Chapter 42
Thorny Comfort
Returning to life was an irksome business.
At least he had not soiled himself as some invalids might, and when he finally crawled from the well of deathly dozing, Nigel found himself in a standard infirmary. His hand shot out, closing around the sheathed sword leaning against the cot’s side, and he surged upward.
Or at least, he sought to.
Halfway there his muscles seized and he fell back onto the pillow. The cot gave an inglorious squeak, the curtains moved slightly, the rings on their rail overhead rattling like bones, and a face swam into sight over him.
Edward’s eyes were dark, grieving holes, but his mouth twitched as he regarded his Father for a long moment. “Finally with us again, old man?”
Nigel blinked, attempting to name the peculiar feeling in his chest. A very sharp, thin blade going in, he decided; perhaps it was phantom sensation left from sarnaki-spear wounds. “Apparently so, my Elder.” His vision cleared further.
Standing near the curtain was a pug-nosed ginger Younger with a smattering of freckles, muscular arms crossed high on a broad chest. He straightened as Nigel’s gaze fell upon him, coming to attention just as Michael used to.
Edward’s presence meant the Elder had been pronounced clear by a lirai, and furthermore, the appearance of a Younger meant Nigel was part of a trio again.
Well and good, even if the larger question remained.
“She’s here, and alive,” Edward said, before his Father could ask. “Barely eating, barely sleeping, spends all her time training with the other Dreamers or sitting here waiting for you to wake up. You’ve been out five days.”
God’s wounds. Injuries bad enough to put a Son down for twenty-four hours were rare enough; this was something else. No wonder he felt a-staggerleg, unsteady as a newborn colt.
“My apologies.” Nigel raised his free hand; Edward leaned in, clasped hard, and pulled him up to sitting.
Nigel’s head swam for a moment, but he found it wasn’t so bad.
With a little more concentration, he was fairly sure his legs would hold him without requiring further aid, though he remained on the cot for the nonce.
He was clean as sorcery could make him, if clad in the rags of their escape, and his knuckles were white as he held the sword, gazing at its hilt for a moment.
The leather wrapping was dark with sweat and less wholesome effluvia; the blade had served well.
Now they were both returned to duty. He had to cough, clearing his throat to speak quietly. “And our new Younger?”
“Pablo. On rotation from Buenos Aires. Holds his own.” Which was high praise indeed. Edward straightened, stepped back a precise distance, and returned to attention. “The senior lirai here pronounced me clean, sir, but I require confession.”
“Then proceed as it suits you, Edward.” Nigel longed to shake his head, dismissing the request, and immediately set out to find his Dreamer. But duty was rarely kind, and he suspected what his Elder might be worried enough to say. “I am in a position to listen.”
A ghost of amusement crossed the new Younger’s face as he looked pointedly away, staring at the drawn curtain. The infirmary was silent—of course, Sons rarely required its appurtenances, though it must remain ready for any potentials brought in.
“I tried to hold them.” Edward dove right in, tone crisp and pitiless. “There were too many, or I wasn’t good enough. As soon as… as the Dreamer was out of range the god…”
“As expected,” Nigel said. “He put forth a considerable effort, Edward. There is no shame in being temporarily overwhelmed.”
“It wasn’t temporary. He used me to bloodhound you.” Pale before, the Elder was nearly transparent now, and bright shame-spots stood out on his hollow cheeks. “Almost lost you several times, though. You’re a dodgy fellow.”
“Age and treachery,” Nigel murmured. Yes, his legs would work now, he was almost entirely certain. “No-one else could have tracked me, Edward. Quite the good show.”
“I…” The Elder shook his head, a short harsh movement. “He told me, when you sealed her. I admit I…”
Ah. He could have said she asked, or it was a command. Both were true, neither were exculpatory. His own conscience did not need the god’s whispers to turn on him; he would never again have the luxury of believing himself misled by them.
All things considered, it was a fair price to pay. And he must make the first installment now, Nigel supposed. “I should have stayed behind instead.”
“No.” Edward met his gaze squarely. “You were the better choice, you kept her alive. But you should have shot me on the bridge, sir.”
“I am glad I did not.” Nigel found his usual dry tone, though there was a great deal of gravel in his throat. “You are a fine Elder, lad, but if there is more to confess, can it be while we travel to Requisitions? And an armory, I feel rather underpowered at the moment.”
The Younger made a small sound suspiciously like a smothered laugh, though he was stone-faced when the Father glanced in his direction.
“Sure thing.” Edward offered his hand again. His expression had eased, and a swell of relief filled Nigel’s own chest. “She’s going to be happy to see you, old man.”
The Younger stirred; he had a pleasant, easy tenor, and most likely would prove a comfort to Cass. “Maybe you can even get her to slow down a bit.”
That would be nice, but I doubt it. “Hardly.” Nigel dispelled that strange feeling from his face again; there was no need to smile. “Our Dreamer only seems to have one setting, lads. Let us not keep her waiting.”
He found his legs would indeed carry him, if he moved relatively slowly. Slowness was a torment, but at least he wasn’t lost in the void anymore.
* * *
It was a thorny comfort to be among Sons again.
The hive-hum of an active temple closed over him, and the familiar processes of exchanging clothes, testing harnesses to find a proper fit, and drawing weapons were accompanied with a few plates of high calorie, protein-dense food to urge his body back into the business of hauling him about.
Throughout the bureaucratic rituals of paperwork, responding to queries, and re-arming, impatience beat behind his breastbone, ran sharp claws down his back.
But when he saw her next, he had to be ready.
Finally, he climbed a flight of spiral stairs, moving in concert with a trio again, and that was pleasant enough.
The new Younger was appropriately honoured to be rotated into a close-guard flight, and if Edward said holds his own Pablo was quick, nasty, and thoroughly effective upon the field.
Still, he would need to test the lad’s responses, weigh his combat habits. And watch him, especially when close to Cass—if, that is, she allowed Nigel to stay.
Hope was a poison he was helpless to stem.
Two flights were on guard duty in the hallway, and the heavily carved door to a Dreamer’s sanctum opened soundlessly.
It was a lovely suite, dark-blue velvet accented with gold brocade—sitting room, small light-filled meditation or art chamber, dressing room, bedroom, loo.
Edward and Pablo left to requisition a few more odds and ends, not to mention more food, and as he was sealed Nigel was left to prowl carefully through the suite, wondering at the painful neatness, the sense of a hotel’s empty waiting.
This liraim was everything he could want for his Dreamer, quiet, luxurious, and eminently defensible, the walls singing with protective sorcerous force and wide windows in both bedroom and sitting room overlooking parklike grounds.
Yet his nose told him the furniture hadn’t been changed in some while—had she not expressed her preferences?
Was she comfortable in this setting; had another Son gifted her with an oneiros yet?
The most important question beat in time to his pulse, rose with every breath, scraped along his nerves.
Where, in the name of every god ever worshipped, was his lirai?