Opal's Wish: Book Four of The Crystal Warriors Series (11 page)

“She’ll do it, too.” Max approached the table bearing a plate of stew in one hand and eating implements in the other. He plunked them down in front of Danbur before heading for one of the strange devices that had been placed by the wall. This one was shaped like a large rectangular box with rounded edges.

Max yanked on the silver handle and opened a hinged door. He bent, head and torso disappearing from view as he reached into the depths of the box. “Seen her reduce a grown man to tears with her prodding and poking,” he said, his voice echoing strangely.

He emerged, clutching a bottle of amber liquid. He grabbed a tumbler with a pattern of interlinking red squares around the rim from a shelf, and set his burdens on the table. And then he took a seat beside Mickey on the bench, and the two of them eyed Danbur like hunting hawks. “So if I were you, I’d tell her,” Max said.

“Headache,” Danbur said.

Mickey narrowed her gaze at him. “And?”

Sweet Mother of all Gods. One glance from this woman would cow even the rowdiest carousers celebrating victory after a skirmish. “My belly pains me. Not merely from lack of food.”

“Better give the doc a ring.” Max rose from his seat.

“No. The Healer has done enough this night. I will feel much improved once I break my fast.” Danbur shoved a forkful of stew into his mouth and lowered his gaze to his plate. The stew was delicious—rich, savory and well-seasoned. The small round green things he recognized as some sort of legume. But he wasn’t at all certain about the mound of smooth, cream-colored stuff sitting on his plate. He dug his fork into the mound and scooped up a dollop to sniff. Hmm. Smelled harmless enough.

“Mashed potatoes,” Mickey said. “With plenty of butter, a little whole milk, and salt and pepper. Taste even better if you swipe ’em through the gravy.”

Danbur sampled the mashed potatoes unadulterated. Delicious. And then he did as Mickey had suggested, and swiped another scoop through the gravy. An appreciative moan eked from his lips.

He glanced up and caught Mickey grinning at him. “Gotta love a man who appreciates a home-cooked meal.”

“I have never tasted anything quite like this,” Danbur said. “’Tis a meal fit for a Lord Keeper.”

“I take it he’s someone real important?”

“Indeed.”

Mickey beamed. “You and me are gonna get along just fine, Danbur.”

Max poured some of the amber liquid from the bottle into the empty tumbler, and pushed it across to Danbur. “Apple juice,” he said. “Non-alcoholic. We don’t allow liquor on the premises. Or drugs. If we catch you with either, you’re out. No second chances. Understand?”

Danbur didn’t understand what was meant by “drugs” but he got the general idea. “I understand.”

“Good. Now eat up while I find you a change of clothes.” Max snagged the bag of clothing before he left the room. Mickey stayed right where she was. Observing Danbur minutely.

He ignored both her and the stabbing pains in his belly as he cleaned his plate. The pains were irritating but no worse than a cracked rib. Far more important was getting the sustenance he required to remain functioning. He sampled the juice, and to his delight found it sweet and cold. The large boxlike contraption must be some form of cooler.

When he’d drained the tumbler he rose to take his plate and cutlery to the counter.

“There’s more if you’re hungry.”

Mickey had propped her elbows on the tabletop and rested her chin on her cupped hands. Only now did Danbur notice the bluish smudges from lack of sleep bruising the skin beneath her eyes.

“Thank you, but this was more than sufficient.” A lie, but until he knew the cost of such generosity it behooved him to eat sparingly. “You should do as Max suggested and seek your bed.”

He turned his attention to the basin. The configuration of this spigot differed to those in the bathing room of Sera’s house. He experimented and was rewarded with a gush of lukewarm water.

“Dishwash liquid’s in the plastic bottle beside the faucet,” Mickey said.

Danbur found a stopper to plug the hole in the basin. He dispensed a generous squirt of the viscous green liquid beneath the running water and uttered a bark of surprise at the foamy suds that formed. Hastily he shut off the water. It seemed wasteful to use such a precious commodity for cleaning but doubtless Mickey’s reaction would be…
interesting
if he asked for sand to scour the plate.

He used the clean rag draped over the spigot to wash his plate and eating utensils, and set them on the counter to dry. The ritual of cleaning up after a meal was familiar—though trainees would have
volunteered
for cooking and cleaning duties if they had conveniences such as these to aid them in their chores.

