Immortal (18 page)

Madera looked alarmed for an instant, then his dark lashes hid his eyes as he turned to face me. “You have earned Caeran's trust. You are welcome here.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering why it felt like a ceremonial response.

Madera stepped toward the right-hand door, looking at Caeran. “Let me tend your wound.”

I followed them into the front room, where four others were sitting by the kiva fireplace. Four other ælven, I reminded myself. Three men and a woman. They stared at me, the stranger.

Caeran paused. “Len, may I make you known to my kindred? These are Savhoran, Lomen, and Tiruli. Nathrin you will remember.”

“Yes,” I said, smiling at Nathrin. “How is Mirali?”

He nodded. “She is better, thank you.”

They were all clearly stamped with Caeran's genes. The woman was taller and more slender than Mirali. Silence stretched, and I felt compelled to fill it.

“Um, it's nice to meet you all.”

Madera stood waiting by the far door. Caeran went to join him, and I hurried after.

“You could stay and warm yourself by the fire,” Caeran said quietly.

“I'm coming with you.”

I wasn't about to sit down with a group of strangers who looked at me like I was an escapee from the zoo. Caeran made no more objection, and while Madera frowned at me slightly, he didn't say anything.

He led us onto the enclosed
portal
. I looked out through the glass walls and saw snow falling gently into the courtyard—and the fountain calmly flowing. Madera opened the second door on the right and went in with Caeran. I followed.

It was larger than the room I'd slept in on our previous visit, and looked halfway between a treatment room and a guest room. There was a bed against the back wall, but more prominent was a massage table under a cotton cloth printed with the tree of life. Madera took this off, leaving the table covered only by a plain contour sheet. He set the cloth aside and went to a small kiva fireplace in the corner. It seemed like all he did was wave his hand, and flames sprang up around the wood that was laid there. Gas fireplace? I suspected not.

Caeran sat on the table and pulled off his sweatshirt. It was stuck to his wound and I winced as he worked it free. Blood had dried all over that side of his chest, smeared from his shirt. The wound was an ugly dark gash on his left shoulder, now oozing again, fresh blood glinting in the firelight.

He had taken it for me, this wound. At least partly for me.

Madera stood before a tall piece of furniture against the wall—a beautifully carved cupboard, obviously his work—that stood high enough to serve as a counter. He came to Caeran with a bowl of steaming water (though I saw no kettle on the counter) and a small stack of soft cloths. The steam had a fragrant smell, like fresh herbs. Madera soaked a cloth in the water and pressed it against Caeran's wound, then moistened another and began washing away the dried blood.

I wanted to help, but there wasn't much I could do, so I just concentrated on positive thoughts. I pictured the wound already healed, and Caeran walking free in the sunlight, untouched by the darkness that threatened.

Caeran looked up, startled. He and Madera both turned their heads to stare at me.

“What?”

A smile curved Madera's lips. “Nothing. Carry on.”

He replaced the cloth over the wound with a fresh one, again soaking it in the herb-water. This time he gently rubbed the wound. Caeran winced. I took his hand and he looked at me, smiling.

Madera removed the cloth and peered closely at Caeran's shoulder, then spoke in their language. Caeran listened, nodding once. Madera took the bowl and the soiled cloths away to the counter.

“He is going to treat the wound,” Caeran told me. “You will not want to watch.”

I frowned. “What's he going to do?”

“Cauterize it,” Madera said over his shoulder. “It is the best means of preventing infection.”

Ouch. I swallowed.

“I'll stay.”

“Len—”

“If you tell me honestly that you want me to leave, I will.”

I held Caeran's gaze. He looked worried, but said nothing. After a moment he glanced away.

Madera handed him a glass of cloudy liquid. “Drink this. It will dull the pain.”

I tried for a joke. “Maybe I should have some.”

“It would kill you.” Madera turned to gaze at me. “I have treated your kind long enough to know the differences. This herb is a narcotic to us. It is poison to you.”

I swallowed. “OK. Good to know.”

Caeran drank the solution. I watched Madera working at his counter, thinking that his unique knowledge might hold keys to some of humanity's greatest medical problems. All hidden here, in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, in the mind of one being who was not human.

Madera lit candles, making the counter look more like an altar than a workspace. Maybe it was. What did I know about his methods? He'd spent centuries perfecting them, no doubt. His people trusted him, so I really had no choice but to trust him, too.

He spent a few minutes puttering at the counter. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. I watched Caeran. When his eyelids started to droop, I took the empty glass from his hand and set it aside.

Madera returned, putting a hand on Caeran's good shoulder. “Lie back, now.”

He lifted Caeran's legs onto the table and settled him on his back, then returned to the counter. A new smell rose in the room, one I couldn't identify right away. I looked at Caeran and found him gazing at me, softly smiling.

“You are very stubborn,” he murmured.

“One of my more charming points, don't you think?”

I was being flippant to cover my nervousness. Pain was not something I enjoyed, mine or anyone else's. I hoped Madera would work quickly. I glanced at him just as he turned, and I realized what the new smell was: hot metal.

The silver rod Madera held was small, not much bigger than a swizzle stick. The sphere at the end of it glowed orange-red.

I grabbed Caeran's hand and held his gaze. He didn't resist. Maybe he'd already seen the thing, or seen it in my thoughts. I wrenched my mind away from it, and out of desperation, sang.

