Ghost's Dilemma Read online

  Thinking of Gerry made Ghost's throat tighten. Speaking through Natalie had been frustrating. He wanted to tell Gerry so many things, but he felt awkward asking the sweet-voiced witch to repeat them. The words were too intimate and the emotions too raw. No, those were things he needed to say himself to Gerry when he returned home.

  Reading some of Information's content was next on Ghost's list. He hoped to find any scraps of information that might help him. Unlike the godsmen, he considered ignorance a bigger fault than remembering the ancient words. He did think the cities, as the Witch had explained them, were overwhelming, and he couldn't imagine living in proximity to so very many people. All those voices, all at once, would have been an unbearable cacophony. Still, the bits and pieces gleaned from the ruins had made a difference. The gods' light, the Seeker's kiss, even the witchglass. These had all been used to save lives. How much more were those long-dead city dwellers capable of, if a few remnants could accomplish so much?

  Ghost became engrossed in his reading, so much so he missed the early tugging on his spiral, heralding contact. He hurried over to the bench to dig out his scrying mirror and settled on the bed again. Ghost opened himself up to the contact and waited patiently until the mirror clouded. A symbol formed, an emerald leaf, signaling Beccah of the East Marches.

  "Ghost, my brother, where are you?" Beccah asked without any preamble. "A terrible commotion has arisen among some of the sisterhood, and I'm taking shelter with Kerree for a time. Are you safe?"

  "I'm not sure if safe is the word I'd use," Ghost replied, puzzled by Beccah's designation of him as her brother, since she was part of Sri's group. "I'm on my way to the Northlands. I have reason to think a solution is there."

  "You must go quick. Very quick. Do you know of the faster ways we travel?" Beccah spoke with care, even though no one else was in the contact to hear her mental voice.

  "Yes." Ghost paused. "Why are you so concerned? And why the urgency?"

  Beccah's voice was tense. "I spoke with Tal of the West Reaches, and she will contact you herself. Now I need to leave and find shelter from the coming storms. Safe harbor, little brother."

  Beccah cut the contact, and Ghost winced at the abrupt closure. "I wish they wouldn't end the link so fast," he muttered. "It hurts, every single time." He shook his head, trying to clear the pain, but it did little good.

  Ghost fell back onto the pile of pillows, not much compensation for the emptiness of his bed. He missed Gerry with such intensity the longing manifested as physical pain. He had changed since meeting Gerry. He was a furtive little shadow back then, trying to hide behind the Witch, but Gerry had wanted him anyway. Now Ghost longed for his man. He never wanted to go back to being alone, and despite the way they had parted, Ghost knew they could mend their relationship. He would make sure they did.

  A new tug at his spiral startled him, and Ghost reached for his mirror again, wondering if Beccah had thought of something else. He didn't bother to mask his head ache, annoyed at her for ending the contact as she had. The symbol forming in his mirror was elaborate knotwork in fierce ruby red, however.

  "Ghost? Is this my brother, Ghost?" The voice was tentative, but the harsh accent marked the contact as being a Wester.

  "I'm Ghost," he responded, doing his best to ignore the head ache. "You're Tal? I was told you would contact me, sister."

  "I can offer little, I fear, beyond urging you to go to the Northlands with all haste. Find the Witch who mentored you. She has the solution. I did what I could. I got him away from here, and now I need to leave myself. Trust the Witch. The rest of us are weaker than she is." Tal's voice wavered. "I must go, brother witch."

  Tal eased out of the contact before Ghost could respond, leaving him more puzzled and more afraid than ever. He put the scrying mirror away and rubbed his temples with his fingers.

  ***

  "He really said so? Twice?" Gerry knew he had to sound like an idiot, and Natali's amusement didn't help.

  "Your Ghost loves you, and yes, he said so twice." Natali shook her head. "What a pity you're not a witch, or he could tell you himself. He loves you. He wants you to take care of yourself. He will be home as soon as he can. And he misses you as much as you miss him. I hear the longing in both your voices."

