To Dream of White & Gold (Death Dreamer Legacy Book 1)

by R. K. Hart

  ‘You can’t do this,’ one snarled, the voice unfamiliar.

  ‘Eve,’ the other answered, placating: it was Isla. ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Leave her out of it. Let me care for him.’

  Lida frowned and rubbed her eyes, sitting up sleepily.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Isla said, her voice steel. ‘What would the Assembly say?’

  ‘Eianna take them, I do not care. Let me do it, Isla.’

  Lida pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly as she adjusted to the movement of the ship.

  ‘My answer is no. Go back to your bed. Now.’

  Lida opened the door and stared at Isla, who held a taper candle in one hand, and the other woman - Eve - who was glaring at her captain. Eve’s hair was pulled back into two tight braids and she was draped in a long sleeved nightgown of black silk, barefoot on the cold wood. She turned her glare to Lida, who almost cowered beneath it, trying to stand tall as the woman took her in. Her amber eyes missed nothing.

  ‘This is my First, Sivasdotter,’ Isla said calmly. ‘Eve. She was just leaving. But I need your help.’

  Eve hissed wordlessly and swept up the ramp, disappearing onto the deck.

  ‘My help?’

  ‘Come, child.’

  The air was chill, so Lida pulled a jumper from her pack and shrugged it over her head. She followed Isla, still half-asleep, stumbling as the ship rolled. The cold helped to wake her; her face stung as salt spray mixed with icy rain hit her cheeks. Isla led her to the stern and down the stairs to the guest quarters, stopping outside the room on the right.

  Dread washed over Lida. ‘What’s wrong?’ she demanded.

  ‘He is ill,’ Isla said curtly, ‘and my physician disembarked in Wex. I cannot risk it spreading to the crew, or I would care for him myself. Can you help?’

  Lida didn’t answer, taking the candle Isla offered and pushing her way into the darkness of the cabin.

  The cramped room smelled of honey and sweat. She moved to the far wall and pushed open the tiny window to let in some fresh air; a cry came from the bed and she almost dropped the candle in surprise.

  ‘Close it!’ Lorcan pleaded in Brinnican.

  Lida pulled the thick glass closed again and rushed to the bed, leaving the candle next to the bowl of untouched stew. He was white in the flickering candlelight and she could see he was amidst a chill; his whole body shook, despite the many blankets he’d cocooned himself within. She put a hand to his forehead and he jerked away, his teeth chattering.

  ‘Willowbark,’ Lida said to Isla, who was hovering in the doorway, her stern face creased with anxiety. ‘There’s a pouch of it in the side of my pack. And hot water. And the physician’s chest, if you have one.’ She turned back to the bed. ‘Lor?’

  He didn’t answer, just groaned and turned away. There was sweat beading his brow.

  ‘Lor, you have a chill. It will turn to fever soon. I’m going to make you some tea, and you have to drink it, all right?’

  He nodded slightly.

  She turned around to rummage through his pack for some tea. She decided on chamomile, hoping it might help him relax, and then knelt, awaiting Isla’s return.

  She didn’t take long. Isla placed the willowbark and a small wooden chest at the door; Jessa followed with a just-boiled kettle and a mug. Isla peered into the dim room, her brows drawn together.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lida said softly. ‘I’ll stay with him. Don’t put yourself at risk.’

  ‘His mother will kill me,’ Isla muttered as she withdrew, taking Jessa with her. Lida pushed the door almost closed behind them, leaving it open a crack for the scant amount of fresh air it afforded.

  She brewed the tea and mixed in a spoonful of willowbark, blowing on the cup until it was cool enough to drink. When she took it to Lorcan he was close to sleep, his eyelids fluttering and his shoulders relaxed. It pained her to wake him, but she knew the willowbark would stabilise the chill and lessen the severity of the coming fever. With difficulty, she wove her arm behind his back and helped him sit; he was almost a dead weight, and much too heavy for her. He blinked hazily.

  ‘Lid -’

  ‘Shh,’ she hushed. ‘Drink.’

  He sipped obediently at the tea, shaking periodically. He tried to turn away before the cup was done, but Lida bullied him into finishing it. When she was satisfied he’d swallowed everything he could manage, she settled his pillows and pulled his blankets back up as he collapsed down.

