Heart of Light (50 page)

The spirit hyena was there, struggling, it seemed, against that same blue light that now encased all of Nigel's body, glimmering in a faint shimmer all over his pale hair, his unnaturally white skin.

Nassira wanted to scream and shake him and ask him how he was holding the spirit attack at bay. She had never heard of anyone surviving it. And the black mark on his arm was writhing and coiling, and whatever it was doing caused his skin to crackle and split. Blood dripped in a steady rivulet from his arm, and yet Nigel didn't seem to notice, all his being leaning forward toward the child, whom he bathed in blue light.

The little boy sighed and turned, taking a deep breath and opening his eyes.

The man beside Nassira said, “My son lives,” in the trade language, his hand reaching out to clutch at Nassira's upper arm. The woman gave a shout that was almost a song and reached for her child, lifting him.

In the turmoil, all Nassira saw was the blue light around Nigel flare, and then somehow the spirit hyena vanished.

“Please, can you help me?” Nigel said, in a shaking voice, standing up.

Nassira thought the spirit hyena must have gone within to mingle with Nigel, and prepared to do battle, though she knew she could not do much. She was so sure of this, it took her a moment to realize that Nigel was holding, in one shaking hand, a strip torn from his pajamas, while holding out his other arm. The mark of the Hyena had disappeared, to be replaced by raw flesh and dripping blood.

“I cannot tie the bind on my arm myself,” Nigel said, his voice shaking a little, from mingled tiredness and pain, “not having another two hands.”

It was a weak joke, but Nassira giggled all the same—relief and shock combined as she bound his arm. “How?” she said.
“How?”

He shook his head, frowning. “I don't know,” he said. “I've never heard of anyone fighting off an attack once they'd been bound. But I felt I needed to save the child.” He glanced aside to where the child was being rocked in his jubilant mother's arms. “And I could not give up on him. My purpose . . .” He grinned weakly, his face paler than normal. “No one ever told me that intensity and resolution could fight off a powerful magic.”

“But,” Nassira said, saying the words as she thought them, “it's not so surprising, since most magic is intent and one's power is a reflection of one's intensity of desire. So it's logical that intent could fight it.”

Nigel shook his head. He flinched a little as she tied the final knot in place on his blood-soaked arm. “But I never heard of it.”

“Perhaps no one had single-minded purpose enough to fight one off before,” she said. And then, in a fading voice, “And you did it for a stranger.”

“A child,” Nigel said. “And he needed me. Besides, you, too, have risked your life for a stranger, with the lion, and—”

She nodded, but she was not too sure she could have resisted such an attack for Nigel's sake. She could not be sure. And she had no time to think, because the poor man in the hut was pressing gifts upon them. A wrap that looked to Nassira a lot like the patterns of her people, and a pair of crude sandals, all straps.

“For him,” he said to Nassira.

“He wishes to give you those,” Nassira said.

“Me?” Nigel said in wonder. “Why?”

Nassira couldn't help smiling. “Because you saved his son.”

“No, no, I mean . . . why clothes?”

“Mr. Oldhall!” she said. “Your pajamas won't hold much longer.”

He looked down at the expanse of tatters. “I suppose not,” he said ruefully, and looking down at his bare feet added, “And sandals would be a blessing, but . . . He doesn't look like he can afford much.”

Nassira sighed. “And will you shame him by showing him so?”

Nigel started, then bowed to the man and thanked him effusively. His words were so obvious from his expression that Nassira didn't think it worth translating. Instead, she stood by while Nigel ducked outside and behind the hut. When he returned, he'd wrapped himself in the bright green wrap, which covered him from chest to ankle. She had to help him secure it, but he seemed quite able to figure out the tying of the sandals.

His discarded pajamas were taken up by their host, who held on to the monogrammed pocket as if it were some sort of magic.

“I suppose I look completely ridiculous,” Nigel said, straightening.

And of course, he did, and yet . . . “Probably no more than I did in an English maid's uniform,” Nassira said with a smile. “Not that you'll ever pass for a native.”

He grinned, his nose crinkling. “No, never that.”

The woman of the house was proffering to Nigel a spear made from a sturdy wooden shaft and a crude stone tip. He took it with a smile, as if it were a gift fit for a king. And Nassira thought it was given in that same spirit.

Turning, she asked the man, who was now holding his son, “I don't suppose you can help us across the lake?”

The man's face split in a wide smile. “Of course I can. I am a fisherman.”

Weak with relief, Nassira turned to look at Nigel diffidently holding a spear, wearing an African wrap, and staring at her with obvious craving for her approval. He was very pale, and still looked very much like he had crawled out from under a rock. Nassira could not imagine, ever, being attracted to him as a male. But as a man, she realized, he was just . . . human. He'd risked his life to save one of Africa's children. More than many Africans would have done. He was not a Masai; but then, not everyone could be perfect.

“You'll do,” she told him curtly. And as he smiled, she realized she had bestowed her approval upon him in the idiom of his own kind.

TEMPTATION

“Come, Emily,” the British voice said, speaking with
all the precision of its accent, all the certainly of a man who knows his position and his rights. “Your husband isn't here, and I am your closest male relative present. You know you can trust in me. And even if you couldn't, it would still be your duty to obey me. Come from behind that rock. Nothing will happen to you. You can see we're not your enemies and all is safe.”

