Into Dreams: A Gina Harwood Novel (Gina Harwood Series Book 3) Page 17

  “Whatever it takes,” she answered, but her heart dropped. The old woman’s prognosis seemed awfully bleak.

  “Time is what it will take,” replied Maestra Crow, and Gina bit her lip. Time was something she didn’t have a lot of. “There will be plenty of time for you to stay and tell me your story.”

  “How long is long?” she asked, and waited for the old woman’s response. It took her a few seconds to realize that the woman had stopped moving entirely, frozen in place with her hand getting ready to administer her tonic. Gina blinked, which the woman was not doing. “Maestra Crow?” she ventured, nudging Hammer with her elbow.

  The woman didn’t respond, and Gina glanced at Hammer incredulously, only to realize that he too was unmoving. “Hammer?” she asked, poking him in his sizable arm.

  “They can’t hear you. I got tired of waiting to talk to you alone,” answered a sickeningly familiar voice, and Gina whirled to see the be-hatted Gavin Crowell standing beside her, staring down at Kyrri with his disturbing black eyes that weren’t black at all. She jumped sideways, knocking into the motionless wall that was Hammer and bouncing off, drawing her blade in one smooth motion.

  “What are you? What did you do to them?” The words flew out of her mouth.

  Gavin set his hands on the table and drummed his long fingernails against the wood. “I’m unarmed, dear Gina. You can put that away while we have a civilized chat.”

  “I get the feeling you are never unarmed,” she hissed, keeping her blade leveled at his chest.

  He smirked and considered this. “Bright girl,” he said admiringly. “Fascinating, you humans. Just fascinating.”

  “Fix them now,” she commanded. Her voice was steady and her muscles tense, ready to plunge the knife into him if he made any hostile moves toward her or the helpless Cat sprawled across the table.

  “Oh, I will! In due time!” replied Gavin cheerily, rounding the table in the opposite direction. Gina moved to place herself between him and Kyrri, but the massive table made it difficult. “I’ll fix them all, including your furry friend here. I can heal him in a snap!” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “But I don’t do things for free, you see.”

  Gina gritted her teeth. “I have dinieri.”

  He laughed, a hatefully musical sound that leapt from his throat and clawed at her ears. “You think I care for the coins of this realm? Please,” he snarled. “Have you learned nothing about me in my absence? And you call yourself a detective.”

  “Just that no one seems to want to talk about you. You must not be very popular,” she replied, assessing the situation. She felt helpless, and didn’t care much for the feeling. “What do you want, if not money?”

  “Excellent. Let’s deal!” He steepled his fingers and grinned behind them. “I will offer you so much and ask for so little in return. Listen close. I’ll heal your friend here, completely healed, and immediate. His mind will be the same stupid little feline mind he had before, no worse for wear. I won’t even tinker around in there.” His grin widened, and Gina shifted uncomfortably at the flash of yellow in his eyes. “Good as gold. And of course, I’ll let these two go on about their boring daily routines.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Boring. They’re more interesting this way, though. Now, they’re art. Alive, they’re just… animals." He leaned in conspiratorially, pointing at Maestra Crow. "Although this lady here, keep an eye on her. She's not who you think she is. And,” he added with a mischevous wink. “I’ll tell you what I know about where Morgan is. After you hold up your end of the bargain.”

  “You said he jumped off a cliff,” she spat.

  “Yes, that’s true. But I talked to him after that. He’s fine!” Crowell scratched his chin and considered his words. “Well, no, he’s a bit under the weather, but against all odds, he appears to be living.”

  “Where is he?”

  Gavin Crowell put a finger to his nose and tsked at her. “Now, now, how would I keep up my reputation if I went around handing out information for free?”

  “So you’re offering to fix them, heal Kyrri and tell me where Morgan is. And ask for what in exchange?” Gina didn’t feel comfortable negotiating with whatever this man was, but her guilt gnawed at her whenever she looked at the young, loyal Cat, and she had to admit - with irritation - that she needed the information about Morgan.

  “It’s just a tiny thing.” He leaned in closer, but remained carefully out of reach of her knife. “I figure you owe me anyway, since your kitten nearly killed me!” He delivered this last line with mock horror.

  “What is it that you want?” repeated Gina, losing her patience.

