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Authors: Gail Z. Martin
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can’t tell Carina. I can’t—”
“Carina is a powerful healer, but she’s young in her gift,” Taru said. “And she has scars of her own that, until they are healed, limit her power. She isn’t the only healer at the citadel.” Taru drew up a chair to sit behind him. “She is also not yet a mind heal-er. I am.”
Tris wondered if she saw madness in his green eyes. “I can’t sleep,” he said, choking back tears. “I can’t close my eyes without seeing the visions. Last night,”
he confessed, his voice a tortured whisper, “last night I reached for Mageslayer. I thought that I might save them if I didn’t come back. I thought that I might end the dreams.” He held out his hand that was clenched against his body, and Taru gasped at the blistered burn on his palm. “Mageslayer knew. It wouldn’t let me draw the blade.”
“Show me the visions.” Whatever she saw in his eyes, she did not turn away.
“I’ve seen more than you can imagine, both of battle and of death. Open your mind to me, and let me see.”
She held out a hand to him and Tris grasped it in both of his, heedless of the pressure against his scalded palm. He felt warmth as Taru placed her free hand on his head, felt that warmth move from her hand into his scalp, through flesh and bone into his mind, and deeper into his being. Tris could feel Taru’s presence in his thoughts as he could feel the presence of the ghosts on the Plain of Spirits. He shut his eyes and let the images of the sending wash over him, hearing himself weep as if from a dis-tance. His shoulders shook and he gasped for breath. He held back nothing, sparing her none of the details of the deaths he saw, nor of his vision of the Dark Lady.
Tris felt Taru’s presence shield him, her power absorbing the dark sending, as if the images were pulled into the light that was her magic. As the images faded he felt the dread and grief recede, leaving him raw and spent. When the darkness was gone, Tris felt Taru’s power like a balm, washing over him, healing the wounds of memory. Then he felt the presence fade, until he became aware that he was rocking back and forth, Taru’s hand clasped in a desperate grip.
“I still remember,” he whispered.
“But you remember a nightmare—not a reality,” Taru said. “The danger still exists—but not the cer-tainty of their fate, or of your own. The poison of the sending is gone. What remains you can handle without being consumed.” She paused. “The other image, of the Dark Lady—that came after Alaine’s death?”
Tris nodded.
“You weren’t breathing when Carina and I reached you,” Taru said quietly. “For a moment,
Carina thought you were dead. She pushed against your ribs and breathed into your mouth, and you came back to yourself. Truly, I hadn’t seen the like, though she swore it wasn’t magic, that it was like pushing on a bellows, something she learned from a battle healer, long ago.” Taru paused again, longer this time.
“What you saw of the Dark Lady, that was a true vision. I can feel the remnant of Her power. And I believe that you’ve glimpsed Her before.”
Tris swallowed hard and nodded. He dragged his sleeve across his red-rimmed eyes. “Some hero, huh?”
He could not read the look in Taru’s eyes, but her expression softened. “Only madmen are unafraid. Even the dead—and the undead—feel pain. Arontala knows that your love for your friends is your weakness—as your grandmother’s love for Lemuel was hers. He can’t understand that it’s also your strength.”
“I refuse to believe that I have to sacrifice Kiara and my friends in order to defeat the Obsidian King,” Tris said, raising his head. “I refuse to go into battle, willing to let them die. I might as well put a knife to their throats. I’d make Istra’s Bargain myself before I’ll do that.”
Taru smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I believe you are already the Dark Lady’s own.” She was quiet for a moment.
“Carina is a powerful healer, but she’s young in her gift,” Taru said. “And she has scars of her own that, until they are healed, limit her power. She isn’t the only healer at the citadel.” Taru drew up a chair to sit behind him. “She is also not yet a mind heal-er. I am.”
Tris wondered if she saw madness in his green eyes. “I can’t sleep,” he said, choking back tears. “I can’t close my eyes without seeing the visions. Last night,”
he confessed, his voice a tortured whisper, “last night I reached for Mageslayer. I thought that I might save them if I didn’t come back. I thought that I might end the dreams.” He held out his hand that was clenched against his body, and Taru gasped at the blistered burn on his palm. “Mageslayer knew. It wouldn’t let me draw the blade.”
“Show me the visions.” Whatever she saw in his eyes, she did not turn away.
“I’ve seen more than you can imagine, both of battle and of death. Open your mind to me, and let me see.”
She held out a hand to him and Tris grasped it in both of his, heedless of the pressure against his scalded palm. He felt warmth as Taru placed her free hand on his head, felt that warmth move from her hand into his scalp, through flesh and bone into his mind, and deeper into his being. Tris could feel Taru’s presence in his thoughts as he could feel the presence of the ghosts on the Plain of Spirits. He shut his eyes and let the images of the sending wash over him, hearing himself weep as if from a dis-tance. His shoulders shook and he gasped for breath. He held back nothing, sparing her none of the details of the deaths he saw, nor of his vision of the Dark Lady.
Tris felt Taru’s presence shield him, her power absorbing the dark sending, as if the images were pulled into the light that was her magic. As the images faded he felt the dread and grief recede, leaving him raw and spent. When the darkness was gone, Tris felt Taru’s power like a balm, washing over him, healing the wounds of memory. Then he felt the presence fade, until he became aware that he was rocking back and forth, Taru’s hand clasped in a desperate grip.
“I still remember,” he whispered.
“But you remember a nightmare—not a reality,” Taru said. “The danger still exists—but not the cer-tainty of their fate, or of your own. The poison of the sending is gone. What remains you can handle without being consumed.” She paused. “The other image, of the Dark Lady—that came after Alaine’s death?”
Tris nodded.
“You weren’t breathing when Carina and I reached you,” Taru said quietly. “For a moment,
Carina thought you were dead. She pushed against your ribs and breathed into your mouth, and you came back to yourself. Truly, I hadn’t seen the like, though she swore it wasn’t magic, that it was like pushing on a bellows, something she learned from a battle healer, long ago.” Taru paused again, longer this time.
“What you saw of the Dark Lady, that was a true vision. I can feel the remnant of Her power. And I believe that you’ve glimpsed Her before.”
Tris swallowed hard and nodded. He dragged his sleeve across his red-rimmed eyes. “Some hero, huh?”
He could not read the look in Taru’s eyes, but her expression softened. “Only madmen are unafraid. Even the dead—and the undead—feel pain. Arontala knows that your love for your friends is your weakness—as your grandmother’s love for Lemuel was hers. He can’t understand that it’s also your strength.”
“I refuse to believe that I have to sacrifice Kiara and my friends in order to defeat the Obsidian King,” Tris said, raising his head. “I refuse to go into battle, willing to let them die. I might as well put a knife to their throats. I’d make Istra’s Bargain myself before I’ll do that.”
Taru smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I believe you are already the Dark Lady’s own.” She was quiet for a moment.
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