Whisper of Waves

33

18 Kythorn, the Year of the Helm (1362 DR)

FOURTH QUARTER, INNARLITH

Every part of Fharaud’s body had become unreliable. His vision, for instance, would be fine one day, then slowly blur, then start to return to normal, then everything would go dark. When he was blind it was difficult for him to tell if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead. Sometimes he could hear people shuffling around his room and when he tried to call out, the words wouldn’t form on his useless tongue. Sometimes he managed a pained, animalistic grunt or a kind of ragged roar, and sometimes he could speak perfectly. Once his vision became so acute he spent an afternoon examining every detail of the wings of a fly that had lit on the ceiling above his bed.

He slept for long stretches of time and awakened for long stretches of time or slept for a moment or two then awakened for a moment or two.

On more than one occasion he climbed from a deep sleep to find that he’d soiled himself and his bed. Once he awakened feeling damp and warm as if fresh from a bath he had no recollection of taking. If there was food waiting for him when he awoke he ate. If there was water he drank. Sometimes he was naked, sometimes he was wearing a dressing gown, sometimes a tunic but no pants, and he never remembered dressing himself.

The face he saw in his room most often belonged to Devorast and on rare occasions they would speak.

On that warm day that might have been the first day of summer, Fharaud watched Devorast prepare something in a dented pot in the little fireplace. It smelled like soup.

“Something bad,” Fharaud said to Devorast’s back.

His former apprentice turned to face him and Fharaud could see by the look in his eyes that Devorast didn’t understand, wouldn’t understand, and only pitied him.

I’m babbling, he tried to say, but his lips wouldn’t open.

“Rest,” Devorast said. “We’ll eat soon.”

Fharaud had to say, “Bad things,” then repeat, “Bad things.”

Devorast went back to his soup and Fharaud let his weak neck turn his head back up to the ceiling.

He’d never seen words there before, though at first it looked like his own handwriting. Even as he puzzled over how the message had gotten onto the ceiling, who had written it-and it couldn’t have been Devorast-he read it aloud: “The master tells the revenant that he’ll have his chance to kill you soon, but he wants you to finish it first. He wants him to go back to being a second-rate human before he’ll allow him to be a first-rate monster.”

As his rough, phlegmy voice faded, so did the writing. With a few blinks of the eye it was gone as if it had never been there, because it really had never been there.

“Will you be able to eat?” Devorast asked.

Fharaud closed his eyes and though he didn’t feel as though he’d fallen asleep, he started to dream. He saw the girl-the beautiful girl-and the things that lived inside her.

“The serpent girl,” he tried to shout, but instead whispered.

“It’s all right, old man,” Devorast said, and Fharaud felt a hand on his shoulder.

He opened his eyes, but couldn’t see.

“I’m blind again,” he said.

“I know,” said Devorast, but how could he?

How could he know?

“There are things I have to tell you,” Fharaud said, “but I don’t know why, and I don’t know how.”

He felt a spoon touch his bottom lip and despite wanting to talk he sipped the warm soup. It was salty and good and as he swallowed it made red and purple flashes of light dance in the black void of his lost sight. He read aloud the message contained in that light.

“The girl who hears the whispers of the dead …” Fharaud said.

“What about her?” Devorast asked.

He was humoring him. Fharaud could hear it in his voice.

“You think I’m mad,” he said. “Black firedrakes.”

“No,” Devorast lied. “Eat a little more, then rest.”

Devorast fed him some more soup while Fharaud cried then sat with him in silence until he fell asleep.