  “You are going to see old man Kurenas, if I hear correctly.” He must have noticed her blank stare because he exhaled in frustration. “The KING.”

  “I don’t tell my plans to dead men,” she answered, switching her blade to her left hand and placing her right on Kyrri’s fur.

  "Better a dead man than a dead kitty, wouldn't you agree?"

  Gina seethed. "Yes, we're going to see the King."

  "Excellent," clapped Crowell. "Then when you do, I simply want to join you. It’s been a long time, and he was an old… friend of mine. I only ask that you ensure I see him, and I'll do everything I promised.”

  “I doubt that,” hissed Gina, but it did seem like a small thing compared to what he was offering. “Besides, if you tell me where Morgan is, I don’t need to see the King.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips, and berated herself for saying anything at all.

  Crowell nodded excitedly. “Ah, but you do! After all, Morgan can’t use the stairs to get back to your plane. He didn’t come down, he can’t go up.”

  Gina blinked in confusion. “What? What do you mean?”

  The man, if he was a man, took off his hat and tossed it easily onto the corner of the cabinet holding Maestra Crow’s ingredient bottles. He ran a hand through his long blonde hair and snarled at her. “This is growing tiresome. I need to see the King. You need your friend here to live and be healthy. So, escort me to the King, and I’ll heal him now. Afterwards, I’ll tell you where Morgan is. Do we have a deal?”

  “You’ll tell me where Morgan is now, and then we have a deal,” growled Gina, poking forward with her blade.

  “Counter-offer heard and rejected. Take it or leave it. Kitty cat dead or kitty cat alive.” He scoffed at the elderly woman, still frozen in place with her surprisingly agile fingers poised to administer Kyrri’s dose of whatever was in her mixture. “She can’t heal him, you know. Not really. She can just make sure he doesn’t die on her table, let him live long enough to die somewhere else, after she squeezes you for information. Think you’re only interesting to me?” He leaned forward and wiggled his eyebrows. “If you think she’s more trustworthy than me, then hooo!” He barked a spiteful laugh. “Have you got another think coming.”

  Gina screwed her mouth to the side and bared her teeth. She was in a corner, and she knew it. “Fine. Deal.”

  “You’ve made an intelligent choice, Agent Gina Harwood,” congratulated Crowell, and with that, he was gone, disappearing as quickly as he appeared. Gina was left pointing a blade at air.

  “What are you doing?” asked Hammer, and Gina whirled, surprised and then ecstatic to see that both he and the old woman were moving normally. She quickly sheathed her blade and stammered, looking for some way to explain the events that just occurred.

  “Ugh, what is this stuff?” uttered Kyrri, pushing Maestra Crow’s hands away from his mouth with a paw. “That tastes awful!”

  “Kyrri!” exclaimed Gina, rushing over to hug the sweaty, matted Cat.

  “What has happened here?” asked the old woman slowly, setting her bowl aside and taking stock of her surroundings. “What is this?” She pointed at the flamboyantly feathered hat hanging on the corner of her cabinet. Gina turned to Hammer, whose eyes found the hat, and his face drained of all color. He turned slowly to face her.

  “What have you done?” he whi
spered, horrified.

  34

  The days passed easily for Morgan. Each morning, Eliah would be waiting to gather him just outside his hut as he exited, and would walk beside him outlining his day’s chores and berating him for not healing faster. She would then pass him off to Ila, who hadn’t complained about the burden after the first day. Whether it was because she didn’t mind the instructing, or because she was afraid to lose her hunting privileges at the whim of her mother, Morgan didn’t know. Regardless of her motivation, he was glad for the child’s company. Her bright outlook did wonders for his own. Three suns rose and sat while he tended the garden, pulled weeds, prepared various tubers and grains for storing, and acted as sous chef to Ila as she recited the recipes for their meals. Each day he was able to walk farther and a little bit faster, relying less heavily on the beautifully carved walking stick that Eliah had let him borrow. He could feel the day-to-day improvements and each day, the sun warmed his skin as he worked. His beard had grown wispy and his hair unkempt in the weeks since that first awful night, but his mind was strong and the undamaged parts of his body seemed stronger too.