“Leave the pans,” Mickey said. “I’ll soak them once I’ve put the leftovers away. Need something for the pain? Or are you ready to turn in?”

Danbur was used to enduring pain, but his wits were still muddled by the events of the past few hours. He needed to sleep awhile. “If you have a blanket and some floor-space to spare, I will catch a few hours rest before the sun rises.” He waited for her to climb to her feet, and followed her from the kitchen.

She led him down a narrow hallway. “We can do better than a blanket on the floor,” she said, opening a door and standing aside to usher him into a room. She flicked a switch on the wall and light thrust back the darkness.

A sleeping room. But instead of blanket rolls it contained four sleeping spaces in an arrangement that made him rub his eyes to insure he was seeing correctly. Beds stacked one atop the other?

“Bunks,” she said, obviously noticing his reaction. “For a change we’re not full to bursting, so you’ll have this room to yourself—for the remainder of tonight at least. There’ll be an influx this coming evening, I expect, and we’ll have to pack ’em in upstairs. It’s pretty typical for a Sunday night. A bunch of our regulars tend to go on weekend-long benders. And when they sober up enough to realize they need a decent meal and a shower, we’re their first port of call.”

“My thanks.”

“Don’t thank me ’til you’ve heard the rules.” She planted her palm on his spine and gave him a little shove toward the beds. “Don’t worry. We’re not affiliated with any religious organizations so I’m not about to preach. Max and I came into a bit of money and bought this property outright. This place is our baby—our way of giving back to the community who helped us—so the only folks we answer to are ourselves. Mostly. Sit down before you fall down. And watch your head on that top bunk.”

She was used to giving orders, this one. And to them being obeyed. Danbur sat on the mattress, hunching his shoulders, waiting.

Mickey tapped a sheet of incomprehensible scribblings affixed to the wall. “No one ever bothers to read them so I’ll give you a quick summary. Max and me aren’t your momma and daddy. We’re all adults here, and we expect you to do for yourself. So if you dirty your clothes, bring ’em down to the laundry and wash ’em. If you can’t figure out how to work a washer or dryer, ask. If you need another set of clothes, ask. If you need help with anything at all, ask. There are no dumb questions, only dumbasses who screw things up because they’re too damn proud to ask for help. Got it?”

He blinked at her.

“Good. Lights out whenever you figure you need some shut-eye, so if you’re sharing the room, sort it out with your bunkmates. No trash-talking. No fighting. No stealing. Breakfast is from half-seven to nine—you’ll hear the bell when the food’s ready. If you’re up early and feel like helping out with prep, head over to the kitchen and we’ll put you to work. It’s appreciated but not expected. Got all that?”

Most of it—the spirit of it, anyway. He nodded.

Max stuck his head through the doorway. “Found ya some spare clothes, Danbur. These were in the bag Peter sent over.” He tossed a bag onto the mattress. “Should fit okay. Suggest ya wear ’em.”

“Why?”

“Right now ya look like trouble,” Max said. “And there’s folks about who’ll feel a powerful need ta prove they’re a heap more badass than you.”

“We’ve banned gang patches from the premises,” Mickey said by way of explanation—not that Danbur understood the reference. “We don’t have too many problems of that sort. But dressed like
that
,” she flicked a hand at his leathers, “you’re bound to attract the wrong sort of attention. We’re neutral ground. The local troublemakers respect that—for now. We’d prefer they keep respecting it.”

“I understand.” It made perfect sense not to attract unwanted attention when stranded in unfamiliar territory.

“What else?” Mickey tapped a fingertip aside her nose. “Oh yeah. If you hear an earsplitting alarm, means there’s a fire or emergency. Get out of the building. Don’t try’n be a hero. Laundry’s at the end of the corridor. Showers, toilets and urinals are also down the corridor, last door on the right.”

“Thank you.”

“Get some shut-eye,” Max said. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Danbur summoned another nod, and a smile for Mickey who appeared to be resisting Max’s efforts to chivvy her from the room. “Quit hovering,” Max growled at her. “Man won’t get any sleep if you’re doing your Mother Hen act.”

She muttered something beneath her breath. Max muttered something back at her. They shared some kind of wordless communication and then Mickey heaved a sigh and preceded Max from the room. The door closed behind them and Danbur was finally—blissfully—alone.

