The Dark Throne (33 page)

Ramel shook his head. “She needs no one to take care of her.”

“Even better. Someone to…be her
friend
,” I amended.

“We are great friends,” said Ramel mildly, “but I believe you are implying much more with your impish smile, Tess.”

“Perhaps I am.” I let my smile widen. “It just makes me happy when my friends are happy.”

“It is a simple pleasure that we have often missed lately,” Ramel replied gravely. We stared up into the tree for a long moment.

“So,” I said, turning my thoughts back to serious matters. “What’s Mab’s plan, then?”

Ramel narrowed his eyes with a little grin. “Ah, turning the tables now, fair one. Trying to gain a bit of information to take back to your queen?”

“
I
don’t have a queen,” I said stiffly. “I’m the Bearer.”

“Of course,” Ramel agreed, but I read his true opinion in the set of his mouth as he acquiesced and the flash in his eye that accompanied his easy words.

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “Things will never be the same between us.”

“But we will still be friends,” Ramel replied. “Just perhaps of a different sort than what we once were.”

I nodded and leaned my head back against the birch tree.

“It’s been a tiring day for you, Tess,” came Ramel’s voice, echoing a bit. “It will be good for you to sleep, and sleep without dreaming.”

I felt the tug of his words, the opposite of the insistent pull that I’d felt earlier, shepherding me back toward the path in the ether that would lead me to my physical body. I opened one eye, squinting at Ramel. “You’re awfully bossy tonight.”

He smiled. “Just trying to make up for calling you here.”

I nodded again, this time sleepily.

“Come on then, up you come, can’t take a nap here.” Ramel gently set me on my feet. I blinked up at him, fascinated by the glimmer of the ether-light on his reddish curls. He kissed me on the forehead with brotherly affection; I hugged him fiercely, the haze of tiredness making me sad that I was about to leave him.

“We’ll see each other soon enough,” Ramel reminded me, squeezing my shoulders. “Now go and rest up.”

“Sorry we argued,” I said in a sleep-drunk voice. He smiled, roughed my hair with one hand, and nudged me down the path.

“See you soon, Tess.”

Ramel’s voice echoed in my ears as my feet followed the white gravel path of their own volition. The pull, this time more of a gentle beckoning, made it easier for me to slip through the ether. The kaleidoscope of colors—dawn and sunset, midnight and high noon—blurred together as I spun back toward the palatial tent on the barren plains; and I barely registered the warm-glove feeling of slipping back into my physical body before I sank into the plush darkness of a deep, welcoming sleep.

Chapter 18

I
woke from my deep sleep to the sound of movement. I opened one eye, glimpsed Calliea pulling on a shirt and breeches and groaned in protest when she noticed that I was awake.

“We’re the morning shift,” Calliea said mercilessly, nudging my shoulder with one delicately pointed bare foot.

I sighed, blinked and dragged myself into a sitting position. “Do we at least get to eat breakfast?” I croaked, rubbing my eyes.

“Gods, you sound terrible,” Calliea said. “And of course we’ll eat breakfast.”

I glanced around our little tent compartment and saw Calliea’s breastplate, once again a shining robin’s-egg blue. There were a few scratches and a long gauge on the left side, bare silver showing through the enamel; but all the gore had been meticulously cleaned from the armor, the leather of the straps newly oiled and the brightwork gleaming in the light of the dim lantern.

“How long have you been
up
?” I asked in mingled disgust and awe.

“A while,” she answered vaguely.

I shook my head as I slowly coaxed my body into motion. My entire body ached, and my mouth was hot and dry. I remembered the force of the dragon-fire as it pummeled my protection and wondered just how much I understood about even my own power. Or, I thought, it might just be all the liquor I drank last night…most likely a combination of the two. I winced and stretched my legs before standing, running my heads briefly over my braids. They’d do, for the morning after a dragon hunt. I tugged at the hem of my shirt, smoothing some of the wrinkles; on second thought, I dug through my pack and found a leather vest, lacing it up quickly. I slid the strap of the Sword over my head, rolling the stiffness out of my shoulders as the familiar weight settled between my shoulder blades.

“Ready?” Calliea arched an eyebrow. She’d also managed to weave her hair into one sleek long braid, the feathers and dye mysteriously gone.

