Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [40]
He could feel the tremendous charge of its power. It was like inhaling fire. He was burning up with it, dying from it as though exploding from the inside out. No mortal was meant to feel such things.
Even as he arched his back, screaming, he heard Farns’s feeble cry for help.
Consumed with heat, Caelan twisted about on the ground and saw the second wind spirit still raging several yards away. Dimly he remembered Farns, who had been captured by it.
Caelan knew he must somehow save the old man. It was his fault Farns was out here. His fault... his fault.
Groaning, Caelan reached out and picked up the key. The pain seared his hand and up his arm, shooting into his heart with a jolt that seemed to break him apart.
Barely conscious, he somehow hung onto the key and scrambled to his feet. Staggering forward, he drove himself into a weaving, unsteady run, holding the key ahead of him, and thrust it straight into the midst of the white cyclone.
The second wind spirit shrieked in an agony unbearable to hear. It vanished as though it had never been, and suddenly the courtyard was absolutely still and calm. Only a few snowflakes drifted down, sparkling in the radiant golden light of the warding key that Caelan still held aloft.
He could not drop it, could not separate himself. Sevaisin was complete. He was melting, becoming heat, radiating ...
With one last desperate try, he reached for severance. Cold met heat in a collision that burst and flowed over him. He felt himself flung aside, falling, falling; then he heard the key hit the ground with a clatter. It broke into pieces. Caelan landed in a heap of snow, the blessedly cool snow, too weak to even lift his head or care.
People surrounded him, their voices a babble.
Then strong hands gripped him by the shoulders and lifted him. “My son,” a voice said clearly.
Caelan could not see him. The world remained a swirl of color, light, and shadow. Pain was everywhere, seeping into his awareness at first, then rushing over him.
“Farns,” he whispered, his voice a broken, feeble sound. Guilt filled him, riding the pain. “Old Farns—”
“Caelan,” his father said urgently. “My son, answer me. Caelan!”
But the darkness came, extinguishing even the light from the torches and lanterns. Caelan faded into it without a struggle.
Chapter Eight
FOR THREE DAYS Caelan did not speak.
Revived by his father, whose healing gifts soothed the fever from his veins, took away the cuts and bruises from the wind spirit, and cooled the burn in his hand, Caelan lay in a strange lethargy, aware of his surroundings but apart from them.
The infirmary was quiet and plain. Kept very warm, it consisted of his father’s study, the examination room, and the tiny ward with its shuttered windows and row of cots.
Caelan lay with Farns on one side and the injured Neika tribesman on the other. Farns was alive, but unconscious. The Neika man and his brother—barbaric in long blond braids and fur—spoke to each other in hushed, fearful voices. Caelan ignored them, ignored everything. He was aware of the activity around him, but without interest or response.
Lea, her little face tight with worry, came to see him frequently. She would chatter and stroke his forehead. She would smooth his blankets and tuck the fur robe more closely around him. She would show him her dolls and bring him something to drink, which he did not take.
He saw her, but as though she stood far away. Her voice was very soft, almost too faint to hear. When she stroked his face with her gentle fingers, he felt nothing.
After a short time, the adults would gently shoo her away.
Beva came every hour, peering into Caelan’s eyes, changing the bandage and salve on his hand, pouring a measure of dark liquid down his throat.
Huddled in her shawl, Anya stood at Farns’s side, holding the old man’s hand. Her eyes, however, were for Caelan. “Master,” she said softly, “is there any hope for him?”
“Of course there is hope,” Beva said briskly. He pulled up Caelan’s sleeve and