Poisonwell
Page 86
He calmed his breathing, letting his inhalation through his nose be followed by a deep exhale from his mouth. He felt his body rise slightly with each breath, and then sink. He delved inside himself, trying to sort through options. Some thoughts he tossed aside. Others he mulled. If not a tree branch, what about a cave? Was there a place Baylen could hide where he could escape the Fear Liath’s claws? Or was there something he could use to block the Fear Liath’s den and prevent it from coming out at night?
He sat cross-legged, hands resting on his knees, his fingers pinched softly together, his arms forming a hoop. Ideas went through his mind, quickly and calmly.
He thought about Baylen’s injuries. His head had been gashed by the Fear Liath’s jaws. He had slashes across his body as well, but the main damage happened when the beast had crushed him. Broken bones, likely his spine. His breathing showed that his ribs were probably broken as well. Paedrin lacked healing abilities and doubted even Hettie would have been able to repair the damage. Only Khiara would have been able to save him.
Khiara.
How did one become a Shaliah? Where did the keramat come from? He didn’t really understand it. Was it some kind of faith? Was it an inherited power or one that could be learned? Was it similar to the Druidecht ways that Annon had demonstrated?
As he plunged deeper inside himself, he lost track of time and where he was. The dangers of the Scourgelands seemed to melt away. Annon had described communing with the spirits like being able to hear whispers. When they had first met, Paedrin had scoffed at the idea that there were spirits flitting about. But he had seen manifestations of them with his own eyes. He remembered one being trapped in a dagger he had taken from a Preachán in Havenrook. Annon had freed it with the fireblood and it had healed Paedrin’s wound.
It had healed Paedrin’s wound.
Was there another way to heal Baylen? Was there some spirit magic that would heed his call? He wore no Druidecht talisman. He wasn’t even sure he believed in the Druidecht ways. What had Annon taught him? That there was a world that coexisted alongside theirs.
Mirrowen.
Just thinking the name brought a tingle of gooseflesh down his back. Was there a way he could tap into the powers there? Was there a way he could save Baylen that he was not thinking of? Could he learn the keramat without being trained by a Shaliah? He regretted that he had not thought to ask Khiara about it. She was so quiet . . . so sad. She deserved better than to be murdered by such a man as Kiranrao.
He sighed, remembering seeing her ashen face. She deserved better.
Bury her.
Paedrin blinked his eyes open. Where had the thought come from? He felt a tingle across his neck. What a peculiar thought. It was so small, almost a whisper. Yet not really a whisper . . . just the pulse of an idea. A flash of insight. Surely it came from his mind, didn’t it?
He glanced around the darkening woods, then watched Baylen breathing fitfully, eyes closed in rest.
Bury Khiara. He had no idea why that thought had come into his mind. It seemed out of place, as if it had come to him unbidden. He waited a moment, experiencing the stillness, but there was no repeat of the thought. He breathed in deeply, floating up, and used the blade to direct him toward where he had last seen Tyrus.
There was Khiara’s body. Her long staff lay nearby, neglected. Her body was already stiff, her face pallid. She didn’t even look like herself anymore—the part of her that was her was gone somehow. All that was left was an empty shell. He knelt by the corpse, feeling a prickle of disgust skitter through him, but he ignored it. He touched the dark hair, clogged with dead leaves. He should say a Vaettir prayer over her. That’s what was needed.
A bulging pouch tied to her waist caught his eye. It was made out of leather and was small in size, large enough to hold a small piece of fruit. Perhaps there was something she had that might help ease Baylen’s pain? He did not know how he would recognize it, but he thought it was worth exploring. Gingerly, he removed her travel pack and explored the contents, finding an assortment of herbs, but mostly food and an abundance of water skins. He gratefully drank one of them empty. He hadn’t realized he was so thirsty.
He smoothed the hair from her brow and then maneuvered her limbs into a reposing position.
There was the pouch at her waist, catching his eye again. Was it full of money? As a Bhikhu, he did not care for money and the trap that it was to people. He stared at the pouch, wondering what was inside. He undid the strings fastening it to her belt and then unwound the knot closing it off. The pouch was squishy and did not clink. Pulling on the edges, he opened it.
