C l scheel, p.17
C L Scheel, page 17
His silence gave Suzanne a low chill up her back. “This is really about that guy in Curly's, the one you didn't arrest."
"No, you don't understand—"
"Oh, yes I do! You've been wallowing in guilt since that night when you told me you let him go. Only this time, you're going to fix it—you're not going to let the wacko get away. Let me out of here.” She reached for the handle and started to open the door when Dane reached across the space between them and grabbed her arm.
"Suzanne, you can't go. You're sick..."
Before she realized what she was doing, Suzanne snatched the flashlight and struck Dane on the side of the head. Dane collapsed against the steering wheel, a fine thread of blood trickling from his scalp.
For a horrified second, she thought she'd killed him. Suzanne pressed her fingers to his neck, finding his pulse. It was there, beating steadily, but he was knocked out cold. She'd just committed a serious crime—striking a law enforcement officer. Panic made her heart beat wildly in her chest. She looked around. No one had driven by, so hopefully no one had seen her.
She got out of the SUV and hobbled around to the driver's side. Dane was a big man and she knew she couldn't lift him. She pulled the door open and allowed him to fall against her. Clumsily, she managed to slide him out of the car and dragged him onto the wide shoulder, well away from the pavement. From the back of the SUV she found a blanket and a couple of clean, old towels. Gently she spread the blanket over him and made a pillow of the towels.
"I'm sorry, Dane,” she whispered, tucking the edge of the blanket around his shoulders. “Please forgive me."
Suzanne clambered back into the SUV, and gunned it. No one would stop her since she was driving a sheriff's vehicle. Fortunately, there was very little traffic, but it wouldn't take long for the cops to find Dane and then come after her. And they would; they'd hunt her down like a rabid dog. First, they'd have to catch her. She roared up the old logging road toward Curly's at eighty miles an hour.
Five miles seemed like fifty. She looked in the rear view mirror. Maybe it was her imagination, but she was certain she saw the glittering lights of a law enforcement car chasing her.
The late afternoon sun winked through the trees as she tore into Curly's parking lot and slammed on the brakes. She had just enough time to get out of the car and hobble up the hill. After making sure she still had the Tearstone and the bottle of pills, she closed her eyes and ran into fissure.
Chapter Fourteen
AKKEN'AR WAS NO worse, but he was no better. His already pale skin was as white as the new snowfall outside the window. Dark circles under his eyes made him appear gaunt and wasted. His thick black hair lay in damp coils on the pillow.
The Master Healer gave Suzanne a wan smile as she entered the bedchamber. He had not left the prince's side since she had gone to the Pass and he was exhausted from long hours without sleep. But the plastic bottle containing the antibiotic tablets fascinated him. He tapped it with a fingernail. “I have never seen a material like this; what is it? Glass of some kind?"
"No, Master Melchor, it is a man-made substance called plastic, undoubtedly something the former Saint Kyrk did not want you to know about."
"Amazing. I can see it is water-proof, won't rust, mold, or shatter into dangerous fragments like glass."
"Yes, but this particular kind of plastic can break or melt."
Melchor studied the small label on the container with keen interest, since she could not explain how the pills worked, what they were made of, or how many he should give Prince Akken'ar. “Extraordinary,” he muttered. “Remarkable."
"It says you were to take two tablets every eight hours. What happened to you after eight hours?"
"Well, I was much better and I didn't need to take anymore.” She saw Melchor's brow furrow, perplexed. “Believe me, Master Healer, they work and they ought to work on Prince Akken'ar because he's never had anything like this in his system before."
Melchor nodded. “Indeed. Very well, we have nothing to lose. Let us give him two and wait for the results."
Although restless and incoherent, Akken'ar was somewhat aware of having to swallow two of the tablets. While she held his head, the Healer managed to get a cupful of water down his throat.
Master Melchor sagged into another chair on the other side and leaned back, eyes closed. Soon, he was nodding off, but Suzanne was too restless to sleep. Her conscience prodded her.
