Master (Book 5) (3 page)

Salt water seeped into his nose, a cold shock that caused him to gasp in surprise, drawing more water into his sinuses.
The spell … it’s fading!
He lurched forward, toward the darkness, and blew the water out of his nose as best he could. He felt sudden, deep pressure on his ears, like someone was jamming their fingers deep within them. His head wound flared with agony as he swam on, and his lungs felt tight and painful, like the snake had his chest in its grip once more. His eyesight flickered red, then faded, and he was left utterly in the dark.

I guess my time ran out
, he thought, rather more wistfully than he would have expected. There was nothing in his vision but faint spots, like the colors a bevy of torches would leave on a dark night when he closed his eyes. He tried to thrash forward but hit a wall. He opened his mouth in shock and the salt water flooded in, the strong taste washing over his tongue as he forced down the temptation to yell.

His chest was so tight it was as though the temple had collapsed on it, the desire to draw a breath so strong he knew he would take one in seconds, whether he wanted to or not. He reached out with his hand and touched the smooth stone wall as his instinct took over and he breathed in the seawater, the rush of it down his throat and into his lungs filling him with a flailing panic unlike anything he’d ever known.

Cyrus thrashed mindlessly, his limbs no longer in his control, sightless, blind to any world around him. The cold water surrounded him, held him in its embrace, and he knew with its kiss that he was done.
I’ve seen no one from Sanctuary in the better part of an hour … how likely is it they’ll find me before my hour is up, and my soul is lost to death for good?

He felt his body settle, the movement strangely gone from his arms and legs, his weight carrying him peacefully down to the stone floor of the tunnel after long moments of painful thrashing. He pictured in his mind a blond-haired girl on a background of white, just for a beat, and wondered why he was thinking of her at a moment such as this.

His eyes burned from the salt water, and as he looked at the stone wall, he felt himself fade, the darkness closing in on him utterly. One last thought ran through his mind before consciousness fled him.

Is this how Alaric felt when he …?

“—feels like he weighs a literal ton,” the surly voice said as Cyrus awoke, sputtering and choking on water.

“Catch him, hold him!”

Cyrus’s eyes were pressed tight as he heaved, flopping against a hard surface. His hand brushed against uneven planks of wet wood. Beyond the spots in his vision, all the world was light. His head was aching, but the searing agony was gone. His eyes sprang open and he gurgled, unable to get his breath. Warm liquid dribbled down his cheeks and his chin, too much to be spittle.

“His lungs are full of water!”

Every attempt at breath was sheerest agony, struggling for air. He slapped his hand down on the wood planking he lay upon.

“I apologize for this in advance,” came a voice, soothing, quiet, and terribly familiar. He had a sense that this had happened before, this voice soothing him just before a horrendous pain was visited upon him. A piercing stab caught him in the right side. Cyrus gasped and gurgled as hot liquid dribbled through his back in fiery agony as he was lifted up. Another sharp, searing stab caught him in the other side, on the left, and he writhed in strong arms as they held him steady.

He could not scream, much as he wanted to. All that came out was a gurgling, and more warm, soupy, blood-smelling liquid. He felt the pressure in his chest lighten, but the pain did not recede. The sound of dripping came even amidst the other noises that reached his ears—gulls calling, waves lapping, the roar of sea foam and crashing water. The sun shone down on him and warmed his skin even as the pain wracked him. He squinted and opened his eyes just a little, and the bright sun nearly blinded him. The salt was still heavy on his tongue, which felt like it had dried out like a slug in the sun.

“You might want to heal him before he dies,” came a voice of concern at his right. Cyrus jerked his head to look and found himself staring at a man in dark steel armor, almost blued. His helm was a most peculiar contraption, and he had a worn look about the eyes.
Samwen Longwell
, Cyrus’s mind told him.

“Can’t do it too soon,” came another voice, forcing Cyrus to look over and see another familiar face, this one attached to a man with bronzed skin and long blond hair. He was naked to the waist and slick with water, but Cyrus knew him.
Odellan.
“We need to let as much of the water drain out of him as possible.”

“And all his blood too, I suppose?” The next voice was choked with emotion, near hysterical and high pitched. He rolled his head to look to his side and saw a man with a long, dripping dark beard and sopping hair that was slicked back behind him. His white robes were drenched and clinging to him, revealing just the hint of a belly sticking out.
Andren
.

