have affected the Second Realm, if at all.
The ground crunched under Rel's boots like snow, though it looked like packed grit. Taslin picked up her pace and Rel stretched his stride to match, trying to catch up and walk alongside her rather than following. The Gift-Giver maintained her lead, though, and Rel's fatigue forced him to relax.
Narrow windows fitted with crystal glass, arrayed in neat rows, notched the inner wall of the courtyard, pale brushstrokes on the dark canvas of Court stone. A door that seemed to be a single, knotless plank of fresh-cut wood, unstained but somehow smoothly finished, swung open at Taslin's approach. The room beyond was candle-lit and welcoming.
Rel followed Taslin inside, caught off guard as he always was by the homely atmosphere after the irrational Realm outside. The room wasn't quite square, but whoever had designed it had made a valiant attempt. A pair of trestle tables with benches tucked neatly beneath made an aisle leading to a braced and iron-bolted door opposite the entrance.
A Gift-Giver in a long, billowing robe of green silk stood behind the table on the right. Short-cropped corn-yellow hair crowned his head, framing a wide face whose mouth and eyes seemed stretched and straining to fit. Rel judged the Wilder more or less male from the figure, or rather the lack of it, revealed by the fit of the robe.
The Gift-Giver's expression flickered rapidly through a handful of different shapes, as did Taslin's. Without Clearsight, Rel couldn't hope to read anything into their expressions, but at least the change told him they'd communicated. A necessity, probably, in this case, but he couldn't help a tingle of dread at the nape of his neck.
He jumped as Taslin turned and grabbed him, one hand on each of his shoulders. In a voice like an iron bar, she said, "Sit." Carefully but not gently, she pushed him down onto one of the benches. He hadn't even noticed her pulling it out from under the table. Her face was set in a scowl that for once could have rivalled Dora's.
She knelt in front of him, amethyst flashing in her eyes. "You need to rest. Now."
"I'll be-"
"Rel, you're one logic shear away from total burnout." She grabbed his head in both hands, forced him to look at her. It took his eyes too long to focus on hers. "You've fought two Gift-Givers to a standstill, mapped a Sherim and journeyed to the Court. No more pride. I can't get you back if you burn out, and you don't want to end up in Wolpan's care."
That was true enough. With Dora trapped, the Four Knot at Vessit would be the only one able to come for him, and she'd never liked him, even before he brought catastrophe down on her town. What would the damage there have been like? The people of Vessit needed their Four Knot right now, and he couldn't take her away from them for his own hubris. He tried to nod, and got the uncomfortable sensation that his brain might fall out if he finished the motion.
Again, Taslin lifted his head up. Her eyes outright shone as they bored into him. "The fatigue's catching up to you, isn't it?"
"Uh-huh." It was the best Rel could manage. He could barely hold his head straight even with Taslin's help.
"I need to get Keshnu to the ward. It won't take long, and then I will do something about your fatigue. Until then, though, you must stay awake. Cintalo will help you stay upright, but there's little else he can do for you. I will not be long." She paused, and he could feel the desperate appeal in her face, the brush of her mind as her eyes reached for him. When she spoke again, there was a stiffness in her voice that he couldn't fathom. "Rel? Are you still able to hear me?"
Clumsily, hardly feeling the pain from his burns, he lifted a hand, thumb upraised. Taslin, her skin soft and warm, captured the hand and laid it down in his lap. He felt another hand grip the back of his head, its bones more angular. A brief flourish of purple announced Taslin's departure, and the other Gift-Giver - Cintalo? - seemed to appear on the bench next to Rel, his free hand taking firm hold of Rel's upper arm.
Rel tried to get a look at the fish-faced Wilder, but the hand on his neck held him too strongly. He could feel Cintalo studying him, though, and something about it made his skin crawl. Well, Taslin had probably told Cintalo to watch for any change in his condition, and Cintalo clearly wasn't as good with humans as her. Perhaps nervous energy from the Gift-Giver's scrutiny would help him stay alert.
His brain felt like it was turning to lead. The table opposite was bare, the wood only crudely finished. His vision danced in and out of focus as he tried to count the planks making up its top. Every time his focus came back, flecks of Second-Realm colours skittered through the shadows for a moment before vanishing.
There was little in the room to hold his interest, and his eyelids were heavy. He tried to count the bare bricks of the wall opposite, but they seemed to undulate as his gaze moved across them. It took him a long time to spot the candles that gave the light its well-judged yellow-orange colour. No hearth and fire in this room, but it had clearly been designed with sparing human guests' fatigue in mind.
He clenched his fists, trying to stretch the skin so that his blisters would crack again, but when the pain came it was a distant thing, happening to someone else. Lifting his hands to stare at them turned out to be a bad idea - his fingers made ugly spasms, refusing to stay still long enough for him to get a good look at them. He dropped them back to his lap and looked around again. When his eyes couldn't settle on anything, he blinked. No sooner had his eyes reopened than they slid closed again.
Something shook him, hard, and he jerked upright. A shudder ran through him. Where Cintalo held him, he could feel new bruises starting. The Gift-Giver was not going to be gentle. It seemed strange after his month in prison in Vessit to be so grateful for the stubbornness of Gift-Givers. Yet more for him to pay back, he supposed.
He missed the moment that Taslin returned. Only dim consciousness registered her arm slipping around his back, her other hand locking onto his wrist and dragging it over her shoulders. He dangled from her, legs obeying some other power, as she led him out into the familiar space of the Great Hall, with its tree-canopy roof, sun glinting through the precious little gaps.
They crossed the Hall, or at least he thought they did, and then there were some stairs. He had a moment's clear sensation - an ache just at the bottom of his thighs - while candles drifted past and downwards to either side. Then a door, and a room. White. Tiled. Pristine.
Then a bed, and Taslin lowering him carefully onto it. Her voice, fuzzy in his ears, something about not being alarmed as she changed... something? He could see her eyes, though her face seemed to fade from view. A perfectly-finished violet crystal hung in the air above him, smoky shadows dancing in its depths.
He stared up at it, and a voice came to him that had nothing to do with sound. Give me your dreams to hold.
A concept in the sentence snagged a piece of his mind back, bringing with it a rush of bright pain and spots across his vision. Bad idea to let a Wilder near your dreams, or your consciousness in general. Fundamental training for any Gifted. Even the gentlest Wildren could do devastating damage.
Please, Rel, I've trained for this. You'll come to no harm.
And there was the issue that not all Wildren meant well to humans. After what Rel had done, could he really afford the risk?
No, trust me. Fear in the voice that wasn't a voice. Pain, even. Where had that come from? I need you for more than stopping the Separatists.
An undercurrent in that last sentence spoke of more than his tired mind could encompass. Taslin hardly seemed a Wilder at all, sometimes. No disputing the power he could sense in the gem above him, with its swirling facets and infinite complexity, but the compassion she'd shown him on the journey here - more than he deserved - was an indelible memory. They'd worked together before.
He took one last long look into her violet heart, and closed his eyes.
Thank you.
***
About the author
R. J. Davnall has been telling stories all his life, and thus probably shouldn’t be trusted to write his own bio. He is currently studying for his
PhD in philosophy, at least when he can be dragged away from writing. He lives on the Penny Lane, in an attempt to channel any of the inspirational genius that might still be lingering there. When not writing or messing around on Twitter, he can usually be found playing piano or Minecraft.
On Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/eatthepen
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Blog: https://itsthefuture.blogspot.com/
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