Dreamer: The Eighth Key book 1

Restful Desirae

Ferry rides over the straights were as long as they were unstable. The flat-bottomed vessel rocked as though it could capsize at any second, but it never did. Tathlyn seemed to hate the water more than anything else. Diraimeir rubbed his back for him as every motion of the waves made him dizzy, and his face turned green. Tathlyn hugged the side of the craft permanently for the remainder of the trip. He cursed under his breath. “How come everyone else is just fine and dandy?”

Diraimeir shook his head at him. Then, he moved to sit with his head upon his knees next to Miryd and Sumrian as they kept an eye on Thistale’s deteriorating condition. He stayed fairly quiet even though Miryd kept asking him questions. Most of which were answered only in a simple nod or a shake of his head. Miryd was just making small talk in attempts to cut away the awkwardness between them, being polite for the sake of it. Diraimeir was feeling horrible about the entire situation.

“Sulking is not going to do you any good, kid,” Sumrian told him. “What’s your name?” He asked, handing Diraimeir his water skin to quench his thirst.

“Diraimeir. That is Tathlyn.” He motioned over his shoulder at the seasick Fai.

Sumrian smiled and introduced himself and his other companions before he held his hand out for the skin. “You are from the far north, right?”

“Obviously.”

 “What brings you into the warmer country? I mean, not that it’s any of my business, but I always thought your kind could not survive in the heat.”

“Where did you get such a stupid idea from? I can stand the heat just fine.” Diraimeir sounded very aggravated at the assumption. “I just can’t expose my skin to the sun for too long. We burn much easier in the sun’s rays, but everyone can scorch in it. What? Did you think Illitar melt like the snow? Besides, it’s not even that warm anyways. And, if you must know, Tathlyn was taking me to Cree. It’s supposed to help me piece together what’s been going on with all this Goddess business. But… I don’t even know if I want to know anything about it anymore. I want to go home.”

“Cree, hu?” Sumrian leaned back against the side of the cart as he thought. “It’s probably not the best idea to return.”

“Yeah. There is a huge library there. Plus, my Haun said that there are people who are waiting for me. Maybe they are waiting for Thistale too.”

“That’s possible. We should find out when she gets better.” He ruffled Diraimeir’s hair with a rough hand. “Don’t worry too much about Thistale. She is much stronger than she looks.” He assured him. At least that helped a faint smile c***k upon Diraimeir’s face. “Get some rest. It’s going to be a long night.”

The Nymph nodded and rose to go to where Ch’nuino rested with Miryd’s steed. He snuggled down between them and considered the steed for a while. “I don’t think you have a name. If you like, I can give you one.” He brushed his fingers over the horse’s nose gently. “It will be our little secret. Let’s see. I think I will call you Saunun since your coat reminds me of soot.” He cooed softly. “What do you think?” He knew the horse would not answer him, but he liked to think they could at least understand him to some degree, even if the idea was childish.

The day broke magnificently, the sun’s first rays bathed Desirae in a soft glow that glistened the sea’s reflection upon the golden-hued stone the island and the buildings were comprised of. Desirae was set up similarly as its sister city, Illustrae, was. Its main road swirled up to a massive palace in the city’s center. Hanging gardens, blooming in reds and yellows and pinks, filled up the spaces where buildings were not. There was even an extensive market that overlooked the water.

 Desirae was mostly flat, though. And its buildings were made up of fashioned brick instead of being carved into the rock. It was louder too. Excitable music play in a flurry of wind instruments and chimes, but it did little to drown out the multitude of voices around it. This city was busy and full of life, housing more people then Diraimeir had ever seen in one place. In a word, Desirae was colorful. They moved past the bustling market district and into the quieter streets of the medical ward under the shadow of the palace. Several large buildings made up this part of the city as one general complex with plenty of walks and outdoor spaces.

Daeva, the native people of the island, were much more numerous here. They were tall people, tanned orange by the sun with smooth blond hued hair that could be described as stringy and thin from washing it with saltwater. Many of them, particularly the elder ones, sported magnificent multicolored wings. Honestly, Diraimeir thought they appeared heavenly. These were the Goddess’s other children, according to a book the nymph studied not long ago.

With all the wonderment around them, Diraimeir did not notice how much attention he was getting. Just like how he had never seen one of his sun dwelling cousins, most Daeva never came across an Illitar. Though they all certainly know that was what he was. Tathlyn signaled Sumrian to stop the wagon and dismounted, walking over to Diraimeir. “Your public awaits.” He teased. “It’s best you make some friends if you want to help the girl.” Oh, how right he was.

Diraimeir was surrounded the instant he stepped foot on the ground. Though it made him feel increasingly uncomfortable, he managed a greeting in his native tongue and an unsure smile. “Ch’ didi midi, phraynidi.” He said, with a slight bow and a hand over his heart. See me, friend. The simplest and most polite way to welcome a stranger in the Illitarian culture.  The gesture of goodwill was well received.

An elderly man pushed his way towards Diraimeir, donning the white and blue robes of one of Desirae’s prized doctors. His boney hands clasped over one of Diraimeir’s and shook it vigorously as his droopy eyes considered the greeting. After a moment, he answered back in Raen. It was choppy and a bit forced, but it was indeed the language of the Illitar. “Oennsaunmie. Mian niamie ehch Bha’adra. Diun anunon ch’poeac ehni thae saunmimini tunnigone?”

“Yes. I do. Greetings Bha’adra. I am called Diraimeir.”