  Morgan woke before first light, as he had since he had regained consciousness on Sick Gull Island. He looked down at his legs, covered in fading bruises and fresh ones from the daily pounding and massage he had given them to coax them to work properly. He stood experimentally and sighed relief that his legs were steadier. He held the walking stick and decided to leave his bruises be for the day, quickly donning his dirt-stained pants and limping out the door. His eyes were bright and anxious; today was the fourth sun since he had spoken to Eliah about leaving the island. It was near time. Hlanith. Calephais. Kadatheron. King.

  The warrior woman was waiting for him just outside the leather flap door, as usual, her eyes narrow as she scanned the sea. “Good morning, Stranger,” she greeted him without a glance.

  “Morning,” he said, jovially. “Looking for your husband’s ship?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but it is too early.” She sighed and he saw the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I get anxious during the last sun before the vaka returns. They will not return until it is nearly tomorrow." Eliah took a last look across the sea before turning away from it. “This way today,” she informed him, walking briskly down the shore. Morgan followed as quickly as he could. The wet sand was soft and cool under his feet, and Morgan wished - not for the first time and he doubted for the last - that he had some shoes for the moments the terrain wasn’t as pleasing. All Eliah had given him thus far was the single pair of linen pants, which over the past few days of labor had become several shades darker and mottled with stains. He had considered asking for a pair of the leather sandals the women wore, but thought better of it. His foot was healing fine, the infected gash now a deep angry scar that he figured he’d probably have for life, and she knew he didn’t have shoes. If she’d wanted to - or been able to - scrounge up an extra pair for him, Morgan figured she would have done it by now.

  “Is Ila coming?” he asked, curious.

  Eliah didn’t glace back at him. “She will join you later. I am going to instruct you for the first task.”

  Morgan’s eyes widened in surprise, but he said nothing. They continued along the shoreline past the last of the huts. He hadn’t been down this way before in his chores with Ila and he concentrated on keeping his pace regular while he observed his surroundings. The last hut was different than the others he’d seen - much larger and with a sturdier thatched door. The walls were stretched leather, mudbrick and binding, like his own, but they looked darker and thicker, and there was much more material covering the walls. He glanced forward at the woman and saw that she had quickened her pace considerably, striding forward with thick, muscular strides. He made a mental note to ask her about the hut and began half-limping, half-jogging to catch up. The wracking pain that had been so all-encompassing before when he tried to walk was all but gone, and he urged his legs forward as fast as they would go.

  Eliah ducked away from the sand and into a thick piece of jungle and Morgan cursed inwardly, glancing down at his tanned feet with a grimace before altering his path to match hers. The undergrowth was soft and mossy here, and he was thankful, but chose each step carefully regardless. By the time he caught up to her, Eliah looked impatient and was tapping an irritated rhythm against her spear handle. Morgan didn’t offer an apology, but simply waited in silence for her to explain why she'd brought him here.

  She kneeled in the moss between two massive grey roots of a tree. “This is your first task,” she said, and her voice was quiet, almost reverent. Eliah withdrew a short knife from her belt, which had been invisible to Morgan before, and held it out by the blade toward him. He shifted his weight to adjust his stick and took the proffered hilt. “This is an elonkata tree,” she explained, almost whispering. “Carve off enough of the bark to fill this pouch.” She held a small leather pouch about the size of a deck of cards in her hand and nodded for him to start. “Do not touch the sap. We use it as poison for our speartips.”

  Morgan was very curious as to what this was all about, but he held his tongue and limped forward to touch the elonkata tree. It was a large, sprawling jungle tree with expansive branches that draped over the clearing and heavy, waxy leaves dancing languidly in the breeze. The bark was a mottled grey and brown and didn’t flake easily, seeming to be one continuous sheet of material. Thick black sap immediately began to well up in his first cut, and it sizzled and popped when it hit the air. He took a step away. “Is there some kind of trick to this?” he asked.

  “No,” replied Eliah, her expression unchanged. She didn’t offer any additional information, but continued to wait patiently, kneeling primly in the moss.

  Morgan sighed and changed his wish from shoes to gloves. He used the tip of the blade to pry up a corner of the bark, being careful not to let the viscous black sap run down the metal toward his hand, and continued to slice carefully away. He managed to cut a swath about the size of his hand and lifted the cutaway by a dry corner, presenting it to Eliah. She looked up at it appraisingly and nodded her approval, opening the bag to accept the offering. Morgan held the bark with two fingers and used the blade to fold the bark over carefully, so that the sap-drenched side wouldn’t brush past her hand as the bark dropped into place. Eliah let out a long breath, and Morgan realized she had been holding it.

