Shadowlands (54 page)

Not his hand, not his hand.
The words kept racing through my brain in relief. At first I didn’t see anything at all, and then I noticed something that looked like a sausage, and my hands came up again, this time to cover my mouth.

His finger. Ice Tor had chopped off the pinkie finger of his left hand. There was very little blood, though I don’t know what I was comparing it to, since I’d never seen anyone chop off a finger before.

“It is a
gra’if
tool.” Ice Tor’s voice was so calm that my escaping
breath came out in a giggle. Both of them immediately looked at me with concern on their faces, and I clamped my hands tighter. “It will heal quickly. See?” He held out his hand and I couldn’t look away, even though I desperately wanted to. He was right, though, the wound was already shut, scar tissue had grown over it, and was already fading to a pale color.

“Chimera guide me,” Wolf breathed next to me.

“So this would be why so little
gra’if
is made? And borne by so few people?” I said.

“Something like this, yes.” The Dwarf’s voice was gentle.

I thought of Alejandro’s sword, and Wolf’s. I thought of Cassandra, in her
gra’if
mail gloves, with their tiny scales, the shirt that showed in the neck of her top, and the torque around her neck. I shivered. “But people don’t lose their, their body parts to make
gra’if
,” I protested. “At least…do they?”

“It is usually blood,” Wolf said, his voice sounding stronger now.

“The
gra’if
uses blood, of course, and not body parts. Nor is there any guarantee that there will be regrowth of the blood while, for this, a Healer could put me right if I require it.”

“And that is why many do not survive the process of making
gra’if
.” Wolf wasn’t asking.

“That is why, Younger Brother. Not,” he turned to me, “as many believe, because we Solitaries are not to be trusted. There is no way to know who will survive the process until it has begun.”

“Truthsheart.” Wolf’s words were just a whisper.

“Sword of Truth, High Prince of the Lands and the People, bears more
gra’if
than any other living Rider.” Ice Tor shrugged. “She is High Prince.”

“But she had the
gra’if
already, when she went to be Warden of the Exile, she has borne the
gra’if
since then.”

“She is High Prince,” the Dwarf repeated.

Wolf looked at him quietly, steadily, before finally smiling. He got down off his stool and took the two steps that put him right against the edge of the table. It was far too tall if he’d been wanting to use it as a worktable, but it was just the right height for him to rest his bent arm comfortably along the flat surface. He could have been leaning on one of those little serving ledges that go along the walls of pubs, at the right height to hold your pint or your elbow.

I slipped off my own stool to stand beside him. I started to slip my arm around him, to comfort and support him, but he shied away.

“No, Valory, no.” He smiled and there was gratitude in his eyes. “You cannot. Think what you might see, what you might feel.”

I licked my lips. “If you need me—”

“No, you cannot. Please.”

I’m ashamed to say I was mostly relieved by Wolf’s decision. I’d thought I was pretty brave, but evidently there was a limit to my courage.

“There are Healers,” Wolf said. “The High Prince, for one.” But whether he was telling me or himself, I couldn’t say. When he smiled again, I managed to smile back.

Ice Tor put his own hand down on Wolf’s wrist. I couldn’t help noticing that it was the same hand that was now missing a finger. I took a deep breath to steady myself, but I’m afraid my eyes were shut when the blade came down.

When I opened them again, Wolf was cradling his injured left hand in his right, but I could see that the scar was already forming, and that his face was not set in an expression of pain. Ice Tor was hunched over the mortar, pounding away with the pestle. I expected to be totally horrified, but the sound was not at all what I anticipated. There was nothing soft or liquid about it, rather it was as if he was grinding nuts or hard spices.

He stopped the grinding motion, peering into the mortar, his gray brows drawn down in a vee, and his pursed lips lost in his beard. He looked over at Wolf, at me, and then at Wolf again.

“It is not enough, the elements are too few.”

Then they were both looking at me.

