One Realm Beyond (21 page)

“More water,” the woman ordered.

Marta and Gimo ran from the room.

“I think you’ve saved him, Ma,” the boy, Rutzen, said in a sullen tone. “But I still don’t know why.”

“Men!” She tossed him a scathing look. “You think too little of life. If you had to bear the child for months and knew the great effort put into bringing new life into the world, you would cherish more and squander less.”

Rutzen shrugged his shoulders, apparently not much impressed by his mother’s wisdom. “Cherish is a woman’s bone.”

Outrage stiffened her back. She glared at her son. For one so small, she looked like an explosion of temper would be devastating. “Soon you’ll join the men’s camp, and this mother will be glad your heathen ways will go with you.”

“You’ll miss me.”

“Ha!”

Rutzen grinned. “You’ll miss me. It is another woman’s bone.”

Cantor caught sight of a pitcher in the woman’s hand. Once he’d seen it, nothing the mother and son had to say interested him.

She must have seen his gaze locked on the jug. “I brought you a drink. We’ve been dousing your outside with water for over two days now. Next is to flush as much water through your insides as we can.”

She stepped forward. Without being told, Cantor leaned his head back and opened his mouth. Not all the water went down the inside, but the spillage dribbling off his chin and down his chest felt just as good as the portion sliding down his throat.

Marta and Gimo returned and promptly splashed their burden on Cantor.

“Thank you,” he said and even managed a smile.

Marta responded with a giggle and a wave. Gimo scowled and stomped away from him, taking up a post in the corner of the room.

The woman pulled a knife from a scabbard she wore under her apron. “I’m going to cut him loose.”

“Too soon,” said Rutzen. “He’ll savage the lot of us.”

“If you think you’re old enough to tell your mother what to do, you know where to go.”

Marta jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “Men’s camp. Men’s camp. With Fafada.”

Rutzen raised his hand as if to hit her, but she danced away, still chanting.

The older boy sneered. “You’ll be sorry when you have to carry wood and water.”

Marta picked up her empty bucket and slung it at her older brother. He dodged. She stuck out her tongue.

“Enough,” cried the mother. “Rutzen, see to the evening chores.”

The boy left, grumbling and casting malicious looks at Marta, who stuck out her tongue again.

The mother leaned closer to Cantor. Her knife turned lazily between her fingers.

“Do you feel any rage?” she asked.

“Rage?” Why would he feel rage? “Do you mean anger? No. There’s no one to be angry at.”

“They dunked you in the sea, then left you on the shore to suffer and die.”

“They?” His voice scratched through his dry mouth.

She tipped up the pitcher again, and he drank.

“The men in the hostel. It wasn’t too smart to go in there alone.”

“I’d already figured that out. But rage? No, I feel no particular anger toward them.”

Marta scooted closer. “The Sea of Joden makes the rage.” She put her hands next to her face as if they were claws and twisted her expression. “Aaaargghhh!”

“Go away, Marta,” her mother scolded. She narrowed her gaze at Cantor for one more inspection. “Well, if you don’t feel the urge to go berserk, I’ll cut the ropes.”

“I’ve never felt less like berserking, mistress.”

“Yah, and you’re probably too weak now.” She began to saw on the rope binding his arms. “It’ll take a day or two more for the poison to be gone from your insides and your out.”

“More? How long have I been here?”

The woman pursed her lips. “How long, Marta?”

“Three days. He stinks, Ma.”

“I know. It’s the poison from the lake. He can’t help it.”

“Does he have to take a bath? Do we have to get the water? He’s a big man. He should get his own water.”

“Yes, he has to take a bath, and he can’t get his own water.”

As soon as the ropes fell from his wrists, Cantor flexed his fingers, then placed his hands on his arms to rub circulation back to normal.

“No, don’t,” said the mother.

He’d only made one stroke, but he knew why she’d tried to stop him. His skin reacted as if he’d stripped a layer off.

He grimaced and his eyes teared. She dumped the rest of the jug of cooling water over his arms.

Through gritted teeth, he tried to say something just to prove he wouldn’t scream, but nothing came out. He wanted to ask what property in the lake caused so much harm. But he decided breathing in and out was more important than the answer to the question.

“Just rest,” said the mother, whose tone sounded more maternal than he’d heard it so far. “We’ll help you get to the bed.”

After she loosened the rest of his bonds, she stood in front of him. “It’s best I don’t touch you. Put your hands on my shoulders. Marta and Gimo will help lift your weight by pulling up on the waistband of your trousers. I’m sorry, but it’s going to hurt.”

By Cantor’s reckoning, hurt was a major understatement. Once laid out on the bed, he thought perhaps the chair had been more comfortable. Entirely too much of his body pressed
against the mattress. His legs hung off the end since the bed was designed for a much shorter Brinswikker person.

Marta and Gimo fetched a stool for their mother. She put a pillow on it, then propped Cantor’s feet on the improvised extension. The children next fetched buckets of water to pour on his aching body. Their mother didn’t seem to mind that the water soaked the bed.

“Do you think you can sleep?” she asked.

Surprised by how fatigue had once again smothered him, he nodded.

“I’ll be waking you up to make you drink. Other than that, you will rest.”

Cantor’s last thought before drifting off was about Ahma. Ahma was at times gruff and at others tender. He toyed with the term that was new to him, “It is a woman’s bone.” Perhaps this Brinswikker woman and Ahma had bones in common.

