Ciarrah's Light

by Lou Hoffmann

  She nodded. “Good. That’s good,” she murmured while checking his pulse. After feeling for fever with a hand to his forehead, she looked down into the vessel his wound had been draining into. “Hm, progress,” she said. “Less discharge, and mostly clear yellow, rather than pus. Miraculous considering the stunt you pulled. Any more vomiting?”

  “No.” Although if you keep talking about yellow discharge and pus….

  “You hungry?”

  “Starving,” Han said after only the slightest hesitation, feigning enthusiasm. In truth, food seemed like a terrible idea, and he had no plans to test his stomach with it. He merely wanted to convince her he was okay so she would leave and wouldn’t drug him.

  She studied him with narrowed eyes, and Han wondered if perhaps he’d overdone the act after all, but after a moment, she nodded and laid her cards on the table—or at least that’s how Han thought of it.

  “Well, I believe we’ll try you on a regular diet today. I do want you to continue with the bitter tea. That’s the one that helps your body fight infection, and you’re not out of the woods with that yet. That wound is deep and long, and the infection goes all the way through it. It’s fortunate the horn of that beast slid up the thigh bone instead of breaking it, but all along the bone the flesh is torn, and whatever filth was on the horn… well, you get the idea. I’ll have Tennehk come in and remove the drain for a while, because I want you to be able to move around a little bit. But we’ll keep the wound open and packed, and more than likely reinsert the drain later. You are not to leave the infirmary. And if you can’t follow my orders, I will put you back on the sleep potion. You know which one I mean, I’m sure.”

  “The one that smells like dirty socks.”

  “Right. And you can resist all you want, but one way or another, you’ll drink it if I order it. Do you understand?”

  “Uh… yes. I understand.”

  It’s not a lie, Han Shieth, he assured himself.

  Right. Because I do understand. I’m just not going to follow instructions.

  She really thinks she could make me drink it….

  Tahlina stalked to the door, bearing more like a military commander than a healer. But she stopped in the doorway, turned to meet his gaze, and said, “Han, I want you to know I truly wish you no ill.” She hovered a moment, as if considering saying more, but instead nodded curtly, turned on her heel, and left.

  WHEN LUCKY woke up, he expected to see a battlefield at twilight. He expected to hear cries of alarm, screams of torture, and moaning speech from those already dead.

  Speech from the dead?

  Why would he expect such a thing? And even the battlefield idea—where had that come from? He’d never even been in a real battle complete with swords and arrows and horses and armor and… death. So much death….

  Judging from the half-light in his room, he dimly registered the time of day must be early morning, but he had no idea how long he’d been sleeping, and no recollection of when and how he’d gone to bed in the first place. He reached up to run his hands roughly through his hair—as he frequently did when frustrated or confused—but quickly stopped. It hurt his head—and his hands.

  My hands… what happened to my hands?

  Blood stained the bandages wrapped around them, but when had he cut them?

  They sort of felt like somebody else’s hands, or like somebody else had been using them while he slept.

  Right. Because that’s a perfectly normal thought.

  They didn’t feel normal, though. They felt wrong, like everything else.

  His body felt too heavy, and yet whisper-thin at the same time. His head ached as if it had been pounded against brick. He felt stiff and sore everywhere. And he was hungry, so hollow that he feared he’d never be able to fill his belly—yet the thought of the lavish breakfast that must surely be waiting in the Sisterhold’s kitchen didn’t interest him. He didn’t want food at all.

  He wanted to sort things out, to remember yesterday and his dreams in the night—wanted desperately to know what they were, even though he knew they’d been horrible. Maybe because they’d been horrible. He wanted to know how he’d hurt himself in so many places too. He picked up the cup on his bedside table, thinking a few swallows of fresh water might clear his head. Yet when the cool, pure water touched his lips, he couldn’t bring himself to open up and swallow it down.

  And where is everybody? Since he’d been at the Sisterhold, if he’d had even the slightest sniffle, someone, usually more than one someone, had hung around taking care of him with ridiculous attention as if they were sure he’d break if he sneezed. They drove him nuts, it was true, but now when he thought he could use some help, the silent stillness of his room felt cold and empty.

