Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [155]
But his foster father was in the ruins, under the bricks with all the others. The Torch moved in Grabar’s place, squatting down on his haunches, measuring the jagged walls with his blackwood staff. The priest noticed Cauvin. He stood and pointed the staff at Cauvin’s scarred chest. His mouth opened and words came out, ribbons of written words—commands Cauvin couldn’t obey because he’d forgotten how to read. In a blind, frustrated rage, Cauvin swung his mallet, striking whatever stood in its path.
Arms reached into Cauvin’s madness. The arms became thick ropes that bound Cauvin against hard stone and held him prisoner. The bronze-headed mallet fell from his hands. Cauvin screamed from his gut, and the ropes were gone. He searched for his mallet. The ruins had swallowed it, as they’d swallowed everything else he cared about. Cauvin dropped to his knees. He attacked the rubble with his bare hands.
He was no longer alone. On either side, rows of men knelt and dug with their hands. They all looked alike. They all looked like the assassin, Soldt.
We’re just men doing our jobs … just men doing our jobs.
The sounds of suffering seeped up through the bricks. Cauvin dug frantically until burning pain made him stop. He looked down at his hands.
His hands were red, bloodred from fingertips to wrists.
His hands had turned red.
The stain was spreading from wrists to arms, arms to heart.
Cauvin screamed again and found himself alone in darkness, gasping for air, and unable to hear a sound above the pounding of his heart. For a moment, Cauvin didn’t know where he was, then the wood at his back, the mule smells, and stone smells became familiar. He was in the loft—wedged into a corner beneath the eaves with no notion how he’d gotten there, but home all the same. His heart slowed. His breathing steadied.
He’d had a dream, a nightmare, and it was over. Yes, a building had collapsed in Sanctuary, but not the building Cauvin had dreamt about. Yes, people had died—crushed and broken, but not the people Cauvin cherished. Nightmares weren’t the truth—that’s what Cauvin told Leorin, Pendy, and the other orphan dreamers. The twisted memories nightmares left behind could be banished because they were lies.
Cauvin crawled back to his pallet and clutched the blankets tight. He had no intention of falling asleep—one nightmare was more than enough—then a fine rain began to beat on the walls around him …
The rain had ended when Cauvin awoke, blissfully emptyheaded. With little effort, he remembered his nightmare, but sleep had put an arm’s length of peace between him and it. He was calmer than he’d been since rescuing the Torch. The nightmare had been just the froggin’ dose Cauvin had needed to see the events of the last five—now six—days for what they were.
Frog all, Cauvin still didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, but the Torch had singled him out—drawn him to the Temple of Ils, tricked him with froggin’ sorcery time and time again, battered him with gods and assassins, then—finally—invaded his dreams. Shite for sure, the old pud had sent him a nightmare message: Work with Soldt if you want your little brother, your beloved, or your foster parents to be safe.
Cauvin had heard that message before—from the Hand. He’d listened. What else could he have done? froggin’ Lord Molin Torchholder had made a froggin’ mistake when he’d seized the strings on Cauvin’s soul. He was still a sheep-shite fool, not made for thinking, but it didn’t take much froggin’ thinking to see that there wasn’t a big difference between the Torch and the Hand, except that the Torch was dying.
The treacherous old pud had said it himself: He didn’t have much froggin’ time. All Cauvin had to do was stay away from the red-walled ruins for a few days, and the Torch would be dead. Shite for sure, he might have another run-in with Soldt, and no man wanted a froggin’ assassin on his back, but Cauvin thought he could endure that … and the Bloody Hand of Dyareela, too.
Damn the Bloody Hand, but Sanctuary