Kitwana leaned forward. He was so thirsty and tired he felt nauseous, and holding the shield over them was taking his whole strength. But he thought he knew enough of Englishmen and their women, and he knew this one could not resist such an appeal. Beautiful as she was in her way, and as strong as Kitwana's own father, she was still a woman. An Englishwoman. Through his parched throat he asked Emily, “Is he really your husband's brother?”

She swallowed and nodded, then said, “I've never met him, but he looks like the pictures in the house. His mother . . .” A sigh. “His mother had a whole sitting room adorned with pictures of Carew, and it looks like him. More scarred and sunburned, but—”

“It is Carew,” Peter Farewell said, his voice sounding oddly dead. It was, Kitwana thought, like the voice of one who's long departed and sounds still in the place of his demise, more memory than sound. “I know Carew.”

Emily nodded, then turned away from them to look between the rocks. “But, Mr. Oldhall,” she said, raising her voice. “How can you guarantee my safety when you're amid those who've spirit-bound me?”

A hearty laughter answered her. “Oh, that's a mistake. My associates got overanxious. Come on out, and I'll help you to the ruby—and we will find Nigel, too, and then we can go home and have the happy family reunion, yes? Mama and Papa will be so delighted.”

Emily half rose. From Peter's lips, a faint, long whisper came. “No. Not Carew. He was supposed to be dead.”

Emily looked over her shoulder at Peter, and Kitwana knew she was wondering, the same way Kitwana himself was—if Peter had assumed Carew to be dead because of his disappearance of if Peter had greater reason to make such an assumption. But she didn't say anything. Instead, she picked up Peter's brandy flask, which he'd dropped on the ground with the powersticks. She took a small sip, then spoke, louder than before. “But, Mr. Oldhall, you had a compass stone yourself. You lost it and it was found by Widefield's men and that's how it ended up back in England. But you had it and you were supposed to have found the ruby. Why do you need us now? And why do you keep such strange company?”

Carew looked over his broad shoulder at the people with him, one of whom was the square-built African that Kitwana had seen talking to Carew before. Then he looked at Emily and grinned, and Kitwana thought that Carew Oldhall was used to employing that grin instead of discussion. That he believed his grin should be enough to make all fall at his feet in adoration. “Come, come, that's too long a story to explain. Surely as a woman you have better things to concern yourself with? We have a trunk of your dresses here. Perhaps you would like to change. And we can give you water.”

Knowing how thirsty he himself was, Kitwana looked at the beautiful Englishwoman and expected her to give in, to step out. And in a way, he wasn't even sure it would be wrong.

“You could accept,” he said, consideringly. “He'd probably keep you safe. I don't know why they're besieging us; it must be because of him.” He gestured with his chin toward Peter. “Of course, they might kill me, too, because I'm protecting the dragon. I've heard them call me traitor before and that must be why. Still, if I can talk to him for only a few moments, I'm sure I can explain to Shenta why it happened. And maybe we can all get safe conduct out of here and I can go home.”

He had only the time to be embarrassed by how resonant his longing was on that last word before Farewell roared. His eyes looked mad—not fully human, but swirling with something of the dragon's pain when he'd been struck through with the magic lance. He reached for the flask, took a swig and said in a voice that was like the tattered remnant of his nonchalant tone, “A last drink before death.”

“Death?” Emily said. “Surely not. Oh, I know English law, but we are not in England now, and besides, Carew is not a Royal Were-Hunter. Surely he can't wish to extinguish your line, any more than your father did.”

“Oh, no,” Peter said, taking a swig of the brandy and making a face. Kitwana knew well the sensation he must be enduring, as the wetness was countered by the alcohol's desiccating properties. “Not extinguish my life, Mrs. Oldhall. Carew just wants to kill me. Mind you, with reason. I did leave him for dead. But he won't just kill me. He'll torture me a long time until I die.” He grinned at her expression of bewilderment. “Carew has always wanted to torture Nigel and me. Succeeded, too, through most of our school career. That bluff and ready look you see, the mythical English sports-field hero, has served him well. Inside, he just craves the pain of those weaker than himself. He's more beast than I am.”

Kitwana cleared his throat. “But—”

“Come,
Mr.
Kitwana!” Peter said. “Doesn't it strike you as odd that your African organization would be headed by a white man? My kind attacked Carew's expedition when he first came to Africa. We left him for dead. He should have some extensive scarring under those clothes. Then I sent the compass stone back to England, because none of us could impress it. We hoped they'd send someone who could. And they have. Now the Hyena Men want the stone. The Hyena Men who only appeared after Carew was lost in Africa. After he'd been robbed of the compass stone and was adrift. What do you think that means, Mr. Kitwana?”

“Your kind?” Kitwana said. “Weres?”

Peter smiled, a very odd smile. “Anarchists. Those who believe in the equality of man.”

In Kitwana's mind, everything was swirling. He'd always thought that someone was the head of the Hyena Men. He'd thought Shenta was. And he'd been afraid that Shenta meant to take over Africa. And now he found there was a white man over Shenta, because Shenta obviously deferred to this man. “He is that loyal to his queen?” he asked, his voice hollow. “He wants to take her the ruby that much?”

Peter Farewell cackled bitterly. “Carew Oldhall is loyal only to Carew Oldhall.”

Emily stood and spoke. “We accept your offer of safe conduct. As proof of your good intentions, you will remove your brand from my arm, and you will withdraw with your men to a safe distance. And you will not disturb me as I seek out the ruby.” She spoke with the assurance of a man, Kitwana thought. A man who rises to speak in the councils of his elders.