  "You didn't tell him about the pregnant dam," Gerry said. He winced at the undertone of accusation in his voice. "I didn't mean to sound so harsh. But shouldn't he know right away, if the plague is affecting a new group?"

  "He already knew about her. He chalked her door himself. Ghost worries whether he's done the right thing in leaving, but he can't return without the answers he's seeking." Natali made a shooing gesture at Gerry. "Now, get out of my way. I have patients to tend to, and your Ghost won't thank me if I fail him."

  Gerry moved aside and watched Natali make her rounds from bed to bed. She only asked the elderly and the very young to stay. The others were treated and sent home with packets of the infusion and Ghost's instructions in the careful pictographs they would understand. The elder of the village was eating again and holding down his food. Gerry wished Ghost was there to see these small victories.

  The babes, though, tore at Gerry's heart the most. He saw the grief in Natali's eyes. They all mourned for those helpless mites; Mai, Merrah, and even Conn. Listening to the cries of the babes grow weaker as the sobs of the dams grew louder was more than Gerry could handle. He needed to be out in the fresh air and away from the misery. He wanted Ghost to be there, so he could tell Ghost he had been wrong one more time. Gerry walked along the edge of the market, his strides longer and longer until he was all but running. He stopped only when he reached Mother's yard.

  Mother was out in the back, wrapping a smoked runner haunch. He straightened up as Gerry strode into the yard, leading Gerry into the house without a word. He pointed Gerry to the table near the hearth and rummaged in a cabinet.

  "How can she stand the crying? How does Ghost stand it?" Gerry buried his fingers in his hair, his elbows on the table as he slumped forward.

  "The same way my dam stood it. Dealing with their suffering is part of the trade as a healer." Mother put a small cup in front of Gerry and poured something pungent from a glass bottle into the cup. "This might help. Then again, maybe not. But it won't hurt."

  Gerry watched as Mother poured some into a second cup. "What is this?" In all the years he had lived with Mother, he had never seen the bottle or the drink it held.

  Mother smiled. "It's called metheglin. A spicy aged mead. Stronger than what you'd find in the mead house."

  Gerry picked up the cup and took a swallow. The flavor was much different than what he was expecting. The taste was richer, sharp with ginger and clove. The metheglin warmed him as it slid down his throat. He set the cup down with care.

  Mother chuckled and drank his cup down in a single draught. "Healers need to learn to let go. Just as hunters must learn to kill clean. Letting a runner get away with a fatal wound is cruel. Hunting is not about the runners suffering. It's the same for a witch."

  Gerry sighed and turned the cup in a slow circle. "Natali said the patient has to be able to understand and accept or refuse the tincture. So, the babes can't be helped. I just don't know how she can stay there and watch. The dams know, and they're as helpless." He picked up the cup and finished the drink. "I was so wrong to even think I could judge Ghost."

  "You'll tell him when he comes home." Mother offered the bottle, but Gerry waved it away. "He will come home. Believe in him. Witches have their own ways and secrets. They walk in places where we wouldn't go willingly. For all you feel the need to protect him, Ghost is capable and clever."

  Gerry managed a smile. "He's both those things and more. He's so damned single-minded sometimes. He doesn't give up. He sat up nights reading his formulary until I all but dragged him to bed. Otherwise, he'd have gone to see his patients with no sleep, no breakfast, no anything. But he's passionate about being a witch. You should have seen him tell Moran off and face the elders.
I was so proud of him."

  "You've been proud of him since you took him as your dependent. It's a rare witch who's a dependent, you know. My dam was the alpha of our family, and my sire her dependent," Mother said. "He makes you proudest when he's being a witch and standing on his own. Have you told him?"

  Gerry swallowed hard. "The words don't come easy. I become overwhelmed and my tongue mangles what I want to say. To say I love him seems inadequate."

  "You'll find a way, and he'll forgive you. It will all work out fine." Mother stood and walked out of the room, leaving Gerry alone with the metheglin and his misery.

  ***

  Ghost read more of the entries from Information while the carriage hurtled north. The red dot moved closer to the end point, and Ghost judged he would arrive at the station well before high sun tomorrow. Ghost yawned and found himself ridiculously tired from doing nothing, far more tired than dealing with the sick would have left him.