“How are you so chipper,” I muttered, following her through the curtain.

“We slept for almost eight hours,” she replied reasonably. “Or rather, you did.”

I
did
feel rather rested, all in all; the aching muscles were probably to be expected, after yesterday’s events. “I didn’t
sleep
for eight hours. At least half of that was spent Walking.”

Calliea slipped out the front entrance of the palatial tent. Cold gray light washed over me as I followed. The morning air sat oddly still and stagnant, a flat sky pressing down overhead, the thick clouds hiding the sun.

“Walking where? And with whom?” Calliea asked. A long table stood mere steps from the tent, reminiscent of the banquet tables in the Hall of the Outer Guard; and a simple yet abundant spread of fare stretched down its length. I glanced back at the unassuming silvery tent, which now looked to be of reasonable dimensions, and then stared at the table. Then I shrugged and began gathering my breakfast.

“Well,” I said, “an old friend wanted to talk. So we met in the ether.” I paused and then decided not to hide anything from Calliea. I trusted her. “He’s one of Mab’s Three, her new Vaelanbrigh.”

“Hm,” said Calliea noncommittally, biting into an apple. She nodded to a few warriors. The camp still seemed rather subdued. The celebration had probably lasted well into the morning, if I had to guess. I stuffed a piece of cheese into some bread and took a bite, chewing contemplatively as I glanced up at the sky. Calliea offered me her waterskin and I took a long pull, washing down the first bite of breakfast.

“Is this normal? The sky, I mean,” I said, squinting up into the oppressive grayness.

“No,” Calliea replied. “The land is dead. The sky is dead. It is poisoned, and it will only get worse as we draw closer to the Great Gate.”

“Will that affect the power of the queens?” I asked quietly, suddenly somber. “If the land is dead, and the queens draw their power from the land….”

Calliea tilted her head. “I think that the queens will make the land anew.”

“That seems like a pretty tall order.”

“So did finding the Bearer,” the Laedrek replied, arching one eyebrow. “And crowning the High Queen.”

“And, for that matter, killing a dragon,” I added with a smile. Calliea grinned.

“Besides,” she continued, “there are already signs of life in this earth again.”

“I don’t understand.”

Calliea paused, as if checking an invisible clock; and then she said, “Oh, they won’t miss us for a few moments. Come on.” Still finishing her apple, she led me through the camp with long strides. We walked carefully through long forms of slumbering lithe figures, past the gray and white ash of the funeral pyre; a lone sentry nodded wordlessly at us, and we climbed to the crest of the hill that separated our encampment from the battleground where the dragon had been slain.

Even with the still air, I caught the scent of rotting meat as we stood at the top of the hill. I gazed down at the dead dragon, its hulking carcass still in shadow in the dim gray light. I swallowed hard, feeling my breakfast crawling back up my throat.

“Vile creature,” muttered Calliea, her lip curling in revulsion. She spat to one side. As she turned, I noticed something in the light of the morning that I hadn’t seen in the torchlight of the night’s celebrations. I reached out and caught Calliea’s arm.

“The dragon’s blood burned you,” I said.

Calliea raised her face obligingly. “Yes, in a few places where the direflame had worn thin during the battle.” The burns looked almost healed, though it had been scarcely a day, leaving pearly pink marks on Calliea’s tawny skin. I stared at the pattern, too fascinated to be polite—somehow I knew she wouldn’t mind, and in fact she smiled a little as I examined her face. There was a splatter pattern about her left eye, a splash of pearly marks across her jaw, and long pinkish streaks down her throat. Her right ear was almost entirely covered with the nacreous scars.

“It would have been much worse without the direflame and my armor. And the
vyldretning
gave me some salve after the Naming.”

“Did it hurt?” I asked, flexing my own hands.

“Not nearly as much as yours did, I imagine,” Calliea replied. “Mine was merely blood, hot from the heart of a dragon. You might as well have held the heart of a star.”

“Our scars will tell the tale for us if we survive,” I said with a wry smile. The Caedbranr thrummed on my back at my last phrase. I’d acknowledged the possibility of death or defeat. But the Sword merely thrummed once, and Calliea didn’t correct me. Instead, she gazed down at the hill beneath our feet, smiling.

“Look.”

