“I once had to quell the Aeon Iire, myself,” he said. “That is a dangerous one and you must be vigilant. The dark ones are very aggressive.”
She could not see him quite right, and she realized it was because she was wearing a gauzy veil. It made her feel too hot, but she could not seem to gather the strength to lift it away from her face.
The Rider gazed hard at her. “I see you are not well. This is not good, for the necromancer could have control of the Aeon Iire soon. You must be ready.”
So hot. Flames reflected on the surface of the river. The mill buildings were engulfed in fire. The river bank burned, as well, surrounded her and the Rider.
“You really are unwell, aren’t you.” The Rider produced a cloth and knelt by the water. He dipped it in, and the rings that drifted outward along the surface rippled flame. He wrung it out and then returned to her and lifted her veil, and dabbed her face with the cloth. It was cooling, and the intensity of the fire moderated.
He shook his head. “And, of course, no help from Westrion.”
What did the death god have to do with it?
“You need to be well, be strong,” the Rider said, dabbing her neck with the cooling cloth. “The living world, and yes, even the spirit world, are depending on you. If the Aeon Iire is broken and the dark ones escape, we are all doomed.”
PAST MIDNIGHT
“Doomed.”
Estral shuddered out of an uneasy sleep. “What?” she asked Karigan. “What did you say?”
But Karigan did not answer. Then, out of silence, Mister Whiskers and his mate started to emit low growls. Given Mister Whiskers’ size, his growl rumbled like an earthquake. Estral looked out to see what could possibly be perturbing them, and in the shadowy dark, discerned a girl standing outside the pen, but little of her features.
“Who are you?” Estral demanded.
“I have your voice,” the girl replied.
Estral leaped up and jammed her arm through an opening in the slats to grab at the girl who hopped back and stuck her tongue out.
“Come here!” Estral cried. “Give it back!” If only she could lay her hands on the girl, then she could say the word that Idris had given her.
“It’s mine now. You can’t have it back. Besides, you get to have kitties, so why shouldn’t I have something?” The girl started to skip away, then paused. “And your friend is gonna die. Especially if Nyssa works on her again. Nyssa likes blood.” Then she was gone, giggles trailing after her.
Estral banged her hands against the slats and screamed her rage; then she dropped down onto the straw, ready to weep.
“Water . . .”
Estral looked up. “Karigan?”
“Water . . .” came the hoarse whisper.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
She filled the ladle with water, but by the time she brought it to Karigan, she was once more asleep or unconscious. Estral placed her wrist against Karigan’s brow. Definitely fevered. She patted the water on her face.
When she was done, she said to Mister Whiskers, “Can’t you do anything more than provide a protective wing?”
“Meep?”
She sat again ready to give in to her helplessness. What can I do? Nothing, nothing at all. I am no mender, and Karigan is paying for my mistake. I am worse than useless.
It then occurred to her maybe there was something she could do. It’s what Enver would do: sing the healing. He had taught her a little of it as they traveled. Song without words, a resonance and harmony. Feeling the earth beneath her, letting the music rise through her, and then releasing it to the sky and into the burning fire of the stars. She did not know if it actually helped the injured and ill, but it could not hurt, and so she began.
Perhaps it was the influence of the gift Idris had given her seemingly ages ago, but the music swelled within her, filled the pen, and, it seemed to her, escaped to the heavens. Was it her imagination, or did Karigan rest easier? Mister Whiskers and his mate purred. If it had no other effect, perhaps she herself was healing, at least a little.
She was about to begin again when she sensed another presence in the building. If it was that girl—
“Little cousin?” Silver moonlight blossomed from Enver’s cupped hands where he stood outside the pen.
“Enver!” Now tears did fall.
“I heard your song,” he said. “You have done well.”
“Thank the gods you are here. Karigan—it’s unspeakable what they did to her.”
He unlocked the door, having somehow acquired the key. He knelt beside Karigan, and Mister Whiskers withdrew his wing. He peeled back the blanket. Flaps of skin stuck to rough wool, which caused crusted wounds to bleed again. The moonstone revealed Karigan’s back in all its raw detail. Estral glanced away.
“I will never understand,” Enver said, “the cruelty your people inflict on one another.”
“I don’t understand it either, except that it has always been so. Can we move her? Can we—can we leave?”
“What must be done, will be,” he replied. He wrapped the blanket around Karigan as he gently lifted her and placed her over his shoulder.
“No carry,” she muttered.
“Shh, Galadheon,” Enver said. “There is no carrying. It is just a dream.”
She quieted.
“Come, little cousin. The gryphons will be our escort.”
Estral followed Enver out of the pen, reveling at the sense of freedom she now felt. But they were not really free, not by a long way. She had the presence of mind to grab her coat, and Karigan’s, off the table, along with their weapons. She put her coat on and slung Karigan’s bonewood over her shoulder. She girded herself with the saber just to make the carrying of everything easier.