  Finally, Ghost closed Information and put away his formulary and pen. The bed was cool, and he took a moment to shift the pillows around and give himself the illusion of being home. He didn't bother to lower the lighting in the carriage. Darkness would not have helped him relax, and he felt safer when he could see.

  The carriage lurched, and Ghost woke as he was jostled in his nest of pillows. The lighting grew dim, the panels as black as could be. He wondered if the carriage had not been fed enough. Maybe the path the carriage followed was blocked or damaged. Another lurch jolted him, stronger than before, and a high-pitched whine filled his ears briefly. The carriage settled back down and the lighting grew brighter again, but Ghost couldn't relax. He huddled back under the blankets until he grew too restless.

  Ghost climbed out of the bed and called up the map. The red dot had veered off the line, but the position was far closer to the end point than he had expected. He didn't want to know how the new path had been implemented.

  Ghost cleaned the cabin and checked his pouches. He barely noticed the porridge he ate for breakfast, too busy watching the red dot close on the station.

  The carriage hummed and slowed down. Ghost's stomach fluttered, and he reached for the water skin to take a drink. The lighting dimmed for a moment, and a panel shifted to display a message.

  "Arrival at terminal station eight imminent," Ghost read aloud. "Prepare to disembark." He frowned as he tried to decide what "disembark" could mean. He grabbed his pouches and water skin and slung his cloak over his shoulders. The carriage came to a halt and the door slid open.

  "Welcome to terminal station eight." Ghost heard the same voice from the station back in the Heartlands. He stepped through the door with alacrity, not willing to take any chances with this "disembark" thing.

  Frost rimed the walls of the station, and Ghost's boots crunched over the thin crust of ice covering the floor. He drew his cloak tighter around him. The lights flickered in places, but most of this station was shadowed and dim.

  Information had been unable to provide any reliable clues about the Northlands, since the lands had changed since the entries had been written. The map still showed the East Marches as solid land, after all, and Ghost knew they were only islands. But the lack of data meant he had no idea what would await him outside the station. He didn't know if a Norther equivalent to sind or an even bigger predator lurked in the frozen wastes. Not as though it would matter, if Ghost was being honest with himself. He needed to find the Witch and her potential vaccine.

  Because the voice of this station was the same, Ghost took a chance in assuming the design of the station would be similar as well. He guessed he was in a substation and needed to find his way to the main station to locate an exit. He proceeded with caution, listening to the echo of his steps as he entered the cavern of the main station, the openings of other substations black maws on the icy walls.

  Ghost marveled at the spines of ice hanging from the ceiling. They were as deadly as they were beautiful, and he stayed as close to the wall as possible while crossing the main station. The exit would be across from the substations, if the pattern held true. If not, hugging the walls would lead him to an exit sooner or later.

  Despite the warmth of his cloak, Ghost could still feel a chill as he made his careful way around the perimeter of the room. He almost missed the corridor to the exit, so absorbed was he in watching the faint light playing on the icicles above. Only a puff of colder air alerted him, and he turned to peer into the corridor.

  The bitter cold must have broken the lights, because the corridor was not lit at all. Ghost reached out to touch the wall, his fingers not quite skimming the frigid surface, and he shivered at even such a slight contact. He stopped to grope in his pouch for the leather mitts Gerry had made, lined with the thinner belly fur of the sind.

  The time needed to transit the station seemed greater here, but at long last, his foot bumped the first step. Climbing upward in total darkness was disconcerting, and Ghost found himself straining to hear any sounds. He could smell nothing beyond the sharp bite of the frigid air. The air grew colder as Ghost climbed, and the chill penetrated his boots. The stairs took longer to navigate than in the first station, although it could have been the darkness altering his perceptions.

  Ghost found the door by walking into it. His mitt brushed over a raised area, and a groaning sound accompanied a dazzling line of light as the door opened. Icy crystals sparkled in the gust of air that blew inward.

