He suddenly found Neka’s arms wrapped around him. “I know you don’t hate him, Arman. I know the truth of the matter, remember? Seiki doesn’t.”
“I was going to fix things with Karik—what if I’ve left it too late? What if he dies thinking I rejected him? He believes I’m his father.”
She just hugged him again. “If he dies, then his spirit will be freed and the mistakes of this life will be past. If he doesn’t, then you can say what is in your heart. I think your problem is knowing what is in your heart concerning him.
“Why, Neka? Why do I have so much trouble getting close to the boy? No one else seems to have the least difficulty.”
“No one who isn’t afraid of him does, that’s true. The last thing I want to do is tell you what to think, but I will say this. You’re a very brave man except in one respect. You’re afraid of being hurt here.” She laid her hand over his heart. “And fear has a wonderful way of blinding us to the truth.”
“Fear of Karik? That’s ridiculous.”
She just fixed him with a look. “I’m not going to say more. We have more important things to deal with now. I promised Jena a mind-speaker would be with you, and since Seiki has gone, that duty falls to me.”
“But the other Rulers....”
“Yes, I know. Let me deal with that, you have enough to worry about.” “Arman, you look ready to pass out. Let’s find some tea. I can monitor things while we do that. If you’re needed, I can tell you.”
At least he could handle the bad news in a way Seiki had yet to be trained to do, and he had known Neka for so long, she was no burden on his emotions. They sat in a corner of the dining hall—Arman was right, it was lunchtime, so it was filling up. Several people came up to express their regrets but mostly they were left alone. Neka sipped her tea in silence, keeping an ear on the various conversations she was in charge of facilitating.
He felt exhausted—lack of sleep, an early start, and then all this had robbed him of all energy—and almost dozed as they waited for news. He jumped as she laid a hand on his wrist. “Eat,” she said gently.
“I can’t.”
“You sound like Reis when he gets upset about something. Eat something. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”
Only when she agreed to eat lunch too did he reluctantly ask a servant to bring them some bread and cheese, and more tea. He had a feeling he’d be awash with the stuff before the day was over. “Any news?”
“He’s back in the infirmary. Pitis is with him but they don’t want anyone in there just at the moment. He knows I’m ‘listening’. Karik’s still fighting.”
“Good. There’s nothing to the child, I don’t know where he gets his spirit from.”
She gave him the oddest look at that comment. “He must be tough, don’t you think? Living with prejudice all his life for just being who he is and what he looks like, enduring what he has this year? Jera said Reis is beside himself with worry. He and Karik have become such close friends. I think they saw the goodness in each other’s soul. It draws people to Karik—those that don’t fear to open their hearts to him.”
“I’m not afraid of the boy, I just....”
“Just...?”
“Just...find he....” He stopped, and as the servant chose that moment to bring their food, he used it as an excuse to avoid embarrassing himself. Neka clearly knew what he was doing, but didn’t press him. It was, as she said, not the time for such a conversation.
They remained in the dining hall long after the last stragglers had left for their classes or other business, and the servants had cleared everything ready for the next influx for the evening meal. No one disturbed them or questioned their right to be there—Arman’s position would have guaranteed that, but he got the impression it was more respect for the situation.
It was mid-afternoon before she lifted her head. “Pitis says you can come in.”
“Not you?”
“I’ll wait here. They don’t need a crowd of people in their infirmary—but I’ll be ‘there’.”
He stood and stretched. He was stiff as anything from sitting and worrying for so long. Then he bent and kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Coped as you always do—but just with more difficulty. Go on,” she said kindly.
Pitis met him in the corridor. “My lord, I should warn you—he’s gravely ill. There was more damage than we spotted the first time and he began to haemorrhage—it’s taken all this time to stop the bleeding. Unfortunately, the loss of blood makes it harder for him, as does the lung damage.”
“How long before you know if he will come through?”
