Lunatic

by Dekker, Ted

"She's real," he insisted. His heart raced. "This water was Elyon's, I know."

  "You could ..."

  It was worth the risk.

  `Johnis. "

  "The Horde might have done something. Look at it, red as Shataiki eyes. For all you know Teeleh-"

  "If it kills me you can still find another lake. Find a lake. Find Darsal. Find Thomas."

  "Swim with me, Johnis... "

  Water.

  She grabbed his pant leg. "I don't want you to-"

  "Die? Becoming Horde is worse." His foot reached the edge of the water.

  He flinched.

  Nothing.

  Cold crimson liquid rushed over his toes. His foot slipped off the ledge. Johnis plunged beneath the surface.

  His feet couldn't find the bottom. Purplish-red bubbled from the depths.

  Light flickered.

  Flashed purple.

  "Swim to me, Chosen One ... "

  Long, satin tendrils of white-blonde hair swirled around him. The woman! Her transparent skin turned the same color as the light reflected in the water. Vibrant eyes glowed up at him.

  Then she darted for the bottom. Bubbles surrounded him.

  Johnis swam deeper. His lungs burned.

  He ignored it. She had to surface sometime. Sometime soon. If he was running out of air, so was she.

  Maybe.

  "Shataiki swarm this half of the world... the rest banished, banished, banished, banished. Feed and kill, feed and kill ... "

  He sucked in water, startled at the image in his head. What was that?

  A sharp yelp, like a wounded wolf.

  `Aidme..

  Johnis's lungs rebelled.

  Surface!

  He came back up sputtering, both hands on the ledge. Mud stirred into the cold water, washing off his skin and clothes and hair.

  A strong hand hauled him over the edge and dumped him. Silvie struck his back to help him choke out the water.

  Air. Johnis coughed out the last of it and glanced at his hands.

  Still turning Scab.

  "Silvie, did you see her?" He got his feet under him, looked around.

  In the desert.

  In the water.

  Hostage to Shataiki.

  The woman in the pool ...

  "The point of an imaginary friend is that no one else can see her." Silvie folded her arms. "I've half a mind to throw you back in there."

  "She had to have come up first, Silvie. Didn't you see her?"

  Silvie's icy glare was answer enough.

  His throat stung.

  Water.

  Johnis crouched and took a greedy drink, letting it fill his mouth. A coppery taste flooded against his palate, between his teeth, under his tongue. Coppery and sweet. His cheeks puffed out.

  The woman. She'd almost killed him. Or had she saved him?

  Then he swallowed. Cool water slid down his throat and into his stomach.

  Silvie looked on in silent horror, with wide blue eyes and pallid skin.

  Johnis shivered. By Elyon, the water was cold. He shook his head like a dog, slinging droplets all over Silvie.

  "Johnis!" She jumped up. A hitch in her hip stopped her movement, though. She rubbed at the joint. "So now what? We sit here and wait to see if it kills you?"

  "It won't take more than a few minutes, I should think." He drank again. Despite his teasing, he knew the pool could still be poisoned. Could still kill him. And even if Scabs didn't do it, Shataiki could.

  Or time could have simply soured the pool. Natural contamination. Was that even possible?

  Anything is possible. Anything.

  Johnis scooped more water into his palm and drank. Whatever was done was done. He stripped off his shirt and wrung it out. "We'll know in a few minutes. For now we wait. And decide. Last night we said we'd go after Darsal. Stick with the plan? Or find water and Thomas first?"

  "We don't know of a lake close enough." Silvie curled up on herself and continued to gawk at him. "We'd have to strike out across open desert. Maybe try to make it to one of the other forests."

  Johnis shook his head. "Thomas wouldn't take to the desert unless he had to. If he's in the desert, the forests fell to the Horde."

  Silvie didn't comment.

  "And if Darsal's been caught, she's got less of a chance than we do."

  "She'd kill us if we didn't go to Thomas. He has to have scouts, spies, something to keep him on top of the Horde. We find them, we find the Horde."

