Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [42]
“We had better go,” he said to her. “There is not much daylight left.”
She did not turn to face him. She did not answer.
“We cannot be outside after dark. It is not safe.”
“What will hunt us?” she asked. “Predators? What of them? You have fought off demons with your powers.”
Stung by her scorn, he said nothing.
She turned on him so fast her cloak whirled around her. “It is said Traulanders are afraid of the dark. You are all so big, so strong, and yet you turn into little children the moment the sun goes down.”
“Trau is not Imperia, or Gialta, Majesty,” he said. “Our nights hold things you do not want to meet.”
“Can there be anything worse than what I have already seen?”
Before he could reply, she thrust out her arms as though to fend him off.
“Do not answer,” she said. “Do not speak. I am sorry. My head is aching. I feel horrible, so full of venom. It keeps spitting from me, and I do not intend it.”
His anger faded at once. “Come,” he said simply.
She ran to his arms, and he held her tightly, shielding her with his cloak.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. “Everything feels so wrong. I am afraid.”
Her hair felt like silk against his cheek. “We will meet this challenge,” he said softly to her. “We will find a way back to Imperia.”
She glanced up at him, doubt and hope chasing across her face. “But you are home. Will you not stay here?”
He felt the icy kiss of the falling snow clinging to his hair and shoulders, heard the wind blowing through the pine boughs. “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “It has become strange to me. My path lies with you.”
Elandra tilted up her face and kissed him. Her tears dampened her lips, making them taste salty and sweet.
A fresh wave of dizziness swept him, robbing him of breath. When he could breathe again, when he could see, he found himself on his knees.
Elandra crouched there with him, gripping his shoulders. “Caelan, what is it?” she asked anxiously. “What is wrong?”
He felt strange and light, as though he was floating. The world around him seemed wavery and insubstantial, like a dream.
“Can you speak?” she asked. “Are you hurt?”
Pain hit him then. He bent over. “Yes,” he managed to gasp. “My chest.”
It ached as though a hammer had struck it. Every breath brought more pain. He tried to straighten, then groaned and bent over again, clutching himself.
“How can I help you?” she asked anxiously, hovering over him. “What can I do?”
The pain eased, and he was able to straighten again. He drew in several shallow breaths, grateful for even a small respite. His clothing felt hot and restrictive. Reaching into his pocket, he felt his emerald, only to flinch. Its surface was flaming hot.
“Your chest?” Elandra said. She swept aside his cloak and reached for the buckles of his breastplate.
He gripped her fingers to stop her. “No,” he said, drawing in another cautious breath. “No, that won’t help.”
“It will. Your armor is so heavy. Removing it will ease you.”
“No.” He lacked enough breath to make her understand. Another wave of pain covered him, driving him low. When he emerged, shuddering from it, he found her kneeling before him, gripping his hands. Her face was white with alarm.
“It isn’t me,” he said. “Isn’t—”
He groaned again and dug into his pocket. Wincing against the heat that scorched his hand, he drew out the emerald and dropped it into the snow.
“Is it growing larger?” he asked, shuddering.
“What?”
“The emerald. Is it growing?”
“I see no emerald. This rock is—”
“Don’t touch it!” he said as she started to pick it up.
Elandra jerked back her hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, still struggling for enough breath to talk. “It’s hot. It will burn you.”
She stared at him in concern. “You’re not making any sense. It isn’t hot. It isn’t growing larger. Rocks don’t change their size.”
He stared at the emerald, seeing clearly its polished surface and natural facets. Were