Scrambling backward on the lounge the witch tried to press herself into the rock behind it. One finger shook uncontrollably as it pointed accusingly in the direction of the bewildered, wide-eyed youth. “Get back, stay away, refute, refute, refute!”
Though a stupefied Madrenga could think of nothing to say in response to this utterly unexpected and wholly astounding reaction, Maya’s outrage more than compensated for her companion’s stunned silence. Weak as she was, her voice rang out clearly in the enclosed space.
“What are you doing, woman? Where’s your gratitude? Madrenga has risked his life to save you and you react like this? You should be kissing his feet, not screaming and waving fingers at him!”
“Maya, please.” Madrenga was more than a little embarrassed at the ferocity of her response.
Slowly the witch eased away from the wall, her gaze shifting back and forth between the two oddly-matched young people standing before her. A glance behind them revealed no sign of the horrid beings who had for the past thirty years kept her imprisoned in the cell at the end of the long corridor.
“You’ve really come to rescue me? The Woaralin have not sent a demon to kill me and chew the flesh from my bones?”
“Of course not!” He was still trying to make some sense of her reaction. “How did you know my name?”
“Know your name? Know your name?” Now kneeling on the lounge, the witch stared at him. Stared so long that he began to grow nervous. But she was not trying to cast a spell; only to understand. “You really don’t know your own name, do you?”
Concern gave way to exasperation. There was no telling when or if the Woaralin who had fled might recover their courage and return with reinforcements.
“My name is Madrenga. It has always been Madrenga. I have had no other name but Madrenga. What I want to know is how you know it. I heard you shout it, no mistake.”
“What was the name of your mother?” The witch was studying him intently.
His eyes lowered. “I never knew my mother.”
“The name of your father?”
“The same. I remember growing up on the streets of Harup-taw-shet with others like me.” When he raised his gaze again his expression was tormented. Seeing it, Maya’s heart went out to him as never before. Over the course of the preceding days they had discussed many things, but for some reason never his background, his childhood.
“No.” The witch of Si'abayoon spoke decisively. “The others with whom you played were not like you.” Knowledge wrapped around her like a dark shawl. “It happens, but rarely. Circumstance sometimes precludes demons from raising their own.”
His lower jaw dropped. “What gibberish is this, old woman?”
Her eyes never left him. “In the language of Enar-set, which has not been spoken for a thousand years but which retains its power, ‘madrenga’ means ‘demon.’”
“No.” He was shaking his head in disbelief. “No, that’s not possible. I’m just another street boy from Harup-taw-shet.” He looked down at himself, back up at her, over at a wide-eyed Maya. “I’m no demon!”
The witch spoke slowly, almost comfortingly. “In coming all this way, you must have encountered many dangers, must have dealt with many threats. Surviving such challenges changes men. Unless I am very wrong I suspect it has changed you more than most. More, even, than is natural. Tell me, Madrenga: when I speak thus am I right or wrong?”
He felt faint. His mind was whirling. There was no truth to what the old woman was saying, no truth at all. There couldn’t be! And yet, and yet … it would explain so much. The changes that had overcome him as he faced each new challenge. How he was able to defeat Langan of Jithros and the ravening cabinet of Kakran-mul. How he could catch cannonballs with his bare hand and slay a frost dragon. How he could invite and survive the attentions of smoke sprites and shadow folk and be asked to join in the celebration that was the Mark of the Moon’s Month.
How he could survive banishment by the warlock Hinga Cathore and despite that, return safely to his own realm—bearing with him an innocent from elsewhere. But he was only a street youth from Harup-taw-shet. The last thing he felt was demonic.
“Look at your dog.” The voice of the witch was firm but gentle. “A demon’s famulus if ever I saw one. I sense also the presence of another in the cavern beyond. Who travels with two famuli but a demon or a sorcerer? Having neither the experience nor the aspect of the latter confirms you as the former. Madrenga indeed!” Coming forward she slid off the lounge and drew herself up to her full height. That was not impressive, but the rest of the Witch of Si'abayoon certainly was. “Accept who and what you are, youth. Be not afraid of being!”
He sat down where he had been standing. “Demon. I still—I cannot …” Confused, a whimpering Bit lay down beside his master.
Natoum, a dazed Madrenga thought. Chief Counselor he was for a reason. Chose a courier who will not be noticed indeed. Who better to carry out such a mission than a demon? A demon unaware of his own self. A demon who, furthermore, could not read.
The witch walked over to stare down at him. Her eyes were like ice. “This ill girl who accompanies you. There is about her an aura that is not of this realm but of another. How come you by her?”
Distraught, he looked over at Maya. The shock had begun to fade from her face, but neither did she rush to console him. Hesitation clung to her like sweat.
