The Red Wyvern - Katharine Kerr [144]
“Oh don’t,” she whispered. “Mother, forgive me!”
The apparition broke away and stepped back. It looked much more solid now, and Lilli could distinguish her mother’s features, her mother’s hair, cropped short to make the hangman’s job easier. The lips moved again, still soundless, but Lilli could make out the word it mouthed over and over: traitor. With a toss of its head the apparition turned and moved off, gliding back to the window.
Suddenly it was gone. Lilli took one step forward and fainted.
She woke to find herself cramped and exhausted in a shaft of daylight from the unshuttered window. Her mouth felt as if she’d been licking stone; when she touched her painful lips she found them swollen. She managed to get to her knees, then clutched the bed for support and fought her way to her feet. All she could think of was water. By leaning against the bed she managed to get to the chest on the other side, where a pitcher stood by a basin. She sat down on the floor, poured some water into the basin, then hoisted it with both hands and drank.
By the time she’d drunk half the pitcher’s worth, she felt well enough to stand. Only then, looking out her window at the familiar view, a stripe of blue framed by two brochs, did she remember her visitor of the night before.
“Dream,” she whispered. “Naught but a dream.”
But the pain in her lips belied her. She should tell Nevyn, she knew, but a sudden loathing for the man overwhelmed her. Hadn’t he been the true cause behind the death of her kin and clan? Oh don’t be stupid, she told herself. Of course he isn’t! With that her mind suddenly cleared, and she realized that her mother had slid the thought like a thorn into her heart, deep into her heart, because all the time she dressed, she had to fight the loathing. Crossing the room to the door exhausted her. When she lifted the bar, the wood seemed to weigh as much as solid iron.
Staggering like a drunken woman, Lilli walked down the corridor. Each step seemed harder and harder; often she paused to rest, leaning against the wall, because she knew that if she sat down, she’d fall asleep. Once she’d heard a tale from a man, one of the servants at Hendyr, who’d nearly frozen to death but been rescued at the last moment. He’d described this same terrifying exhaustion and the equally terrifying lust to simply sit down and die.
At last she reached the head of the stairs, and there her legs failed her. She took a single step down and felt her body fold under her like a piece of dropped cloth. She did manage to sit rather than fall all the way down, but she settled in the shadows, huddled against the wall. All she could do was pray that someone would be coming up or down soon to find her, and that she could still talk when they did.
Down below the great hall stood nearly empty. A few servants were wiping tables; a few riders still lingered over the last of their breakfast. Even from her distance she could recognize Branoic, simply by his sheer size. If only she could call out to him, or somehow will him to look up and see her. In her mind she repeated his name, over and over—a foolish effort, she thought, but all at once he stood up. He turned around fast to peer up the stairs.
“Lilli!” he called out.
No matter how hard she tried, her mouth refused to frame words. Branoic, however, came bounding up the stairs two at a time.
“What’s wrong?” he snapped. “I heard you calling me. Are you ill?”
When she nodded, he stooped down.
“You’re white as snow! Here, Nevyn better have a look at you.”
At the mention of Nevyn, her loathing welled up strong, but fortunately Branoic misinterpreted.
“Are you sick to your stomach?” he said. “You look it. There’s no use in you trying to walk.”
He stood, then reached down and picked her up with barely an effort. She wrapped her arms around his neck and managed