“Sorry her lot who loves too well,

Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly …”

Gilbert and frickin Sullivan again. And could I have picked a more depressing song? Never mind, keep singing.

A coloratura I was not, but I'd sung Josephine in high school, and I managed not to sound too much like a dying cat. I kept my eyes locked on Caeran's until he closed them. I imagined I could feel the heat as Madera came to his other side.

The healer laid a free hand on Caeran's chest. A hiss and the taste of searing flesh as I drew breath to sing the next line.

The skin around Caeran's eyes tightened in pain. I wrapped my free hand around his and kept singing, ignoring everything else.

“Sad is the hour when sets the sun,

Dark is the night to Earth's poor daughters …”

I poured myself into the melody, which was beautiful and one I'd always loved. The words were angst-ridden; I'd loved them too when I was younger, but now they seemed too wildly despairing. I didn't want Caeran to think that was how I really felt. It was just the music that mattered.

As I reached the final high note, Madera stepped back. I didn't sing the last two words.

Caeran's face was pale, his hand clammy in mine. Sweat beaded on his furrowed brow. I brushed it away.

He opened his eyes and shivered. “Is it ov-ver?”

“Yes,” Madera said.

The healer held his hand in the air over the wound, now red and puckered. A soft glow shone in the space between. Caeran closed his eyes and shuddered again. I started toward the bed to get a blanket, but he wouldn't let go of my hand. The tree-of-life cloth was in reach, so I grabbed that instead and spread it over his bare chest.

“Interesting choice of music,” Madera said.

“It was the first thing I could think of,” I said defensively.

Caeran laughed. “It was p-perfect.”

Madera raised an eyebrow. “An expression of pain for the easing of pain? I confess, it never occurred to me.”

“It worked,” Caeran said.

His eyes were on me, and I sensed he really meant it. He wasn't just being kind. Poor Josephine's anguish had eased him.

I smiled. “Glad it helped.”

“You know that song well. It came from deep in your heart.”

“I used to sing it a lot.”

His eyes flickered, the gold in them catching the firelight. “Why?”

“Oh, you know.” I shrugged. “I was a teenager. They always feel like the world is ending.”

Some kids dyed their hair black and punctured themselves in strange places. I sang light opera.

Madera lifted his hand and the glow beneath it faded. He peered at Caeran's face, then returned to the counter and came back with a gauze pad and a roll of cloth.

“You can be of help, Lenore.”

He set the bandaging down and stepped to the head of the bed, then put his hands under Caeran's neck and good shoulder, lifting him a few inches. Caeran's head rolled.

“Dizzy,” he complained.

“It is the herb.” Madera glanced at me. “Can you hold him here?”

“Sure.”

I slid my arm under Caeran's shoulders, supporting his head, and put my other arm around and under his ribs, out of Madera's way. I was close enough to smell Caeran's scent through the herbs and the lingering scorch. He gazed at me and I gazed back, held by those beautiful eyes.

Madera finished the bandaging all too quickly. He stepped back and I had no choice but to lay Caeran down again. Madera laid his hand on Caeran's brow.

“Rest now.”

Caeran sighed and closed his eyes. The last of the tension drained from his face.

“Sleep well,” I said softly, and saw Madera glance at me. “Or do you people sleep?”

Madera's lips twitched. “Not as you do. We rest, but we have greater control over our states of consciousness.”

“Oh. Well then, rest well, Caeran.”

His lips smiled slightly, then went slack. I got the blanket and covered him with it, then wandered over to watch Madera at the counter. He collected the cloths, the bowl, and the swizzle stick onto a tray. I fetched the glass and put it beside the bowl.

“Can I help with anything?”

He paused briefly, considering. “Stay with him, if you will. I will bring fresh clothing for him.”

He picked up Caeran's sweatshirt and the tray, and left the room. I watched the candle flames steady themselves after the door closed, then drifted back to the table where Caeran lay and stood watching him.

I wouldn't mind nursing him back to health, if it came to that. Reading to him, or singing. I'd pick more appropriate songs next time.

Caeran's lips widened in a smile. “But I liked that song.”

“Oh, sorry! I didn't mean to disturb you.”

His eyes half-opened and found my face. He smiled again, and my insides went watery.

“I am glad you are still here,” he said.

“I forgot you could hear me. I'm probably driving everyone crazy.”

“No. Madera has shielded this room.”

“Wish he could do that to my head.” An image of a tinfoil helmet flitted through my mind.

Caeran chuckled. “I could teach you to guard your thoughts. We all learn to do it.”

“But I'm not one of you.”

“You can learn this. You improvised quite well, in the car.”

With the alben. Fear stabbed at me with the memory. I pushed it aside, not wanting to think about the alben right now. Hoping he was far away.

Caeran's gaze sharpened. “He will not touch you. You are safe here.”

I managed a smile. “Don't worry about him. Think about better things. I will, too.”

He relaxed, eyelids drooping. “Sing to me again.”

I thought for a moment and came up with “Kalimando,” a song from Cirque du Soleil's Mystere. Very lullabyish. I sang it, unable to provide the harmony but holding it in my head, hoping Caeran could hear it that way. I pictured the acrobats, too—I'd seen the show and this was my favorite number—athletes suspended by pairs of bungee cords, flying in unison, dancing in the air, their costumes glimmering, ethereal.

By the time I finished the song, Caeran's eyes had closed and a soft smile curved his lips. I thought he was gone—resting or whatever—until he spoke.

“What language is that?”