  ‘My entire body hurts,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes. You have a virus, Lor.’

  He coughed. ‘I never get sick.’

  Lida smiled. ‘Clearly.’

  Lorcan closed his eyes. ‘Connor was ill before we left. He did not seem this bad.’

  Lida reached out and gently pushed a curl from his forehead. ‘Children are tougher than ancient Erbidans.’

  ‘Ancient?’

  ‘Mmm. Twenty-one is old.’

  ‘I will remind you of that,’ he murmured, ‘when you turn twenty-one.’ He shivered and turned his face into his pillow; Lida watched as he went back to sleep. She sat back, hugging her knees.

  She knew the willowbark was not a cure. Maya had nursed patients through similar viruses often, and Lida herself had suffered one when she was younger. It had come and burned out swiftly, but had been severe enough to warrant her first and only trip to the Kingstown infirmary. When Cathan told the story, it was less about Lida and more about Maya, who had followed the physician around like a tiny shadow, taking everything in with wide eyes, and by the end had been mixing and ministering honey infusions and willowbark to Lida herself. Cathan credited the episode with sparking Maya’s interest in healing, though Lida suspected they both would have had it naturally enough, given Cathan’s considerable skill.

  Lida pushed the same errant curl from Lorcan’s forehead, wishing she’d spent more time watching Maya heal people, and less time watching Cathan heal animals. From her own experience, Lida suspected that Lorcan was in the first stages of illness, and it would get worse before it got better. She settled her cheek on her knees and listened to the sound of him breathing and the restless waves outside.

  She dozed fitfully through the night, never quite reaching full sleep. She was jerked out of her tired haze by a number of blankets sliding from the bed as Lorcan threw them off, turning restlessly around on the mattress, which Lida could see was damp with sweat. His forehead was dangerously hot to touch, so she mixed more willowbark and alternately coaxed and bullied him until he finished the entire cup.

  In the dawn light she could see the bright red circles in his cheeks, and as morning proper stole across the sky, Lida’s worry grew. He began to cough in deep, wracking barks that were painful to hear and worse to watch. Jessa checked on them an hour or so later, bringing hot oats and fresh water and a bucket, just in time. The scent of breakfast triggered Lorcan’s nausea and he retched into the bucket, over and over until he lay back again, trembling, his hair slick with sweat. Lida opened the window and Jessa the door, and Lida stumbled from the cabin to dispose of the bucket’s contents unceremoniously over the side of the ship, grateful her own stomach was empty.

  ‘You need sleep, Lida,’ Jessa said, peering at her from what she perceived to be a safe distance. ‘I will get your things.’

  Lida smiled wearily in thanks, exhausted and cold and hopeful that once Lorcan’s fever broke she could crawl back into her sleeping bag and catch up on the rest she’d lost.

  The hope fled when she went back to the cabin and her heart dropped in her stomach. He was wheezing as he coughed; as Lida listened, he began to gasp for air. She darted across the room to help him sit, and pressed her ear to his chest; she could hear it rattling as he struggled to breathe.

  She sat back, trying to swallow her panic. She did not have the skill to deal with this: even Jula lost patients to infections of the lungs. It usually took the very young and very old, though it was not unheard of for healthy, strong people
to succumb; it had taken Marnie’s father, Silvus, when Lida was twelve. Lida had seen him, drained of colour and struggling to breathe through blue lips, wheezing with every feeble rise of his chest. Cathan had not let his daughters near him, so they had waved from the hallway instead. Silvus had coughed and blown a kiss with a shaking hand. Two days later, Lida had clutched Cathan and sobbed as Marnie lit the pyre to give her father’s body to the stars.

  Lida pressed her nails into her palms and wished fervently for Alys or Maya as she tried to think through what she should do. She took Lorcan’s hand gently, fighting back tears.

  ‘Lor?’ she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering. Maya’s voice was always calm and even. He blinked at her languidly, his chest rising and falling much too slowly. His shoulders rounded as he succumbed to another coughing fit and he wheezed to catch his breath. ‘You have to sit up. It will help you breathe. And you need to drink more water.’

