The Gate of Bones (35 page)

Stefan approached them, half carrying, half supporting Rich who limped heavily and seemed to find each step a painful, gasping effort. His face looked deadly pale.

Pyra stowed the only remains she had of her old friend and teacher. “He needs to see Kektl, as soon as possible. That's blackmarrow poison in him, and what I gave him will help, but—” she paused. Then she repeated emphatically, “He must see Kektl as soon as possible.”

“How bad is it?”

“Arrow wound,” said Rich through pinched lips. “I'd like to say, 'tis but a flesh wound, but it feels like my blood's on fire.”

“Tomaz, you can get him to Kektl? I have to meet with Renart and get Pyra back to Avenha.”

Stefan said stoutly, “Rich isn't going anywhere without me.” He shot an accusing glance at Pyra. “He isn't going to die, is he?”

“No,” she answered. “Not yet.” She would not meet anyone's glance at that, looking aside. Stef grunted.

“Nothing is gonna happen to you, Rich. I'm like . . . like Samwise.”

Rich managed a chuckle. “Big guy, you look like almost anything but a hobbit gardener.” He sucked his breath in sharply then, both hands going to his leg and knotting, as if he could grip the pain away.

“No time to waste.” Gavan motioned Jason and Trent to his side. “Stay with me.” Then, in a shimmering of crystal fire, the two groups went their separate ways.

 

Every bone in Rich's body ached and throbbed, and he could feel every single pulse of his heartbeat, for it swelled and exploded in pain, and he knew he must be sweating like Niagara Falls. Every movement, jolt, thought, touch echoed violently through his tall, thin frame. Even Stefan's hold keeping him upright was almost more than he could bear. Blackmarrow poison—what Pyra had called it—sounded bad. Really bad. Ironic. All his life he'd been taught to be afraid of getting sick and having allergies, and it was a poison that had gotten him.

They touched down in Kektl's Narian backyard, where the shed and pool rested, and Stefan gently put him down on one of the stump chairs, while he and Tomaz went to find the healer. Rich stared at the bloody tear in his pants, thinking that it hadn't really been much of a wound. Luckily it wasn't deep enough to sever anything major or bleed him to death, and nothing that muscle couldn't heal later. He wondered if he poured a bottle of hydrogen peroxide on it, how badly it would fizz. He wasn't sure if poison would set off the peroxide. It seemed to react mainly to surface contamination, but it was fun to watch.

Rich sighed and immediately groaned. There wasn't a spot inside or outside of his body that didn't ache fiercely. He leaned back against the small fence that surrounded Kektl's little home and garden and wished that Stef would hurry back.

Quickly.

The little garden grew blurry and danced about him, and then slowly he sagged down on the tree stump and everything slipped away.

He came to, sputtering, as someone poured the most disgusting drink he'd ever tasted in his life down his throat.

“Easy, easy now,” came Kektl's stern but soft voice. “Drink it, and to the last drop.”

Rich found he had little choice as Kektl's hand closed upon his mouth and insistently poured in the awful goo. He swallowed it all and waved both hands in protest as he did, unable to see much beyond the healer's face, although he could hear Stefan's low rumbling protest off to the side somewhere and Tomaz's dry laugh.

Kektl let go.

“Gah!” Rich sat up like a drowning man breaking the surface of the water that tried to claim him. “What
is
that stuff?”

“An acquired taste, and, I fear, what will keep you alive the rest of your days. Three times a day, I prescribe.”

Rich shuddered over and over as the cold, sickeningly sweet thick stuff penetrated his body. “Ugh. I think I'd rather die.”

“Don't say that!” Stefan thumped the side of his head.

Rich gave one last, hard shudder. “You taste it, then see if you agree.” He blinked several times. The pain and burning in his body began to recede as if nothing could stand up to the awful taste of the potion. Kektl eyed him curiously. “Feeling any better?”

“Well. . . ah . . . actually. Yes.”

