House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(45)
He doesn’t listen. He keeps talking, telling me a future I don’t want to hear, of the deaths of children I have not yet borne. All I can do is escape, run away from his words. The door slams behind me, cutting off Harun’s ceaseless jabbering.
“And?” Isidro is standing in the shadows, pinched up tight around himself like he’s trying to make himself thinner, and his face is creased with pain. Jannik is holding him by one arm, just above the elbow. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be support or to hold him back. Isidro uncrosses his tightly folded arms. “What?”
“I–” I glance back at the solid blackwood door, then take a deep breath. “Don’t go in there. Not yet.”
“He’s going to live?”
I nod. Isidro needs to be distracted. I hate looking at him, but I can’t help the little spark of pity I feel when I see how the mark of the scriv has spread across his face like drops of blood. “Bring him some water, he’ll need plenty of it. And blankets. Seven-fold Visions can bring on fevers.” That’s not saying everything. I’ve never seen the aftermath of a seven-fold myself, but I have read enough accounts. They are part of our history, after all. My own line, while not noted for Saints, has had its share of precognisants. We’ve lost people.
Isidro jerks his arm free. He stares at me for a moment, and I cannot tell if this is confusion, hatred, anger, pain – what maelstrom of emotions he’s projecting at me. He shakes himself once and the third eyelids slide across, marble and wet, like the eyes of a crying statue. Then he’s gone. The echoes of his footfalls fade quickly.
“What are you not telling him?” Jannik keeps his voice low.
“Everything.” I sigh, and rub my hands over my face. “And nothing.” Isidro will feel his pain as he dies, I realize. Has probably been for some time. I could lie about Harun’s chances until I run out of breath and Isidro would still know. He will feel every damn thing, and when – no if – Harun dies, Isidro will feel that too, and I don’t know what that will do to a person. “Shit,” I say, so softly even Jannik frowns, uncertain that he heard me correctly.
“He’s–” He looks at the door.
“Alive, yes. Ranting. I’ve no idea how long this will go on for, but you’re to keep Isidro out of there. And the same goes for you.” It’s hardly going to make a huge difference, but somehow I imagine that distance will help. Fool that I am.
Jannik barely smiles, and his eyes are cold and angry. “Perhaps, Felicita, you should just buy me that damn collar.”
“Gris! I’m not – I’m not ordering you around. This is for your protection.”
“I see.”
But there is nothing in his voice that says he does. “Jannik?”
He waits, impassive.
I want to tell him to trust me, that after this I will speak properly with him and we’ll sort out everything between us. We’ll be adult. We’ll be careful with our hearts the way adults are supposed to be. We’ll stop breaking each other. “Just do as I ask.” I sigh. “Please?”
Jannik knows how to use the weapons at his disposal and he slides his silence between us. He doesn’t even look at me. We wait.
I’m absurdly grateful when Isidro returns with a jug of water and a rolled blanket. He gives them to Jannik, and I see the tremble he tries to hide, can smell the fever on him. Jannik hands the blanket and water on to me. So much dislike in one room. It’s claustrophobic.
The blanket is a deep burgundy wool and it carries the faint musk scent I associate with Harun. That’s good. Sometimes something familiar and comforting can serve as an anchor in a Vision. I nod at Jannik to open the door, and I prepare myself mentally for Harun’s raving.
The room is dark and silent.
Isidro steps forward, only to be hauled back by Jannik. “I want to see him,” Isidro says, and I can hear the hurt in his voice, so sharp and small like little splinters of blue and green glass. I have never heard this from Isidro before. I assumed too much about him, like I always do. One would think I’d have learned by now not to judge people on the little they allow me to see.
“I’ll make sure he … .” Survives? I can’t promise that much. “That he’s not in too much pain,” I finish lamely. And even then, if he dies in agony what remedies could I offer? A bit of lady’s gown in some tea is all I can think of. It’ll be better than nothing. At the very least it might calm him. And might help dull whatever it is Isidro experiences. “Jannik, take Isidro to the kitchens. Make lady’s gown – enough for several cups of tea.” If we can get some into Isidro, then just as good. Rather a catatonic vampire than one who will walk headlong into death because he thinks he’s in love.
Felicita, why must you believe so little of everyone? I brush my conscience aside and step into the shadowed room. The door clicks softly behind me, and the light from the outside is snuffed. I take a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The quietness is chilling. “Harun?” My voice is too high, nervous and wobbly. Damn, I’m scared, and I’m showing it. I tamp down my fear, press it deep as I look for him.
There he is: a grey shadow on the floor, lying near the embers of his dead fire. Slowly my vision clears and the edges of the furniture become crisp. “Harun?” I say again as I kneel beside him. I set the water jug down and lay my palm against his spine. There’s a slight movement under my hand. Still breathing. Barely. I sit back on my haunches and shake the blanket out, letting it fall over him softly. “Can you hear me?” I remember once, being hurt and scared, and how a girl with tangled carroty hair talked to me in a constant stream of friendly chatter. Meaningless nonsense, but reassuring. I do that now, telling him about the tea the others are making, about the weather, about how I miss the smell of the sea and the taste of salt in the air. Inconsequential things. I do not tell him about fires and corpses.