  "Agreed." Johnis mulled over what they had overheard the day before. Not much, but enough to chill the bones. "Well, we could always follow the Horde."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You heard. They're on a search-and-destroy mission. The Guard's gone deep. We want to find Thomas; we could follow the hunters."

  "Or wait for Thomas to attack."

  "It doesn't sound like he's been doing much of that." He paused. "Of course, there is the woman. She might ..."

  "I am not interested in some imaginary woman of yours."

  "You weren't interested in Roush, either," Johnis snapped. "But they were there all the same!"

  Silvie ground her teeth.

  "Shataiki all around, where the eyes cannot tell ... the River, the R i v e r , and a l l between, echoes with t h i n g s unseen ... "

  A soft punch. Silvie.

  The desert.

  All the answers were in the desert.

  "What if she needs help? What if she's trying to help us? `Aid me,' she keeps saying. `In the desert.' And Thomas is in the desert."

  "We can find Thomas without your beautiful woman."

  Beat.

  Johnis let his head clear before speaking. He hated yelling at her, but sometimes she just wouldn't listen.

  "I'm not sure Thomas wants to be found." He paced. "I think we have to assume we're on our own. Thomas likely thinks we've either defected or died out there anyway by now."

  That thought made him stop pacing. And reminded him of the strange woman's pleas to join her in the desert.

  "So we really are alone," Silvie spoke slowly.

  "You and me. And Darsal."

  Wordless, he slipped off, out of the circle of spider trees and over the threshold into the desert.

  Male voices caught his attention. He ducked behind some brush and waited to see if they'd heard him. There were three, all Scabs in Scab uniform. Dogs sniffed for Johnis's scent.

  "Think it was albinos or Eramites?" one asked.

  "Eram isn't that stupid." This was the taller Scab. He seemed older, more experienced. The other two flitted around him like horseflies.

  Johnis settled and listened further. Who was Eram?

  "Stupid enough to cross Marak," the third said.

  "Marak waits when he should swing and swings when he should wait," the first said. "And provokes the priest too often."

  "The priest," the second scoffed.

  "Where'd the bloody albinos go?" another protested. "They're ghosts, the lot of them."

  "They aren't ghosts, and they have nowhere to go. Be patient."

  Johnis backed away and snuck over to Silvie.

  She was waiting for him, glaring. "So they've finally split forces. Something to remember."

  "We need to find Darsal." He borrowed her knife and carved another Book of History into the soft bark of one of the spider trees.

  It was a long shot she'd ever find this place, but better than nothing.

  "If Darsal managed to escape and make it to the lake, she'll know by now it doesn't work. Hopefully she'll find your mark. And not kill you for carving another book."

  "But she'd hide out and circle back. And a Book of History makes sense to us and not to anyone else. She'll get over it." He retrieved his book from the ground. Brushed off the dirt. Tucked it back in his waistband.

  "If she's not there?"

  "Then we go into the desert. It's our only option. The Horde's too familiar with Natalga Gap. I'd take my chances north if I were him."

  "No, we
find water," Silvie said. "That is our only option."

  Johnis wrung the rest of the water out of his shirt and shook it out. More water slung on Silvie.

  She flinched back and made a face. "Just put it on already."

  The urge to sling it at her again came over him, but Johnis dismissed it. They didn't have the time for that.

  He donned his shirt, chilly against his skin.

  The woman's reflection rippled across the surface of the pool.

  Silvie scooted forward and knelt, lapping like a dog and scooping with both hands, gorging herself.

  The face vanished.

  He blinked.

  She sat up and wiped her chin. "No more fantasy women."

  "I'm telling you, she's real." He dropped beside her. Looked into the pool. Nothing. Just red water.

  His mind drifted for a moment, tried to refocus. Another early sign of the disease.

  "Seek me in the desert, Chosen One. . . "

  "Do we really have time to return to the lake?" Silvie asked, staring at the forest to their right.

  Darsal. Darsal was waiting, one way or another.

  His mind's eye saw fruit and wine and brilliant eyes like glittering jewels. A warm, exotic presence flooded his soul, spilled into him like waterfalls.

  "It's two hours just to Middle," Silvie was saying. "And that's if we run."