“I fought with a warlock,” Madrenga mumbled. “A true warlock. His name was Hinga Cathore and I had to fight him because he tried to steal from me the reason for my mission and …”
He remembered now. Remembered the expression on the warlock’s face when Madrenga had provided his name. What had that been? A look of recognition? Comprehension? His throat was dry but he finally found his voice again.
“‘I banish you to the first place of death and disease upon which your body and spirit may impinge.’ That was what he said when he flung me out of this realm and into …” he turned imploring eyes to Maya. “Into her realm.”
The old woman nodded, deep in thought. “There is more here, I think, than meets the ear or the eye. A ‘place of death and disease,’ you say. Certainly the girl looks sickly enough.”
Maya spread her hands. “I’m dying,” she said simply. “Of acute lymphocytic leukemia.” She glanced at the unhappy Madrenga. “He called it a curse. He thought by coming here and helping you …” Her words trailed away. “He thought you might be able to help me.”
Turning her head to one side the witch spat an unladylike glob of mucus onto the floor. “Curse or disease, I know not the name you speak. To me they are all one and the same anyway. It certainly resounds with the syllables of death. As to helping you, I am but a poor old woman past her prime, past her time. The paltry few bits and pieces of knowing that I retain may not come near to being able to deal with a misery from another realm. Yet, one may try, one may try.”
For the first time since they had entered the benighted underground realm Madrenga brightened. “Then you’ll help her?”
“Try, I said. For a demon, your comprehension is slow.” The witch returned her attention to the shaky, unsteady Maya. “While I know not the name or nature of your affliction,” she said solicitously, “even an indifferent simpleton can see how severely it has diminished you. Do you know anything about it, my dear? Its characteristics, its causation, the manner in which it wracks your body?”
Maya swallowed. She was feeling faint. “It’s a disease of the blood.”
“Ah! Strange in name but not so strange in essence, then. Blood is blood, wherever it is found. Its color may change but never its purpose.” Her voice fell as she nodded to herself. “Yes, maybe, perhaps.” When she looked up anew both her posture and tone had strengthened. “I will share my blood with yours, my dear. I will give of myself something to you. That and the right words may with resolve and good fortune affect a change for the better.”
An alarmed Madrenga rose to his feet. “Share blood with a witch? How do we know that is for Maya’s benefit and not for yours?” His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword and his gaze narrowed. “Are you playing at some game here, woman? Because if you are, and if anything happens to her …”
The Witch of Si'abayoon peered up at him, her pupils almost invisible against the remaining whites of her eyes. “If I do nothing, I intuit that she will be dead in days. You have nothing to fear, Madrenga, but your caution. Think, boy. Would I risk a freedom so recently regained?” Her eyes dropped to meet Maya’s. “Trust me, child. There is danger in this for me too.”
Maya smiled thinly. “Have I a choice?”
“None. Live to die, or at least die trying to live. Now then; we need a sharp blade.”
Madrenga automatically reached for where his knife had once hung before remembering it was now a sword nearly as tall as Maya. He smiled sheepishly. His altered weapon: another transformation brought about by his travels. Another demonic transformation?
The witch noted the movement of his hand. “Too much blade, I think. Perhaps you have something smaller?”
“Wait.” Turning, Maya stumbled to where she had set the small battle axe aside and retrieved it. As soon as the witch took possession of it the faintest of red glows enveloped both blade and handle. The old woman eyed it admiringly.
“How interesting. I do not know this weapon, but I do know it partakes of more than mere metal. Where did you find it?”
Madrenga cast a glance back the way they had come. “It lay in the grasp of a man of bones. It did him no good but served Maya well.”
The witch nodded again. “There is about it the air of that which is more than mortal. Not just everyone may wield such a weapon.” She squinted at the girl standing before her. “He says it served you well. You were the one who wielded it?”
“I didn’t exactly wield it.” Maya’s tone was deferential. “I just sort of aimed it in a general direction and it flew off on its own.”
“More interesting still. I believe, my dear, you may have a little of the demoness in you as well.”
She blinked, manifestly confused. “What? I’m no demon. I’m a student, that’s all. My mother and father are …”
“This is not about them, my dear. It is about you. All about you. About your ability to make use of a weapon that is more than metal.” She gestured in Madrenga’s direction. “Think, child. The young demon is banished from his realm to yours. To whence does his spirit fly? To what is it attracted? Why you and not another out of millions and billions? Why you?”
Maya tried to formulate a sensible reply but she was too weak. Having enfeebled her body, the leukemia was beginning to work on her mind. Reality and unreality and dream began to swirl together, forming a fog of incomprehension around her. The witch moved closer.