She realized she could never go back to her cottage. Once Dane regained consciousness, he'd place her on his personal, most-wanted list. She went from being a slightly eccentric writer to a potential cop-killer. The thought was unsettling. She hadn't meant to hurt Dane, but he refused to understand her predicament or help her. In reality, the incident had happened centuries ago and Dane was long-dead. Some consolation.
Suzanne turned her attention to Akken'ar. He had stopped thrashing and lay quietly, asleep. She touched his brow and noted that his skin was cool and dry. The fever had broken. At least now she could forgive herself for knocking out poor Dane. The sheriff had probably gone to his grave, cursing her memory. Well, so be it. All that mattered was Akken'ar's recovery.
She regretted not bringing her wristwatch; she had no way of knowing how much time had passed. Too tired to worry any longer, Suzanne tucked her feet under her and leaned against the back of the chair. She couldn't sleep, but was content to watch Akken'ar rest and contemplate her options.
It might not be so bad living here, she reasoned. With Master Eika's help, she could reorganize the Library and perhaps find a way to teach everyone to read and write ... correctly. A daunting task, but a satisfying one. Enough to fill a lifetime.
It was dark when she awoke to the sound of soft muttering. Master Melchor appeared to have heard it, too. He leaned over the bed and pressed the back of his hand to Akken'ar's brow.
"No fever. I think he's just dreaming.” The Master Healer uncovered Akken'ar's left arm and examined it closely. A broad grin lit up his stern features. “Look, my lady. Your tablets appear to have worked."
Tears of relief gathered in her eyes. The alarming redness was nearly gone and there was no swelling.
"I believe he will make a complete recovery,” the Healer whispered. “But I will let him continue to sleep."
Akken'ar's muttering grew louder, more coherent. He turned his head from side to side; his voice became frantic.
"Kiamma, no. Don't go! Don't ... don't ... !"
Master Melchor shook the prince's shoulder and patted his cheeks. “My lord, my lord! Wake up! You are dreaming."
He awoke with start, arching upward from the bed, his eyes wild with fear as he stared at the Master Healer. “What ... is happening?"
Melchor calmed him with a quiet voice. “You had a bad dream, my lord. Go back to sleep.” He pushed him down gently. “Go back to sleep."
Akken'ar's breathing eased and the frenzied look left his eyes. He fell back onto the pillows and in moments was asleep.
Suzanne looked away. Her initial joy, seeing that he would survive, had flattened into despair. Now, she had her answer. Even though he had been dreaming, Akken'ar still loved Kiamma ... and always would.
Too many years of staying in seclusion, hiding in the sanctuary of her home, away from emotional involvement had left her an empty, soulless husk that had forgotten what it meant to love someone. Foolishly, she had blamed it all on David. But retreating had been easy. She thought she'd never again have to experience the pain of a broken heart. It had been safer dreaming up and writing about men who never existed, but lived, larger-than-life in her imagination.
And yet, here he was, a living, breathing man beyond anything her imagination could ever invent. It had taken Suzanne ten days to fall in love with Akken'ar and only now did she realize it was too late. His gentle kiss in the atrium had been her last chance. It didn't matter anymore where she lived out her dry, little life: in her own time, penning stories to fulfill fantasies for herself and others; or here, in a time and place where she would always be respectfully held at arms length as the revered Wordsayer. Could she live her entire life like that?
Akken'ar would never love her. When he awakened, she would hold him to his promise. She would go back, one last time, and face Dane McKenna's wrath and a lifetime of regrets.
Bitterly she reminded herself that Alice never fell in love while she was in Wonderland. Alice woke up and went home to her cat.
* * * *
AKKEN'AR STOOD NEAR the window of his private chamber looking down at the throng of gleeful townspeople dancing in the streets. Victory over the skags had been complete—well, nearly complete. A handful escaped, but they would soon be caught. For now, san'Sorafel was jubilant and although he had recovered from the skag bite, Master Melchor forbade him the rare pleasure of dancing. In a few days, Akken'ar would speak to the people of his city, proclaiming the victory and perhaps declare a ceremonial day of celebration. Master Jonovar had suggested that idea and the people would certainly approve.
