“I will see to her.” Gils replied, the barest trace of trembling in his voice. “We will need more water.”
“The stream is close. We can get more easily.” Marcus answered, gathering a few buckets. He paused to look at me with concern. “If the Sweat is as bad as you say, maybe we should cut her hair. It will be hard to keep clean, and will tangle.”
“No,” Keir answered softly. He was beside me, running his fingers through my hair, pulling it off my face. “No need. I’ll braid it for her. I’ll not see it cut.”
Marcus snorted, and left the tent. Isdra followed, but not before I caught a glimpse of her face, and saw her naked grief. Gils was busy getting his cloths ready. I stared up at Keir as he worked his fingers through my hair, and cradled my head in his hand. His fingers gently massaged my scalp, easing the headache even further. Or maybe it was the lotus starting to take effect. I seemed to be floating slightly, but I wanted to tell him. Sorrow filled my heart, and my eyes welled with tears. I’d killed him, my strong, handsome lover, killed him with my pride and arrogance. I reached out blindly, and felt his cool hand grasp mine. I concentrated, trying to focus as he lowered his face to mine. “Lara?”
“It’s all my fault.” I whispered carefully. “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”
“Lara,” his voice was soft and urgent, but the lotus pulled me away.
“Papa? Papa!” It was so hot, so dark, where was Papa? The garden was withered and the sun seared my skin. I ran along the path, trying to find Papa. Xymund was behind me, so angry, so furious. He was going to kill me. I cried as he caught me, and struck out at my attacker. Papa’s voice cut through the fire, but he wasn’t talking to me, wouldn’t hold me. What had I done, that he was angry with me ?
“Papa? What is’Papa’?”
“A name they call male theas. She thinks you’re her father.”
“Her thea?”
“Talk to her. Get her to drink something.”
“Hush, Lara.” Papa’s voice sounded odd somehow, but it was deep and gentle and his cool hands touched my face. “Be easy. I am here, little one.” A cup clinked against my teeth. “Drink.”
I swallowed as the water flowed into my mouth, easing the dryness within. I let myself relax back into Papa’s arms, soothed. I was safe, safe, Xymund couldn’t get me here. The flames could still hurt me though, and Papa rocked me in his arms.
But when had Papa been so badly burned?
I stood by the well in the village square, which was silent and dark. As I looked about, I saw the morning larks laying on the ground, their little legs stiff, their songs silenced. As I covered my mouth in horror, the doors of the
buildings opened, and the dead began to emerge. They were moving slowly, murmuring over and over, stumbling toward me, their eyes glittering with rage.
The door of the shrine opened and Epor stepped out, his gentle, smiling face easing my fears. I called out to him, and he started toward me. But as he grew closer, his face contorted into a snarl and he joined the villagers in their chant. “You killed us. You killed us.”
“No, no, no, oh, Goddess, forgive me, please forgive me, Epor.”
I pressed against the well, feeling the windlass cut into my back. They kept coming, pressing in, chanting their accusations. Rahel stood there, her arms raised, cursing me in a voice that rose to the skies.
I turned, looking into the well, seeking escape. But the dead were there, too, their arms lifted as if to pull me into the depths. I cried out again, terrified and looked back to see Epor before me, his club raised to strike me down. “Epor, please don’t hurt me!”
“Epor would never hurt you, Lara.”
“She can’t hear you, Isdra.”
Terrified, I sought a way to the gate. But the dead had piled themselves at my feet, their dead and dry carcasses pressed against my legs like cord wood. Xymund stood before me, the madness dancing in his eyes, with a flaming brand in his hand. “Die, whore.”
He threw the torch at my feet, The flames flared up, I cried out…
I burned.
The castle was dark, but the stones were cool under my feet. I welcomed the silence and the quiet. But as I walked the halls the very stones began to warm, blistering my feet. The familiar halls became a maze where I wandered, lost and confused.
“She’s stopped drinking.”
I stumbled into the kitchen. Anna was there, lying on the floor, sweating and moaning. Othur was seated at the table, a mug of ale in one hand. When I touched his shoulder, he collapsed to the floor like a broken doll.
“Her eyes are so sunken, like Epor’s.”
I fled, running, crying out to the Goddess for aid. When I burst into the chapel, the benches were filled with the dead and dying victims of the sweat.
Archbishop Drizen and Deacon Browdus stood before the statute of the Lady, their vestments drenched in sweat, dragging on the floor as they went about the service. Two acolytes, the men in Rahel’s loft, were assisting with the offering.
“Can you think of anything else to try, young’un? From her teachings?”
They all ignored my pleas and cries as they moved about the base of the marble statue. The cool peace of the chapel filled me then, and I sank to my knees. The Goddess reached out to me and with a glad heart I stretched out my hand to touch hers, wanting nothing more than the peace of her gardens, there to dwell forever.
But her hand withdrew before it touched mine and it was only when I looked up into the Lady’s face that I realized that she was sweating too. Suffering as Her people suffered. The marble moved then, the Lady raised her arms and called out to her husband, the Sacred Sun, and the flames rained down on my skin.
“I’s have an idea.”
I burned.
“… Death of earth, birth of water...”
I burned.
The heat within my body was all encompassing, and there was no escape. It was in my blood, in my lungs, and every limb of my body. I tried to lick my lips, to find some precious moisture in my mouth, but there was none. My tongue was a dry and lifeless thing, and my lips cracked and stung. I could feel the sweat under my breasts and behind my knees, but it dried as fast as it appeared. There was only heat and I burned. I tried to open my eyes, to see what was happening but there were only blurs about me. Nothing seemed to have any substance except the pain behind my eyes and the flames that licked my flesh. I tried to reach out but my hands grasped nothing but dry air.
“… Death of water, birth of air . . .”
I was flying beneath a field of blurry stars against a clear black sky. My eyelids rasped, dry and itchy, but still I stared at the blooms of light above me. There were figures around me, moving with me, chanting softly. I flew, but my hair hung heavy, seeming to brush against the tall grass. The heat was still with me, the hearth located in my chest. It was impossible to move with the weight that pressed me down. Each breath was an effort. All I could do was hold open my weary eyes and stare.
“… Death of air, birth of fire .. .”
The chanting was muted, soft, as indistinct as my vision. It seemed somehow to first raise me closer to the sky, then lower me to the earth.
I cried out as something cold bit my skin, surrounding me, covering me, stealing my breath and the heat from my body. My mouth opened as the flame died, and I sucked in great gulps of air, even as I rose high in the air… “… Death of fire, birth of earth ...”
Keir. It was Keir beside me, Marcus on the other side. I blinked as the water ran off my face. I was in their arms, cradled, being lowered back into water as cold as death. Keir was letting cold water trickle from his cupped hand onto my face, and I blinked as the drops hit my eyes. I felt clean. Clean and cold and alive.