Cyrus coughed and tried to roll, but Longwell and Odellan each had a shoulder and did not yield it. He pulled at his legs again, futilely, feeling the blood bubbling up in his mouth with the salt water, the strange metallic taste combining with the salt as it flooded out of him and ran down his chin.

“Don’t kick me,” came a voice from near his feet. Cyrus arced his head to look. A mountainous figure of a man stood down there, similarly soaked, but his robes were black and his skin was flushed green in the sunlight, like the grass of the plains. “If you hit anything important, I’m going to be forced to rip your leg off and beat you with it as a warning to everyone else in Sanctuary that I’m not to be trifled with.”

“Even by a drowning man as his lungs are pierced to let the water out?” Cyrus’s head rolled to the last figure, a man in red armor with half of it stripped off, his breastplate hanging loose and his hair wet.
Thad Proelius
.

“Especially by such a character,” Vaste replied. “Otherwise all the drowning men with pierced lungs will take it as a sign to kick me.”

“Figure you’ll run into that problem a lot, do you?” Thad asked.

“I didn’t think I’d have to deal with it ever,” Vaste said, “but with Cyrus Davidon in charge of your expedition, one should be prepared for anything.”

“I’m healing you now,” Curatio said, the healer in white, wet robes just beyond Vaste and Thad. “You’ll try and take a grand breath when I’m finished, and that will be a mistake. Go slowly, Cyrus.” He waved a hand, and a glimmer of light brighter than the sun burst from his palm.

Cyrus felt the pain in his chest subside, and he let out a long, racking cough that dredged up blood and horror to run down his hairy chest.

Vaste dropped his leg unceremoniously, and Cyrus felt it hit the wood below him. “That’s gratitude for you. I let you kick me, and now you’ve spit blood and ocean water in my face.”

“Didn’t … mean …” Cyrus gargled the foul stuff in his mouth, the blood and salt water, and nausea swept over him. He expelled the contents of his stomach all over the wooden surface below him, and it took a moment to realize it was the deck of a ship. He turned and heaved again, twisting now that Vaste was not counter-balancing his feet, and his sick hit Thad squarely in the breastplate.

“Ugh,” Thad said, gagging, “you might have warned me that was coming!” He retched.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Vaste said dryly, from a few steps behind Thad. “You’ve been around resurrection spells long enough by now to know what effects they bring. You had to know it would be even worse when the victim was spitting up salt water from drowning.”

Thad shot the troll an injured look. “You knew he would do that?”

Vaste shrugged. “Of course. I’ve been around resurrected people before.”

“You could have warned me!”

“Sorry,” Vaste said, keeping his expression even, “I was too incensed from being kicked.”

Cyrus felt his lips still bubbling and let out a wet, hacking cough that dredged up watery phlegm. Tears stung his eyes. A second coughing fit came hard on the heels of the first.

“Well, meathead,” came a sour voice from behind him, “I hope you’re happy.”

Odellan and Longwell lowered his upper body slowly to the deck, and Cyrus sat there in a puddle of his own sick, nearly naked but for the cloth breeches he habitually wore under his armor. He cast a look upward and saw Erith Frostmoor lingering over the shoulders of Longwell and Odellan, peering down at him with ire on her navy blue face. “Of … course,” Cyrus said before coughing again. He took a sniff and caught a potent dose of his stomach’s returns as they puddled about him. “I’m covered in vomit, I just came back from death … I feel like I’m coughing up the entirety of the Torrid Sea … while a disapproving dark elven princess glares at me like I … just stole her tiara. What’s not … to be happy about?”

“It would appear his faculties remain undamaged,” Curatio said with a little humor from near Cyrus’s feet.

“That would be more impressive if he had faculties to begin with,” Erith said a rough snort of annoyance. The sun caught her white hair and made it gleam at Cyrus, reminding him of something he’d seen whilst drowning. It tickled at the back of his mind, something he’d thought in the moments before he’d died.

“Well, at least he found the key,” another voice rang out, more melodic this time. Cyrus looked to his side, past Andren, to see another dark elven face.
Terian?
his mind called out, just for a brief moment.
No. J’anda
. The enchanter’s dark blue robes were soaked, and he wore his own face, the deeply entrenched wrinkles still a shock. His long, greyed hair was back in a slick ponytail.
Looks old.