I followed her motion, and blinked in amazement. At the center of the hill, where Vell had knelt with her ivory staff, a small new tree unfurled its tender green leaves. I stepped carefully around it, gazing at its beautiful slender trunk and smooth bark. Already as tall as my hip, the sapling promised height in its young branches, which stretched farther than my arms’ span. Blades of grass pushed through the dull dirt of the hilltop, highest and greenest around the young tree’s trunk.

“Everything is happening so fast,” I murmured. I swept my eyes over the ground of the hilltop, and I saw that at the four points of the compass, where I’d laid the river-stones on the dirt, something else was growing. I stepped closer and sat on my haunches.

“So Vell plants a tree, and I plant brambles?” I asked with a little laugh, looking at the still-green but unmistakably thorny vines.

“They’re not brambles, Tess,” said Calliea. I glanced back at her, and she smiled. “They’re roses.”

“Roses.” I stood and wiped my hands on my thighs. “Interesting.”

Calliea shrugged. “Beautiful, yet—”

“Tough, thorny, yeah, I get it,” I finished for her, waving one hand in the air. We smiled at each other. I glanced over my shoulder at the dead dragon. “How long until the other little beasties start scavenging?”

“They already have,” said Calliea dismissively. “They just prefer the cover of darkness.”

I made a sound of disgust in the back of my throat and looked at the beautiful little tree one last time to wipe the sight of the dragon from my mind’s eye. “We’re working the morning shift, right?”

“Yes,” Calliea said as we walked back down the hill toward camp.

“I’m on your hip again?” I asked, trying to sound business-like rather than hopeful and failing.

“If by ‘on my hip’ you mean working with me, yes,” Calliea replied with a smile. Her dragon’s-blood scars caught the light, shimmering faintly as she turned her head. My heart contracted with a flash of jealousy—even Sidhe
scars
were more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. But I firmly tamped down on the emotion: my job was not to be beautiful, it was to be the Bearer, and all that entailed. In the next few hours that meant I would be a healer, putting my skills—such as they were—to good use.

“Oh,” Calliea said as we threaded our way back through camp, “just as a reminder….not that I think you would, after what I observed yesterday, but the
vyldretning
has said that no power be used in healing.”

“No
taebramh
?” I wondered suddenly if Finnead had told Vell about my dalliances with what he termed necromancy. What did I call it? I thought as we walked. I called it dancing on the line between life and death, which was itself very blurred sometimes.

“Exactly,” said Calliea. “It’s just an overall policy, I suppose to conserve everyone’s strength.”

“And perhaps she doesn’t want any more beacons for Malravenar’s beasts to track,” I added.

Calliea shrugged slightly. “I doubt it matters. We made a statement yesterday, killing the dragon.”

“True. I suppose a dragon carcass at the border of the camp is quite a calling card.”

Calliea pushed aside the entrance to the tent and strode down the main corridor, toward another gray curtain. When we slipped past that curtain, all the hum and noise of a healing ward enveloped us, though it had been silent in the corridor. I turned.

“Where are you going?” Calliea caught my arm.

“Oh, just back to our compartment. I forgot my…satchel.” I blinked as Calliea handed me one of a dozen identical satchels, laid out neatly on a table by the entrance.

“It’s easier if everyone has the same kit, once the dust settles,” Calliea explained. “We just drop these back on the table after shift, and they’ll be refilled.”

I nodded. “Makes sense.”

Suspended globes of light lit the healing ward, spaced evenly between the rows of the wounded. On either side of a wide center aisle, warriors lay on beds of furs much like those in our own little tent compartment. It was still very much a camp hospital, though again I was impressed by the size of the tent and the comfort of its furnishings. A handful of other healers wearing identical satchels moved down the rows.

“There’s at least six on duty at any given time,” Calliea said. “Wait here for a moment, and I’ll see who we’ll be relieving.” She slipped down the center aisle, silent as a shadow, and conversed in a low voice with a slight, silver-haired Seelie. Calliea nodded, and the silver-haired healer motioned to two other healers, who, after a brief word from her, wearily deposited their satchels on the table and slipped out of the ward.

“That’s Maeve,” said Calliea as she returned, gesturing to the small silver-haired woman. “She’s been healing longer than I’ve been alive. And she’s wicked with a spear.”