Chapter Twenty

It was a warrior’s room. Besides the large bed, it contained a vast table weighted down by scrolls, scraps of parchment, broken pens, ink cases, books, deed boxes, strongboxes, lamps, a stirrup iron, dog collars, and a pair of daggers. The opposite wall held a beautiful collection of swords mounted in crisscrossed patterns. Starbursts of daggers adorned another wall. Albain’s banner was flung over the tall back of a tapestried chair, and his boots lay forgotten in one corner. If the man had a valet, the servant must be forbidden to touch anything.

Still, Caelan could not help but smile a little at the disorder. This was a man’s room. He liked it.

But Elandra did not want him to stand and gawk. She was already at her father’s bedside, beckoning him to join her.

Throughout Caelan’s boyhood, the sick and injured had come constantly to the house. If the infirmary was full, Caelan was forbidden to make noise in the courtyard lest he disturb the patients’ rest. His father had worked tirelessly, calmly soothing fevers and talking away fears. How often had Caelan crept from his bedchamber in the middle of the night, following the glow of lamplight and the faint sounds to peer into his father’s workroom? There Beva would sit, hunched at his table in the glow of the lamp, grinding herbs for his potions and making neat notations in his books of study.

The smell of sickness and herbs in the infirmary often crept into the rest of the house. Caelan had always hated that smell. While he felt sorry for the sufferers who came to his father for cures, he could not bring himself to be a willing assistant. He fled the moment his father released him from his chores. Never had he wanted to be a healer. Never had he felt comfortable around those in misery.

Now, in Lord Albain’s chamber, he longed to turn and run. This was not the time to meet Elandra’s father. Albain’s reputation as a fierce old warlord was well deserved, from all accounts. He should be left alone with dignity and peace. He did not need quackery, or sorcery, or Caelan’s unskilled fumbling.

But Elandra’s eyes were on Caelan—trusting him, believing in him—and he could not refuse her anything.

Reluctantly he walked up to the bed and stood behind her, looking down over her shoulder at the battle-scarred old man. Al-bain lay there unconscious, moaning a little.

Caelan could hear the rattle in his lungs, could see the bloody froth on Albain’s lips.

He frowned.

“What is it?” Elandra asked, watching him anxiously.

“He needs more pillows, to prop him higher. He can’t breathe, lying down like that.”

Hope flashed through her face. She rushed away, opening a servant’s door and calling for the valet.

In a few minutes Caelan was carefully lifting the old man while Elandra and the valet piled pillows on the bed.

“I thought so,” the valet kept muttering. “I wanted to do that, but the physicians said he should lie flat. I knew better. I am sorry, my lady. I—I mean, your Majesty.”

“Yes,” Elandra said, holding her father’s hand and seeming to barely hear the man’s excuses. “What else?” she asked Caelan, then glanced at the valet with a frown of suspicion. “Has he eaten? Has he had any water?”

“No, Majesty. They said—”

“Never mind what they said,” she broke in sharply. “Bring broth, just a little. And cool drinking water flavored with the juice of lemons.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

She glanced at Caelan, who knew he could hesitate no longer. Carefully he unlaced Albain’s sleeping shirt and gently probed along the man’s ribs. They were spongy, and dark bruising discolored his sides. He groaned and coughed up blood, which Elandra wiped away.

“At least five broken ribs, maybe a cracked hipbone,” Caelan said at last. He frowned to himself, trying to remember his old lessons. “One of the ribs has punctured his lung. That is why he coughs blood. There is more damage, but I have not the knowledge to tell you what it is.” He met her eyes and told her the truth. “He bleeds inside.”

“Can anything be done?”

“Yes, if we had a proper healer. My father could have mended him easily. Agel could do it.” Caelan heard the futility of his own words and shook his head. “But we have no one of that—”

“We have you.”

He sighed. “Elandra, I am not a healer.”

“Your father taught you something. I know he did.”

Caelan held out his hands. “I could not learn the healing arts. Yes, I learned severance, which I have explained to you, but I—”

“I know,” she said eagerly. “That is why I am so certain you can do it. You must believe in yourself. You must reach deep and find the knowledge that you have. There is a way. There must be a way. I don’t know why I feel so sure, but I do. You can do this, if you will but try.”