Snoring woke him. He hadn’t been snoring, and now that he was wide awake, the snoring persisted.

His muscles still felt petrified. If he stretched, perhaps he’d crack. He could see the grain in the heavy wood timbers across the ceiling. Light slanted through the open door and one window, but shadows cloaked most of the room. Relieved that his sight had returned to perfect vision, he attempted to find out who was snoring.

With great care, he moved his head, then groaned.

Against the opposite wall, Bridger lay curled up comfortably, snoring deeply. He must have been there awhile, because
he had rested long enough to expand to a size too big to walk out the door.

“Bridger, wake up.”

The snoring ceased, but the dragon did not open his eyes.

“Bridger, wake up!”

He stirred, opened his eyes, and lifted his scaly chin. “Do you need something?” He rose up on his haunches, his head brushing the timbers above. “A drink? Mistress Dante said you were to drink lots of water.”

He shuffled over to the table and poured water from a jug into a cup. At his present size the task looked impossible, but the dragon didn’t spill a drop.

“You shouldn’t have gone off without me. I could have helped in your confrontation with those Brinswikker men.”

“It wasn’t much of a confrontation. One minute I realized I had stepped into trouble. The next minute I was tied to . . . What did you say that woman’s name is?”

“Mistress Dante.”

“Tied to Mistress Dante’s chair.”

Cantor managed to hoist himself into a sitting position. He felt much better than the last time he’d been conscious. He took the cup from Bridger and took a big swig.

Sputtering, he spewed the liquid all over the blanket.

“Ugh. What is that?”

Bridger scratched behind his ear. “I’m not real sure. Bixby and Totobee-Rodolow fixed it up out of some herbs Bixby got from Dukmee’s shop.”

“Toto — Who?”

“My sister.”

“Where did she come from? Why is she here? Why are
you
here?”

“She’s going back with us to Dairine. She’s going as Bixby’s constant.”

“I can’t go back. I don’t have a constant yet.”

Bridger’s grin exposed teeth that reflected light from the door in the dim room. “I’ll be acting as your constant for the time being.”

“Who says so?” Cantor spoke in anger, and the abrupt gesture he made with his hands caused him to spill the last of the healing brew on his chest.

“Oh, good,” Bridger said. “Bixby said to pour some on your skin.”

Cantor clenched his teeth. “Who says you’re my constant for the time being?”

“Orders.” If possible, his grin grew bigger. “Bixby received a letter from the council. As soon as you can walk, we’re on our way.”

Cantor collapsed against the pillow behind him. “I may never walk again.”

ASTOUNDING

N
ext to her skin, Bixby wore a thermea, a body suit of thin material. Today, she wore the unitard so warmth drained out through the covering and left her cool within. If she turned the garment inside out, her body’s warmth would be held and used to keep her comfortable and cozy. She rarely suffered from being too cold or too hot. Only her head, feet, and hands needed protection from the weather.

Now she was warmed by the anticipation of a more festive evening than she’d had since she came to Effram. Cantor was awake and would come to the dinner table at Mistress Dante’s home. Although he couldn’t travel yet, his prospects for full recovery looked good. The herbs she’d collected at Dukmee’s shop had aided in that recovery, and Bixby felt a bit of pleasure at having helped. A friend’s improved health was reason enough for her to celebrate. And she would dress accordingly.

In the little room that Mistress Dante had provided for her,
Bixby hummed to herself as she searched through her hampers, getting ready her joy clothes, her most vibrant attire.

Getting dressed was one of her favorite activities. Her list of favorite activities would fill a book, but at the moment, choosing just the right clothes took precedence over the others.

She picked out colorful layers of red, yellow, gold, black, silver, purple, and green. Once she had them arranged to her satisfaction, she couldn’t resist a twirl around the room so she could admire the flashes of gorgeous colors and mixtures of fabric, some soft and shiny, some lush and brocaded. And lace! Lots of lace, bunches and streamers and ruffles of lace!

As a final touch, she pulled her tiara hamper from her skirts and tried on several of her larger, flashier crowns. She settled on a circlet in the end, because the dainty gems in vibrant shades hung on fine silver, looking like delicate flowers on a twisted vine. Best of all, some of the vines hung down into her hair and along the sides of her face.

She carefully stored the unchosen headdresses in the proper hamper and pulled out the hamper containing footwear. Finding the boots took only a moment. She’d already decided what to wear with her bright outfit. A pair of high-heeled ankle boots would make her look taller, and these she’d picked up in an Alius market because of their tooled leather accented with beautiful dyes and metal studs.

With everything in place, she felt ready to have a wonderful evening. For only a split second did she mourn the lack of a full-length mirror in which to admire the result of her selections.

A handheld mirror pulled from yet another hamper allowed her to make sure her crown sat on her unruly hair at a proper angle. She jerked a brush through the curls and tangles, leaving her pale blonde hair even wilder than before. Not tangled, but
definitely sticking out with a static that snapped as she walked. With a sigh, she plopped the mirror and brush back in the hamper. Bixby never fussed over her hair; she’d long since learned it did what it did, and there was no corralling it.

A knock on the door called her from her preparations.

Totobee-Rodolow smiled her toothy grin. “You look marvelous, darling. Are you wishing to attract the young realm walker’s attention?”

Bixby’s mouth dropped open, and she snapped it shut so that the very feminine dragon wouldn’t guess she knew nothing of attracting young men. It had never crossed her mind that Cantor was anything more than a realm walker initiate.