“What can we do for you, brother?” The charming Daeva asked, giving the captive hand a few cumbersome pats. Touchy much?

Diraimeir pulled his hand back slowly. “My friend is sick. She is in the back of that cart there. A poison or some illness took over her suddenly. We are afraid she will not make it.” He said in a pleading tone. “Please see her.”

The Daeva nodded. “I expected as much. You would have no business in this district otherwise. If this is what has brought you here, then I would be honored to be of service. Do not fret, my child.” He said heartily as he neared the cart.

Diraimeir eyed Sumrian. It almost looked as though he was not going to allow the good doctor to survey Thistale’s condition. A well placed, hard look challenged him to try it. Sumrian reluctantly eased up and allowed the man to pass him.

 Bha’adra’s breath hiked in alarm, and he pushed past Diraimeir. Thistle’s lips had begun to c***k and flake away, the pitch-black ooze that collected at its corners had become sticky like tar.  Without hesitation, he took Thistale up in thin but strong arms and rushed across the road, startling his guests. He ducked into the center building. Bha’adra began to bark orders to those that could be assumed were his assistants or nurses. “Bring warm water. You. Go fetch some crimson root from the gardens.” He snapped. “Make way and clear a bed.” His pace picked up after he was sure Diraimeir and the others could follow him. “This way. Keep up.”

They were lead down a wide hallway, opened on the right side by simple archways to a central courtyard. Because of this, it was paved in smooth but mossy cuts of green marble. Bha’adra took Thistale up a set of steep stairs and into a balconied room that held several other beds, each separated by flowy hanging orange and yellow cloth. She was carefully laid upon an open pallet nearest to the window. Bha’adra adjusted the pillows around her before he rolled up his sleeves. One by one, the room filled with nurses baring the items he had asked for. “If you all would kindly step out of the way, please. She is in good hands.” He told Diraimeir, expecting him to be able to urge them all to wait elsewhere without hovering over him.

“Will she be ok?”

“It’s too early to tell just yet. She has a better chance here than anywhere else, though. Had you arrived any later, then there would have been no hope at all. Now go. You can sit out on the balcony while I work and rest. You.” He took the herb he had asked for from one of the other Daeva. “Please bring something refreshing to drink for our guests.”

“You heard the man. Out with you.” Miryd was the one who had to push the men away from where Thistale was physically. Did men never follow directions? Seriously. It was like any instruction when in one ear and straight out the other.

                                                                                      *

Bha’adra boiled down the crimson root along with rosemary and milk thistle until it made a fragrant but bitter paste. Then he began to coat the young woman’s lips thickly. It was spread on anything that showed signs of cracking, easing the pain there, and ensuring that infection would not grow.

The next part of Thistale’s treatment would be much more difficult. The Daeva had seen this sort of ailment twice before in all of his years of work. He recognized it as not only a toxin in her bloodstream but also as the curse that it was. Few things could actually break black magic, but he could seal it away at the very least. The dark enchantment would just lay dormant within her until such a time as she was freed of it, or the one who placed the curse on her were to perish. Either way, the fix would allow her to live, but it would not fully cure her. It is merely the best option… No, the only one she has. Without it, she would likely die within the course of the next few days. I have to make a quick decision.

The medic pulled one of his assistants to him and whispered in his ear before he rose. “Keep a good watch over her. Keep the paste as moist as possible without letting it run.” He instructed before he went to fetch a most peculiar artifact from the archives deep in the bowels of the building. Down he went into the cellar and to small trap door hidden under a rug in the very back of it. He had to move a cask out of the way before he could unlock and pull the door open.

 Bha’adra carefully climbed down into the tiny circular room below, only wide enough for four men to stand side by side in. The walls were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, chock full of trinkets and oddities that had once been standard tools of use in the days before the Goddess’s fall. “Let’s see. Where did I last leave you?” He grumbled to himself as he dug around. Time quickly came and went before he was able to locate a small box wrapped in an old emerald green cloth and bound with silver cording. Here we go.

Understandably, by the time Bha’adra had returned, Sumrian was yelling at the attending nurse. “What in the name of Gya’a is taking so long?! Is she ok, or isn’t she?” He snapped, getting all in the face of a younger woman who could not have become a nurse very long ago.

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what to tell you, Sir. I am just doing what I was asked.” She cried, shrinking away from his beratement the best she could.

Apparently, the confrontation had started quite a while ago, judging on the fact that the poor thing was nearly in tears. Bha’adra cleared his throat loudly to break Sumrian’s concentration on her. He motioned his head for her to flee as soon as he had Sumrian’s ire. “I suggest you keep your temper in check.” He said, leveling his gaze at him. Like anybody who got caught doing something they were ashamed of, Sumrian grit his teeth and took a pointed step back.

“Slimy son of a fishmonger… Where were you? She could have died while you were off galavanting. You said not to worry, but look at you.” He hissed.

“That I did. Do not think that I have forgotten my promises. I left the patient to help her. Now here I come back to some ungrateful swine assaulting my own daughter.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression shifting to disappointment. “If you do not want what I offer, you can leave, and she will die.” He countered, though truthfully, Bha’adra could never do that to anyone so in need.

Sumrian’s knuckles turned white, and he looked down at his feet. “Please don’t do that… I want your help. I was just worried.”

“Then go do as you were asked and sit with the others. You may ask your Illitar friend to come and help me if you wish for someone to hold me accountable.”