He turned away from her, unwilling to face the pleading in her eyes. Elandra had never begged before, but she was begging him now. The worst thing, however, was that she was right.

He did not want to admit it.

He did not want to pay the price.

“Am I wrong?” she asked, her voice suddenly sounding dull. “Am I mistaken?”

He sighed. “We must all lose our parents at some time. It is part of life.”

“Is this his time?” she asked fiercely. “Is it? Or has the darkness reached out to strike him down? When I lived here, the palace was not riddled with shadows and forbidden magic the way it is now. I can feel it crawling everywhere, seeking prey, ready to strike anyone who is unwary. The jinjas are supposed to sense it, keep it away, but they are clearly failing against what has come here. Everything is breaking down, Caelan. The closer we go to Imperia, the more I think we will find much evil turned loose on our world. The darkness is overtaking us, one by one.”

“All right,” Caelan said, breathing deep against his own fear. She did not know what she asked of him. She did not know what this would cost.

“We need him,” Elandra said passionately. “Not because he’s my father. But because he is a fighter, like you. To his very blood and bone, he is a warrior. His joy is combat. His skills and his goodness come in battle. And he is true to the core. We need men like that to help us. Otherwise, we are lost. And the empire is lost. Everything and everyone we know will be taken.”

“I know,” Caelan said. For a moment Elandra’s voice seemed to blur and become Lea’s. He remembered saying that Lea was his conscience. Now it seemed Elandra was too. He was ashamed of his own fear, of his own instinct to save himself at the expense of others.

He gazed down at Albain’s pain-wracked face, and felt a wave of compassion.

Reaching out, he took the man’s slack hand from Elandra. It was callused like his, from long hours of wielding a sword. It was big-knuckled and freckled on the back, hairy and weather-chapped. He felt a touch of involuntary sevaisin that brought him the man’s agony and the squeeze of a lung that would not fill, the heaviness of blood that was drowning him bit by bit.

Caelan gasped and flinched.

Elandra touched his shoulder. “Caelan—”

“Step back,” he said grimly, pushing sevaisin away long enough to catch his breath. “You must leave us.”

“But you might need my help.”

He glared at her, fearing that if she protested too much he would lose his nerve and run from here.

She seemed to read his thoughts. Her own face drained of color. “Am I asking too much?” she whispered.

He dared not answer her. “Just go.”

Consternation filled her face, but she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I love you,” she said and walked away.

“Let no one enter,” Caelan called after her. “No matter what you hear, let no one in until I come out.”

She cast him one last look over her shoulder, looking afraid, and nodded before she shut the door.

Caelan drew in a deep breath, trying to find his courage while the man beside him sank closer to death with every struggling breath.

There was a way to heal Albain. There was a way to summon the skills that Caelan himself did not possess. But it meant opening himself to that which he most dreaded. It meant becoming that which his father had always wanted him to be.

Had he been alone, Caelan would have put off the moment of decision, but Albain groaned and coughed. There was death in the sound. Caelan could feel his life force seeping away as he held the man’s hand.

Bowing his head, Caelan sought sevaisin, and flowed into Albain’s agony until it was his own. In turn, he shared his strength with the old man; then he severed the pain, sending it far away.

It seemed, in his vision, that he stood in a grove of short oak trees, the stunted kind that survived without enough water, unable to grow tall, unwilling to die off. Such groves were common in Im-peria, but Caelan did not believe he was near the city.

Instead, it seemed to be a different kind of place altogether. The wind blew softly, a cold dry wind, and around Caelan there was only silence. He held Albain in his arms, and the old man’s body was heavy, slack, and unbalanced—the most awkward kind of burden to carry.

For now, he had done all he could. Albain could not die while he was here, but neither could he go forth and live. They could stay here for eternity, trapped together.

Caelan gazed around him, but there was only emptiness among the trees as they rattled and lost leaves in the wind.

“Beva E’non!” he called, feeling himself choke as he spoke the name. “Beva E’non, I call you! I alone have the right to summon you. Come forth!”

For a long moment nothing happened. Caelan had always been too impatient, and now he tried to make himself still and calm. He must wait, no matter how little he wanted to.