“Good.” Kektl sat, putting his hands on his bony knees, and staring into Rich's face. “There isn't any cure for blackmarrow poison that I am aware of. All I can do is keep it at bay, make sure it does as little damage every day as I can. You take that potion regularly, and you will live a long life yet. In the meantime, herbalists such as I will dabble and test, and perhaps come up with something better.”

“I say we take him home.”

Kektl sat back. “If you can return to such a place, perhaps. I am not one for the crossing of worlds, so I cannot tell you if the poison will get better or worse elsewhere. I can only tell you what I can do here.”

Tomaz shifted his weight and approached Rich. He put his thick, callused hand on his forehead, checking for temperature. He nodded to Rich. “You look better. How difficult is it to make this potion up?”

“Not difficult. Few of us know the ingredients, but as I am the one who devised it—” Kektl grinned slyly. “I think we can make accommodations. The herbs are easily gathered, although an unlikely brew. You, Rich, show much skill and aptitude. I hate to lose a student untimely.”

“He can't just drink something all the time to stay alive!”

Kektl gave Stefan a mild look. “And why not? I do.”

“But . . . but . . .”

Kektl inclined his head. “Who should know blackmarrow poison better than one who carries it within him?” He leaned forward and patted Rich on the knee. “From time to time, you may have to take more of the potion, or less. Your body will tell you. And, if the spirit graces us, we'll find a better antidote.” He stood. “For now, I'll leave you with your friends, while I make up a batch and ready a scroll for you on how to prepare it yourself.”

Tomaz murmured, “We thank you, healer,” as Kektl moved past him. The Havenite smiled and shook Tomaz's hand in encouragement.

Stefan sputtered in barely contained frustration. “Are you going to put up with that?”

“I feel better. Why should I argue?” Rich slowly got to his feet. His leg sent a sharp pain through him, reminding him that there was a wound there, even if the poison had receded greatly. He leaned on Stef's stout, square frame. “See this house? The gardens? The pool? Kektl has this nice little place because he's a good healer. He can help when no one else can.”

“I still think we should get you home.”

Rich nodded. “We will. Just remember what can happen when: one—my body is tested for an absolutely unknown poison induced by an obvious wound suffered in some kind of warfare, and two—my body also tests for odd mental powers which can't be accounted for.”

“Unfortunately, he's right,” noted Tomaz.

“But, Rich—”

“No buts, big guy. Going home could be more lethal than drinking that awful stuff a few times a day.” Rich poked him in the ribs. “I don't want to be anybody's lab experiment, do you?”

“No, but still . . .” Stef took a big breath, and shut his mouth, his expression screwed into a grumpy mask.

Rich scooped up the empty mug. “Here . . . try a drop.”

Stef's nose wrinkled. “No way.”

Rich laughed. “Sometimes you're just no fun!”

“Me?” Stef started to protest, then looked up and saw Kektl headed toward them from the rear of his cottage, his hands filled with what appeared to be a doctoring kit. “Looks like the fun is about to start again.”

Kektl gestured at him. “That wound has to be cleansed and stitched. Let's get started.”

Rich paled again and sat down abruptly at the sight of needles and thread. Stef crossed his arms over his broad chest in satisfaction.

 

“Pyra!” Renart darted out of the warehouse door, his face glowing with surprise and happiness, and he caught up the girl in an immense hug and swung her around. Protesting faintly, her face all a-blush, she pushed him away, saying, “Renart! Custom, please!”

“Ah.” He cleared his throat and dusted himself off, straightening his dignity, reminding Jason ever so much of an embarrassed cat grooming itself to regain composure. “It's just that it's so good to see you.” He took a second look, and then saw the dirt streaks and grime and disarray on them all. “Pyra?” He shot a worried look at her. She turned her face away. “No caravan, and it does not look like it went well.”

“It did not,” Gavan told him.

He wrung his hands once. “What happened?”

“They slipped our grasp. We are not sure how, but they're bound to come looking for revenge.”

“Understood. Losses?”

“Six raiders.” Pyra's voice choked slightly. “Flameg. And one of the boys, poisoned.”

Renart frowned heavily. “Flameg? Dead?”