  He closed his eyes, already tired of holding them open. In seconds he began to drift into sleep, and clouds of black mist immediately seemed to settle into the corners of his mind.

  He jerked awake, and panic set in. Here he was, alone and at the mercy of that… whatever it was. Suddenly afraid that some disaster had left him the sole survivor at the Sisterhold, he yelled for Thurlock—only he didn’t, but rather croaked out a whispered syllable. Oddly, the difficulty calmed him some because it required his attention. He cleared his throat forcefully, and then tried again. “Thurlock.” His voice came out thick and gritty, but he’d managed to get the sounds out. No response came, though, and it dawned on him that of course nothing would. If the wizard had been there he would already be by Lucky’s side.

  “Han?” No response again, but Han clearly wasn’t nearby either, and talking out loud wasn’t the way to call him if he was far away. Lucky shook his head, wanting to dislodge the cobwebs obscuring his mind, but when he did, his head hurt and the room spun. He stopped and tried to focus so he could reach out to Han mentally.

  Someone stood up from the chair in the corner of his room, distracting him—and scaring him. With more effort than it should have taken, he sat up quickly so he could see who it was. “Zhevi!”

  “Luccan, you’re awake!” Zhevi strode to Lucky’s bedside, but once he got there, he didn’t seem to know what to do. “Are you feeling okay?”

  That didn’t seem like a real question to Lucky, so instead of answering, he grabbed hold of Zhevi’s hand to signal his urgency and asked a few of his own. “What happened to me? How long did I sleep? How come no one called me for dinner last night?”

  Zhevi stood tongue-tied for a minute, then finally said, “Uh, well. You don’t remember your speech on the green, and the people…? They…. Some of them….”

  That event and all the fright and confusion that went with it came rushing back to Lucky. People clambering to get their hands on him, meaning to do him harm. And… trying to take Ciarrah! A thrill of panic flashed through him. He remembered them breaking the chain that held the Key of Behliseth, remembered trying to hold on to Ciarrah. He had the Key—he’d been holding it in his hands. But where was Ciarrah?

  He scooted up in the bed so his head rested higher on the pillows and tried to look around the room, looking for the Blade’s violet-black gleam in the light from the window….

  Light from the window?

  Lucky raised his gaze to the square of brightening gray morning coming in his west-facing window. It seemed oddly distant from where Lucky lay on his bed still awash in shadow inside and out. For an instant, the promise of daylight broke through his personal haze, but when it did, pain stabbed his forehead and deep into his brain, so sharp he couldn’t hold his eyes open. The dark behind closed eyelids seemed a comfort at first and he relaxed into it, started to let it take him down once again. But he felt a cold touch of what waited for him in sleep—carnage and death—and his sharp intake of breath woke him.

  “Luccan!” Zhevi leaned closer, alarm—or was that horror?—written plain on his face. A moment later Zhevi turned and stepped quickly away.

  Lucky said, “Don’t,” or at least he thought he did, and he wanted to finish it: Don’t leave me here
alone. But before he could turn thought to word he started to fall. In another breath he’d gone somewhere as far from his room in the Sisterhold as it was possible to get, submerged in the darkness where, he was sad to admit, he obviously belonged.

  HAN LAY back on his pillows for a few minutes after Tahlina left. He was, honestly, feeling better than he had the previous afternoon, though not by a lot. After a nurse came to remove the drain and clean and pack his wound—fortunately adding a concoction that numbed the pain—and to teach him how to benefit the most from a cane, he felt truly hungry for the first time since the night he’d come home. When breakfast came in—a mush of oats, nuts, and dried fruit that tasted better than it had any right to—he took advantage of the absence of nausea and ate.

  Amazingly, food made him feel better still. He wasn’t quite ready to make his escape yet—he needed to work up to it. Hoping nobody would witness him hobbling on a cane, he wrapped himself in an infirmary-issue robe they’d left for him and made his way to the facility’s morning room.