“My answer is the same as before, my lord. I’m sorry. There are too many unknowns. I have offered my prayers to our gods for his recovery.”
For a moment, Arman was confused as to what he was referring, then he realised the man was talking about the damn Prijian gods. “I’d rather you put your faith in the skill of your healers, Master Pitis,” he said gruffly.
“I do that too, of course,” the man replied with a slight bow. “But I can’t help my beliefs, even if you no longer share them.”
“Of course not. Apologies,” he said in Prijian. “May I see him?”
“Yes. He’s awake—I’ve reduced the dose of pijn because he needs to breathe as deeply as he can to heal the lung. I fear he is in more pain because of that, but I daren’t drug him into unconsciousness right now. He needs to replace the blood he’s lost and he can’t do that unless he drinks. You can help him, if you wish to.”
“I certainly do. Whatever I can, I want to do.”
“Then follow me, my lord.”
When he’d left Karik, the boy had been sleeping apparently peacefully. This was no longer the case, and his green eyes darted to Arman as he entered the infirmary, his mouth tight with pain, and his hands clenching and unclenching weakly. He was still propped up with pillows, lying bare to the waist with a large swathe of bandages around his middle, as well as on his arm. “Gods, he’s in agony,” Arman muttered. They approached the bed, and he sat down. “Karik?”
At the sound of his voice, Karik strained to sit up. “Ah...?” He coughed painfully, and fell back, looking exhausted, as pale as the pillows he lay on.
Arman looked up at Pitis in a silent plea to help him. “I’m sorry it hurts, lad. Arman is going to help look after you. Arman, we have a supply of medicinal tea, good for the blood loss and for averting infection. Karik, you must drink the tea, and breathe deeply.” He bent down and whispered into Arman’s ear. “The tea contains yusus extract. Not as powerful as the pijn, but better in such cases. He should drink as much as he can.”
“Bring it to me then.” He took Karik’s hand and pushed his hair off his sweaty face. Karik looked at him with dull eyes. “I know it hurts, son, so when it does, squeeze my hand.”
“Wuh-want Ma....”
“I know, Karik. When you’re settled a little, Neka will let you talk to her. But not right now. Right now, you’ve got to replace the blood you’ve lost and get stable.”
Karik squeezed his hand and grimaced. “Hurts.” His voice was barely audible, but the word was clear enough.
“I bet. It hurt when I had a hole in my gut too. If you fight the pain, it’s worse.”
Karik closed his eyes, but not, Arman sensed, because he was rejecting the message. The boy was exhausted. If he could sleep naturally, surely that would be the best thing for him. But he was in too much pain for that.
The healer, Wika, brought over a flask of tea and a cup. “We have a pot standing ready—just ask for more when this cools, my lord. I need to record how much he drinks, if you would keep note.”
He was familiar with the task—he’d done his share of nursing patients under Kei’s direction, and Kei had trained him as thoroughly as any medic in some respects. He put his arm under Karik’s shoulder and helped him up a little. “Sip this, Karik.”
Karik tried to
get it down but he choked and tea went everywhere. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye. “S-sorry.”
“It’s all right, don’t fret about that, it’s only tea. Try again.” At the price of much patience and pain, spilled tea and more tears, Karik swallowed a whole cup. “Well done. Just rest.”
His hand was squeezed again. “Please...Ma...Ah-man...don’ wait....” Karik opened his eyes. “Please.”
Arman’s gut tightened as he realised Karik was afraid he would die before he spoke to his mother again, and he could not deny there was a chance of this...just as it had been for Loke. “Neka? I think we should let him do this.”
“Let me contact Jena and I’ll come to you.”
“Neka’s coming, Karik.”
Karik looked at him, gratitude in his tired eyes, and squeezed his hand again, this time in thanks. “I had a l-letter.”
“A letter? For me?”
Karik nodded, then winced. “Kei...im...portant....”
Arman wished he would save his breath—it was so hard for him to get each word out. “It’s all right, son, we can find it later.”
