Renegade's Magic

He leaned the heavy poker against the wall near the head of my bed. “I think I’ll just leave that here for the night. In case you should think you need it again. Now. Into bed with you and go to sleep. We’ve a busy day tomorrow.”



I climbed up onto my bed, and he spread over me the covers that I’d half dragged onto the floor. He leaned down and set his palm on my brow for a moment. “Good night, son,” he’d said, and then gone out of the room, leaving the door ajar so that a slice of dim light fell on my trusty poker.



The memory had come back to me in a wild rush, triggered by the boy’s trembling body pressed up against my back. It was a child’s memory and now, as a man, I reordered it. My father had waited and watched to see what I would do. He hadn’t interfered, but he had been watching over me. And he’d been proud of me, his soldier son. Proud of my courage, and he’d told me so. I don’t remember how many nights the poker had remained in my room by my bed. But I don’t recall that I ever felt a night terror after that.



Whatever might have happened in the years that followed, regardless of how we had parted, my father had given me something then. Given me something far more important than if he had carried me back to my bed and checked my room for imaginary threats himself. When had I lost that father?



When had he lost his soldier son?



I tried to lift my hand. I could not. Soldier’s Boy’s control of the body was complete. I could not even open my eyes. Instead, I poked at his awareness. It burned low. He was physically exhausted from battling his self-induced fever. It took all the focus I could muster to break through his stupor. I offered him my memory of my father and my current awareness of Likari’s fear. He received it but did not rouse from his torpor.



“Do something.” I pushed at him relentlessly. “Do something for the boy. Now.”



“Go away. Let me rest.”



I would not. I was a thorn in his legging, a pebble in his bed. He finally gave in.



“Water?” he croaked. “Likari?”



“I’m here,” the boy instantly replied in a shaky voice. “I have the water skin.”



“Help me drink.”



The darkness pressed close around us. Likari fed the fire a small bit of wood, and as a flame licked at it, he used the brief bit of light to offer me water. He was not adept at it. The skin fountained water, and wet my chin and chest before Soldier’s Boy was able to catch it in my mouth. Then it was wonderful, cool and sweet and soothing. He had not realized how thirsty he was. Likari stoppered the skin. Soldier’s Boy rubbed his hand over my wet chin and scrubbed at my crusty eyes with it. Even the dim light of the fire seemed too bright for his fever-stricken eyes.



“Where’s Olikea?” Soldier’s Boy asked Likari.



“She went ahead, to see if there was any fish caught in the next fish trap.” The boy hesitated and then added, “She’s been gone a long time.”



“I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” It was hard to talk. Soldier’s Boy’s head hurt so badly. To press my ideas on Soldier’s Boy, I had to share his sensations. I steeled my will and pushed at him. He spoke grudgingly. The act took effort and hurt his head. “But you’ve stayed here by my side in the darkness. To watch over me.”



“Yes.”



“Thank you for the water, Likari. It’s good to know you are here.”



The boy had stopped shaking. His voice was steady when he said, “Olikea said it was part of being a feeder. I’m proud to be a feeder for you, Nevare.”



“I’m glad you are here,” and for that brief instant, I was truly the one who spoke. Soldier’s Boy was sinking back into his stupor. His weariness dragged at me. I’d tangled my awareness too completely with his, and now as he sank into sleep, I went with him. But dimly I was aware that the boy resettled against my back, and that he trembled no longer. I let myself sink into the darkness with Soldier’s Boy.



CHAPTER ELEVEN



THE WINTERING PLACE



The aroma of cooking fish coaxed me slowly out of a very deep sleep.



I came out of it clutching a peculiar dream. I’d been sitting in my father’s study. He was in a dressing gown and slippers, seated in a cushioned chair in front of an autumn fire. His hair was neatly combed, but in a way that made me think he had not done it himself. There were slippers on his feet; it was the guise of a man who had not been outside the house in days. On a table near his elbow was a bowl of late apples; their fragrance had perfumed the room. My father’s face was bowed into his hands, and he was weeping. His hair had gone gray and the hands that covered his face were ropy with tendons. He seemed to have aged a decade in the single year I’d been gone.