  Unfortunately, food apparently also made him sleepy again, maybe helped along by activity and the pleasantness of the room with its sunny ambience. When he’d sunk down into an overstuffed chair, he hadn’t meant to nap, but his full belly and tired limbs weighted his eyelids until he gave in and let them close. He awoke, judging from the light, not too much later, shaken from troubled dreams by a fleeting sense, a feeling reminiscent of Thurlock trying to reach him through brain waves.

  Thurlock had never been able to truly communicate mentally, but he and Han had worked together so closely for so long that eventually they’d forged a rough connection. Han could sometimes—but not always—read the wizard clearly. Thurlock’s brain had a unique frequency. As far as a mental conversation between them—hopeless. They usually managed something more like signal fires or codes flashed with mirrors.

  Last fall, even that line of communication had failed, and then Han had exchanged his telepathic gift for his life in an effort to find and help Luccan, Zhevi, and L’Aria after he’d been forced to send them on without him in the frozen north. But a remnant had been left to him, and the red dragon matriarch, Naht’kah, had told him that what remained would allow him to have a sense, at least, of Thurlock’s well-being. And after that, Han’s gift had been restored when Lucky had used Ciarrah to heal Han’s head injury. He’d been able to communicate with Luccan after that, and he’d realized yesterday it was only his own will that had been blocking his talent elsewhere. But he’d not yet had a single inkling from Thurlock.

  Until now.

  Han called out mentally, “Thurlock? Sir?”

  He received no reply but did get a sense of Thurlock’s mind—he was close. Han hadn’t realized until that very moment how worried he’d been. He’d been shoving it to the back of his mind for months. Now, profound relief washed over him.

  Thurlock is coming home! He could take over matters at the Sisterhold, help Luccan through his current troubles, and get him started on the way to becoming, truly, Suth Chiell.

  But until Thurlock gets here…. Han wasn’t off the hook yet. Luccan needed help now, and who knew how long it would be before Thurlock made it back to the Sisterhold. My nephew needs me.

  Han got up from the chair, stepped too hard on his bad leg, winced but didn’t stop—he figured if he didn’t keep moving he might never make it. Making a brief pit stop in his room, he found one problem solved. He actually had clothing stacked on the table—maybe Tennehk brought it, wanting to avoid having Han beg for his khalta again. Relieved he wouldn’t have to wander the Sisterhold in his infirmary robe and little else, he sent a mental thank-you but had no idea whether it would be heard.

  He was still fastening things with one hand, using his cane with the other, as he made his way down the hall at a galloping sort of limp that probably looked anything but badass and dignified. Nobody tried to stop him, but he got some strange looks. He almost laughed at himself—would have, if he hadn’t stepped off the bottom step and almost ran into a panic-stricken Zhevi coming from the hall to the right. From the left came Lem, who looked like the weight of the world sat on his shoulders and he couldn’t wait to pass it on.

  “SIR!” ZHEVI said, surprised and embarrassed to have nearly run smack into two of his superior officers at the same time. He needed to tell Han about Luccan immediately, though, so he felt relieved to have met up with him so quickly. A fraction of a second passed before he realized Lem was looking at him as though he’d committed insubordination.

  “Ye’ll wait to speak when ye’re asked, soldier,” Lem said, giving Zhevi a “significant look.”

  To Zhevi, who had practically been raised by his uncle Lem, those words and that look said a lot, and though he was fairly bursting with the need to speak, he buttoned his lip.

  But Han Shieth, who had planted a hand on Lem’s shoulder to keep himself from pitching forward in the moment of their narrowly missed three-way collision, now gave his arm a pat and said, “No, wait, Lem.” For another half second, he stared piercingly at Zhevi. “It’s about Luccan, isn’t it? Tell me, Zhevi.”

  “He woke up, sir!”

  Han took a deep breath and a sigh that sounded a lot like relief. But then Han seemed to realize there was a reason Zhevi wasn’t smiling. “He didn’t speak?”

  “No,” Zhevi said simply. He was trying not to let his irritation show, but though he respected both Lem and Han, he didn’t like Lem treating him like a child, and he didn’t like Han pilfering his thoughts.

