A Flame in Hali (5 page)

He closed the door behind him. With any luck, they would never meet again.

Outside, the brightness of the day stung Eduin’s eyes. Otherwise, he felt remarkably well. How long that would last, he could not tell. He would use the time to scrabble together some money, perhaps rent a room such as this, lie low for as long as he could.

For the next two days, he found work hauling water and charcoal for a smith whose apprentice was laid up with lung fever, earning a meal and a room for the night. The urge to drink gnawed at him from time to time, but he forced himself to ignore it. Instead, he curled up on the straw pallet in the shed behind the smithy, hugging himself, holding on. As long as the pressure in his head did not return, he repeated to himself, he would be all right. He could think, begin to plan.

Hours crept by. At night, he roused to gulp water from the ice-crusted bucket and crawl shivering back to bed. Lying there, waiting for sleep to return, he thought of the dream of light and song. Already, the memory was fading. He could not quite remember where he had been or with whom he had danced, why he had felt such soaring joy. His heart ached with a longing he had no desire to drown in drink. Instead, he clasped it to him like a precious thing, that half-remembered beauty.

Midway through the third day, the smith had no further need for him. Eduin decided to try one of the livery stables, where he had found work mucking out stalls when he was not too drunk. A couple of them might still hire him. As he made his way to that district, something shifted within him, like a cloud passing before the sun. Pressure brushed his temples and his belly tightened.

No, it could not be. Not after so many days.

Failed . . .
whispered the familiar, relentless voice.
You have failed.

His stomach knotted. Bile filled his mouth. He shook like a palsied man. Gods, he wanted a drink. He
needed
a drink.

Before he could reach the nearest tavern, the compulsion struck again in full force. He staggered, falling against the side of the building. The edges of rock and mortar jabbed his side through the layers of his clothing. His thoughts cleared, pain pushing back the craving for an instant. The desire for drink receded a fraction and an even deeper craving came roaring up in his belly, the crushing urgency to find—to destroy—

Kill . . . K-k-kill ...
The syllable fractured like the clacking pincers of a Dry Towns scorpion.

Crying out, he crumpled against the wall. Though he tore at his face with his hands or covered his ears or drank an ocean of ale, he could not shut out the silent, insistent demand.

Escape was impossible. It always had been. What a fool he had been, to think it might be otherwise.

Despair raced through him, wave after wave so deep he could not contain it. How long he lay there, half propped against the crude wall, half sprawled in the muck of the gutter, he could not tell.

Eventually, his thoughts began to stir, along with renewed thirst.

Drink—drink would ease the noose around his soul. Just this once. Not enough to get stinking drunk, just to take the edge off so he could think straight.

A couple of hours mucking out stalls at one of the poorer stables and the sale of his bundle of filthy clothes brought him enough to buy a pitcher of ale, the cheapest he could find.

In the ale house, Eduin found a rickety table jammed against a corner that smelled of mildew. At the bar, men quaffed their drinks and laughed, telling coarse stories. He was content to be left alone.

He drank quickly at first, as he usually did. The first gulps scoured his throat as they went down. He closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar warmth to seep into his belly. Another gulp, and then another. Soon he no longer tasted the stuff; his throat seemed to open up and draw it in. Relief spread through him, a softening of the driving need. Sighing, he poured the last of the pitcher into his tankard and downed it.

He staggered only a little as he went up to the bar for another. One of the men was telling a story about a drunken farmer and his long-suffering
chervine
. Eduin found himself laughing, a chuckle that shook his body, rolling through him. Someone slapped him on the back. “Another round for this fine fellow.”

Eduin accepted another full tankard and lifted it in salute. It flowed down his throat like honey. Someone began a song, others stamping or clapping their hands with the beat.

Eduin slapped down the last of his earnings for another pitcher. One song rolled into the next. He retreated to his corner, content to hum along from the shadows. The world went swimmy except for the blessed stillness inside. Slumping against the wall, he cradled the pitcher. It sloshed reassuringly and then it did not slosh at all. He tipped it over. In his doubling sight, it seemed to be empty.

That did not matter, it was enough to simply sit here . . . to lie here, on the floor, wedged in between table leg and wall, his body curled around a knot of blissful silence.

Voices reached him, but he waved them away,
Let me sleep.
They went away for a time, then returned, more annoying and insistent than before.

“On your feet, friend . . .” The voice—voices—had a peculiar echoing quality. “Closing time. Do you have a place to go?”

Then he was upright, hard hands digging into his armpits, the world tilting and whirling about him. His legs moved beneath him as if they belonged to someone else.

“Lea’ me alone . . .”
So warm, so still.

“I’ll take care of him.” The voice was ale-roughened but familiar—the man who’d bought the round of drinks.

