sound in the room.
Henry's eyes were burning, tears streaming down his cheeks, but he didn't mind. He could see again. And he had other things to worry about. He shifted his weight on tender feet.
He had to find stairs. He had to get down three flights of them without being caught and get out into the street. Then he needed to figure out which way south was and find a post office two milongs away. More problems would present themselves then. He didn't need to think about them now.
He couldn't remember what he'd been wearing when he went to bed, but now rough canvas trousers hung just past his knees. The waist, big enough for two of him, was cinched tight with a string. He wore nothing else but the bruises where straps had held him through his seizing and the cuts on his belly.
Henry tried to walk, but his joints felt compressed, slow and full of fluid. His head was ringing, his heart was pounding, and the cold stone floor looked to him like the softest, sweetest bed in the world. He had survived the warpspasm, but he felt dead enough. The whole second-sight thing was nonsense. If anything, his vision was worse. He looked down at his burnt palm. The life stood out from his scar, golden and bright, moving in its story with all the personality of fire. He watched green bursting growth, watched it flame and burn to feathered ash. From the ash came green again, again
and again, flaming and dying and being born. This story, this life, was embroidered in his skin.
He straightened up as best he could, head ringing more than ever. The room was out of focus, gray, swimming beneath his feet, walls rippling and falling in place, and he knew that life like the life in his palm was everywhere, that it was moving all around him, words and stories writhing and telling and being told. He could step into it and be carried away. If he did, he would be ripped in two. He would be stepping into a waterfall, a raging river, trying to catch Niagara in his skull.
Henry shut his eyes, balancing carefully, and breathed, listening to the ringing in his ears and his heart pounding in his temples. He was pain all over, and watching his burn had made it worse. But he had never felt or seen anything like it, anything so heart-stoppingly beautiful and so dangerous, a towering cliff calling him to jump, a sleek serpent calling him to touch, an ocean swell calling him to sink. A story to carry him away and erase him.
He had to move his bruised body. He limped away from the table. He needed to get back to Kansas first, and then he could pick dandelions. Or go to Badon Hill. Anywhere but here. He stopped.
Had he come through with his backpack? Grandfather's journals, all of the combinations, would be here forever if he left it. Struggling to keep his eyes focused on the right plane, he looked around the room. For the first time, he noticed charts, painted with diagrams and hung like tapestries all along one wall. They were layered thick on top of each other, and they reached the floor. Chains were draped over them, perhaps to keep them flat in a breeze when the high windows were open. A huge iron box squatted in a corner.
The man was breathing loudly, but a puddle of blood had formed beneath his head and was already skimming over, thickening in the air. There were no closets, unless he counted the iron box, no shelves beyond the cluttered table and the table where he'd been strapped. But beneath the potion table, beyond the man's legs, there was a box with slatted sides.