Audric ca’Dakwi
SOMEONE WAS SCREAMING. Over and over and
over.
S When Audric opened
his eyes, everything was tinged with red as if the world had been
painted with blood. Clots of it swam over his vision. His breath
was a rasp, a husk; he could barely draw breath. He seemed to be in
his own chambers, in his own bed, but he couldn’t move his body at
all. His face itched, and he wanted to bring his hand up to scratch
it, but he could not lift either hand or move his feet. He was
afraid to lift his head and look down, afraid of what he might
see.
And the pain . . .
There was so much pain, and he wanted to scream but he could only
moan, a thin, eternal cry. He could feel hot tears running down his
face.
“You can’t die. You can’t . . .” Her voice was as
torn and ragged, a bare whisper.
“Great-Matarh?” he
asked. “Where are you? Marlon? Seaton? Where is Kraljica
Marguerite?”
His voice came from
an impossible distance. His ears were full of a continuous roar, as
if the city were falling around him. “Marlon? Seaton?” he called
again. The pain surged over him like a great, breaking wave. He
tried to scream, but nothing emerged from his open
mouth.
A face loomed over
him and he blinked. He thought he recognized Archigos Kenne.
Téni-chants mixed in with the roar in his ears.
“Archigos?”
“Yes, Kraljiki. I
came as soon as I heard.” He could barely hear the Archigos, the
words lost in the roaring in his ears.
“What happened?” The
two words each weighed as much as the great marble blocks of the
palais facade. He could barely spit them out. He closed his
eyes.
“We’re still not
certain, Kraljiki. O’Offizier cu’Kinnear . . . he may have been a
Numetodo, or . . .” The Archigos’ voice faded. Audric opened his
eyes again; the Archigos’ mouth was working as if he were still
speaking, but Audric could hear only the red-tinged roar, and it
swelled and with it the pain again, and he tried to scream along
with it, but it was only a gasp. “. . . never know now . . .
Councillor ca’Ludovici terribly injured . . . Marlon and Seaton
dead . . .” the Archigos was saying, but Audric was no longer
listening.
He had glimpsed the
painting of his great-matarh. It leaned against the wall near his
bed. The thick frame was shattered along its left side, and there
were great rents in the canvas itself, frayed wounds crawling over
Marguerite’s face. He moaned again. “No!” he tried to shout, as if
the denial could push it all away and change
everything.
He remembered. He
wasn’t certain. The o’offizier approaching the Sun Throne, a flash
. . . then nothing until now.
You can’t die . . . !
The pain rushed in
once more, and this time he felt his whole body shaking and jerking
in response, the middle of his body arching up, and the Archigos
was pressing him back down and shouting urgently to someone else in
the room. “. . . whatever you can . . . the Ilmodo . . . Cénzi will
forgive . . .”
The pain threatened
to tear him in half, to snap him like a winter branch, but suddenly
it was gone. Gone. His eyes were open, and he could see Archigos
Kenne screaming at the palais healer and the woman téni in her
green robes, and there were other people in the room and they were
all shouting but he could hear nothing, nothing but the roar
growing louder and louder. “You can’t
die,” and the pain at least was gone and he wanted to lift
his hand toward his great-matarh but his body still would not move
and he could not even pull in his breath even though his lungs
ached and he tried . . . and tried . . . and . . .