“No,” Wolf said. But his ash-gray eyes said something different.

“Wait,” I started to say, but no sound came out of my mouth. I licked my lips and cleared my throat. Yeah, I was real brave. “I’m not one of the People,” I said. “I’ve got no magic. My
dra’aj…”

They were still looking at me.

“You are a Truthreader,” Wolf said. “And you have more
dra’aj
than the usual human. Perhaps even the fact that you are human is significant.” I was grateful for his matter-of-fact tone. He was stating facts, not trying to convince me.

“The number of the elements can be as important as their nature,”
Ice Tor said. He gestured at the mortar. “We simply do not have sufficient diversity.”

“And for sure it would work? If you add something from me?”

Now he looked sad. “Your gift must be voluntary, so I will not lie to you. I cannot be sure, no, but what is our alternative?” He looked at me with his head tilted. “You need not fear us.”

“And you would be Healed,” Wolf said. To be fair, I’m sure he believed it.

But would I? Even Cassandra hadn’t been able to cure my motion sickness, what guarantee did I have that she could regrow my finger? Maybe it wasn’t the same thing, but did I want to take the chance? Even Wolf had been reluctant, and he had much better reason to believe he could be Healed. I looked from one to the other, their identically injured hands reminding me of a Japanese man who’d once had dealings with the Collector. He’d been missing a pinkie finger. A matter of honor.

I shut my eyes tight, giving myself a mental shake.
Come on,
I said to myself.
Grow a spine.
Was I really, even for a minute, thinking about refusing? When I thought about what was at stake—Wolf and the Outsiders, the whole world if what I’d read from Fox was true…

I put my arm on the table.

Wolf was not surprised when Valory fainted as her finger was taken. She had been very ill indeed during the Ride which had brought them here.

When Ice Tor had braced his hand on Valory’s wrist, the girl’s face had taken on that look of concentration that it assumed when she was reading the truth about something. The touching could not be helped, the Dwarf had to be sure that Valory did not flinch—and who knew? Perhaps the distraction had been beneficial. If nothing else, the touch would have reassured her that the Solitary was not in any way trying to trick them.

The finger once in the mortar, Wolf picked Valory up in his arms and carried her to a settle Ice Tor showed him against the wall near the banked fires of the forge. For a moment he stood, cradling the girl in his arms. This was the first time he had truly been able to hold her, and would perhaps be the last, her gift made her so shy of being touched. He breathed in deeply. What if he did not put her down?
Would this moment last forever? She would be in his arms, and her vanilla scent would fill his nostrils, and there would be no Hunt, and no brother and no Horn.

But there would be a Horn. Valory had given a piece of herself for it. To brave her illness was one thing, but Wolf had seen true fear in her face when she had offered Ice Tor her hand. He laid her carefully on the settle.

“I must get her home, to the Shadowlands, as quickly as I can,” Wolf said. He sat on the edge of the settle and touched Valory’s cheek with the back of his fingers. She seemed somehow less fragile to him now.

Ice Tor breathed into the mortar before looking up. “You will not take her for Healing?”

Wolf shook her head. “It is the Lands themselves that weaken her so.”

“You will use the Horn there? In the Shadowlands?”

Wolf hesitated. He could take the Horn to the High Prince, of course. Draw the Hunt away from the Shadowlands entirely. But that is not what they planned. He could not be sure that if the Horn were used in the Lands, even by the High Prince herself, he would have his chance to save his old Pack. Foxblood. The voices of many, if not all, would be raised against them. And what of the tale the Dwarf told? That the Hunt might not be killed, but sent away, to suffer the torments of their hunger where they could cause no harm?

Once he was there, in the Shadowlands, he would call them, his old Pack, his brother. And he would be able to save them, all of them. But especially Fox.

Taking care not to disturb Valory, Wolf edged around to watch Ice Tor. There was now a light coming from the interior of the mortar, as if the contents were glowing. The mortar itself had altered slightly in shape, its rounded bottom now coming to a point. Just as Wolf was wondering how he planned to set it back on the table, the Dwarf turned to the forge fire, and pushed the mortar down into it.