Then a face appeared among the trees, distant from Caelan, lacking any form to go with it. The face was blurred. It wavered, faded away, then returned and became more distinct.

It was Beva’s face, stern and unloving. The cold gray eyes gradually grew more animated, more alive, more aware. They focused on Caelan, and recognition filled them.

“My son,” Beva’s voice said.

I am not your son! Caelan wanted to shout. Instead, he forced back the quarrelsome words.

“Father,” he said.

“You have come, seeking knowledge.”

“I have come, to save a life.”

“I do not live,” Beva said, wavering for a moment. “I do not heal.”

“Give me the knowledge,” Caelan asked.

Beva stared at him a long, long while. “My knowledge was offered to you when I lived. You refused it.”

“I know.”

“I gave you many chances, my son. You were my only son, my one hope of living on, of seeing my skills continue. You refused me.”

“Yes.”

“I am spirit now. I am severed.”

“I—I need you.” Caelan had to struggle over a lump in his throat to say the words. Since the Choven had told him the truth, he had felt nothing for Beva. Now he had to beg, and it came hard. “I need the knowledge to save this man.”

“You refused all knowledge. You were disrobed. You would not be taught.”

“Not by the masters of Rieschelhold, no,” Caelan said through his teeth.

“Not by me. You refused the purging after the wind spirits mauled you. Would you refuse it again?”

Caelan sank to his knees, unable to hold Albain any longer. The man was growing so heavy. Caelan’s arms were trembling from fatigue, or perhaps from fear.

His mouth was too dry. He had to swallow twice before he could answer Beva’s question. “I—I will not refuse.”

To be purged was to have his mind ripped from him, sifted through by a master healer such as Beva, and replaced. Many who were purged never regained their sanity. Those who survived were forever changed. They became slower of wit, duller of spirit. Beva’s intention to purge his own son had been the final straw that drove Caelan to run away from home. He had never forgiven his father for wanting to do such a thing to him, and now Beva’s spirit still clung to that same horrifying goal.

“Come closer, Caelan,” Beva’s spirit said to him.

Caelan tried, but he could not lift Albain from the ground. The old man lay ashen and limp in his arms.

“I can’t come to you,” Caelan said. “You must come to me.”

Beva’s face wavered and vanished, only to reappear much closer. Caelan found himself breathing too hard and fast. He could barely maintain severance, yet he knew without control he would be lost.

“Help this man,” Caelan said desperately. “Give me the knowledge to heal him.”

“What did I tell you once about severance?” Beva asked.

Caelan struggled to think. His wits wanted to flee like rats from water. “You said it is the taking away. You take away disease or injury. You bring the void, and wellness fills it.”

“Yes. You remembered well.”

“How do I bring wellness to this man?” Caelan asked. He prayed that Beva’s spirit would become interested in Albain’s injuries, that the old compassion would take over. Healing others was like an addiction for him. Never had he refused to help anyone. Even if he ultimately lost a patient, it was not for lack of trying.

“Look at this man, Father. Tell me what to do.”

“Will you take the purging, my son?”

Caelan sighed. “I said that I would.”

“Will you take it now?”

“No. The man must be healed first.”

“If you will be purged, I will give you the knowledge you request.”

It seemed they had made the bargain twice already, but Caelan nodded again. “Yes. I agree to your terms. We heal this man, and then I am yours.”

Beva came even closer until his disembodied face hovered right over Caelan. “I must enter you. You will take my spirit. You will accept me. You will become me.”

“Sevaisin,” Caelan whispered, dry-mouthed.

“The way it was intended, not the idle sharing you have done.”

Caelan felt the sting of Beva’s criticism and sighed. Even his father’s spirit had to lecture him about something.

“From birth you were difficult,” Beva continued. “You always had to do things your way. I could show you nothing. You resisted training, resisted the ways of harmony. You were too much their creation, and not enough mine. They gave me my son, but you looked like me, nothing more. You were not me. You had not my abilities. You had not my qualities. You had none of my dreams, none of my direction. You were useless to me!

“I wanted a second child, a second son. But they tricked me again with Lea. What use was a daughter? She could not follow in my footsteps. Your mother never knew the truth, but it ate at me. It was a canker in me, which was rubbed raw every time you disobeyed me. I wanted to leave you in the woods to die, to be taken back to them, but I couldn’t do it. I wanted you so much. You were my son, my straight-shouldered, beautiful son. I had so much hope for you. Why did you not feel anything for me?”

