Page 66 of Runes To Rain
As my forehead touches the panel, the memory of the place I’m seeking comes to mind. Unbidden, the tall trees and that clearing play in my memory. In this vision, Malam says simply, “What do you need, Chaosta?”
“Entrance,” I think back, and I am suddenly brought back to the lift, which is now moving upward, chiming at each floor.
As I wait, I lift my shirt and inspect my wounds. I note that I have bled completely through my makeshift bandage and torn a couple of other stitches besides. Since there is nothing I can do about it at the moment, I lower my shirt and hope that one of the demons might be convinced to aid me with this as well.
I am beginning to feel dizzy as the lift continues to rise, so I lock my knees to keep standing and rest my head back against the wall. Even with the pain, this is progress toward a goal that has been compelling me for a long time. I couldn’t see it clearly for a while, but now that I can, the forward motion is fulfilling some need in me. It is soothing in some way to be on this path.
With one final ding, the upward motion stops. The doors slide open and see the thick, familiar smoke that fills the stronghold beginning to creep into the lift. Pulling at the dregs of my remaining strength, I stiffen my legs and proceed. I am disoriented by the smoke and the pain. The drug-induced haze I was in last time I was here also isn’t conducive to recognizing where to go now.
As I walk forward, the smoke suddenly clears a bit, and I find myself standing in front of two demons. Their hands are on the swords strapped to their backs. One unsheathes his blade as he looks at me. The other says something in their guttural language. I recognize the word Malam. Then he asks me something in that same language.
Instead of trying to understand the question, I just say, “Chiron?” and he nods and leaves through the smoke.
The other demon, his sword in hand, remains where he is. He glares at me, clearly doubting my intent regardless of whatever the other said. I wobble as I wait, focusing on not allowing my knees to buckle. Somehow, I must still look dangerous because he doesn’t sheath the sword and seems poised to strike.
Luckily, it doesn’t take long for the other to come back with a demon I recognize as Chiron.
As he gets close, Chiron wrinkles his nose and says to me in strongly accented words, “You’re bleeding.”
It’s not a question, but I nod.
“You need healing?” he asks abruptly.
I nod again.
Without another word, he walks away. I glance at the guards, silently asking permission of the one with the drawn sword. He sheaths it in response, so I follow Chiron.
He leads me to a small room and begins to gather things from a large cabinet. “Strip,” he says, the accent still rough but hismeaning clear.
I remove my clothing, leaning one hand against the wall for balance as needed.
When he turns around, his eyes start slowly at my face and trail down to my thighs, his face blank. “What…” he says, gesturing as though he wants to ask more but can’t think of the words. “How did this happen to you?” he asks without looking away from the makeshift bandage at my side.
I shake my head briefly without responding.
“Not going to tell me?” he asks. His accent makes it more difficult to understand the tone, but he sounds irritated.
I shake my head in agreement.
He seems to consider for a moment, but without pushing me further for an answer, he begins to tend to my injuries. Occasionally, he steadies me, and I gladly accept the support. After a bit, I let my mind wander, going somewhere else, away from the pain.
Eventually, he finishes, and I look down to see a neat bandage wrapped around my entire torso, along with bandages wrapped around the top of each of my arms and each of my legs. He’s cleaning up at a basin at the back of the room.
“Stitches don’t hold well there,” he grumbles.
“I noticed,” I say quietly.
When he finishes washing up, he hands me a small tin. “Leave the bandages on for three days. When you remove them, apply that daily for the next three days,” he says. He looks at me as though to check my understanding and then gestures to my clothes on the floor, silently telling me to get dressed.
I stay where I am and say, “I need something else.”
He says something in the guttural language that doesn’t sound kind.
I persevere.
“Malam is indisposed, but some work he began, which is important to me, remains unfinished,” I say to him evenly. I can tell that I have his attention.
“What work?” he asks.