Akken'ar flexed his arm. Suzanne's tablets had worked. In a week the bandages would come off. The wound did not hurt, but there would always be a small scar where the Healer had lanced it. Another battle scar, along with all the others...
He heard a polite knock. “Enter."
General Zykov entered and bowed. “Highness, I have the final report from the canyon rim."
Akken'ar turned around. “Excellent. Let me hear it."
"The fires have finally died out; the new snowfall has helped extinguish it. Several work teams have been organized to bury the skags and cover the entire canyon with earth and rocks. I have also ordered small detachments of warriors to search the surrounding forests for any skags that might have escaped. Some got away, but we'll find them."
Akken'ar nodded. “How many men did we lose?"
"Only six. Several were wounded or burned, but they'll pull through. It appears you were the only one who sustained a bite wound, my lord."
"No doubt, I was the most deserving,” he said sardonically.
"The fortunate news is that we have two barrels left of the burning fuel."
"That is good news. When the spring comes, I want more forays to the forbidden lands. Every barrel of that fuel must be found, in case we fight more skags, and anything else that might be useful."
Zykov chuckled. “The forbidden lands are not so forbidden now, eh?"
"Those lands are the places where our ancestors lived. I believe they would have wanted us to have their artifacts, their tools and machines. We will take them and learn how to use them again. We will make a better life for our people."
"Then, Saint Kyrk was wrong?"
"Saint Kyrk was no saint. He was a frightened, insane man who became a skag."
Zykov remained silent for a moment. “I have another report which does concern Saint ... er, Kyrk."
Akken'ar looked at the general skeptically. “I'm listening.
"A detachment was sent out to find and bury Kyrk's body. Something quite strange has happened, my lord. It was never found."
"They never found Kyrk's body? It was near the Pass, buried in the snow. You could not miss it."
"I know, but one of the warriors I sent had been with you the night Kyrk was ... When he died."
Troubled, Akken'ar turned from Zykov. “I saw him die. The sword went completely through his body."
"But he had become a skag, my lord."
"No! He had not completely changed over. He still had the ability to reason, to speak. Besides, we waited to make sure the wound did not regenerate.” He looked at Zykov. “Kyrk was dead; I know it."
The general shook his head. “I have no other explanation. Perhaps a wild animal dragged it off."
Akken'ar did not like the explanation, but it was the only one that made sense. It nagged him for the rest of the day. Kyrk was dead. He had to be.
* * * *
WITHOUT THE FEAR of skags, the hunters of san'Sorafel began making plans to search for game. They would have to journey far since there was little game, if any, in the nearby woods. Winter had barely begun and while there was plenty of salted drymeat and fish, the hunters were determined to find fresh meat before the severe weather set in.
Still wary of any remaining skags, a large hunting party left early the next morning, escorted by six battle-wise warriors who carried bows and arrows as well as swords. They also carried in their packs a small container of the fire fuel, as they now called it.
Life within the keep slowly returned to normal. Except for Masters Jonovar and Eika, those who lived within Ironhold fell into their familiar routines. The two Master Scribes found themselves in the uncomfortable position of trying to find new purpose to their work.
After recuperating from his head wound, Master Eika began the enormous task of opening the library below the sanctuary and cataloging all the books. At first, Master Jonovar did not approve but finally relented. He soon took it upon himself to find all the books written on the history of the Ancients. He would make a thorough study of the past and compose the first definitive book on the events before the Cataclysms.
It pleased Akken'ar that Lady Suzanne decided to assist them. She would always be honored as the Wordsayer, the one who read the Sacred Text and discovered the way to defeat the skags. He owed everything to her, including his own life. Master Melchor told him of her journey through the Pass, back to her own time to find the mysterious ‘antibiotics’ that helped heal his arm. The Master Healer also showed him the curious round box and the white tablets.