Caelan stared at Beva, feeling the spirit’s anguish. His own torment rose in him. For the last time, he tried to make Beva understand. “If you had just let me be myself,” he said softly, feeling his eyes sting. “I loved you, Father. I wanted to please you, but I couldn’t be something I wasn’t.”

“But now you have come to me. You have changed,” Beva said with satisfaction, as though he had won. “You will be what I want. You will become me, and I shall live on to continue my work.”

Caelan bowed his head. That was the price. It had always been the price, even when he had not understood what truly lay beneath their animosity. Now he would pay it. Beva was finally going to win.

Caelan’s arms slackened around Albain, and he closed his eyes. He felt a coldness upon his face, like a clammy mist. The coldness filled his body, making him shiver. He fought it a moment, not wanting this, fearing he would never be able to come back, and yet he had promised. It was for Albain. It was for Elandra. He forced away his fear, and let the presence enter, joining with him.

He shuddered once and felt cold and hollow inside. Opening his eyes, he found himself looking down at Albain as though from very far away. His mind grew very clear and detached. He recognized Albain, but the man’s identity did not matter.

The injuries needed immediate attention. There was much blood pooled around the internal organs.

His hands reached down and down and down until at last they touched Albain. He let the healing pass through him, restoring the balance and harmony of the body’s natural functions. The crushed bones mended. The damaged organs grew stronger. The bruising faded. The blood seeped forth from the tissues.

All the pain and damage left Albain and entered him. His body jerked back in agony, absorbing it, becoming it, conquering it. Then all became still and calm.

Caelan drew breath after a moment, daring to risk the return of that terrible pain. But the pain was gone, already fading as though it had never been. He looked down for Albain, but the man had vanished, and Caelan felt no more contact with him.

Instead, he felt his father entwined around and through him. Rebellion returned, and he wanted to fling his father’s presence away. But Beva clung tightly.

“You promised,” he whispered through Caelan’s mind.

Caelan remembered what honor meant, and he forced his rebellion away. Shivering, he opened himself and let his father take over.

Beva’s cold presence flowed down through his body, chilling him, then it seemed to vanish.

Caelan waited, but nothing else happened. Would he know when Beva took over his soul? Would he ever be aware of it?

Opening his eyes after a moment, Caelan blinked and once again found himself in the grove of trees. The wind had stopped blowing, and there was only silence. No life, no movement, no sound.

A trail stretched before him. Without knowing why, he followed it to the bank of a stream.

The water flowed swift and deep. If he crossed it, he would have to swim.

While he hesitated, he heard a sound behind him.

It was only one of the trees swaying.

Caelan relaxed, then frowned and looked at the tree again. It moved, its branches rustling and swaying, but no wind blew.

He turned around to face it, conscious of the water at his back, as though to corner him.

“You are not in danger,” a voice said to him.

It sounded familiar, but he could not place it.

He looked around wildly, but saw no one.

More of the trees were moving now. They seemed to close in on him, yet they did not uproot themselves from the earth. He felt ripples and currents of energy in the air. The air shimmered as though with a rainbow.

“Your father’s spirit is only memory, Caelan,” the voice said. “Beva is no longer flesh. He cannot hurt you. He cannot possess you. Only his memories remain. Only his intentions. Only his knowledge. That is all. His spirit believes it has redeemed you into itself and is content. Beva will no longer haunt your dreams. Peace can be restored.”

Caelan looked around again, unable to tell where the voice was coming from. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“In time, more wisdom will come to you. For now, we thank you for having made peace with your father. There can be harmony once more within the spirit world.”

“Am I in the spirit world now?”

“No. You are between.”

Caelan frowned, struggling to understand. “Have I much more to learn?”

“Much.”

“How will I learn? What am I to do?”

“Live,” the voice said. “Follow your path of life. Stay in the truth.”

Caelan stared at the trees and felt like a child talking to some- one very old and very wise. Was he in the presence of the gods of light?

“No, Caelan. Calm your thoughts. It is time for you to return.”

“How?” he asked eagerly. “Don’t I end severance?”