“No illusion, J’anda?” Cyrus asked, feeling a slight smile coming on. “You must have been worried.”

“You have figured me out,” the enchanter said, his own smile wan. “But, now that the moment of crisis has passed and you appear to be alive and well, I can resume my more stylish and less … shall we say, ‘drenched’ mode of appearance.” He waved a hand and was suddenly a tanned human, muscular chest displayed for all to see.

“Are you all right?” This faint voice came from his other side, and he turned his head to see another dark elf.
Aisling
. She stood above him, oddly at a distance, like she was almost afraid to touch him.

“I think I will be,” Cyrus said and coughed again, a long, racking series of coughs. “No, really.”

“I think your adventures for today have come to an end,” Curatio said, and the firmness in the healer’s tone was unmistakable.

“I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” Cyrus said, and then was racked with spasms once more. “Well … maybe more than a few.”

“Your lungs may swell with sickness in a few hours,” Curatio said. “If that comes, it will not be a pleasant recovery. In fact, you may not recover at all.” The healer’s quiet voice cast a pall over the sunny deck of the ship. “As I said, your adventures are done, at the very least for today, and most likely for the better part of the week.”

“We have spent … months tracking down the clues and putting together this expedition,” Cyrus said, clearing his throat in a wet rasp. His hand found its way into the warm mess of liquid by his side. “I can’t just—”

“There are plenty of other warriors,” Thad said, looking at Cyrus from the ground. “And you will not be of much use in any further action today, especially facing the Mler in their underwater environs.”

Cyrus could hear the reason in the warrior’s words. He looked at the faces around him, from Curatio’s—most stern—to Vaste, whose scarred visage looked a little pinched. His eyes fell on Andren, who still looked stricken and said nothing. Then he came to Longwell and Odellan, twin bastions of disapproval and concern. Erith still remained behind them, glowering at him with reproach. There was another figure in the background, a glimmer of blond hair from just over Erith’s shoulder, and he caught sight of an emotionless face, watching him all the while.

“You,” he called out to her, and she slid forward with slow steps, still neutral. “Will you take over for me?”

“Of course,” she replied coolly.

“And you’ll make certain,” he coughed, “that they finish the expedition? Capture the Mlers’—”

“I said I would take over,” she cut him off. “Success of the expedition was implied after that.” There was no frost in the way she said it; it was a simple statement of fact.

“All right,” Curatio said, nodding. “I’ll accompany Cyrus back to Sanctuary, and the rest of you lot—”

“I’ll go with him,” Andren said, stepping up to stand over him. “I’ll take care of it. Your hands are steadier for healing in combat anyhow.”

Curatio raised an eyebrow at the bearded elven healer. “Are you certain?”

“Aye,” Andren said, looking down at Cyrus with a worn and lined appearance. “I’ll take care of him.”

“I could come with you,” Aisling said, and Cyrus looked up at her. She felt oddly distant now, hovering a little out of arm’s length of him, as though she were afraid of his sick.

“No,” Cyrus said. “Stay. Help them finish.”

“All right,” she said after only a moment’s pause, then leaned down to kiss his wet forehead before stepping away again just as quickly.

Cyrus looked at the crowd that had formed around him as Andren knelt next to him. “I’ll cast the return spell,” Andren said. “Just brace close to me.”

“I’m covered in my own expulsions, drenched wet, and nearly naked,” Cyrus said, eyeing Andren. “I remember a time when you wouldn’t cast the return spell on me when I was fully clothed, dry, and smelled considerably better.”

“Disagree on the last point,” Vaste said. “You have a lovely aroma now; stomach bile adds some very pleasant cover to your typical smells of lust and shame.”

“I’m truly growing as a person,” Andren said, kneeling next to Cyrus and slinging an arm around his shoulder.

“Must be all that ale you consume,” Vaste added. “Does wonders for the firmness of your stomach, too.”

“Ready?” Andren asked, ignoring the troll again.

“Sure,” Cyrus said, and tilted his head back again. She waited, looking on, still as expressionless as ever he’d seen her. “Take care of—”