Book 3 - Page 53 (2/2)
I dreamed of Death, reliving a memory of his from when he’d been close to my age. Was this one of the visions Matthew had wanted to give me before it was too late?
The scene was night, the wind whipping off the Baltic in a frenzied summer storm. Aric was returning from an errand of some kind.
As I ride past familiar rune stones, my stallion’s hooves pound the ground, rivaling the G.o.ds’ thunder.
The G.o.ds that have cursed our settlement with sickness.
Were they angered by the lavish festivities my family held two days ago? Is the House of Domīnija guilty of hubris?
Though I want to follow this line of reasoning, to deduce a cause, my thoughts are too chaotic. Some malady has befallen me as well. Yet instead of suffering like the others in the village, I feel strong.
Stronger than I ever have.
Earlier, I crushed a rock in my palm, crushed it to dust. Each day my power and speed escalate. I am nearing some dark precipice, but I know not what.
When I arrive home, I have to conceal my unnatural swiftness, lest a va.s.sal see. I stride along a stone lane to my father’s hall. Just beyond the front doorway, I find him pacing, awaiting my arrival. “Did you employ the physic?” he asks.
Aric’s father is a towering blond man with broad shoulders. Though his eyes are ice-blue to Aric’s amber, there is a distinct resemblance to his son. I understand their language as if it were my own; Matthew must’ve bridged this vision for me.
“He is already tending the sick.” How can my father look a decade older than he did just yesterday? “I took him directly there.”
“Good, good,” Father says, his mind distracted. “I’ll return anon.”
“But you’re exhausted. You need to stay strong for Mother. Is she resting?”
He nods. “I insisted upon it.”
“This can’t be easy on her.” Many of those who visited our hall were stricken, their daughters especially. “I shall return in your stead.”
His forehead creases. “But if something happened to you . . . if you were beset . . . I couldn’t bear it.”
“I’ve never been sick a day in my life. I’ve made my decision not to start now.”
With that hint of a grin, Father looks more himself. It’s been strange not to hear his laughter in our hall, a welcome accompaniment to Mother’s.
I put my hand on his shoulder, holding his gaze. “Mark my words, we will get through this.”
His blue eyes glint. “Have I told you how proud I am to be your father?”
I cast him a feigned look of grievance. “Daily. Since memory. It’s ingrained in me, as if carved into a rune stone.”
“But not yet today.” Father clasps his hand over mine. “Son, I’m so proud . . .” He trails off with a frown.
“Father?”
His gaze widens, his skin paling. When his expression grows agonized, panic grips my chest. “What’s happening?” I lay my palm on his cheek; angry black lines begin to branch out over his face.
Like those of the afflicted villagers.
“S-son?” Suddenly his fists clench, his muscles seizing.
“What is this, Father?” I enfold his convulsing form in my arms, easing him to the ground. “What is happening?” As I gaze down at him, a beatific light spills upon his anguished countenance. It shutters . . . when I blink? “Tell me how to help you!” I beg him, “Please, please tell me!”
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