“Turn your left side to me, my dear.”
Maya had barely enough sense left to obey. Reaching out, the witch rolled up the sleeve of the guard’s uniform the girl was wearing, then that of the hospital gown that served as a crude undergarment. After studying the exposed flesh for a moment she promptly brought the blade of the small axe down in a quick, slashing motion. Bit sat up and barked sharply while Madrenga reached for his sword before catching himself. It was only to be expected that to treat a curse of the blood, some blood would be required.
What the old woman did next, however, surprised him even more.
Rolling up the sleeve of her own garment she drew the blade slowly along her own upper arm. Following the slow, methodical pace of the cut, Madrenga winced. Bit whimpered anew and hid behind his master. So dark red as to be almost black, the witch’s blood oozed out not in a steady stream as did Maya’s, but more like hot tar. As it contacted the cool air of the cave it gave off occasional wisps of smoke that smelled like broiling fungi.
“Now then,” the witch said tightly, “hold still and no matter what, don’t move!” Whereupon she pressed her open wound against the one she had just inflicted on the girl.
Maya let out a gasp. Her half-closed eyes snapped wide open. As she exhaled and closed them again, the witch inhaled and opened hers. A curious vapor arose from the point where their flesh met. While this new smell merely caused Madrenga’s nose to wrinkle it sent Bit into a perfect frenzy, whirling and jumping, barking and snapping at the air. In the corridor nearby, Orania could be heard stomping the ground and whinnying loudly.
The witch began to speak. Softly at first, then with increasing energy. Madrenga recognized not one of the words. Indeed, many of the sounds that issued from the old woman’s mouth were unknown to him. Eyes shut tight, she moaned and gibbered and howled as if in a trance. At the end, the thamaturgical litany collapsed into song.
The blood smoke and conjoined vapor faded. As the last of it vanished into the still air of the cave, Maya collapsed. Madrenga reacted just quickly enough to catch her. She lay limp in his arms, unconscious, head lolling, eyes closed. Grief-stricken he looked over the witch, who stood swaying and fighting for balance.
“You killed her. It didn’t work. You killed her!”
Licking her lips noisily the old woman straightened. Except—something was different, he saw. There had indeed been a change—but in the witch, not in Maya.
“You lied to us! You did something to her; you took something from her.” He was almost in tears. “What did you do to her? What did you take? Tell me before I kill you!”
Maddeningly, the Witch of Si'abayoon looked amused. Her smile was a blaze across her face. “You should see yourself, demon. Eyes searing. Muscles tensed. As simple a thing as a mirror would confirm for you all that I have said. Yes, I took something from her. A little of her youthfulness. A little of her life force.” With a sweep of her hand she indicated their surroundings. “I was dying fast here, in this cold, sterile place. I was drying out, going stale. She has rejuvenated me! I am most grateful.”
The deed was done. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but mourn and then slay. Though he had the anger, for the latter he had no heart. His was too broken.
“She is dead, then?”
“No, leaper to childish conclusions. She sleeps. My blood and my magic will work within her.” She paused. “But not here.”
A coldness ran through him. “What do you mean, ‘not here’?”
“Her disease is not of this place. Her curse is not of this realm. For what has just transpired to be of any lasting effect it must work on her in her own dominion. She must be sent back.” Her gaze met his evenly. “You must do it.”
“Me?” Madrenga shook his head. “I don’t even remember the words I used to bring her here. How can I go back? How can I find my way?”
“It is within you, Madrenga. Such things, once learned, are never forgotten. Look within yourself. You are a geography. Everything you have ever done, every place you have ever been, lies there waiting. Exercise yourself. Be what you are. Take her back.”
He inhaled deeply. “Tell me I can stay there with her.”
The Witch of Si'abayoon laughed. It was deep and scratchy and scarcely feminine and it echoed off every wall and rock.
“This is your home, Madrenga. This is your realm. You are of it and not of hers. You ask a thing that cannot be. Accept it, as you are slowly coming to accept yourself for what you are.”
“No.” Mouth tight, he shook his head. “No, I won’t do that. But I do accept that I have to take her back now or she’ll die. If what you say is truth then she may die anyway.”
This time the old woman did not laugh. “There are no guarantees in either blood or magic. But we can both live knowing that we tried our best.”
He nodded, understanding now. Understanding at last. “If you can’t do it then I’ll find another way to save her. If you can’t do it, then perhaps there is another who can.”
She shrugged. “I am five and fifty, but it is true there are those who know ways with which I am not familiar. I do not know all. I am not omnipotent.”
He frowned. “You look younger than fifty-five. Has Maya’s blood already wrought such a change in you?”