  Both of them were losing it.

  "Are you arguing for or against the desert?" he asked her. "You aren't making sense."

  "I'm arguing for finding water and ignoring this newfound fantasy of yours. And for leaving Darsal to find us. She's good at that, you recall."

  "That was a little low."

  His mind drifted again, from the pool with the woman's face to her haunting, seductive voice. Then caught up to Silvie's insinuation.

  Darsal was really good at this game of hide-and-seek. And the betrayal nigh broke her. She had been so hopeless before ...

  What if she hadn't really planned on joining back up with them? Jumping out of an attic into a roomful of Horde unarmed was suicidal.

  And not any different than what Billos had done for her.

  "We can't abandon Darsal."

  She faced him. "What good are we to Darsal if we're Horde? Honestly, do you think we can make it? Get back to Middle, find Darsal, rescue her if she's captive, then go in search of water, all before the disease turns us stupid?"

  "You have a point," Johnis conceded.

  But the notion of leaving Darsal behind sat like a brick in his gut. Assuming Darsal was anywhere near Middle.

  Unlikely.

  Unless she was captive.

  The brick started to rot. Acidic poison worked its way into his chest and throat.

  He had to get to the desert.

  He had to get to Darsal.

  His heart was tearing in two.

  "We have to find water before we-"

  "We have to keep our word first," Johnis snapped. "Then we go for the desert." Into the desert. "And we find out if this woman is for real or not."

  "You mean `water.' You're not using your head."

  "No, I'm following my heart." Johnis stood. "We go back and we look. Then ... then we find water."

  ou don't know if you're a Scab?" Jordan spoke after another hour or so. His tears had dried. Her story had at least temporarily distracted him from whatever the Scabs were doing to his wife. His voice was stronger.

  The increasing pain to her joints and skin and the stiffness served as a haunting reminder of her predicament. So far no cracks, but the agony brutalized her.

  "It's too difficult to explain." She tucked herself back under the cloak, her only solace from the chafing disease. "I don't understand any of this. Where is everyone? Why are the Scabs ruling Middle? What happened to everyone? Where is Thomas? And this nonsense about not turning?"

  Xedan drew a breath. "The Horde took over Middle a long time ago. We don't know where the others are. We were separated from them ourselves."

  "Grandfather and I drowned with Thomas. Rona, a few months later. Things got out of control. The Horde had gone on an albino hunting spree. The Circle split into groups to keep from being annihilated and went deep. Very, very deep ..."

  Darsal nodded. "If you were caught, you couldn't reveal the others."

  Pain flashed across Jordan's face.

  "No," he said. "We couldn't. We have a rendezvous point in the ..." He hesitated and glanced toward the guard, then looked at Darsal. "That is, Jordan of Southern is far from home. And if the sun kisses the sky he'll meet Jordan last."

  Darsal thought the riddle out. The sun kissed the sky in the east...

  "Our band was small," Xedan offered. "And close to Middle."

  "Strategically placed," Jordan reminded him.

  "You weren't with the others," Darsal noted.

  Jordan's expression turned grim. "I was leading a smaller group. A decoy to keep the Horde away from the main body of the Circle." He fell quiet, then continued. "A month ago we were routed. Fifty of ours were taken, Rona included. Grandfather, three others, and I helped them escape. Only Rona was recaptured," Jordan said, eyes flashing. His normally amiable expression turned wicked. "I couldn't leave her." He shook, struggling not to lose composure.

  Xedan's gaze returned to Darsal. "We all have our price, so it seems."

  "Drowning," Darsal repeated.

  The pain from the disease was like many teeth and claws chewing all over her body, ravenous predators tearing and fighting over her flesh. She'd seen a pack of hyenas do that once, and the picture resurfaced now.

  "Your wounds bother you?" Xedan asked. "You've taken quite a beating-two in less than twenty-four hours."

  The gash on her arm from fighting the Scab. She'd almost forgotten. It did hurt, but now she'd never notice.

  A dry, humorless laugh snorted out of her. She winced. "Elyon's angry with me."

  Her voice was raspy, dry. She coughed.