  His first impression was whiteness. Unrelieved, stark whiteness. Ghost's eyes teared as the light flooded them after so long in darkness. He ducked his head, tugging his hood farther forward to shield his eyes, one mitted hand shading them as the tears froze to his lashes.

  "Oh, Seeker," Ghost murmured. He took a few faltering steps, not wanting to remain in the door in case it closed again. He had never felt such biting cold, and he pulled his cloak tightly around himself, grateful for the thick leathers he wore under the heavy fur. He let his eyes adjust to the brightness, blinking a few times to clear away the bits of ice from his lashes.

  At least the wind was slight. He had enough to do just trying to breathe without his lungs aching. He remembered a rare, bitter-cold winter in his youth when the Witch had told him to breathe through his nose to warm the air. He tried her advice now, and the air was not so biting when it reached his lungs.

  Ghost's heart sank when he took in the landscape, if it could be called such. The snow was pristine, the surface unmarred by so much as a footprint, and the ice shone like glass. Even the sky was white, with sullen streaks of pale gray hinting at heavier weather on the horizon.

  Ghost pushed past his worries and concerns. He sought the trace of the Witch in his witchmark and focused all his will, but her presence remained elusive.

  "Seeker, Witch, stop blocking me," Ghost muttered. Standing still was an effort in this cold, and he shivered. "I need to find shelter."

  Ghost didn't suppose this station would be anywhere closer to a village than the station where he’d begun his journey. The ancient places were shunned by most sane people, witches and rangers being less sane than most. He supposed Northers were by definition at least as crazy as witches. Living in such a stark and unforgiving place was surely crazy. He began to walk in the direction most likely to lead away from the station, finding a vague sort of path in the unbroken white of the landscape.

  As he walked, Ghost noticed he was getting a stronger sense of the Witch's presence. A subtle increase, but enough to register. He let the faint link guide him as he searched for the stones with the witchmarks he remembered from his vision. But if they were there, the snow and ice had covered them.

  The snow got heavier as Ghost walked along, but he didn't pay any attention at first. In another moon or so, there would be snow in the Heartlands as well, and the snowfall didn't trigger an alarm in Ghost right away. When he realized he couldn't see more than an arm's length in front of himself, he grew concerned. The wind was rising, and the icy flakes blew under his hood to sting his face. He
stumbled over something uneven beneath his feet. Wandering in a storm was far too dangerous. Shelter was now a necessity.

  From somewhere long forgotten, Ghost remembered reading about digging a hole in the snow and using the hollow as a way to hold in the heat. He had also heard from Gerry about sind doing the same thing. Gerry had said you would see the small hole in a mound of snow, and if you listened, you could hear the sind breathing and see little puffs of fog rising from the hole. When you stopped seeing the puffs, you had to worry, because the sind was awake and had heard you.

  The idea of being some predator's dinner was unappealing, but so was freezing to death. Ghost could barely feel his feet, and the snow was getting heavier by the moment. He stumbled again, putting out his hand to lean on the rock face he had been walking beside. His hand slid off and went past the face almost the length of his arm before making contact with more rock.

  "A recess," Ghost muttered to himself. "This can work."

  Ghost stepped into the indentation in the rock face, nodding in satisfaction when the angle deflected the wind. He crouched down, trying to build up a wall of snow to block off the recess as much as possible. His mitts made him clumsy, and the wind pushed at his construction, but he persevered until he had built up the snow as high as his chest.

  Ghost could still feel the Witch's presence, and he did his best to reach out along the thread to provoke contact. She remained silent, but the sense of her was stronger than ever. He recalled the cloak of white fur she wore in his vision. She felt the same now, both welcoming and unfamiliar at the same time. He drew his own cloak around him a little tighter, the hood falling over his eyes for a moment as he settled in to wait out the snow.

  Crouched down in his impromptu shelter, Ghost felt fatigue creeping over him. All he wanted was to rest for a bit, even though he knew it was far too dangerous to sleep. He would reach out to the Witch and use the effort to keep himself alert. And after he had rested for a little while, he would see if the snow had eased and he could continue onward.