“Patrick, how do I look to you?” Preston asked him. “Am I myself or someone else?”
“You’re you,” Patrick said, shaking. “Ugly as sin, but you.”
“Good.”
“Was I asleep this time?”
The man ground his teeth together and grimaced. “Not exactly. Tell me. . what do you remember before your delusion?”
Patrick breathed deeply, trying to gather his thoughts, but nothing would come to him. All he saw was Nessa’s decaying flesh; all he heard was her voice, her pointed questions. .
“Nothing,” he said. “Last I remember, you were helping me into the shack after I collapsed.”
“That was two days ago,” said Preston. “You’ve been in here ever since.”
“I have?”
Preston nodded. “You were rife with fever. Ryann and Joff took turns wetting you down.”
“I thought you said I wasn’t sleeping.”
“You weren’t. You awoke after we returned from supping with the others. You seemed in good spirits. You told us about the time you took your sister to the delta and ran across the bandits attacking Crian Crestwell’s wagon, the day he handed you your sword.”
“I don’t remember any of that,” Patrick said in disgust. “What happened after?”
“You just. . drifted away. Began mumbling, but your eyes were open. An hour ago you started thrashing, and I tried to restrain you, but you shoved me off. Then you started asking me nonsense about hidden gates. What is it that you remember?”
Patrick frowned, straining his memory. To have been out for so long, surely he’d dreamed many dreams, but it had gone by so quickly.
“I was being chased,” he said. “By Nessa’s spirit again. She asked me about a hidden gate.” He looked at Preston gravely. “This isn’t random, Preston. This isn’t my subconscious or guilt haunting me.”
“No?”
He shook his head vehemently, rapping his forehead with his knuckles. “Something is. . in here, damn it. Something, someone, I don’t know who or how, but Ahaesarus was wrong, he had to have been wrong. . ”
Little Flick stepped forward. “Mister Patrick? Are you gonna be all right?”
“Shut it, you halfwit,” snapped his brother Big Flick. He yanked the large youth backward. “Leave the man be!”
“Enough, both of you!” Preston roared before turning back to Patrick. “These delusions have gone on for weeks. You need to speak with Ashhur. I’ll go to him if you won’t.”
“Um,” said Tristan with a frown, “I think that might not be possible. The god organized some big deal for tonight. Something about the bodies in the nook. He’ll be busy.”
“Then we interrupt him,” snapped Preston. “This is more important than corpses, I’d say.”
Patrick watched the conversation, his mind wavering once more. “We might not have to. I know of. . of someone. . who might. . be of. . Az. . Az will. . go away!”
Nessa stepped out from behind Preston, grinning her skeletal grin. Preston grinned along with her. Patrick’s vision began to swim. Not real, not real! Get out of my head! But his brain reacted on its instinctual fear. His fist lashed out, catching Preston square in the face. The man fell backward, clutching at his nose as blood seeped between his fingers. Patrick rolled to the side, avoiding his sister’s ghost when she lunged for him. His fingers found Winterbone’s handle, the sword resting beside his bedroll. He yanked the blade from its sheath, shrieking as if a demon infested his soul. Stop it, stop it! his mind screamed, but he couldn’t control his actions. It felt like he was being compressed, driven into himself by some potent outer force. His vision slowly darkened.
At last! an ethereal voice proclaimed inside his skull.
He felt his body turn, and he sensed words on his lips. It’s all right, his mouth was about to say, words his brain didn’t believe, but the Turncloaks were on him before he could make a sound. They shoved him to the ground while he thrashed, Patrick cuffing Preston’s son Ragnar on the side of the head and kicking Joff Goldenrod in the groin. In payment for that, Big Flick clouted his misshapen jaw.
Stars filled his vision, and Patrick felt his eyes roll into the back of his head.
There was murmuring above him, but he could see nothing but blackness. Inside that blackness lurked Nessa. He clutched Winterbone tightly to his chest, like a lifeline. Why was he holding it so tightly? He bit down hard on his tongue, trying to force himself back to reality. It worked, at least a little. He chanced opening his eyelids just a tad and saw Preston kneeling opposite him, blood trickling over his lips and drenching his gray beard. Patrick rose up on his elbows. Every inch of him felt tight yet dulled, as if he were a guest in his own body. I know you’re in there, you bastard, he told the invader in his head. No one answered, but he felt the presence nonetheless. It was wary now. Patrick sat up with a grunt, his world wavering. It took a great effort to stand. His knees felt stiff, unresponsive. It took an even greater effort to lurch toward the wall and snatch Winterbone’s sheath. He shoved the sword inside, shaking all the while, and held the scabbard out to Little Flick. The large young soldier hesitated for a moment, then took it from him before handing the blade to Preston.
The whole time, the other Turncloaks watched him in silence.
“What do we do?” Joffrey finally asked.
“Take me to Azariah,” Patrick said, meeting Preston’s worried gaze. “Fucking carry me if you have to.”
Everything was a daze as Patrick’s friends guided him through the cold night. It was everything he could do to stay upright on his horse, Big and Little Flick riding on either side of him in case he fell over.
There was pressure behind his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. You won’t see, he told the invader in his head. I won’t let you. Eventually the pressure relented, and he allowed himself to look at his surroundings once more. Even the darkness seemed much too dark, and he caught a flash of red in the distance, dashing through the black.
Not this time. Not. . this. . time.
Preston led the group up Manse DuTaureau’s high hill, and the Flicks helped Patrick out of the saddle once they reached the top. The two large boys supported him on either side, nearly carrying him through the front doors after Preston opened them. The rest of the Turncloaks followed behind them in silence. Patrick could almost feel their concern.
“Azariah!” Preston bellowed as they walked through the manse. The old soldier had Winterbone balanced across his arms, and Patrick eyed the sword greedily. “Azariah, come quickly! You’re needed!”
Patrick heard a few people yelp from somewhere deep in the manse, obviously surprised by the sudden intrusion at such a late hour. Patrick hoped his other sisters had the good sense to stay in their rooms. In no way did he want them to see him in such a state.
Finally, the short Warden appeared as they approached the makeshift throne room at the far end of the manse. Azariah stood watching them, a look of bemusement on his face, the white robes that he now always wore draped around him. Patrick eyed him weakly, feeling drunk, his head bobbing from side to side.
“What happened?” Azariah asked.
“I. . we’re not sure,” said Preston. “Patrick wants you to look him over.”
Azariah leaned over Patrick, hesitated a moment, and then stepped back, eyes widening. “Quickly, bring him inside.”
The Flicks lugged him through the doors and set him down on the slab upon which Ashhur had once been laid. The Turncloaks stepped back as Azariah went to work, checking Patrick’s pulse, feeling his neck. The Warden’s lips twisted into a grimace. Patrick felt a wave of hatred rising up in him, followed by a desperate desire to kill Azariah where he stood.