The pouch was lined with oilskin, making the bag quite thick. It had a fragrant aroma. Paedrin probed the insides with his fingers and felt a sodden pulp inside. Even more curious, he wriggled his hand inside the small opening and scooped it out.
He sat cross-legged, hands resting on his knees, his fingers pinched softly together, his arms forming a hoop. Ideas went through his mind, quickly and calmly.
He thought about Baylen’s injuries. His head had been gashed by the Fear Liath’s jaws. He had slashes across his body as well, but the main damage happened when the beast had crushed him. Broken bones, likely his spine. His breathing showed that his ribs were probably broken as well. Paedrin lacked healing abilities and doubted even Hettie would have been able to repair the damage. Only Khiara would have been able to save him.
Khiara.
How did one become a Shaliah? Where did the keramat come from? He didn’t really understand it. Was it some kind of faith? Was it an inherited power or one that could be learned? Was it similar to the Druidecht ways that Annon had demonstrated?
As he plunged deeper inside himself, he lost track of time and where he was. The dangers of the Scourgelands seemed to melt away. Annon had described communing with the spirits like being able to hear whispers. When they had first met, Paedrin had scoffed at the idea that there were spirits flitting about. But he had seen manifestations of them with his own eyes. He remembered one being trapped in a dagger he had taken from a Preachán in Havenrook. Annon had freed it with the fireblood and it had healed Paedrin’s wound.
It had healed Paedrin’s wound.
Was there another way to heal Baylen? Was there some spirit magic that would heed his call? He wore no Druidecht talisman. He wasn’t even sure he believed in the Druidecht ways. What had Annon taught him? That there was a world that coexisted alongside theirs.
Mirrowen.
Just thinking the name brought a tingle of gooseflesh down his back. Was there a way he could tap into the powers there? Was there a way he could save Baylen that he was not thinking of? Could he learn the keramat without being trained by a Shaliah? He regretted that he had not thought to ask Khiara about it. She was so quiet . . . so sad. She deserved better than to be murdered by such a man as Kiranrao.
He sighed, remembering seeing her ashen face. She deserved better.
Bury her.
Paedrin blinked his eyes open. Where had the thought come from? He felt a tingle across his neck. What a peculiar thought. It was so small, almost a whisper. Yet not really a whisper . . . just the pulse of an idea. A flash of insight. Surely it came from his mind, didn’t it?
He glanced around the darkening woods, then watched Baylen breathing fitfully, eyes closed in rest.
Bury Khiara. He had no idea why that thought had come into his mind. It seemed out of place, as if it had come to him unbidden. He waited a moment, experiencing the stillness, but there was no repeat of the thought. He breathed in deeply, floating up, and used the blade to direct him toward where he had last seen Tyrus.
There was Khiara’s body. Her long staff lay nearby, neglected. Her body was already stiff, her face pallid. She didn’t even look like herself anymore—the part of her that was her was gone somehow. All that was left was an empty shell. He knelt by the corpse, feeling a prickle of disgust skitter through him, but he ignored it. He touched the dark hair, clogged with dead leaves. He should say a Vaettir prayer over her. That’s what was needed.
A bulging pouch tied to her waist caught his eye. It was made out of leather and was small in size, large enough to hold a small piece of fruit. Perhaps there was something she had that might help ease Baylen’s pain? He did not know how he would recognize it, but he thought it was worth exploring. Gingerly, he removed her travel pack and explored the contents, finding an assortment of herbs, but mostly food and an abundance of water skins. He gratefully drank one of them empty. He hadn’t realized he was so thirsty.
He smoothed the hair from her brow and then maneuvered her limbs into a reposing position.
There was the pouch at her waist, catching his eye again. Was it full of money? As a Bhikhu, he did not care for money and the trap that it was to people. He stared at the pouch, wondering what was inside. He undid the strings fastening it to her belt and then unwound the knot closing it off. The pouch was squishy and did not clink. Pulling on the edges, he opened it.
The pouch was lined with oilskin, making the bag quite thick. It had a fragrant aroma. Paedrin probed the insides with his fingers and felt a sodden pulp inside. Even more curious, he wriggled his hand inside the small opening and scooped it out.
