The Lascar's Dagger by Glenda Larke

Author:Glenda Larke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / Fantasy / Epic, Fiction / Fantasy / Historical, Fiction / Action & Adventure
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2014-03-17T16:00:00+00:00

He observed the ritual forms of prayer, giving thanks for all he had appreciated about his life, asking for mercy. After a while, he found it hard to focus, as the iciness and pain skewered his brain, changing his thoughts into dreams and his dreams into snatches of memory. The shuddering stopped, which scared him. He was weakening. How long had it been since the guards had left? He thought it must be dark already, but didn’t put his head up to check. He stayed as still as he could, reluctant to waste energy in movement.

With every passing moment he grew colder and colder. His life was slipping away and he wanted to grasp it in his hands, pull it back, forbid it to leave him. He heard voices, voices he hadn’t heard for years. His half-brothers mocking him. One of his early teachers telling him he was wasting his talents with his tomfoolery. His father, angry for no reason he could discern, yelling at him. What had he done to deserve that? Left a gate open? Not fully emptied the udder of one of the milch cows? He didn’t know. He rarely did.

And then an older memory: his mother saying, “Don’t ever forget me, Saker. Remember always that I love you and will watch over you.”

And yet he had forgotten her. He wasn’t even sure if she’d really said that. He’d never remembered it before. Maybe he was getting muddled. The cold did that to you.

Biting cold. It was at his centre now, soaking into the chambers of his heart. Placing frosty fingers into every bone, turning him to ice from the inside out. Somewhere he heard the Pontifect scolding him. “Fight it, fight the evil. Va needs you.”

Va needs me? That’s a laugh, Fritillary. Va just threw me to the wolves as unworthy. And this place here, it’s the heart of the land, the oak, the natural. The wild.

Something crawled in the wound at his cheek. Several somethings. He wanted to scratch, to bat them away, but he couldn’t move. He could still feel his cheek, feel it crawling with… ants? Oh, sweet Va, if you exist, not that, not that. Not while he was still alive… Hideousness that he could not alter. Or was it just imagination? The cold pinned him where he was, immobile, helpless.

What can I do anyway? I am no one. I will die here.

He thought of Mathilda. Remembered her lips on his. Her unexpected, adult passion.

And wondered if he was made of mist, because he no longer felt real.

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