“Somewhat, to be sure.” The beautifully crooked smile returned. “I am five hundred and fifty years old, young Madrenga. Old enough to know that I do not know everything. It is called wisdom. Now go. Remember the words and the way. Return her to whence she came. There are some things that must be. There are some things that cannot be changed.”
Now it was his turn to nod somberly, and smile. “We’ll see.”
And then he went.
It was exactly 3:50 am when the duty nurse on the eleventh floor of St. Stephens Memorial Hospital passed room 6120, glanced automatically inside, and paused. She checked her duty pad, looked again. According to this evening’s update room 6120 was vacant. Only it was not vacant. It contained a patient. Entering, she switched on the night light. Except for the patient in the bed, the room was abnormally empty. There was no active equipment, no glowing monitors, not even the omnipresent jug of ice water on the rolling table beside the bed. But there was most definitely someone in the bed.
Closer inspection revealed it to be a young woman, sound asleep. Puzzled, the nurse checked the girl’s right wrist. The appropriate identification band was in place, though it was far dirtier than it should be. Someone would be taken to task for that, the nurse knew. Entering the hospital identification number into her pad quickly brought up the patient’s name and vitals. As the nurse studied them, she frowned. Slowly her frown turned to a little ‘O’ of amazement. As she continued reading her hand went to her mouth and stayed there. She checked the wristband again, compared it once more with the information now displayed on the glowing pad.
Then she was running from the room, running down the hall and shouting, not caring who she awoke or how many official protocols she was breaking.
Where had she been, her parents and doctors wanted to know? She couldn’t remember, she told them. How had she survived so many days out of her bed and disconnected from her support system? She didn’t know and couldn’t say. How had she ended up in room 6120 on the hospital’s top, largely unused floor? She didn’t know and couldn’t explain.
Sleepwalking with eyes open, one doctor hypothesized. Dazed and moving, but with no memory of what she was doing. Obvious temporary brain disconnection, surmised another. Such conditions were rare but not unknown. Taken together they at least partially sufficed as possible explanations for the implausible. In the crowded corridors she had simply been overlooked, had been regarded as another patient out for exercise. Existing in such a state of suspended reality a person could act perfectly normal and engage in all manner of normal activities, from eating to sleeping. She must have moved from room to room and thereby avoided notice. She might still be doing so, another doctor declared, had not the night duty nurse discovered her.
Yes, bizarre as it was, it was all explicable. Even her parents accepted it. Just as they accepted the one revelation that none of the doctors could fully explain.
“Your leukemia has gone into spontaneous full remission.” Standing beside the bed Maya’s principal physician, Dr. Handler, had difficulty taking his eyes from the chart readout. “In a couple of days I think we can release you to home care.” A huge smile split his round, closely shaven face. “How about that, Maya? Here not long ago we were giving you a few weeks to live and now you’re going to go home. It’s days like this that not only make me proud of what I do, but make me feel good about it.”
Lying in the bed, unattached to any machines or cables or feeding tubes, she smiled back up at him. She looked radiant, he thought. Positively radiant. It made no sense. Her leukemia had been beyond advanced. Now it was almost gone, and in a matter of days. He did not understand it any more than he understood how she had been able to wander the hospital for days upon end without being noticed or questioned, but he was willing to accept the one on behalf of the other. As in life, not everything in medicine was quantifiable. When this was the result, he didn’t care. Even her voice sounded healthy.
“Do you think my remission has anything to do with my being lost in the hospital unaware of where I was or what I was doing?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so, but who can say? Maybe you ate something that had just the right combination of vitamins and minerals and trace elements that in your particular body, in your particular case, induced a constructive chemical reaction that’s never been documented or studied before. Maybe unconsciously you improvised your own successful chemotherapy, as it were. If that’s what happened, I’d give a year of my life to know what it was that you ingested.”
“I do feel that I ate some strange things,” she murmured.
“What?” He frowned at her.
“Nothing, Dr. Handler, nothing. I do remember that one treatment for the kind of leukemia I have—that I had—is blood transfusions. Isn’t that right?” He nodded and she added, stretching as she did so, “I feel so much better.”
He laughed softly. “The differences between living and dying are noticeable. You must be excited about going home.”
She nodded, contemplating her future. There were her parents, who were beside themselves with joy. And her friends at school, and her extended family, all in a frenzy of excitement over her astonishing recovery. And yet … and yet …
One day she would find him, she knew. One day Madrenga would come back for her. It might be this evening, it might be tomorrow. Or next week, or next year. But he would come for her. She was sure of it. As sure as she was of what was dream and what was reality. And she wasn’t afraid, not afraid at all.
He might be a demon—but he was her demon.