Children of the Blood (24 page)

“Says who? Careful, boy, you’re gripping the arm too tight!” It would not have surprised Darin if she’d rapped him sharply on the knuckles with her cane; that she refrained from doing so
seemed a small miracle. “Well, then. Well. What have we here?”

“Don’t touch that!” Darin shoved her hand away from the circle on his robes.

“What’s this? The cloth suddenly become too good for us commoners?” She sniffed, a loud harsh sound. “Since when do they let children wear the robes?”

Her question took him by surprise, and he gazed at her more sharply. She recognized his initiate’s gown, of this there was no question—but he knew for fact that she had not been server to Line Culverne.

“Something wrong with your tongue, boy?”

He cursed himself for not studying his history more closely. But at her age, there was a chance that she had been server to one of two lines before they fell.

“They don’t let
children
wear the robes, ma’am.”

“You’re wearing them, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I’m not a child.” He searched her face for a moment, then asked, “But you know of the robes of the initiates?”

“Recognized them, didn’t I?”

He nodded.

“And don’t think you can humor me, either. I’m not to be humored by children, even if they are initiates.” She moved suddenly, dropping her cane. Before Darin could react, her hands gripped his shoulders, pressing the seams of his robe into them. “Look at me, boy. Look at me, I say!”

Darin met her eyes. They were a filmy brown, bloodshot and tired. She kept his gaze for a few moments before breaking away.

“Don’t stand there staring, child, it’s plain rude. Get my cane.”

Bewildered, and not a little annoyed, Darin did as she ordered.

“Be careful with that! It’s older than I am!”

He didn’t believe it. The cane, for all its twists and the raw, dry quality of the wood, felt firm and strong in his hands. He held it out to her, but she reached for his arm instead.

“You carry it. It’s getting too heavy for me.”

It isn’t heavy at all,
Darin thought, his grip around it growing firmer. He looked carefully at it as they approached the well; it was not more than three feet long, and although the top was knotted grain, the last two feet were smooth. He tapped the
ground with it experimentally, letting it support most of his weight. It felt solid and strong.

“You’ll be doing that soon enough, child. Don’t play at it now.”

He blinked and, after a small hesitation, offered her the cane. “Here, you take it. You need it.”

She returned his look quietly. Her grip on his arm tightened until it was almost painful. Without another word he helped her shuffle the last few feet to the well.

“Look at it, boy,” she said, her voice smoother than it had been since she first spoke. She loosed her hold on his arm, and two weathered hands gripped the wide stone.

“It isn’t as grand as it once was—but it’s beautiful just the same. See the scars, boy?” She tilted her head until light caught her pale chin. “They’re beautiful—they rest on the surface of the rock; they don’t go much deeper than that.

“They don’t shine. They don’t glitter. But the well bears them like medals, like the testament they are.” Noting Darin’s puzzled look, she gave a sad shake of the head. “Maybe children can’t appreciate the profound beauty inherent in endurance.”

She released the rock and pulled the remnants of her clothing around her bent shoulders. The strange strength that had animated her voice drifted away as Darin watched her. Her face seemed to sag into wrinkles and irritable age.

“Don’t just stand there. I’m thirsty. Get me some water.”

“But—”

“I don’t want feeble excuses! I want water!”

Darin looked at her in amazement. “Look—I’ve come here to do important things, not draw water! And anyway, there isn’t anything to draw water with here—do you see any bucket? ”

She snorted rudely and put a hand somewhere into the dirty folds of her robe. It emerged with a small tin cup. “Don’t come prepared, do you? Here, take it!”

“I can’t draw water with this!” He’d had about enough of her; his forehead began to fold and darken in an expression his mother would have known well, and hated more.

She shoved the cup into his hands. “You can. The water’s almost to the edge. Look at it!”

He couldn’t see any water and opened his mouth to tell her so in no uncertain words, but any thought of anger vanished as he met her ancient eyes. He found her very grating, but there was no doubt that she’d endured much. What harm could it do
to humor her, as long as he did it quickly? His fingers closed around the edge of the cup.

“If I can get water for you, I will.” He did not voice his doubts about the potability of anything pulled from the well. “But I’m only going to try once, and then you have to leave me alone. Okay?”

“Don’t humor me,” she said, but she nodded, her lips pursed in an unpleasant frown.

Darin turned from her and leaned into the side of the well; the rock gave off enough light to see by. If not for her, he might have continued to appreciate it—it was so oddly warm.

“I can’t see any water, ma’am.” He pushed his weight firmly against the stone and found, to his relief, that it didn’t give at all. He set the staff aside on the grass and took a deep breath. Taking care to rest his weight upon his left hand, he pulled himself slowly up and onto the edge.

No glint of light indicated that there was water within reach. He sighed and gingerly bent further over. Still nothing. He looked at the tin cup and shrugged, pulling back.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but if there’s water here it’s too far down for me to reach.”

“Is it?” Her voice, in those two words, was chill and expressionless.

With a startled cry, Darin whirled around, but not quickly enough to avoid the two hands that had reached out to shove him forward. In panic, Darin’s hands scrambled for a hold on the edge of the well; a stark pain shot through his right one and he yanked it back. He clung there frantically fora few seconds, then felt the rock recede slowly from the grip of his fingers. He looked up to meet her eyes.

“Help me!” he shouted, in a voice that held no hope.

