So young… too young, he reminded himself. Still, he could not discount how she shortened his breath, especially now. With the mud of the road washed from her, she came to him less like a fellow companion and more like a woman.
She stepped to his side and unrolled a silk scarf atop a table, revealing an array of silver and crystal utensils. She picked up a glass blade and crystal cup. She waved him to the table. “Lift your arms.”
He did as she instructed. “You don’t have to do this…”
“I served Meeryn,” she said. “I will serve her still.”
She drew the dull edge of the blade along his heat-dampened skin, from shoulder to waist, scraping the sweat from his body. She deftly collected the runoff into the tiny cup, then continued across his back, under his arms, down his legs, not unlike a stableman brushing down a sweated horse.
But she was no stableman.
As she stepped around to work his chest, he felt himself stir and fought against it, willing himself to distraction. But she continued her work, moving the blade up and down his chest, scraping delicately and smoothly.
Unbidden, a shiver trembled through him.
She finally seemed to note the flush to his skin. She glanced up to his eyes and saw something that widened her lashes. She lowered the blade. “I… I think that will be enough.”
Gratefully, he slipped into a cloak, covering his half-naked form before turning back to her.
Delia set up for the next harvest, laying out a silver lancet and twisting up a cord of silk.
Tylar cleared his throat, needing to break the silence. “Delia,” he began, his voice coming out strained. “You’ve done much to get me here, given up much, risked more. But now that I’ve reached the First Land-”
Without looking up, she cut him off. “I’m not leaving your side. Meeryn is inside you. She is still my duty.”
“What’s inside me is not Meeryn,” he pressed. “She died.”
“No.” Delia continued her preparation.
Tylar took a deep breath, glanced to the door, then back to Delia. He lowered his voice. “What is inside me is not spellcast daemon but one of the naethryn.”
Delia glanced up again, eyes narrowed.
Tylar moved closer. “One of the undergods.”
“How do you know this?”
He balked at telling her about his dream. “I just know.”
Delia motioned for him to kneel before her. He did. Their knees now touched. She sat silent for a long breath, her brow crinkled. “I should have considered that possibility,” she finally mumbled.
Tylar frowned. “What do you mean?”
She took his arm and rested his hand in her lap, palm up, then tied the silk at his elbow. “When the gods were sundered, they were split into three parts: the gods of flesh here, and their counterparts up in the aether and down in the naether. Meeryn had spoken of how she could sense her other parts, lost to her, but still there, tied ethereally and eternally.”
“Until now.”
Delia nodded. “Somehow Meeryn, as she died, must have used this tie to draw a part of herself into you. Her naethryn self.”
Tylar glanced down to the black palm print.
Delia ran her fingers over his forearm.
He shivered again. And it wasn’t from Delia’s touch this time. He considered what lay inside him… not just any naethryn, but Meeryn’s undergod. What did it all mean?
Delia concentrated on her work, a lock of hair hanging over one eye.
Tylar reached up and brushed the stray bit of hair back in place. It was a reflexive gesture, from another time, another man… another woman. He quickly dropped his hand.
“This vessel will do,” she said, and gripped his wrist, pressing deeply as before, numbing his hand. She slid the lancet into his arm, then caught the flow into another repostilary.
Tylar looked away.
“If Meeryn’s naethryn is inside you,” Delia continued, “then I cannot leave your side.”
“Why? You swore no oath to her undergod.”
“I did not serve Meeryn upon oath alone. I loved her… as did all her Hands. She died to bring you this gift.” A tremble entered Delia’s voice. “I will serve its bearer like I served her.”
“I asked no oath of you.”
A touch of firebalm flared from his wrist, marking the end of the bloodletting. Delia’s next words were so soft Tylar barely heard them. “As with Meeryn, it’s no oath that binds me…”
He stared into her eyes. They glistened more brightly in the torchlight.
“Oy there!” a voice shouted from the door. It was the crook-backed alchemist. “Enough jabbering. Be quick about your harvest. I’m late for my dinner.”
Delia placed aside the blood-filled jar and called back to the Wyr-man, “All we have left are tears.” She set about preparing for the next harvest, picking up a glass straw to wick his tears, then pinched a bit of salted powder to sting the eyes.
All we have left are tears.
Tylar considered their future, all their futures. He suspected no truer words had ever been spoken.
Tylar stumbled along with the others. They had been blindfolded for over two bells, guided like sheep through the warren of tunnels beneath the Kistlery Downs. He had at first balked at being put at such a disadvantage, but Krevan had voiced his unconcern. “The Wyr will not break an oath once sworn.”
Tylar had honored his side of the bargain, giving up his humours. Even now he shied his thoughts from what ill-use they would serve for the alchemists of the Wyr.
Tylar felt a freshening breeze on his cheek, coming from ahead. The end of the tunnels. He found his steps hurrying. The Wyr-man who gripped his elbow and guided his steps forced Tylar to slow. He heard the creak of some ancient wooden gear and the twang of strained ropes. Another trap was being undone. This last must guard the easternmost entrance to the Lair.
Tylar was anxious to be free of the blindfold and free of the tunnels. As they had traversed the Lair, he had heard strange cries, howls, and low mewlings echoing up from the deeper levels of the Lair. During such moments, he was glad for the blindfold. His guide moved him forward again-into the face of the fresh breeze.
In four steps, he sensed the world open around him. The press of stone lifted, filled by the noises of meadow and forest: the twitter of swifts, the cronk of a frog, the slight rustle of water over stone. Somewhere far ahead, a dog barked, echoing up from below.
He was led another hundred steps, moving up and down, stumbling in his haste.
Finally, he was pulled to a stop. The hand on his elbow vanished. He stood for a moment, unsure where to move.
Delia’s voice called out. “Tylar… Rogger…”
Tylar reached toward her voice, bumped into someone, grabbed hold.
“Watch what you’re a-grabbing there,” Rogger’s voice erupted.
Tylar let go and ripped away his blindfold. He blinked back the dazzle. The others were doing the same. Krevan already stood a few steps away with Corram, at the edge of a steep incline. Their weapons were piled at their feet.
Tylar glanced around the sparsely wooded glen. All the Wyr were gone… except for Eylan. She stood a few steps back, stoic, staring in the same direction as Krevan and Corram. The others must have retreated to the Lair’s hidden entrance, keeping its location unknown.
Tylar crossed to Krevan, along with Rogger and Delia.
The knight pointed an arm.
Ahead stretched an open plain, broken into green pasture-lands and patches of crops. A small township lay not far away, by a small freshwater lake. Muddlethwait. It was where they were to rendezvous with any of the surviving knights.
But that was not where Krevan pointed.