“How ’bout another?” Eduin asked.

“Better take him to the King’s shelters,” the man said, placing a hand on Eduin’s shoulder. “Out of the cold, just the place—”

No!
There would be
Comyn
youth serving as cadets, City Guard everywhere. He’d be recognized—

Eduin jerked away. “Don’ need no charity. Not from you, not from no stink—no king!”

“Easy there, friend. We’re just trying to help—”

“I can get home—jus’ fine—on my own.” Eduin rushed for the door before they could stop him.

A blast of cold, damp air shocked across his face. He fought to keep on his feet, staggered a handful of steps, then collapsed in a tangle. He hauled himself upright, twisting back toward the ale house. A man stood silhouetted against the brightness inside.

Then the rectangle of yellow light winked into shadow.

Eduin saw only a few lights, the faint flickering of candles from windows high above, a single torch burning low in the next block. No moons shone, nor any stars. A wind, ice-tipped, sprang up, threatening worse to come.

Find someplace dry and out of the wind,
he urged himself.
Then sleep, just sleep . . .

Half-crawling, half-stumbling, he worked his way toward the guttering torch. The few doors he passed were shut tight. He searched for an archway, an alcove, anything that would provide a little shelter. None appeared, but now it did not really matter. The night was not so very cold. The wind was no more than a little breeze. His body came to rest, all of its own, under an overhanging eave. From the edge of his vision, he watched the torchlight sputter and go out.

Darkness took him.

“You there!” Hands dug into his arms, hauling him upright.

He squinted at the unexpected brilliance. A torch—no, several—no, one—lit the night. One man held it while another dragged him to his feet. He gasped, inhaling the acid reek of vomit. The wind blew in cruel gusts, slicing through his clothing, burning on his skin.

“Pah!” the man who held him snorted in disgust. “He stinks to heaven!”

“He’s no gutter rat.” The second man moved closer. “Look at his clothes.”

Eduin noticed the badges on their cloaks, the swords ready to hand, the polished boots, the precisely trimmed hair.

“He’s just some poor devil who drank more than he could hold,” the second man said, lifting the torch still higher. “We’ll take him inside until he sobers up.”

“Aye,” replied the first. He twisted Eduin around and pushed him in the direction of the Guard headquarters.

In an instant of reflex terror, Eduin’s muscles locked.

The Guard wasn’t expecting resistance. “Here now, you can’t go wandering off on a night like this. You’ll freeze to death!”

Eduin turned and ran. Somehow, his legs obeyed him. He burst into a pounding run, heading for the shadowed alleys. His only hope was flight, and he clung to it as a lifeline. Years of finding cover, of skulking and hiding, guided him. The Guards shouted for him to stop, but he kept on, staggering around corners, hardly feeling the bite of the wind or the impact when he slammed into a wall.

Finally, he came to rest at the end of a twisted series of lanes and alleys, some buried to knee-height in refuse and filthy snow. He leaned against a patchstone wall, lungs heaving, ears straining. Moments ticked by, marked by the slowing of his pulse. He heard only normal night sounds, the creak of timbers, the shuffle of a dog nosing in the garbage, the snort and shift of a horse rousing from sleep.

In only a few minutes, the warmth his body generated during that brief flight faded. He began shivering; he had no cloak or any protection. The wind howled down the alley, eerily like the cry of a giant banshee bird of the heights. It seemed to be hunting him.

The Guards were right. He would die out here, on a night like this.

He was still drunk enough to keep off the worst of the compulsion, but not enough to completely befuddle his wits. Leaving the tomblike chill of the alley, he found his bearings. He was not far from the stables where he’d worked. With a little luck, he would be able to sneak inside.

The side door creaked as he eased it open, but no alarm sounded. The air was warm, laden with the smells of fodder and animals. One of the horses startled awake, and two others shifted uneasily in their pens as he passed. Feeling his way through the darkness, he located one of the stalls he’d cleaned out earlier. The horse was an old white mare, sweet and docile. She nickered softly as he piled the cleanest straw in one corner and buried himself in it.

Gray, filtered light filled the inside of the barn. Horses stamped and buckets rattled. Eduin’s head throbbed and his mouth felt thick and sour. His shirt was mostly dry, but smelled of ale and vomit. He cleaned himself as best he could with handfuls of clean straw. The white mare watched him with gentle dark eyes as he hauled himself to his feet and went outside.

Shivering, he turned to look back toward the heart of the city. Tall buildings and stately towers, the citadel of Hastur Castle, rose above the humbler dwellings. He thought of the life he had lost, of warm, bright rooms, the keen exhilaration of using his
laran,
of the intimacy and comradeship of the circle. Gone, gone forever.