  Jessa knocked quietly, her arms laden with Lida’s pack and some blankets. She put them down and moved back, paling as she took in Lorcan’s ashen face.

  ‘Jessa,’ Lida murmured. ‘Can you bring something else for me?’

  Five minutes later, the Erbidan woman returned with the kettle re-filled, a tiny brazier, and a shallow bowl. She watched as Lida carefully lit the brazier, mindful of what a disaster a fire would be on a ship made of wood and tar, and boiled the kettle, pouring a small amount of hot water into the bowl. She searched the physician’s chest but could not find what she wanted: it seemed to cater mostly for injuries, being full of bandages and needles and a number of knives so sharp Lida didn’t want to think about their intended use.

  Lida woke Lorcan from his restless doze and made him sit, then held the bowl on his lap so he could breathe the steam. Jessa watched curiously; Lida explained what she was doing and that were she at home, she would add a strong-smelling oil of eucalyptus to help open the nose and throat. As a timely demonstration, Lorcan had a fit of coughing and spat a good deal of phlegm into a handkerchief, seeming to breathe easier afterwards.

  ‘I do not think she has that oil, but the cook makes a salve for sore muscles,’ Jessa said, frowning. ‘Would that help?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lida said gratefully. ‘I think it would. Thank you.’

  Jessa disappeared once more, and Lida turned back to Lorcan, who was slumped over the bowl, breathing shallowly.

  ‘Is it helping?’ she asked softly.

  He nodded, closing his eyes. She felt him reach out and thinned her mindshield.

  I am so tired, Lida, he called hopelessly.

  Lida could feel how weak he was. Usually, when she closed her eyes, Lorcan glowed with power so bright it was almost painful. Now it was barely an ember, and Lida could see pain lacing through his body in sharp shades of red and black, despite the willowbark. Illae moved through him sluggishly, and she cursed herself for her uselessness.

  I know, she thought to him, trying to keep her mindvoice calm. I wish we were home. Mikal would like berating you. She took his hand and turned it over, running her thumb across his palm.

  ‘Gods, he would make me eat so much food,’ he croaked aloud. He turned aside in another fit of coughing. ‘He seems to think people get sick just to vex him. You should have seen him when Jak caught mumps. He was furious.’

  ‘He will be furious with me if I don’t care for you properly,’ Lida answered, watching Jessa set a pot of salve on the floor.

  ‘I doubt that,’ Lorcan murmured, half asleep again. ‘I think he likes you best of everyone, save Jak. And possibly me, though you would not think it the way he growls all the time.’

  Lida picked up the salve. She could smell herbs in the oily mix, but was unsure which ones; she hoped the cook knew what she was doing. ‘Unbutton your shirt, Lor,’ she said.

  He laughed weakly. ‘How romantic you are, Lida.’ He coughed, struggling again to catch his breath and fumbling with the buttons. Lida ended up doing it herself, rubbing the salve as gently as she could over his chest to his collarbone. He trembled; she slowly coaxed him forward so that she could repeat the process across his broad back.

  He sat back with a sigh when she was done, and managed a slight smile before he started to cough again. She took the bowl from his lap and crawled into the bed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He lay his head on her chest.

  She thought he slept; there was certainly a break from the coughing, though his fever shifted back to a chill, and she held him as his body tremored uncontrollably. When the worst had passed, she gently rested her cheek on his hair and closed her eyes.

  She was so close to him that she could not help but find his dream. His dreamscape was empty but for the furrowed streaks of sickly-looking green and strikes of hot red pain; the sensation pushed against Lida’s skin. Lorcan had curled up in the middle of it, gasping for breath. Lida felt something inside her break.

  She ran and pushed him up, willing his airways to open and his pain to leave. She willed his chest to clear and his chill to abate. She drew and drew, and willed and willed.

  Nothing happened but that she drove herself to tears of frustration. They were his body’s symptoms, not part of his mind, and there was nothing Lida could do to help; she could not change anything that was real.

  She concentrated on the dream itself instead. With a wave of her hand, she forced the green light back and the red away, and she built something different. A field of barley grain, dropping away sharply into the glittering sea. A bank of black clouds on the horizon, held back by clear blue sky. A warm, fresh breeze to stir the ships in the small port. She stepped back through the white and into her memories to make sure she had every detail right, every blade of grass and every catch of sunlight on the waves.