She nodded.

“I'll arrange a cart for the body.”

“There is no body.”

His eyebrows fluttered. “But—” He paced. “All right, then. I'll make sure you've an escort to Avenha, Pyra. I won't let you travel alone at a time like this.”

She clenched her jaw. “I will see them dead for this!”

“No. No, a sight like that is too awful for any of us to see. There will be vengeance in its own time. In the meanwhile, you have to make sure Flameg is remembered in the village.” He touched her wrist briefly.

She put a hand to her bag, where the shattered remains of Flameg's longbow had been stowed. “He won't be forgotten.”

Gavan shifted his weight. “You need to cover your own tracks, Renart. Isabella is shrewd. Once she has gotten her deal, she will begin to sift for any who've helped us. She'll know the ambush was planned. You didn't rent this warehouse openly?”

“No, of course not. Tomaz and I discussed that. I should not be implicated.” Renart took his eyes from Pyra and looked at Jason and Trent, then Gavan. “You're the ones who will feel her anger.”

“I'm prepared for that. You'll get Pyra home?”

Renart touched her hand again. “If she allows me.”

Pyra tried to smile. “Some company would be good.”

“Done, then. Go with the Spirit watching, Gavan friend, and I will ask him to keep the Dark Hand from your door.”

Gavan made a wry face. “If only it were that easy.” He lifted his hand, as he nodded to the boys.

T
HE MOMENTS CREPT by, and sitting at the table helping Ting make crystal jewelry didn't seem to help, even with Henry telling them both tales of home—good and bad—and trying to ease the waiting. All of them could sense the slow drag on their own Talents as the others tapped them for a bit of oomph now and then, but they couldn't tell what was happening! Bailey kicked an impatient foot against the table leg.

“I feel like the blind man with a racehorse!” Bailey complained.

Henry pushed up his glasses to consider her. “I think that's the blind men with the elephant,” he said slowly. “If you're talking about perceptions and how deceiving they can be. You know, one of them feels the tail and thinks the elephant is thin as a rope, another feels a leg and says, no, he's big as a tree, and the other feels the trunk and says, no, he's wiggly as a snake . . .”

She tossed her head. “I'm talking about being ready to ride off, but I can't see where I'm going!”

“Oh. Okay, then.” Henry reached down and exchanged a wire cutter for a long-nosed pair of pliers, so he could imitate Ting's quick movements and twist a wire cage into place about the crystal shard he held.

“I just don't think it's fair to get left behind,” Ting said. She put a bracelet down in front of her and jangled the crystals, making a pleasant chime. They warmed at her slight touch. “I feel like I never get to help.”

“These are helping.” Henry swept his hand over the table at all the translucent stones they had imbued with power. “They need us to anchor, too.”

“They were already charged. We're just sitting here doing monkey work! We should be out there, helping.”

Henry shifted uneasily. “I don't know. I mean, Gavan's right, he doesn't want everyone out there, he doesn't want Isabella to have any more hostages. And . . . and . . . well, for myself . . . I don't trust myself.”

Ting's almond-shaped eyes fixed on him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that sometimes, I think . . . I'm afraid that Jonnard can still link with me. Sometimes I get this awful feeling. It's like getting slimed. I worry that he can get to me again, and know everything we're doing, and I won't be able to stop him.”

“Henry, we'd never let that happen to you again.”

“I don't think it's anything we can stop,” he said sadly. He put the final twist on a cage holding a gemstone and examined it.

“We might not be able to stop his trying, but the minute you know he's doing it, we can stop that. We can.” Ting folded her hand over the top of his and squeezed.

Henry turned bright red—from her words and touch—and blinked hard once or twice before sliding his hand away from hers.

Bailey opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it. Instead, she swung her head, bouncing her ponytail from side to side. She stopped abruptly. “They're pulling on my power,” she announced quietly.

Ting and Henry nodded. They began to sort through other objects and start a new bracelet to assemble, their fingers busy even as their minds dealt with the feeling of something at the edges nibbling away at them. Suddenly, Ting dropped everything.