The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [106]
There seemed a world of meaning in that, but he was too tired, far too tired to search for it.
He wondered how Winna was. And Aspar, and poor Ehawk.
His limbs were made of stone; he couldn’t move and was able to open his eyes only with terrific effort.
He was in his own bed, at home in Cape Chavel, but the familiar mattress was draped in soft black sheets, and the curtains hung about it were also black, though diaphanous enough for him to make out the suffused glow of candlelight in the room beyond.
He felt as if he were sinking into himself, growing heavier. He knew he must be dreaming, but he couldn’t make it stop any more than he could move his limbs or scream.
Beyond the curtain but between his eyes and the light, something moved: a darkness cast upon the cloth, walking around his bed, a shape sometimes human and sometimes something else. Something no more large than small, something that was whatever it wanted to be. His eyes—the only things he could move—followed it until it was behind him.
He couldn’t shift his head to follow it there, but he could hear its heavy step, smell the air thickening as the curtains rustled ever so softly and the shadow fell across his face.
He was suddenly, acutely aware of his manhood, of a warmth and tingling that grew along with his terror. It was as if something were touching him, something soft.
He lifted his eyes and saw her. His heart expanded like his lungs, and it was exquisitely painful.
Her hair was effulgent copper, so bright that it burned through his lids when he closed them. Her smile was wicked and erotic and beautiful, and her eyes were like jewels of a bright but unknown color. Taken together, her face was so terrifying and so glorious that he could bear it for only an instant.
His entire body shook with unfamiliar sensations as she pressed down upon him, her flesh melting on him like butter and honey, and still he couldn’t move.
My child, my man, my lover, she crooned in a voice that was no more a voice than her features formed a face.
You will know me.
He awoke gasping or, rather, with the sensation of gasping. There was no sound.
Ehan’s face resolved, as did Henne’s. He was back in the boat, and he could move again.
And he remembered something, something important.
“What river is this?” he asked, feeling the words but not hearing them. Ehan saw his lips move and looked angry, touching his ears.
Stephen pointed to the river. The stream they had started on was probably a tributary, but they were on a river of some size now, bounded by substantial banks.
“Is this the Ef River or some tributary?”
Ehan frowned, then mouthed a word that looked like Ef.
Stephen sat up. How long had he been asleep?
“Are we near Whitraff?” he asked. “How far are we from Whitraff?” He exaggerated the shape of the words, but Ehan’s puzzled expression wasn’t replaced by anything else.
Exasperated, Stephen started working at the cords of one of the oiled leather bags, digging around for parchment and ink. It was stupid to have to waste parchment like this, but he couldn’t think of any other way.
The ink wasn’t where he thought it was, and by the time he found it, houses were becoming suspiciously common along the banks of the river. Desperately, working on his knees, he scribbled out the message.
There is a monster near Whitraff village, a nicwer. It lives in the water. It is very dangerous.
He passed the note to Ehan. The little man blinked, nodded, and gestured for Stephen to take his oar. Then he went back to the tiller to talk to Henne.
Or gesture at him, rather. When he showed Henne Stephen’s note, Henne merely shrugged. Ehan pointed toward the bank.
Around the bend, Stephen saw the familiar buildings of Whitraff coming into view. Aspar, Winna, Ehawk, Leshya, and he had been there less than two months before and had barely survived the nicwer’s attentions.
Henne steered them over to one