Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [177]
Elandra clung to his arm, weeping, not sure whether he lived or died, while the world shook and thundered.
Demons came boiling out of hiding, driven forth by the destruction of their sanctuary. The gloomy veil over the sun dropped away, and sudden dazzling light splashed across the city. The demons and creatures of shadow screamed and thrashed, many of them hurling themselves across the square in an effort to reach the dungeons. But the doorway leading beneath the ground had collapsed, and the creatures were forced back, wailing as they died in the light.
Finally the quaking and thunder ceased, leaving only dust and bright sunshine that hurt Elandra’s eyes. Squinting and slowly realizing that it was over, she dragged herself up to her knees and looked around.
There was a strange hush and calm now. The few survivors began to stir, their faces dazed as they rose and looked and found themselves miraculously alive.
But Caelan did not stir. He lay there, broken and bleeding upon the paving stones. His eyes were closed, and his face had no color at all.
The bald man, his face creased with grief, bowed low. “Caelan,” he said hoarsely, “what have you done? We are saved.”
Elandra gave a muffled cry and threw herself across Caelan’s bloody chest, holding him tight, willing him not to die. Her tears flowed freely, giving vent to unbearable grief. Could Fate be this cruel, to give him back to her one last impossible time, only to take him at the very moment of victory? She wept harder, refusing to let him go.
Then she felt him draw a long, shuddering breath beneath her cheek. Half disbelieving, she sat up and stroked his dirty face, heedless of the tears that still streamed down her face.
“Stay with me,” Elandra said, rocking back and forth in her grief. She gripped his slack hand in hers, trying to pour all her will and strength into him. “Please, please, stay with me now.”
He breathed, but he did not open his eyes. Losing hope again, she bent low, sobbing anew for him.
Gentle hands touched her shoulders, trying to draw her away from him.
She found herself looking into the grave face of the Magria. The Magria’s blue eyes were soft with compassion.
“Don’t let him die!” Elandra pleaded fiercely. “Use your powers and save him. In the name of the gods, save him!”
But the Magria reached out and wiped the tears from Elandra’s face with a pure white cloth, squeezing them into a small stone bowl. “And so shall she weep great tears,” the Magria chanted, “healing the earth and giving it renewal. As the earth is furrowed, and new life planted within the womb of the goddess mother, so shall the rain of healing tears feed and nourish all life.”
Anger burned across Elandra’s breaking heart. She turned away from the Magria, furious that the Penestrican was concerned now only with her rituals and ceremonies. Would no one help Caelan? Were they all going to stand around and let him die?
“Elandra.”
It was Caelan’s voice that whispered to her, soft and almost inaudible.
She saw him looking at her. His eyes were no longer blue. Instead they had turned a pale silvery hue, the color of rain. Yet they held all the love of this brave man’s heart for her, all his goodness, all the exhaustion to his very soul. He looked utterly spent, yet he was alive.
Elandra stared at his wounds and found them gone. Even the blood was dissolving where her tears had fallen in it. Gasping, she gripped his hand harder.
“Is it a miracle?” she asked.
He smiled at her.
The bald man gently pulled Caelan up to sit propped against him, holding him so that those who were beginning to gather around could see him.
“Orlo,” Caelan said weakly. “My friend.”
The bald man gripped Caelan’s shoulders and wept awkwardly.
Elandra heard rustles around her, and as she glanced around she saw the onlookers kneeling, one by one, then in twos and threes, then all of them going down on their knees.
“Caelan, forever!” called a man.
More took up the shout. “Caelan! Caelan!”
A Gialtan voice that sounded suspiciously like Lord Albain’s bellowed, “Elandra!”