Rising Darkness (Game of Shadows #1)(9)

“He was the only one we had among our people who was even close to being in the right position,” Jerry whispered. “My fine brave boy. There is no one else.”

“I told you, hush,” she said. Her own voice was clogged with tears she did not have time to shed.

She didn’t ally with very many humans anymore, and Nicholas had been one of the most important human allies she had ever had. She and Jerry had personally seen to his training, since he was a young boy. Losing him now was a terrible blow, not only for the sake of the strong, bright man Nicholas had been, but also for what it said about their enemy’s knowledge and intentions.

Setting that aside for the moment, she rested a hand on Jerry’s chest and concentrated. Grief and stress, along with too many years of heavy smoking, meant that his heart was in serious trouble.

A cold, quiet part of her mind assessed the damage. She had a limited capacity for healing. Over the years, she had done what she could to boost Jerry’s heart, but time and aging had taken an inevitable toll.

She could do it again. She could heal him. It was, just barely, within her ability. But it would take a prodigious amount of energy that she didn’t dare expend on him. Not right now. She could not afford it.

Her friendship with Jerry had spanned decades. He knew secrets few other humans had ever been entrusted with, and still her answer must be no.

She withdrew her hand. She told both him and the boy, “I have a tincture that will help this.”

She told them the truth, such as it was. The tincture would ease his symptoms and make him more comfortable, but it wouldn’t heal him. If she sent them away at this point, Jerry would most likely die before the boy could get him to a hospital. Airlifting him was out of the question. She could not allow the authorities to know of this place.

The relief that lightened both their faces was a scourge.

She pushed heavily to her feet and said to the boy, “Come with me. I’ll tell you how to dose him as I mix it up. Then you’ll put him in the corner bedroom. When you’ve seen him settled and comfortable, you can bring in firewood. We’ll need to keep the cabin warm. That will be your job.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” the boy whispered, his eyes lowered.

She went to her worktable. The boy followed. She prepared the tincture and gave the instructions to his downbent head. She got heartily sick of looking at the part in his glossy black hair, until her patience broke. She demanded, “Are you paying attention?”

He lifted his head. He was trembling all over. His widened eyes shone with grief and awe, and an exalted terror. “I’m so honored to listen to anything you wish to say, PtesanWi.”

PtesanWi. White Buffalo Calf Woman.

Her scourge deepened at the obvious worship in his eyes. She snapped, “Don’t call me that.”

“But Grandpa said you are the ancient one who gave the chanunpa, the sacred pipe, to the People,” he whispered. His trembling increased. “You’re our savior. You taught us the sacred rituals, and how we can connect and speak to Spirit—”

She had always taken the long view. A very long time ago, so long ago, the time was shrouded in human legend, she had taught the First Nations how to see and connect with the spirit realm in the hope of giving them some protection from her old enemy, the Deceiver. But mostly she had taught them in the hope that they might prove useful to her one day in this interminable war.

Now, so many centuries later, she reaped a bloody harvest from all that she had sown. She did not deserve this boy’s reverence. She deserved to be shot.

“Overwrought fool,” she said. She grabbed his hand and slapped the small brown bottle of tincture into it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Go tend your grandfather. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut. If you must call me anything at all, you call me Astra. Nothing more. Do you hear?”

“Yes Grandmother,” the boy breathed, clutching the medicine. The worship in his eyes did not dim, not by as much as a single watt. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

Thus she watched as another noble child threw himself into her service, much as his dead uncle had. And she knew she would use this child too, if she had to, even if it killed him.

The cabin was stifling. She went outside to let the wind slice at her.

A day of blades.

An invisible presence gusted into the clearing. It said, Grandmother.

She closed her eyes, sighed and braced herself.

What word do you bring me? She asked the question as the presence had spoken, silently, in a way that no ordinary human would be capable of hearing.

Invisible fingers plucked at her jacket, her slacks, and touched wispy tendrils of her hair. I’ve been many places today and seen many things.

The children of air had a mercurial curiosity for all manner of things. Existing half in the physical realm and half in the psychic realm, some were creatures of light, while others were darker and more predatory. Because their energies were often slight and subtle, they could be easily overlooked. If one took enough patience with them, they made excellent, if somewhat erratic, spies.

They also had a tendency to flightiness. She reached for calm and exhaled gentleness and affection. The gust of breeze that curled around her warmed with pleasure.

She said, It has been a good day for you, hasn’t it? What about those things for which you searched?