He removed his boots and set them beside the bed. The contents of the bag revealed loose gray pants, a long sleeved tunic with a hood that matched the pants, and two white items that he guessed were coverings meant for one’s feet. There were short black pants, too. Very short. Made of soft material that stretched. Undergarments, perhaps. He would wait and see what the other men wore and do his best to mimic them.

The effort it took to stand and walk over to investigate the switch on the wall sapped the last of his energy. Thank the gods the switch appeared easy to manipulate. His brain ached too much to deal with something complicated.

Darkness shrouded the room. Unrelenting, smothering blackness.

He smacked the switch again and sagged against the doorframe, panting, his heart crashing in his chest like he’d been running for his life. Relief coursed through his veins as he blinked in the glare. He had not been sucked back into the crystal. He had light and air. He could see and hear and taste and feel. There were people here who seemed to care for his wellbeing. He could do this.

He thumbed the switch, stumbled back to the lower bunk and stretched out atop it. He clasped his hands across his abdomen and concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly. The blackness thickened, threatening to smother him again. The walls of the room seemed to close in. He fought the panic that threatened by fixating on Sera’s eager young face. The curious gleam in her green eyes, the bright red of her hair, the smiles he’d coaxed from her—all helped banish the panic.

Another face formed in his mind. Opal’s. And damned if his brain didn’t recreate every little detail of her features in his mind. Those intense green eyes. Those plump pink lips. The smooth, delicate column of her throat that had tempted him to lick and nibble and mark to stake his claim. And when sleep finally dragged him under he was smiling.

~~~

Danbur lay still, listening to the world around him waking. He’d dreamed of turquoise skies and endless rolling dunes that stretched as far as the eye could see. Of the great storms that rumbled across the skies, birthing winds that transformed slumberous baking sands into slashing whips capable of shredding flesh from bones. Of fierce clashes with Styrians—Storm Riders—from distant fiefs, whose foolish, greedy Keepers coveted the thriving tract of land known far and wide as the Shifting Sands.

He’d relived raids on an alien world, basked in the glory of returning to his fief with dozens of young women who would, gods willing, be convinced to take mates and help repopulate his small corner of Styria. And then he’d dreamed of that last raid… and, inevitably, of the sorcerer who’d cursed a
tehun
of warriors and their commander to their namesake crystals.

The old man’s features were etched into Danbur’s memory. The sorcerer’s piercing blue eyes had been calm, unnaturally composed in the face of a far superior force. He’d not flinched from his course—not even when Lord Keeper Wulf had charged, sword raised to cut him down. Once only during that fateful encounter had the sorcerer shown any trace of fear—when his granddaughter had rushed to his side in a courageous attempt to defend him….

Danbur’s eyelids snapped open. His mind was clear now. And he remembered where he’d recently seen that face, those eyes.

The old sorcerer was here, in
this
time and place. Living right next door to Sera and her mother, and calling himself “Peter Stone”. He’d fogged Danbur’s memory, influenced him. And the others, too, no doubt. Opal and Sera, Desiree and the Healer, Roth. Tampering with unsuspecting minds would be child’s play for the Crystal Guardian.

Danbur rolled from the bunk to his feet, and stripped off his leathers, replacing them with the undergarment, loose pants, and long-sleeved tunic. The items of clothing were comfortable enough to be sure, but would provide no protection at all from the stab of a blade. Bah. He might as well be naked.

His hand clenched at his side, the loss of his weapon weighing heavily on his mind. Then again, swords had proven little use against a powerful magic-wielder.

Magic. The world would be better off without it—the far-reaching disaster his fief’s priests had wrought with a spell intended to protect their warriors from injury during battle was proof enough of that. So what could a sorcerer capable of warping the power of crystals and transforming them into torture chambers do to a helpless woman and child?

What could the Crystal Guardian want with them?

The gorge rose in Danbur’s throat. He wouldn’t let Opal and Sera come to harm. He’d die before he would allow them to suffer, as he had suffered.

He stuffed his leathers into the flimsy carry-bag and left it by the pillow. Disdaining the strange foot-coverings, he sat on the edge of the mattress to don his boots. The pains in his belly hadn’t eased a jot but they were bearable enough. As was his hunger. Food was hardly a necessity right now. It could come later, once he’d insured Sera and her mother were safe, and cautioned them about the dangers of consorting with the man who called himself “Peter Stone”.