Rising tide - Mel Odom [56]
"You'll not die."
Jherek didn't disagree. If anyone knew death, it was Malorrie. The old phantom had never admitted when he'd died, nor given any details on the how of it.
He knelt over the young sailor, concern etched in his translucent eyes, his gaze as always made somewhat confusing because he could be seen through. He was dressed as he always was in warrior's chain mail with a deep scarlet tabard that hung to his ankles. It carried no coat of arms, no insignia of any kind. He carried a broadsword sheathed at his hip, stripped of any ornamental designs that might have offered a clue as to the phantom's background. His face belonged to that of a man in his middle years, and his nature made it hard to tell the color of his skin or hair or the thin mustache that stained his upper lip, but Jherek always felt the phantom's eyes in life had been the blue of the seas.
"Mayhap you should lay here, boy, until I get some help."
"No," Jherek croaked. "This is Seven Cuts Court, remember? It's a wonder I'm not dead already."
"That arrow sticking out of your chest… it's possible the ghost that haunts this place thought you were already dead." The statement was Malorrie's attempt at a joke, but he spoke truth as well.
The likelihood traced cold fingertips along Jherek's spine. He had no idea how long he'd lain there after he'd passed out. It was still night, and his lung hadn't completely filled up, so he knew it couldn't have happened long ago. There was no sign of the elven woman or her partner.
The young sailor rolled over, then used his hands and knees to push himself up into a crawling position. It was awkward with the quarrel sticking out of his chest. Still it was short. If he'd been pierced with a cloth yard shaft, he might not have been able to get to his feet at all.
Standing, he swayed dizzily. He felt Malorrie clamp a hand on his elbow, helping steady him. He also knew the cost the old phantom had to endure himself with the contact. Where a true ghost had no problems touching a living being and doing harm, the geas that had been laid on Malorrie to prevent his rest in the afterlife also kept him from making contact with many of those still living. If he did lay hands upon them, the whisper of life-force that maintained him was drained by the living.
When Jherek had first come to Velen seven years ago, he'd fallen and broken a leg. Malorrie had been the first to find him. The phantom, ever considerate, tried to care for Jherek only to find to the consternation of both that touching a wounded person drained his life-force even more rapidly. Malorrie had never told Jherek how he'd happened to be in Velen, or why he'd decided to befriend him as a young boy, but Jherek had learned then that the price the old knight had paid had been high. In all his years, both alive and while dead, Malorrie said he'd never met or heard of another like him.
At times, even conversation with other flesh and blood people outside of Madame litaar and Jherek left Malorrie weakened. It was a hardship for the phantom, the young sailor knew, because Malorrie was one of the most sociable people he'd ever met. Over the years, Malorrie had always been there with a story, a comment, or simply a kind word.
"Easy does it, boy. Walk before you run," Malorrie advised.
Jherek wrapped his hand around the quarrel and steeled himself.
"What are you planning to do?" Malorrie asked.
"I'm going to pull the bolt out," Jherek said in a hoarse, weak voice. Truthfully, the thought of yanking the quarrel out of his chest unnerved him.
"No," Malorrie said, placing a hand over Jherek's. "Leave it in."
"It hurts," Jherek protested. He tried to take a deep breath and couldn't. The tightness in his chest almost panicked him. "It's hard to breathe."
"The wound's making it hard to breathe, boy," Malorrie said, "not the quarrel. Most likely it's helping block some of the bleeding. Leave it for Madame litaar to handle."
Jherek was only too willing to leave the quarrel in place.
"Feel ready to try a few steps?"