Read Online A Business of Ferrets (Bharaghlafi Book 1) by Beth Hilgartner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Beth Hilgartner
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face, hands around her throat, choking, choking... The Lady Ycevi, smiling as she metamorphosed into a screaming hawk, talons ripping at his eyes... The slaver, Anthagh, chasing him and laughing...
Then, he heard music: the ripple of a lute. He flailed after it, and the music shattered into meaningless fragments. He caught one, held it in his mind; he used the chip of sound to build the image of the woman, Arre: a hedge against his nightmares. He pictured her, pictured the brilliant banks of candles; and there... There was the music again. He followed more gently, this time. Claws of nightmares raked him, but he nursed the thread of lute music in his mind. The drug flung his deepest terrors into the sea of his dreaming, but he fended them off, like flotsam, while he let the lute music act as a current, pulling him out of danger.
His breathing eased. His dreaming mind was no longer awash in a storm churned ocean. The imagery changed: a vast stone building. Tree-like columns supported a ceiling of shadows. Light at the far end of the hall drew him. Owl walked toward it, as the peace of the place seeped into his soul. As he neared the source of the light, he saw it was a candle, and in its pool of light sat the woman, Arre. Her lute whispered under her hands, but when he reached her, she gently stilled its voice.
"Owl," she said.
"Arre."
"You have a very strong Gift," she told him.
"I din—don't understand."
"Your dreams, the visions you have; they are a special talent you have been given. In my country, we call them Sight Gifts. Sight Gifts are rare; ones as strong as yours are rarer still." Arre's face clouded. "My people would teach you and cherish you, not bind you as a slave to a cruel, ambitious old woman."
Owl was silent.
"We haven't much time," Arre said. "Listen: try not to let them feed you haceth again; it is the bitter stuff you tasted in the food and wine. Your Gift makes you too sensitive to it. If they force it on you, remember this place; do what you did to build the image of me to bring yourself here. This is a place of peace, and if you are able to shelter your dreaming mind here, you will be able to withstand the worst of the drug."
"Is everything I dream true?"
She shook her head. "Especially not with haceth . The drug unlocks your innermost fears, and then casts them at you as though they were truth. Owl, can you tell me what Ycevi Ghytteve intends for you? Do you know?"
"No. She said I was irresistible, and that 'the poor bastard doesn't stand a chance,' but I don't know what—or who—she meant. I told Rhydev Azhere I thought I was intended as bait; but I don't know for whom."
"Bait," Arre repeated, frowning.
"Arre, can we talk like this again?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't think so. I hope you won't be given any more haceth , and without the impetus the drug provides, or proper training, I doubt you have the strength to touch my mind." Suddenly, the dream world shuddered around them. "No more time," she said. "Remember: no haceth ."
Owl coughed and sputtered as someone poured warm coffee into his mouth. He turned his head away, struggled weakly with the encircling arms that held him in a sitting position—then blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. He was awake.
"Drink the coffee, Owl," Myncerre said. "It will help."
"Is there more haceth in it?" he asked. His throat hurt, and his voice was hoarse.
Myncerre started slightly. "No. There isn't. But tell me: how do you know haceth , Slum-rat?"
Owl thought fast. "My brother is addicted to Dream's Ease. Once, when I was little, one of his friends thought it would be funny to dope me up. He gave me haceth . I nearly died. Zhazher—that's my brother—said some people are very sensitive to haceth ."
"I didn't give you very much," Myncerre said slowly.
"It wouldn't take much to kill me."
"Well, there's no haceth in that coffee; drink it."
Owl complied. The taste reminded him of the stuff Ferret occasionally brewed for
Then, he heard music: the ripple of a lute. He flailed after it, and the music shattered into meaningless fragments. He caught one, held it in his mind; he used the chip of sound to build the image of the woman, Arre: a hedge against his nightmares. He pictured her, pictured the brilliant banks of candles; and there... There was the music again. He followed more gently, this time. Claws of nightmares raked him, but he nursed the thread of lute music in his mind. The drug flung his deepest terrors into the sea of his dreaming, but he fended them off, like flotsam, while he let the lute music act as a current, pulling him out of danger.
His breathing eased. His dreaming mind was no longer awash in a storm churned ocean. The imagery changed: a vast stone building. Tree-like columns supported a ceiling of shadows. Light at the far end of the hall drew him. Owl walked toward it, as the peace of the place seeped into his soul. As he neared the source of the light, he saw it was a candle, and in its pool of light sat the woman, Arre. Her lute whispered under her hands, but when he reached her, she gently stilled its voice.
"Owl," she said.
"Arre."
"You have a very strong Gift," she told him.
"I din—don't understand."
"Your dreams, the visions you have; they are a special talent you have been given. In my country, we call them Sight Gifts. Sight Gifts are rare; ones as strong as yours are rarer still." Arre's face clouded. "My people would teach you and cherish you, not bind you as a slave to a cruel, ambitious old woman."
Owl was silent.
"We haven't much time," Arre said. "Listen: try not to let them feed you haceth again; it is the bitter stuff you tasted in the food and wine. Your Gift makes you too sensitive to it. If they force it on you, remember this place; do what you did to build the image of me to bring yourself here. This is a place of peace, and if you are able to shelter your dreaming mind here, you will be able to withstand the worst of the drug."
"Is everything I dream true?"
She shook her head. "Especially not with haceth . The drug unlocks your innermost fears, and then casts them at you as though they were truth. Owl, can you tell me what Ycevi Ghytteve intends for you? Do you know?"
"No. She said I was irresistible, and that 'the poor bastard doesn't stand a chance,' but I don't know what—or who—she meant. I told Rhydev Azhere I thought I was intended as bait; but I don't know for whom."
"Bait," Arre repeated, frowning.
"Arre, can we talk like this again?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't think so. I hope you won't be given any more haceth , and without the impetus the drug provides, or proper training, I doubt you have the strength to touch my mind." Suddenly, the dream world shuddered around them. "No more time," she said. "Remember: no haceth ."
Owl coughed and sputtered as someone poured warm coffee into his mouth. He turned his head away, struggled weakly with the encircling arms that held him in a sitting position—then blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. He was awake.
"Drink the coffee, Owl," Myncerre said. "It will help."
"Is there more haceth in it?" he asked. His throat hurt, and his voice was hoarse.
Myncerre started slightly. "No. There isn't. But tell me: how do you know haceth , Slum-rat?"
Owl thought fast. "My brother is addicted to Dream's Ease. Once, when I was little, one of his friends thought it would be funny to dope me up. He gave me haceth . I nearly died. Zhazher—that's my brother—said some people are very sensitive to haceth ."
"I didn't give you very much," Myncerre said slowly.
"It wouldn't take much to kill me."
"Well, there's no haceth in that coffee; drink it."
Owl complied. The taste reminded him of the stuff Ferret occasionally brewed for
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