“If you insist.” She reached out for his hand as he held his breath, and then, with a hard downward arc, brought her aged fist down on it. He cried out at the pain of the blow; it was strong and sure. She brought her fist up and hammered it down again. He felt stone grind against the bones of his fingers as his feet tried to find purchase along the smooth inner walls.

“Why are you doing this?”

He didn’t hear the answer to his question, if indeed there was any, for his hands slipped at that moment, and he felt himself falling into blackness. His arms and legs flailed wildly as he fell, trying desperately to find something to cling to.

He had just enough time to regret the foolishness of trusting a strange old woman in the darkness before he hit the water and went under.

Thick and cold, it shot up his nostrils and whirled around the folds of his robe, flooding in an instant between cloth and skin.

He didn’t want to drown. It was hard, but he forced himself to a state of calmness and tried to angle his body in such a way that he could reach the stone wall with either his legs or arms. Luck was with him in this; his feet skittered against a smooth surface, and he pushed upward in an attempt to break water. The oversized robe he was wearing didn’t help. It drank the water greedily, becoming more heavy and cumbersome. He struggled to the surface.

The liquid gave as his face touched the stale air; he gasped wildly, went under again, and came up choking.

Lernan!
he thought, his mouth too full to say the word. He hovered in water, pressing his body firmly against the side of the well. The taste of the liquid was bitter against his tongue; he could feel it, slimy and thick, as it lingered.

In the faint light he could make out the top of the well; with weary certainty, he accepted the fact that it was impossible for him to climb back up. His cheek touched the cold, wet stone. Rivulets of warm liquid ran down his face, and he realized that he was crying.

It’s no good. Lady Sara, please forgive me.
He wished that Lord Darclan had stayed by the well; his lord was far too wise to be tricked into death by an old woman.

But the lord would not give up, either. Darin took a deep breath, and the smell of bad water overwhelmed him. He slipped slightly but managed to keep his head in the air. Why was the water so foul? This was one of Lernan’s wells; the water, if he remembered the Grandmother’s tempered instruction, was supposed
to be purifying. Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe the work of the Dark Heart and his Servants had destroyed the ancient properties of the well.

“There are Servants everywhere, child.” Looking up, Darin could see the silhouette of a form leaning over the well. A surge of anger wiped exhaustion away. His hands clenched more tightly, turning white against the stone.

“Defiance will not help you.” A dry chuckle echoed down to his upturned face. “Perhaps you should try to remove the robe. It weighs you down even now.”

That decided him; foolish or no, he’d be damned if he discarded it. He clenched his teeth as another cold laugh echoed down the walls.

“The lines called this the Gifting of Lernan; the water was a symbol of his blood. I should say it’s a rather appropriate title for sewage.” The shadow moved, bending slightly further, and spat into the water.

“For the blood of the Bright Heart, child. Consider it your epitaph.” Starlight filtered down the well in a faint circle; by the light Darin could see that his tormentor had left. He was alone, surrounded by the sound of water as it responded to his slight movements.

He scraped his forehead along the stone in soundless fury. How dare she spit into the well? How dare she mock the lines?

The creature had spit into the water.

But it did make a difference. Dead leaves, mildew, algae—these were the marks of age, of neglect; there was no malice in them and no inherent evil. The saliva of this creature was defilement.

Bitterness rose like bile. He choked on it, felt impotent tears start down his cheeks again. Angrily he shook them away.

You’re going to die, Darin. And because you can’t do anything, your Sara will die as well. Maybe you’ll meet at the Bridge of the Beyond
—
if the beyond has a use for the weak and the hopeless in the after.

“I’m not useless?” Water dulled the edge of his words.

A priest of the Dark Heart. Tears fell faster than he could shake them; salt mingled with foul water beneath his trembling chin.

“He did it for Sara.”

But it did matter to Darin. He held onto the image of Lord Darclan; the way he had kissed the helpless Sara; the reason that he had exhausted himself in the grim and hopeless struggle with the nightwalker. He thought of Sara, her arms wrapped around his memory; the way she had named him; her defiance in the breakfast hall. He thought of her pale forehead under the fingers of the nightwalker, and the grisly way the creature had taken on substance and form.

Yes.
His right hand hurt. It was open again.
Yes.
His eyes widened and then closed.
But I will not fail God.

No. Watch.
Gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering, he pulled his hands away from the wall. His robe spun about him like a serpent, pulling him to an underwater lair.

For a moment he flailed, his hands reaching for the wall, and then he forced himself to be still.

I am an initiate of the Circle.
He began to sink and kicked at the water with slow strokes to buoy himself up. It took effort—the weariness of the day’s work and the shock of the fall had already started to take their toll.

His head bobbed under the water, and he spread his arms out and down, propelling himself above the water again. Numb fingers began to dance sluggishly beneath the dark surface. Reaching out, he closed his eyes and dug his nails into the open wound of his right hand.

He felt sharp cold against warm flesh and opened his hand further. He slipped under the water a final time and knew that
he wouldn’t be able to reach air. He was tired, but he forced his fingers to twist against the water in the pattern of the True Ward.

His lungs cried out for air; his head felt light, almost translucent. A rumbling tremor took his arms and legs; they began to shake uncontrollably. He felt them strike the walls of the well. It seemed to him that he was moving upward, toward blessed air.

Darin tried desperately not to give in to false hope; to gain an acceptance of death that might calm him and lend him dignity. He tried to tell himself that the swirling rush of water that started at his ankles and moved up to his torso was imagination, nothing more. It did no good; he was caught in a sudden lurch of adrenaline, and his arms began to flail wildly in an attempt to propel himself upward.