Chosen Of The Gods

Chapter Thirteen

The light flowed outward, flooding the courtyard and casting sharp shadows from the tents and trees beyond. Horses shied, and the bandits and their captives alike turned away, throwing up their arms to ward off the blinding glare. Vedro growled, his sword rising as he stepped toward the light, but Tavarre grabbed his arm before he could get near the young monk, shaking his head. Eerie, musical sound, like a carillon of glass bells, filled the air.

When the light finally faded, it took the music with it, leaving the camp utterly silent. Blinking against the green ghosts it left in their eyes, the bandits leaned in, crowding closer and murmuring in wonder at what they saw.

Sir Gareth didn’t move, nor did he wake, but the light had cleansed the blood from his face and smoothed the lines of pain around his mouth. Of the horrible, purple swelling that had marked his forehead, only a faint white scar remained, fading as the bandits watched. Beneath his breastplate, his chest rose and fell steadily. Moments ago, he had been dying. Now he looked like a man who had just fallen asleep.

The silvery glow continued to shimmer around Beldyn for nearly a minute after. He knelt amid it, eyes still closed, his cheeks tracked with tears. His skin had turned fever-pale, and his lips trembled. Finally, the wisps of light clinging to him died, and he sat back with a shuddering sigh. His head drooped wearily, his chin touching his chest.

Ilista’s wondering gaze went from him to Gareth and back again. She had known he was capable of this-her vanished wounds from the wyvern attack had made that clear-but seeing it with her own eyes was different. She had watched Stefara and other Mishakites work their healing arts many times before, but Beldyn possessed greater power than any of the others by far.

She signed the triangle, then looked at the bandits. They shook themselves, blinking blearily, as though waking from a dream. Tavarre and Vedro stood side by side, wearing matching looks of wide-eyed awe.

“Do you believe now?” she asked.

Tavarre swallowed, then raised his hand and scratched his beard. His men tensed, waiting, and Ilista knew that whatever the baron said, they would follow. He met the gaze of a young bandit, the one who had felled Sir Gareth with his sling, who nodded slowly.

“I nearly think I do,” said the young bandit. “Can he do it again?”

Cathan hurtled up to Fendrilla’s cottage at a gallop, leaping out of the saddle before his horse even stopped. He hammered on the door, calling the old woman’s name. She opened it, holding a candle and peering at him tiredry. It was still three hours before sunrise.

He barged past her without a word, ignoring her questions as he strode through the common room to the smaller chamber where his sister lay. Fendrilla plucked at his sleeve, trying to stop him, but he shook her off, grasping the door’s latch and creaking it open. He stuck his head into the gloom within.

“Wentha?” he whispered.

The shape beneath the blankets stirred, moaning. She tried to speak, her voice so thin, then fell into a fit of coughing-wet, tearing hacks that wouldn’t stop.

Cathan was at her side in two steps, on one knee by her bed, holding the hem of his cloak to her lips until the spasm passed. It came away flecked with blood, putting a chill in his heart, and he reached out to stroke her face. Her skin was hot and sweaty, drawn taut over her cheekbones. A sheen of sweat covered everything. Her eyes rolled, the pupils huge as she tried to focus on him.

“Hush, Blossom,” he said. “It’s me. I’ve brought someone.”

“Cathan?” Fendrilla called from the common room. “Cathan, there are riders outside!”

Rising, he turned and hurried to the door. “It’s all right,” he told the old woman. “Light some candles. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Tavarre was already afoot, striding toward the cottage. A pair of bandits lingered behind him, minding the horses, and a few more stood near the white- and gray-robed forms of Lady Dista and Brother Beldyn, keeping their crossbows ready. When the baron saw the anxious look on Cathan’s face, he motioned for the clerics to follow him inside.

“The girl,” Beldyn said as he came close. The pallor and weakness that had afflicted him after he’d healed Sir Gareth were gone, and his eyes glittered in the moonlight. “She is your sister?”

Cathan nodded.

“Take me to her.”

Fendrilla shrank back as Cathan led the others inside. He took a candle from her hands, nodding reassuringly, but his heart was hammering as he entered the sickroom again. A gasp burst from his lips as the taper’s glow fell over Wentha’s face. The Longosai had nearly run its course. Her wasted skin was covered with blotches and sores, some weeping, others crusted over. Her thin hair-once honey-hued, now colorless-clung to her scalp in patches. Her staring eyes were bloodshot, her lips dry and cracked, her throat swollen and black. Turn away! his mind screamed. Instead, though, he forced himself to look at her, gaze at her with love, through stinging tears.

Then Beldyn was there, looking down at the bed. He didn’t shy from her plague-ravaged features. Instead he smiled, reaching out to brush a stringy lock from her eyes.

“It’s all right, child,” he said. “I am here.”

She stared back at him, eyes wide with confusion and fear. There was madness there too, and Cathan felt ill, his thoughts going back to their brother. Tancred had looked that way, in the end. It was all Cathan could do not to break down in tears.

Beldyn’s smile didn’t falter, though. Instead, he signed the triangle and rested his hand on her brow. Shutting her eyes, he began to speak, softly at first.

“Palado, ucdus pafiro…”

Cathan knew to expect the light this time and shut his eyes as it blazed from the monk’s hand. Even so, it still surprised him, coining on quicker than before, then flaring brighter than it had with Sir Gareth. It filled the room, stabbing out through windows and gaps in the thatch above, silver knives cutting through the night. The light blazed around Cathan, but there was no heat to it at all. In fact, it was cool against his skin, soothing. Even from a distance, he felt the day’s aches lift away, taking his grief with them and leaving a delicate hope behind.

All at once, the light was gone. Darkness flowed out of the room’s corners again.

The first thing Cathan noticed was the smell. The stink of disease was gone, and in its place-though faint-the attar of roses hung in the air. Half-afraid of what he might see, he opened his eyes to look.

Beldyn had fallen back from the bed, and Ilista bore him up, grasping his arms, as he gasped for breath. His face was the same ashen color as his travel-stained habit, and his breath whistled in his chest. The light clung to him, reluctant to leave now that the miracle was done. It flickered stubbornly, like a candle flame fighting the wind. The god’s power had taken more out of him this time-but that didn’t surprise Cathan. The Knight had been dying, but he hadn’t suffered for weeks beforehand, as Wentha had.

It was harder to look at Wentha. Cathan could hear the change that had come over her-her breathing had lost its harshness, no longer halting. It was evening out into a slow, soft rhythm, but he still feared what his eyes might see. If she was still wasted and frail, he thought he might go mad. He touched his sword, not sure who he would use it on if his sister was still dying: Beldyn or himself. Before long, though, the not knowing became too heavy to bear. Swallowing, he let his gaze drift to the bed.

He saw a little girl asleep, golden hair pooled about her head. She was still thin, weak from her illness, but her cheeks were pink again, the lips no longer twisted into a grimace. Her sores were gone, as was the swelling in her throat. But for her frailty, the Longosai might never have touched her- and the frailty would soon disappear as well. Though she slept, her thin lips were curled into a smile.