  Lorcan sighed happily, then descended into a fit of coughing, wheezing and gasping. He flickered in and out of her arms as his body moved rapidly in and out of sleep, finally settling back to rest, watching the dreamscape sky.

  Lida held him for what seemed like hours. When she woke, barely daring to breathe for fear of disturbing him, she could see from the window that it had been an hour at most. Her head was pounding and her shoulders ached, but she sat statue-still until he woke.

  His fever was back, so she slipped from the bed and watched the sweat bead on his brow, then coaxed him to drink. His breathing was so laboured that it was difficult for him to swallow, but Lida could see that he badly needed the water: his lips were dry and cracking, his eyes dull. When Jessa brought some bread and butter, Lorcan snarled Lida from the room while Jessa tied a scarf to cover her nose and mouth to help him change. Lida protested but went, knowing that she badly needed to wash, and realising that she was starving and almost deliriously tired. She washed and changed in the horses’ stall, then scoffed a bowl of soup that Isla had left for her.

  When she returned, she insisted that she watch Jessa wash her hands, making the Erbidan woman scrub her skin with soap just the way Maya did it. Lorcan was asleep again, his hair braided back, wrapped in a clean blanket. He looked simultaneously better and worse, false colour in his cheeks but his skin pale everywhere else. His temperature was never steady, creeping too high and plummeting back dangerously low within a matter of minutes. Lida watched him, dragging her hands through her hair. She didn’t need to thin her mindshield to feel the pain in his chest as his lungs struggled to work. Every time he coughed, he woke again, fighting to catch his breath, gasping over and over, his fingers bunching in the blankets as he battled against his body. Lida bent to press a kiss to his hand; he didn’t notice.

  She held herself together with effort, rising to her feet to stand vigil at the end of the bed. She shifted her weight to her toes, but she had never felt less like running. She lost track of time. She watched and she kept watching until his lips - the bow-shaped lips that should have been the deep pink of a rose petal - went white, then blue, and only then did Lida slide down in a heap and put her face in her hands to cry.

  ‘Sivasdotter?’
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br />   Isla stood in the doorway, a kettle in hand. She looked from Lida to the bed and listened to the shuddering rasps of his infrequent breath. Her face went rigid.

  ‘It is bad, then?’ she said softly.

  Tears burned Lida’s cheeks. ‘Yes, it’s bad.’ She looked at her hands. ‘I wish he had stayed in Brinnica. Katrin would be able to help him.’ She lifted her fingers to her cheeks and dragged her nails over her skin. ‘I wish that he had stayed at the Illarum and Tiernan had sent Marlyn north instead. I wish Jakob never found me. I can’t help him.’ She swallowed. ‘I think you should say goodbye.’

  ‘Not just yet,’ Isla said gently. Lida looked up through her mess of hair; the captain’s eyes were kind. ‘Come, child. When you cannot help, you ask someone who can.’

  Isla led Lida up onto the deck and to the very end of the bow. The sea was rough and black in the night, throwing up sheets of spray. Lida embraced the cold and the shock of water on her skin as a wild desperation flowed through her.

  Isla knelt, but Lida could not; she had never really learned how to pray. She leaned against the rail and stretched her arms into the dark instead. While the captain’s lips moved silently through well-worn words, Lida drew and drew and pushed her demands out into the sea in a wave of wild power.

  She called on Eianna, on Amivere, on Andastra. She even entreated Curan and Lir and Fiou. She promised anything in her power - to give anything, to do anything, anything at all - if only they would make Lorcan well. She looked up at Kaia, visible behind a thin stretch of cloud, and begged her, too.

  The gale blew spray into her face and hair. ‘Anything, Eianna,’ she whispered to the night, tasting salt on her lips. ‘Please.’

  The wind died abruptly, and with it went Lida’s fight; she fell to her knees next to Isla. The captain began to pray aloud, her voice strong as she spoke a lilting plea to ease the passage of the dying. Lida didn’t know the words, so she bowed her head and listened, staring at the wooden planks under her knees. When Isla had finished, she spoke.