“It must heat of itself a short while,” Ice Tor said. “Then we shall see.” He drew up a short, three-legged stool and sat upon it.

“Younger Brother,” he said. “I saw you hesitate, what gave you the courage to give me your hand?”

Wolf glanced down at Valory. The girl had turned on her side, her injured hand curled half-closed, and sheltered in her good hand.

“I was with the Prince Guardian when he faced the Basilisk Prince,” Wolf said. He inspected his hand. “Having seen what he gave? Even if it does not grow back, this is nothing.”

“What gave
her
the courage?” Ice Tor nodded his head at the human girl.

“We must ask her when she awakes.”

“This is it.” Nik looked up at the familiar building. “This is where they were holding Wai-kwong.”

“Why? What is this place?” Alejandro took a step back to get a better sight line on the top of the building.

Nik found himself smiling. “Maple Leaf Gardens.” Alejandro looked at him with his eyebrows raised. “They used to play professional hockey here, hold concerts, that kind of thing. They’ve been working on it for a while, converting it to other uses, though I’m not sure exactly what.”

Alejandro looked at Nik. “How does one enter?”

Nik tapped his upper lip with his tongue. “Let’s try something.” He set off up Church Street and Alejandro followed. When they were almost at the corner of Wood, Nik stopped in front of an overhead door, large enough to allow the entrance of just about any size of equipment. A movement across the intersection caught his eye, and he waved at Yves, standing outside the Hair of the Dog, holding the heavy door for Wai-Kwong. They were all traveling in pairs now. Yves signaled, and Nik nodded back.

“No sign of Hawk inside,” he said, turning back to the construction doorway. “This is the entrance people have been using lately—workmen, trucks, and that kind of thing.” He glanced at his watch. “Though the workers are likely long gone by now.” And didn’t that give him an unpleasant thought. “If the Hunt’s been living here, I wonder what the suicide rate is among the workers? There’ve been no reports.”

“It is possible that they have been left unmolested,” Alejandro said. “Most beasts will not feed too close to their dens.”

There was a padlock on the overhead door, the kind that was fastened to
the door itself and had a number pad rather than a keyhole. Alejandro took the box in the fingers of both hands and simply snapped it off. Nik felt his mouth go dry.
On my side,
he reminded himself.
Friend.
He put his hand on the Rider’s arm.

“There might be some kind of security cameras inside,” he said. “Motion detectors or something.”

But Alejandro was shaking his head. “I would wager they have been turned off, though no one will have told the insurance company. The coming and going of the Hunt will have set the alarms off constantly. If the dogs are always barking, one stops paying attention.”

Even so, Nik noticed that Alejandro lifted the door only far enough to let them duck under it and closed it again behind them. Nik had expected the place to be dark, but not only did some of the daylight filter in from openings high up on the walls, lights had been left on inside. The Rider’s sword, which had looked like a walking stick as they were standing outside, became a sword again. Nik couldn’t be sure, but he thought it had a faint glow to it as well.

Near the entrance the place looked like any major construction site—piles of materials, everything from concrete blocks to bags of cement to sand and lumber—and those were just the things Nik recognized. There was also the kind of equipment you usually associated with the outdoors: a crane, a scissor lift, a backhoe. Farther away, deeper into the building, there were piles of debris, rubble, and chunks of concrete, some as large as cars.

Nik looked up and gasped. He’d been in the Gardens dozens, perhaps hundreds of times in his life, and he had never, ever realized just how vast the interior space was. Almost all the interior walls had gone, though he could see where some of the offices—and even the concrete bases for the raked seating—still clung to the ceiling, six stories up. Funny, when he’d been sitting up there in the nosebleeds, as Torontonians called those seats, he hadn’t really thought about how high up he’d been.