“No...time...please?”
What pissing letter? “Neka, can you ask Pitis if there was a letter with Karik’s things?” Arman had no idea where the boy’s clothes had been put. They would be unusable.... Gods, he needed to tell Pira what was going on. She would be frantic about Karik.
A few moments later, Neka spoke in his head. “Pitis says there’s a note addressed to you in his pocket. I’ll bring it along.”
“Thank you.” “We’ve found the letter, Karik, so you can relax now.”
Karik nodded. Wika brought a cloth over to wipe Karik’s face and chest—Arman took it from him. “I can look after him—I’ve been trained well enough.”
“As you wish, my lord. A familiar face is best in this situation.”
Arman would hardly describe himself as “familiar” but Karik wasn’t objecting to his handling him. He was still fighting, despite his weariness and the pain and the blood loss. Good breeding, he thought, then caught himself. That was what he’d said about....
Gods. Karik was not Loke. Karik was not going to die. Arman would not allow it.
He was trying to coax the boy to another cup of tea when Neka arrived, and it seemed to him Karik was immediately a little easier to see her. She took his hand, and from the concentration on both their faces, he guessed they were talking. He continued to support Karik’s body and gently stroked his hair, which soothed him a little. Another similarity which brought back painful memories.
Neka stayed for twenty minutes or more. When she finally sighed and looked up at Arman, he realised Karik was asleep—or unconscious. His breathing was a little easier, and there was no point in forcing him to wake just to drink the tea. Arman laid him down carefully on the pillows. “Well?”
“He spoke to them. It was pretty upsetting for her, but I don’t think he realised it—we tried to make sure he didn’t. He thinks he’s going to die, Arman.”
“Yes, I know. But he’s not. I won’t let him die without a fight.”
She gave him a slight smile, then pulled a bloodied bit of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. “It’s from Kei. Apparently Karik wanted to deliver it to you in person, and he’s worried if you don’t get it, that you and Kei will continue to be at odds. He was determined that didn’t happen. He was afraid if he died and the letter was lost, your quarrel would continue.” She reached out and touched the boy’s face. “He’s a little confused, I think. He’s in a lot of pain.”
“I can’t believe they can’t help him with that more than they are. Neka, can you make it possible for me to talk to him without him needing to speak? It’s so hard for him to find the breath.”
“Of course. I’ll make sure someone keeps the link open at all times.” She rose. “I’ll leave you with him, but you can call me at any time. I can let him speak to Jena from anywhere, but I wanted to visit him this one time.”
“Thank you. One last favour—Pira? Can you let her know?”
“I already did. She was ready to come charging over here, but I told her you wouldn’t want that. Everyone wants to help Karik. Reis said he wants to visit, but I’ve put him off too.”
“Thank you.” The last thing he wanted was an emotionally volatile mind-mover to come down and see his new best friend so gravely ill. Seiki’s loss of control had been bad enough. At least she couldn’t bring the building down around their ears.
Neka kissed his cheek. “You are the conduit for all our love. Make sure he knows that.”
When she left, Arman laid a hand on Karik’s forehead—it felt horribly cold and clammy. “Did you hear that, Karik? You’ve got a lot of people willing you to get through this.”
And at least one of them is me.
Seeking Home: 15
He’d known going in just how difficult this could get—which had been one of the reasons he’d been so desperate to get Seiki away from the infirmary—and the hours that followed did not disappoint that expectation. Because of the pain and the difficulty in breathing, Karik’s periods of sleep were short and clearly of little benefit to him, and the manful efforts he made to get the tea down exhausted him to the point of weeping. The weariness and the pain made coherent thought difficult for him at times, and as he slipped in and out of his troubled sleep, he confused Arman with other people—sometimes his parents, sometimes people less dear to him, like Mekus. Arman tried as best he could to anchor him in reality, using his voice and his touch for Karik to use as a path out of his delirium.
