She steeled herself against the sour stench of vomit and knelt beside him, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You all right?”
He heaved once more, but nothing came up. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and when he looked at her, it was with an expression of horror that she’d never forget. He lurched away from her touch and scrabbled along on the cobbles, and collapsed in a heap.
Stunned, she followed after him. “What’s wrong?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes haunted. “Darkness. You sink into it—all dark.” He hid his eyes from her.
What madness had come over him? Could a fever take hold and grip one in delirium so quickly? She grabbed a handful of his greatcoat and forced him to turn toward her, but he kept his gaze averted.
“Fergal!” she said, giving him a shake. Then she put her hand against his forehead and cheek, but he was not hot with fever. “Look at me, will you?”
He did not. She shook him again and he raised a hand as if to block a blow. Remembering his father the knacker, she released him and knelt before him. She gently put her hands on either side of his face to direct his gaze at her.
“Fergal, it’s me, Karigan. Look at me.”
He shut his eyes.
“It’s just me,” she said. “Look. The same Karigan you’ve been traveling with.”
He blinked and cringed. “Dark wings,” he whispered. A tear trailed down his cheek.
His words rattled her. What was he seeing? And why? “Whatever it is you see,” she said, “push it away, block it out. See me—Karigan, in green.”
Fergal tensed and squeezed his eyes shut, then with a shudder, looked at her again. He was about to speak when another’s presence entered the close.
Karigan whipped around with her sword half drawn, but she found only a man in an apron with an ale cask on his shoulder.
“There a problem?” he asked.
“My friend here is sick,” she said. It was true enough. “Do you work at the Fountain Inn?”
“I’m the proprietor,” he said.
“Then we’ll be wanting a couple rooms if they’re available.”
The rooms were cramped and the mattresses stale, but Karigan didn’t care. She made Fergal get into bed and brought up some broth for him. He wouldn’t look at her directly.
She sat in a chair, arms crossed.
“S–sorry about this,” he said, gripping his mug as if it were an anchor to reality.
“Do you still see—?”
He nodded. “Darkness. Around you.”
“Around anyone else?”
“No. Well, except the old lady.”
“What old lady?”
“The one in the square. I pointed her out to you.”
Karigan drummed her fingers on the armrest. There’d been numerous old ladies in the square shopping. “And you saw darkness around her, too?”
“Aye. No.” He started gagging again. Karigan rescued the mug from his hands before broth sloshed over the brim and scalded him. He curled his hands into fists and regained control. “I saw…all the worst things, vile things that crawl and slither. Dead things, dying things. The vermin that live on corpses.” He shuddered.
When it seemed he wouldn’t have another reaction, she returned his broth and dropped into her chair again.
“What’s wrong with me?” Fergal asked in a plaintive voice.
“Would you like to hear the whole list?”
It took him a few moments to realize she was joking, and he relaxed. “Guess I deserve that.”
She shrugged. “You haven’t been the easiest of traveling companions at times.”
“I know.” He looked into his broth.
“What I think your current problem is,” she said, “is that your special ability has emerged.”
“What? This? Making me sick?”
“Well, I don’t know what this is. I mean, I don’t know what the nature of your ability is, but it’s the only answer I can think of. The sickness, I think, is a reaction to your ability coming out. We talked about this, remember? My headaches?”
Fergal frowned.
“Hopefully your reaction,” she said, “won’t always be so severe.” On impulse she asked, “The darkness still there?”
“Fading,” he said. “I keep trying to push it to the back of my mind.”
“Is it…is it like what you saw around the old woman?”
Fergal shook his head. “Different. Like night. Endless. And there were the wings…”
Karigan shuddered as his voice trailed off. She had not realized how taut she’d been. “I guess we’ll learn more if anyone else makes you sick.”
She tried to make her words light, but as she left his room for her own, she knew that when one’s special ability emerged, it was often in response to a life-threatening situation. Not always, but often. She wondered what Fergal’s reaction saved them from this afternoon, and what his vision of darkness around her meant.
GOLD CHAINS
The next morning, Fergal declared over breakfast he was back to normal and claimed he saw nothing unusual when he gazed upon Karigan, though he seemed hesitant to look her way, like he might see something he didn’t want to. He was steadier on his feet and his appetite had returned with a vengeance. As he stuffed yet another flatcake into his mouth, Karigan hoped nothing would trigger his newfound ability—whatever it was supposed to be—and make him sick.