"If we could find more of these, we could cure anything!"
"What are you suggesting? That the Wordsayer make more journeys through Knife Edge Pass to find things from her time and bring them to us? She is not a hound, Master Healer. Besides, I do think we should be interfering with forces we do not understand. The Pass is dangerous and I will not risk her life running errands for you."
"But she has the way to help us! She can restore knowledge, vast amounts of information that has been lost for centuries. Please consider this, my lord!"
He whirled on Melchor. “No! She has risked her life helping us destroy the skags. That is enough. Do not push me on this matter. Lady Suzanne will not be asked to do anything more. She is the Wordsayer; she has fulfilled the prophecy.” Akken'ar glared at the Master Healer. “You have my permission to leave."
* * * *
TWO DAYS LATER, Akken'ar summoned Suzanne. He asked to meet her in the atrium because he knew she liked being among his grandmother's flowers. The atrium had become a special place where they could speak alone and not be interrupted by anxious scribes or annoying courtiers.
The morning sun streamed through the lustrous paneled glass, filling the atrium in tawny warm light. This time, he waited for her.
The door opened and Suzanne slipped in. Dressed in a dark green dress with gold embroidery across the shoulders, he suddenly realized it had been Kiamma's. Seeing it on any other woman would have made him angry, but the hunter green suited Suzanne. For once Akken'ar abandoned his strict code of deference and allowed himself to appreciate her as a woman and not as the Wordsayer. Two weeks ago he had lifted her down from the traveling sleigh and savored the feel of her between his hands, her fragrance filling his head. Watching her hurrying toward him brought the memory back into sharp clarity. If he could have that moment again...
Suzanne curtseyed to him. “I came as fast as I could. Master Eika was having me read a passage from one of the new books he has recently discovered."
"I am certain he appreciates what you are doing for him and his beloved Library.” Akken'ar smiled slightly. “I fear we shall never see him again; he is lost in all those books."
She nodded. “Yesterday, I had to remind him to eat. And Master Jonovar is obsessed with finding historical records before the Cataclysms."
"Do you think he will find them?"
"Oh, yes. The original Library was quite extensive. I believe it was connected with a university."
"A uni..vers...?"
"University. A school for higher learning; very advanced and technical.” She returned his smile. “The Master Scribes will not be seen again for a long, long time."
An awkward pause hung between them. Akken'ar struggled to say the right words, but she saved him the trouble.
"You wanted to speak to me?” she asked.
"Yes. It is my intention to keep my promise to you. When you are ready, I will take you back to Knife Edge Pass.” He watched her face closely. Her dark, lustrous eyes were unreadable. Only the slight tightening of her mouth hinted ... disappointment?
"Oh,” she said softly.
"Of course, if you wish to stay."
"Oh, no. I mean, thank you, but I think I've overstayed my welcome long enough.” She attempted another smile, but it faded quickly.
Akken'ar took a step closer to her. “You don't have to go, my lady. You will always be welcome in Ironhold."
"I know, but I think it would be best if I returned to my world in my time. It seems so far away now, like remembering someone else's life."
"Very well. We will leave in the morning."
She nodded. “I'll be ready."
"There is one more thing I need to tell you. Kyrk's body was never found."
Suzanne's eyes widened. “What happened?"
"General Zykov believes a wild animal dragged it off. I'm not so certain."
"But, he was dead. I saw it. Dr. Kyrk could not have survived that wound. The sword went completely through his chest."
"I know, but I am uneasy. When we arrive at the Pass, I will go with you through the opening to the other side."
"All right. But I don't think anything will happen. Even if Kyrk did survive, he can't go back to my time without the Tearstone."
"Still, we will take no chances. Suzanne, I do not understand how this happens, but there is a chance we may disturb it. If Kyrk is alive, he must not follow you through the Pass."
"You're right.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with gentle mischief. “Maybe this will give you a chance to see where I come from."