  “I’m sorry, Zhevi. I didn’t do it intentionally. Forgive me for breaking into your thoughts. How did Luccan seem?”

  Zhevi blew out a breath and let go of his resentment. He knew Han’s trespass had come out of his worry for Luccan, and he understood the whole matter was important—not just to Han, to everyone. “Well, sir, the best I can describe it is he seemed confused. Not exactly like he didn’t know where he was or didn’t recognize me, but a bit lost. Otherwise, he seemed… better. Better than when he was in his sleep. He’d been so cold, and pale too. His color improved some, and the room seemed warmer. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. I tried talking to him, but, as you said, he didn’t answer. I thought it was most important for me to let someone know—and that’s when I ran into you.”

  Han said, “Thanks, Zhevi. You did the right thing.”

  But Zhevi could see the pain and worry on his face. Han stared at the wall, but Zhevi had the impression he was really searching for something. Finally he shook his head. He looked tired—maybe defeated.

  Han looked at Zhevi again, and this time there was kindness in his eyes. “Wait right here for a moment, please.” Then he turned to Lem. “Okay, Lieutenant. I can tell you’ve got urgent news to report, and I apologize for making you wait. I’m listening.”

  “Aye, and thank ye, sir. A development—an important one—for your ears, Commander.” His particular choice of words and tone made it plain he thought a private meeting was in order.

  Han seemed to consider that, scratching his chin and pursing his lips in thought. He glanced over his shoulder at the stairs—which were empty—and then checked all three hallways that branched from where they stood. All clear. A distant, listening look came over him, and Zhevi decided he must be listening for people’s thoughts nearby. Apparently he found none and didn’t think Zhevi a security risk.

  “Report, Lem. We’re alone enough,” Han said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Lem’s eyebrows shot up and he asked, “Standin’ here?” in an incredulous voice. Immediately he schooled his expression, and matching his volume to Han’s said, “I mean, certainly. Yes, sir.”

  An awkward pause followed, during which Han seemed to lose a battle against the urge to smile, despite the circumstances. “Okay, enough. As for talking right here, I don’t want to tackle the stairs, or walk any farther out of my way than I have to. And while it’s true I’m your military superior, you’re still Lem and I’m still Han and we’ve known each
other fifty years or so. Just skip the formalities and cut to the chase.”

  “Thank ye, sir. Han, I mean.”

  For a moment Zhevi was sure the usually serious Lem was about to chuckle at his own inability, just then, to counter years of discipline. But that soon passed, and Lem’s expression became dour once more. Zhevi judged its source was fear.

  “Something’s put you off your game,” Han said gently. “What is it?”

  Lem took a deep breath and met Han’s gaze. “Six Behlishan’s Guard under Sergeant Koehl arrived from the Fallows, maybe twenty minutes ago, and they’ve brought with them three Droghona elders. I would have done an initial debriefing with the soldiers before bringing a report, but I’m thinkin’ as Thurlock’s not here, it’s best that ye know the situation—for diplomacy, I mean.”

  Han breathed a long sigh and closed his eyes for a moment, and Zhevi thought he could almost see one more burden settling on his shoulders.

  Then Han said, “Yes, of course. Do we know why they’re here?”

  “According to Koehl, they approached Gerania and asked to be guided to the Sisterhold, wanting to talk to Thurlock about the troubles in the Fallows. I don’t know more than that yet, an’ I won’t until I’ve had a chance to meet with Koehl.”

  Han nodded slowly, chewing his lip in thought. With the grim expression of a man making a hard choice, he nodded decisively. “Okay. Where are the elders now?”

  “In the courtyard garden. The weather today is very fine,” Lem added quickly, his brogue putting a burr in the R of very, “and the garden is in lovely shape. Shehrice is seein’ ta refreshment, but I supposed ye might wish to greet them formally afore we get them settled inside. I’m no diplomat, ye see, so it was all guesswork. I hope I did right, sir.”

  Zhevi noticed Lem had held on to the “sir,” and realized with a sudden jolt of understanding that even his brusquely capable uncle Lem might at times feel unsure of himself.