  "The Horde's taken over, you say. The others ... dead or hiding? Or Scab?"

  "No." Jordan's voice came out small and weak, so he cleared it and started over. "No. But listen to me, Darsal. Listen to me. I'll tell you what happened if you promise to listen. The Circle, those who drowned in the red lakes, followers of Elyon, are hunted by the Horde. We drown to find life and spend it as outcasts. Your choice in this world is to live as Horde or die as followers of Elyon."

  He paused.

  "And let me tell you, dying is the better choice by far."

  The Books of History hadn't killed her.

  So now the disease would.

  Or the very water that Elyon once used to heal them.

  A door rattled open and torchlight poured into the hall. Darsal squeezed her eyes shut and risked the pain to curl up tighter. Her body screamed in protest, making her whimper.

  "Stand up," the guard ordered. The others started shuffling. Darsal didn't move. The Scab rattled her cage door. "Stand up!"

  She stirred, quivering. The gash on her arm throbbed and a vein pounded against her temple. She staggered to her feet, ignoring the onslaught of pain and what felt like at least three broken ribs.

  Xedan and Jordan were already on their feet.

  Darsal grabbed a bar and pulled herself the rest of the way up. Dry blood crackled on her lip and nose.

  Her right knee popped, caving on her.

  Cursing, she gripped the metal tighter, holding herself upright. Her whole body felt swollen twice its normal size and incredibly heavy. Her skull outweighed an elephant.

  This wasn't the guard. He was a little older than Jordan and had an officer's insignia. General.

  Marak.

  The Scab gave them each a chunk of bread, a piece of fruit, and water in a skin.

  "What do you want?" she asked.

  But he wasn't interested in her. He went to Jordan's cage and stopped in front of him. The two men regarded each other. Darsal sensed a history there. Enemies of long standing, equally matched in strength and cunning,
and a high respect and knowledge of the other.

  Jordan kept his arms loose, refusing to pull on the shackles, fists knotting. Shoulders back, chin level with the guard's. It wasn't anger or even hate in his eyes, though.

  It was sorrow. An unyielding, broken grief, oppressing the whole room.

  Marak's gaze, however, had nothing but bitterness and scorn. And perhaps the kind of pity that comes when you think a person is hopelessly deceived and there's nothing left to be done about it.

  And now Darsal could see the men's resemblance to one another. Marak's scaly white skin made it difficult, but he and the old man and Jordan had similar builds, similar expressions.

  They looked related.

  Jordan drew his lips tightly together. "I won't change my mind."

  "This can end." Marak put his hands up on the bars. His chalky gray eyes stared at the slightly smaller, younger prisoner. His voice was low, deep. "Just tell me where they are.,,

  "It could end if you would allow it." Jordan's chin lowered, then rose again to Marak. "Don't let Qurong turn you into a coward."

  "You're the coward."

  Jordan flinched. He looked once more at Marak. "If you say so."

  "Sucrow is forcing my hand."

  "Sucrow. Are you blind, Marak?" Jordan's fists knotted. "I hope you're enjoying this." He thrust a finger at Rona. "Open your eyes."

  Marak scowled and wouldn't look down at the woman. "I won't enjoy watching you die." But he glanced toward the door, afraid the guard might overhear.

  "But you'll be there. You'll do nothing and stand there while we're-"

  A sharp look from Xedan cut him off.

  "It's better than watching the disease take you," Marak whispered at last. He glanced at Xedan, then Rona, and back to Jordan. "Now that I can't watch."

  "Why are you here?" Jordan repeated.

  "It won't be much longer. Qurong is putting Sucrow over my head."

  Silence. Jordan's lips pressed tight.

  Marak caught Darsal's stare and returned it for a long beat, then he broke away and walked into the darkness. The door clanged shut.

  "DEFINITELY HEADED SOUTH," CASSAK MUSED. HE AND Warryn lay on their stomachs on an overhang, observing through a spyglass the ten men they knew to be the Eramite half-breeds. All on horseback. All armed.

  "Order your men to attack now."

  "Patience. The priest may be in command, but you are not him. We don't need a second front."