Radiance (Wraith Kings Book 1)(15)
She clasped it and drew him to her, leaving Anhuset to hover close by. “Anhuset, help me get him to our tent.”
The Kai woman nodded and signaled with one hand. Two more soldiers appeared. Brishen sagged between them as they carried him to the tent and laid him carefully on his pallet. Ildiko knelt by her husband’s side and curled her hand around his. His eyes were closed, but the mortem light inside him still glowed through his eyelids.
Anhuset settled on the floor on Brishen’s other side. “He and the others be like this for a few hours and then suffer mortem fever.”
Ildiko’s stomach flipped. “Mortem fever? He’d said nothing of a fever.”
The other woman pulled a blanket over Brishen’s still body. “A light vessel drowns in the memories of the dead until they become accustomed to them. It’s temporary but painful while it lasts.”
“Bursin’s wings! Do all the Kai go through this?” Ildiko was rapidly reconsidering her envy of such a gift. She stroked the back of Brishen’s hand with her thumb.
Anhuset shrugged. “Only those who volunteer. Brishen volunteered to act as light vessel for Talumey until we reach Haradis. He’ll turn Talumey’s mortem light over to his mother once we’ve arrived. I’ll stay here with you until he adjusts and overcomes the fever.” She leaned back against one of the tent supports in a pose that lacked any tension.
Ildiko wasn’t fooled. She’d observed the interaction between Brishen and his cousin. Anhuset was worried. “I’m harmless, Anhuset. You don’t have to protect him from me,” she joked gently.
Anhuset stared at her, mouth unsmiling. “Mortem fever can make a Kai go mad. I’m not protecting him from you, Your Highness, but you from him.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was madness in memory, especially when the memory wasn’t yours. Brishen lay on his pallet, eyes closed, and watched the life of young Talumey twist and entwine with recollections of his own life. Beloved faces flickered in his mind’s eye, some his, some Talumey’s, along with emotions that accompanied them. Father, mother, two sisters.
Brishen raised a hand to touch the older woman’s proud, lined features. “My mother,” he whispered.
“What of your mother, Brishen?”
The voice was familiar. Anhuset, his commander. Brishen frowned. No, not his commander. He was her commander. His cousin and lieutenant. “My mother,” he said. “Love her. Her name is Tarawin.”
His commander spoke again. “No, Brishen. Your mother is Secmis, Queen of the Flatlands. Shadow Queen of Bast-Haradis.”
Brishen frowned. Another image replaced that of Tarawin, this one of a woman possessing the haughty beauty that had captured a king’s interest and hinted at the brittle soul beneath it.
“What is he saying?”
A different voice, this time speaking in the Common tongue with a Gauri’s lyrical accent. The prince’s ugly wife with the frightening eyes.
Brishen shook his head. “Lovely inside,” he argued with himself. “Laughs easily.”
Anhuset answered the Gauri woman in Common. “He’s confusing his mother Secmis with Talumey’s mother, Tarawin. I don’t know Tarawin, but I do know Secmis. She rarely laughs.”
He wanted to counter her comment, clarify that he’d spoken of Ildiko, not Tarawin, but his tongue felt glued to the top of his mouth. He was hot, broiling—as if someone had staked him out beneath the sun and let it roast him alive. “Water,” he rasped.
A cup pressed against his dry lips, and Brishen drained the water in gulps. A hand caressed his brow, cool on his hot skin. He opened his eyes and found Ildiko staring at him with those strange human eyes. He instinctively jerked away and tried to sit up. “Your Highness,” he murmured. He was a lowly soldier and broke all protocol, lying down before a member of the royal house.
Ildiko. She was Ildiko to him in private. Two pairs of hands pressed him back to the pallet. Brishen blinked at Anhuset who offered more water. He turned his head away and sought Ildiko once more.
She stroked his arm, and her voice was soft, worried. “Do you know me, Brishen?”
The constantly shifting patterns of combined memories clouded his vision, even with his eyes open, and his stomach roiled in protest. Brishen closed his eyes. “My wife,” he said. “My Ildiko.”
“Yes, Brishen. Your Ildiko.” Like her touch, her voice soothed him. “Anhuset and I will stay with you until the fever is over.”
He wanted to thank them for their vigilance—Ildiko, who’d never witnessed a mortem light’s possession of a light vessel and Anhuset who was still put out by having to eat the revolting potato thing at the wedding banquet. An image of the steaming maggot on his plate overrode all the jumbled memories trying to cloud his mind. Bile surged into his throat, and saliva flooded his mouth.
“I’m going to be sick,” he muttered.
The words had barely passed his lips before he was shoved to his side. Hands held his head and lifted his hair as he emptied his stomach. More memories surged through his mind—a week of illness when he was a child and clutched a carved wooden bowl to his chest as Tarawin crooned to him what a brave boy he was. Another similar memory, only he huddled in a grand bed holding a silver basin while one of the royal nurses stood safely out of range and eyed him with disgust as he retched.