  “Why would you trust me to do something so dangerous?” he asked quietly, realizing that the odd expression on her face hadn’t been serenity at all, but a deep anxiety.

  “Now is not the time for questions,” snapped Eliah, pulling the pouch closed and standing to her feet in a fluid motion. “Your second task is back the way we came.” She snatched her blade back as quick as a flash and cleaned the blade against the moss, before replacing it deftly into her belt, where it disappeared from view. Without glancing back to ensure he was following her, she strode out of the jungle clearing and back onto shore, gliding across the sand in even strides. Morgan struggled to keep up. He wanted to ask about the hut as they passed it, but her form was barely visible ahead of him, and he hurried past it.

  Panting with the effort of keeping up, he finally caught up to her just as she reached the garden. They walked past the crops he had spent the last days harvesting or tending, and through a corridor of vines woven together so thickly that the sunlight was barely able to penetrate it, casting a long shadow down the organic hallway. The corridor led them into another, smaller clearing, with rows of flowering trees planted in a grid. Eliah walked up to a small needled tree that reminded Morgan of a fir, and plucked several seedpods from its hanging branches. The pods were wrinkled and brown, reminding Morgan of what peas might look like if they’d been dried out in the sun. She held the pods in her hand and walked past Morgan back down the corridor. Confused by her silence, Morgan followed.

  Eliah led them back through the garden to what Morgan had taken to calling the kitchen hut, a hut identical in build to his own but holding th
e non-perishable food stores and the equipment to prepare the village’s meals. Without a word, she handed him a large mortar and pestle and cracked the small brown seeds out of the seedpods and into the bowl. Then, she upended the pouch containing the bark into the bowl as well. “Grind that into a fine powder,” she ordered. “I’ll send Ila to check on you in a few hours, and she will remain with you the rest of the day.”

  Morgan opened his mouth to affirm, but she had already exited the hut. He cocked an eyebrow, shaking his head. Eliah reminded him of a few women he’d known over the years. Sitting at the table, he began to grind the ingredients - easier said than done. The seeds almost immediately crushed into powder with little effort, but the sappy bark was tough and fibrous, and Morgan realized at once that this was a task that would take him a while. There was nothing for it but to grind, so he set himself to doing so, punctuating every twist of the pestle with a word from his mantra. Hlanith. Twist. Calephais. Twist. Kadatheron. Twist. King.

  35

  Gina Harwood stared at the hateful hat and her mind raced, feeling the heat of Hammer’s accusing stare and Maestra Crow’s strangely blank expression. Do I lie? she wondered, but she didn’t feel all that guilty about the deal with Crowell. She felt as though she’d had no real choice. “Gavin Crowell,” she said simply. “The yellow-eyed man. He appeared and you all just stopped moving, like he froze time. He offered to heal Kyrri.”

  Hammer and Kyrri gave almost identical gasps, but Maestra Crow was silent, her eyes searching Gina’s. Gina tore her gaze away from the woman’s strange blue orbs. “What did he offer you, dear?” asked Maestra Crow, in a sad, sympathetic voice. Her face was relaxed and kind, but Gina noticed that her hands were clutching the velvet tablecloth tensely.

  Gina felt sweat prickle at her brow and was suddenly very uncertain of her decisions. She didn’t know these people, not really, and what business was it of theirs? But underneath this thought was the gnawing certainty of her instincts - Gavin Crowell was a bad Man, or a bad Thing, and dealing with him seemed like the sort of thing that would have consequences. “He said he knew I was headed to visit the King. He said he just wanted to be there when I did.” She looked at Kyrri, whose eyes were clear, but wide and filled with fear. “Kyrri, you were dying, and he said she wouldn’t be able to heal you fully. I would do it again, in a heartbeat. Plus, he can tell me where Morgan is, and then we can all get back to living our regular lives.” The words left her mouth in a guilty rush, but she meant it. She would do it again. She wasn’t going to have the guilt of Kyrri’s death on her hands, not when he thought he was embarking on some world-saving adventure with a heroine of lore.