He waited until Karik was asleep before leaving to relieve himself. He ate a snatched supper at the bedside, and consumed innumerable cups of tea as he kept the grim vigil. Neka took over the task of keeping Karik’s parents informed, for which Arman was very grateful. Trying to present a calm face to deeply worried parents was more than he could have managed, but he was glad they could see Karik was in good hands in the infirmary. Reji, of course, had wanted to come to Darshek immediately. Neka had convinced him to wait for Kei’s opinion. Arman thought Kei would ask them not to come rushing up. It could do no good, and to be blunt, there was no hope of them getting here in time before Karik died, if he did. But Arman was glad not to have to be the one to tell them that.
Pitis took charge of things until midnight, then another senior healer took over until morning. Their expressions told him enough—Karik was far from being out of danger. The two great risks were another haemorrhage and infection. The first could kill the boy in the next day—an infection might take longer to strike. Until several days had passed, no one could assume Karik would survive.
He ignored his own tiredness as best he could, but as midnight passed, he caught himself dozing when things were quiet. He didn’t want to give in to his weakness—he had vowed to see Karik through this night and he would—and used all the tricks he’d learned in the army, when he’d kept watch at night. Gods, he’d never thought he’d need those again either.
It was during one of those quiet periods that he recalled the note Neka had fetched, and which he had shoved on the side table as being unimportant at the time. Karik had had no way of knowing that Kei and he had already made up their quarrel—if he had known, then he wouldn’t have been at the Rulers’ House at all. Another sin to lay at his door.
He grimaced at the dried blood encrusting the paper, but the sight of Kei’s familiar, beloved handwriting made his eyes become itchy with emotion. It was a simple, heartfelt plea for forgiveness, an open and generous admission of fault, and expressing his love. A note any lover would treasure, but the price of receiving it was far higher than either Kei or Arman would have dreamed would need to be paid.
He heard Karik’s soft, pained coughing and he hastened to help him sit up. In the soft lamplight, Karik looked translucent. “Arman? I need to....”
“To...?” Oh. He realised the boy needed to relieve himself. He called quietly to the healer and explained, and between them, t
hey helped Karik piss, a tiresome exercise which left Karik sweating with pain. “Now you have to drink more tea to replace it,” he joked.
“I’ll try... but it tastes bad.”
It did? Arman sniffed at the cup he’d just poured. “You’re right. It’s vile. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. Ma said I had to drink it. Am I going to die, Arman?”
The tired resignation in the boy’s eyes was completely out of place in a child his age. “Not on my watch, you aren’t. Disgusting or not, you better drink this.”
It got no easier, this task, but on the other hand, it was no worse, not for now. Karik was at least lucid, but he didn’t even have enough strength to hold the cup. Arman hadn’t asked Pitis about Karik’s right arm—he hoped there would be no permanent damage, but it seemed a relatively trivial concern among the others.
He would have let the boy rest since he clearly needed it, but when he went to lay Karik back down, he shook his head slightly. “No. Please let me sit up?”
“Whatever you want. But you need to rest.”
“Please? I don’t want to die in my sleep.”
This time it was Arman’s hand on Karik’s which tightened a little. He didn’t want to lie to the boy—he was a healer’s son, and well aware of the realities of life and death—but he refused to admit the possibility to him. “You are not going to die. I simply won’t allow it. Remember, with every minute, your body is mending, that’s what Pitis said.”
“It’s just what healers always say, Arman.”
“Maybe so, but you’re still not going to die. You should try and sleep—it will help you heal.”
“Hurts too much.” As he had done all day, he simply stated it without complaint. Even when he was confused, he didn’t whine about the discomfort. He would have made an excellent officer to have under his command, Arman caught himself thinking. He shook his head—the way the past and present had been blurring all day had been one of the more distressing aspects of the whole ordeal.
Falling From the Tree (Darshian Tales #2) Page 54