I fell—the family business, falling—and I’m still on my way down. I might not be a body at all anymore, just a soul screaming in pain, falling down
d o w n
D
E
E
P
down.
Brought here by the poison arrow of a knight errant’s beloved. While my own watched. Callie, I fell …
Porsoth catches me, so I am somewhere even if only in mist and shadows. He weeps. “Oh, my boy, no, hold on. You must hold on.”
But I have nothing to hold on with, I try to say but whatever plane of existence this is, I have no voice in it.
“We must try,” Porsoth says. “Summon the healers.”
No, not them. The monstrous demon lords and their attendants, who spend their time fixing the broken damned so the hideous horde can break them all over again.
I haven’t hit bottom yet.
Callie, I fell and I’m still falling.
I don’t wake up, not precisely. My consciousness comes slowly, nearly back. But I’m not fully awake yet. Not myself.
My upper left thigh throbs, and time creeps in the pettiest possible pace as I confirm I am present. In one piece. In existence.
“I told you it would work,” Father says, and he’s gloating.
I move my hand to the burning, aching spot on my thigh and find it wrapped tightly in a cloth bandage. Easing an eye open, I sit upright.
I’m in Hell. My own chambers, at least. Rofocale and my father are here, lingering at my bedside. There’s no immediate sign of Porsoth.
“Where’s Callie?” I ask.
At the question, the three remaining tusk-faced healers scuttle from the bedroom to leave us alone. Father didn’t even have to lift a finger to shoo them.
“Callie?” I ask again and manage to lift my voice the smallest bit.
“Oh, is it working?” Rofocale asks.
“Leave us,” Father says to him.
Sitting up has given me the distinct sensation of recently being hit by a truck. But, no. I fell.
I remember being on top of the tower wall and Callie climbing up toward me and Saraya taking aim with that arrow and Sean pushing me—and then intense pain and I was falling through the air and … That’s it until a few moments ago.
Once my head settles, I push to my feet and search for my clothing, then shrug. I’ll just get fresh from the closet. “How long have I been here?”
Father strides over and touches my shoulder. I stop where I am and look at his fingers there. When was the last time he lay a hand on me motivated by any feeling? When I was a small child, surely.
I don’t like it or trust it and I want to remove his fingers. I feel, quite literally, under his thumb in the here and now. But I behave that way too. I look at him, eyebrows raised.
“Rest,” he says. “You got nicked by a holy weapon. Give yourself time to recover.”
“Saraya the Rude’s,” I say and despite not wanting to, I turn back to bed. “I really should go to Callie or get word to her…”
“No need,” Father says.
I can’t interpret this. Does it mean she felt relief when I careened and disappeared? Does it mean she’s waiting outside? “Did she take a holy arrow too?”
“She lives,” Father says, grumpy, as if irritated he has to give me that small parcel of information. “And she’s well. Now rest.”
A fount of facts, this man. I let my body sink back to a seat on the edge of the bed.
“So,” Father says, and stands looking down at me. His wings are gathered in tightly behind him, in a position that’s nearly defensive. He’s doing his best “good father” and I haven’t seen it in so long it’s almost become a foreign act.
“So?” I volley back. “What’s going on here? We didn’t lose the three days, did we?”
“No,” Father says with a wisp of a smile. “Clock is running. Is that still what you want?”
I scoot back, putting my legs on the bed. I don’t want to be closer to him than I must.
“You know what I want.”
“Her,” he says. “But you must set your sights higher. You could have the kingdom.”
That’s not higher, I want to say, it’s lower.
The wound in my thigh continues to voice its dull complaint. I almost ask for pain medicine, then remember I have my senses back. I push at it, forcing it to the back of my mind. The throb grows fainter.
There.
“I want her,” I say. “I want a life with light in it.”
“I much prefer being a rebel than dealing with one.” Father considers me for a long moment, and then he commands me: “Sleep.” The vibration is more effective than any rocking cradle or palliative draught. I’m knocked out, my eyes slipping closed immediately.
“You need rest first,” I hear him say and I want to know what this rest is before. What it’s for. But I don’t get to know that, not until Father decides to tell me.
I have dreams of Callie and she’s walking away. She’s running. She’s climbing the wall of a crumbling castle and I’m stuck beneath her. She’s turning her back. I can’t see her face.
No matter how hard I try, it’s hidden.