Renegade’s Magic. Робин Хобб
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had a box full of them before I’d left home.
He held up the crystal for Likari to see. ‘I want to keep this. Do you have room in your pouch for it?’
‘I can put it with your sling.’
There was a small surprise. ‘You have my sling.’
‘I found it in your old clothes. I thought you might want it again.’
‘You were right. Good boy. Put the crystal with it.’
The boy nodded, pleased at the praise, and reached to take it from me. ‘Careful. It’s sharp,’ Soldier’s Boy warned him, and he took it gingerly. He stowed it away in one of the pouches on his belt, and then looked up, a serious question in his eyes. ‘Let’s go eat,’ Soldier’s Boy told him, forestalling it, and led the way back to the dwindling fire and the food.
The fish was very good, but there wasn’t enough of it. I could feel that Soldier’s Boy had used too much magic making light and warmth. He was wearied. At this stopping place, there were alcoves hollowed into the lower walls of the chamber. He chose a large one and clambered into it, and was unsurprised when Olikea and then Likari joined him there. The moisture in the air made the chill more noticeable, as if the cold were settling on us like dew. Our combined body heat warmed the alcove, but the single blanket did little to confine our warmth. It leaked away and cold crept in. He decided that he could not afford to use any more magic that night; we’d simply have to get by.
Soldier’s Boy fell asleep. I did not. I hovered inside him in the darkness and pondered everything I’d witnessed. I am not a fool. I immediately connected the many tiny injuries he’d dealt himself and the inky slime he’d rubbed into them to the dapples on any Speck’s skin. Was it some sort of a tattoo that they inflicted even on the smallest child? Olikea’s specks had never seemed like tattoos to me. They’d even seemed to have a slightly different texture from the rest of her skin. I’d always assumed that all Speck babies were born with, well, specks on them. Was it possible that the Specks were not Specks when they were born?
Because I was aware, I think I was more conscious of Soldier’s Boy’s rising temperature. His flesh flushed warm and the tiny stinging wounds that he had dealt himself began to itch. He muttered in his sleep and shifted uncomfortably. Without waking, he scratched first one arm and then the other. He shifted again, causing the others to murmur in protest, and then dropped into a deeper sleep. Almost as soon as he did, I felt his fever rise higher.
He was ill. Very ill. He’d sickened my body and I was trapped inside it, voiceless and helpless. Every place where the crystal had pierced his skin now itched abominably, far worse than any insect bite or sting that I’d ever endured. When he sleepily scratched at the sores, I could feel how puffy and swollen each one was. I felt something pop like a blister and then the wetness of blood or pus on my skin. I longed to get up and go to the water, to wash myself and clean the injuries, but I could not rouse him at all.
He was deep into dreams now, and as his fever climbed, his dreams became brighter and sharper edged and harder to ignore. He dreamed of a forest that was impossibly green, and a wind that swept through it like the waves on an ocean, and somehow there were ships on those waves, ships with brightly coloured sails that floated and spun through the forest treetops. It was a bizarre dream of bright colours and giddy shapes, and it completely fascinated me. I wondered if my rationality would give way to his fever.
Then I felt him leave his body.
It was a strange sensation. For a moment, I felt I was alone in the fever-wracked shell. Desperately I reached out to try to regain control of my physical being. Then, as if the current of a river had seized me, I felt myself pulled away from my body and out into an otherness. It was like being dropped down a shaft. I felt shapeless and unanchored; then I became aware of the part of me that was Soldier’s Boy and held tight to him. It was like gripping the mane of a runaway horse.
He was dream-walking. I knew that right away, but it was as unlike my experience of dream-walking as a rushing river is unlike a quiet pool. It was a wandering fever dream, energized by the heat that tormented his body. He snapped from one awareness to the next, without pause or purpose, like a captured fish darting about in a bucket of water. We brushed wildly against Olikea’s dreams, a memory of shared lust, and then rushed towards Lisana. He beat furiously about her, like a bird trying to break through a window, but could not sense, as I did, how she reached towards him, trying to catch and hold the connection. She gave a lonely cry as he darted away again.
I was disconcerted that the next dreamer I glimpsed was my father. Why would Soldier’s Boy seek him out, I wondered, and then knew that he was Soldier’s Boy’s father just as much as he was mine. My father was sleeping the shallow sleep of an old man. The Speck plague and his stroke had aged him beyond his years. He dreamed of being clad once more in brave green and leading a flanking movement that would close off the enemy’s retreat. In his dream, he battled plainsmen who rode leggy white horses and brandished battle axes at him, but I saw him as an ailing old man, his age-dappled hands twitching against the blankets of his bed. We burst into his dream, and I rode by his side, as brave as he was, astride Sirlofty once again. My father looked over at me, and for one wild instant, he was glad and proud of me. I knew I had broken into a cherished dream, then, one in which I had fulfilled all his plans for me. But just as my heart warmed towards him, I grew fat, bursting my buttons and spilling out of my shirt, my flesh obscenely pale and jiggling.
‘Why, Nevare? Why? You were supposed to be me, all over again! Why couldn’t you be a good soldier for me? If I was only allowed one son to follow after me, why couldn’t you have fulfilled the task? Why? Why?’
The old man’s muffled dream shouts woke him, and he broke free of our dream touch. For a second, I saw his room at Widevale, glimpsed the fireplace and his bedstead and a bedside tray laden with all sorts of medicine bottles and thick heavy spoons.
‘Yaril! Yaril, where are you? Have you abandoned me, too? Yaril!’ He shouted for my sister like a frightened baby calling for his nursemaid. We left him there, sitting up in his bed and calling. It tore at my heart and that surprised me. I’d been able to be angry with my father, even hate him so long as he seemed like a man and my equal. To see him frail and afraid stole my anger from me. Guilt wracked me suddenly, that I’d caused him so much pain and then left him alone. For that moment, it mattered not at all that he’d disowned me and cast me out. When I had been a child, I had always felt protected by his sternness. Now he wailed for the sole child fate had left him, alone and forlorn, sonless in a world that valued only sons.
Even as my awareness reached towards him, longing to protect him from the doom he had brought down on himself, Soldier’s Boy swept on, snatching me away from him. I caught glimpses of other people’s dreams, splashes of colour against the fantastic canvas of Soldier’s Boy’s own dreaming mind. I could not focus on any one sensation: it was like trying to read the riffled pages of a book. I saw a word here, a paragraph there. He had no memories of his own; the connections that called him were mine. Trist dreamed of a girl in a yellow velvet dress. Gord was not asleep. He looked up from the thick book he was studying, startled, saying ‘Nevare?’
Sergeant Duril was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, dreamless. No images floated in his mind, only the gratitude that for a time, his aching body could be still, his painful back flat on his mattress. My presence in his mind was like a drop of oil falling on a calm pool. ‘Watch your back, boy,’ he muttered, and sighed heavily. Soldier’s Boy swept on.
I do not think he was aware of his burning body, but I was. Someone trickled cool water past his lips. His mouth moved ineffectually. I sensed how tight and hot his skin felt. Distance and fever distorted Olikea’s words. They seemed sharp, yet I could hardly hear them. ‘He makes a fever journey,’ I thought I heard her say, and Likari piped up with a question that ended in the word, ‘name?’
Olikea’s response faded in and out of my hearing. ‘Not a baby,’ she said disdainfully, but I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly. My attention was caught by a fantastic landscape. Never had I seen colours so intense. Very large objects came into my view, things so big that I could not see what they were until we had