“You are beyond your own reach,” the voice replied. “You cannot return from this grove by yourself. Even your gifts are not that powerful. Beva drew you here. Now we must send you back.”

Caelan lifted his chin, trying to be accepting, although his mind was chaotic with thoughts and questions. “What must I do?”

“Enter the water,” the voice said. “Do not fear it. It is warm and the current is gentle. Drink the water, then let yourself slip beneath the surface.”

Caelan waited a moment, then frowned. “Is that all?”

“Be at peace,” the voice replied. “You have done well. Trust in your return.”

He looked at the stream flowing past him. The water was clear and clean. He could not see the bottom. It made no sense, but he did as he was told.

Sliding into the water, he found it warm and pleasant as the voice had said it would be. The current was strong, however, and he clung instinctively to the bank, resisting it.

But after a moment, he realized what he was doing was futile. There had been no explanation, but did he need one here where obviously nothing was as it seemed? Why did he care where the current took him, as long as it was back to where he belonged?

He lowered his face to the water and sipped it. The taste was pure. Realizing he was thirsty, he drank long and deeply, then released the bank and allowed the current to carry him along. He thought of trust. He thought of faith. Words he had sworn by all his life without ever having to really put them to the test. But no matter how strong he was, no matter how brave, he was still only a man. He could not do everything himself.

“Another lesson,” he murmured wryly to himself.

After a moment, he drew in a deep breath and slid below the surface.

Elandra waited for two hours, while night closed around the palace and servants came on silent feet to light the lamps. The guards changed, and still she heard no sound from within her father’s room. She paced slowly around the antechamber while the minutes dragged by. What could Caelan be doing? What was taking so long?

Again and again she was filled with the urge to rush inside, but she restrained herself. She had given her promise to Caelan. She would keep it.

Her father’s jinja was as restless as she. It scratched incessantly at the doors, no matter how many times she shooed it away.

“You must be still,” she told it. “Hush. No noise.”

The jinja tilted its small green face up to hers and sighed. “I guard sleep. I watch.”

“Yes, but you must do so out here.”

The jinja shook its head fretfully. “Too far away. No good.”

She knew better than to touch it. “You must be patient. Soon you can go back inside, but not now.”

The jinja sighed heavily and sank down on its haunches by the door.

Satisfied, Elandra turned and went to gaze out the window. The rain had stopped, and the night lay heavy and still save for the sound of water running through the stone gutters. In the distance she could hear the hunting cough of panthers and the shrill death screams of their prey.

The sound of the opening door made her whirl around in relief.

But it was not Caelan who emerged. Instead, she saw the jinja darting inside.

“No!”

Exasperated, she ran after it, but the jinja was too quick. In a rapid blur of unnatural speed, it darted here and there around the room, finally coming to a halt at the foot of Albain’s bed. The lamp had burned out. Elandra could see only by the light that shone inside from behind her.

She listened a moment, gazing about. Her father lay propped up on his tall pillows. His head had fallen over to one side. She did not see Caelan.

Hesitating, she opened the door wider, allowing more light inside. She even looked behind the door. Caelan was not there.

Her hand went to her throat in nameless fear. She looked at the jinja. “Is it safe?” she whispered.

The jinja shook itself the way a dog shakes water from its coat. “Safe. No magic. No bad.”

She could not make herself believe it. Picking up a lamp from the antechamber, she went into the room and closed the door firmly after her. She went first to her father.

He lay so quiet and still she feared he had died. But when she touched his hand, it felt warm with life. Some color had returned to his cheeks, and she realized he was breathing normally, with none of the rasping struggle of before.

Hope made her draw in a sharp breath. She opened his sleeping shirt and ran her fingertips delicately across his side. Much of the bruising had faded. His ribs felt whole beneath her touch.

Albain stirred slightly, frowning, and she drew the covers higher, smoothing them and stroking his forehead. He no longer had fever. Clearly he lay in a healing sleep, already on the mend. The miracle she had asked for had been achieved.

Tears stung her eyes, welling up through her lashes. She blinked, and twin tears ran down her cheeks. Grateful, she sank to her knees beside him and clung to his hand.

“Oh, Father,” she whispered through her tears of relief. “Oh, Father.”