13 Ash, 121
Rivin murmured in his sleep, trying to warn his diminutive younger form to go back, return the book, say it had been a mistake. He wasn't sure what Ilex would have done had he made up some lie, said he'd wanted to know what the book felt like, and then forgotten he'd been holding it or some other such childlike tale. But he knew it wouldn't have been what had happened in reality. Even if it had earned him some sort of punishment, it wouldn't have been so devastating a thing. When he was in a very rational place, Rivin thought that, without the traumatic experience, he might not have become the person he was now; might not be a cautious, as enduring. There had been other incidents, plenty of them, but none quite like the first.
The dream marched on through his memories, giving them back to him in exacting detail, a gift he did not want. Riving began to twitch, in his sleep; a muted writhing, as he was dragged ever onward.
~~~~
The small parade of two, Rivin and his guard, were halfway back to his room before he remembered what he had done. His eyes went wide and he nearly stumbled, thankfully the guard was so used to him obeying (neither Rivin nor his mother had ever disobeyed or showed belligerence of any kind) that he walked in front and didn't notice. The boy had straightened out his thoughts and his face before he got back, so when his mother rose from where she'd been sitting and asked, casually, how things had gone he'd been able to answer her just as casually. He was learning that the nonchalance with which she approached almost everything was how she kept her power, and how she expected him to act as well.
Rivin did his best, but he had not yet mastered the art, effortlessly, as she had. He was young, not yet seven. It occurred to him, in that moment, that his mother had an age. She had been born, had lived as he did. It didn't quite feel like a question he shouldn't ask, but it felt like one that should be asked at a time more right than the simple moment of their greeting. Moving over to sit on his own bed he told her what had happened, leaving out his taking of the book. She nodded at the end, as though it were nothing but what she had expected, and told him she was going to take a nap. This suited him well, for he had realized, as he'd been telling her of the examination, that there was almost no time, except at night when it was dark, that he might take the book out and read it that she would not see.
Once she was fully under he reached back and took the book from the waist of his flowing trousers and held it. That was all, for several long minutes; he held it and felt the textured black leather under his hands. Then, moving to the opposite side of his bed so that it was between himself and her sleeping form, he opened it. The letters were different from the large, obviously shaped ones that his mother and he drew with water on the table. They were slanted and sometimes curled, also small and written with something sharp so the lines were very thin. They were also black, on white sheets as thin as the clothing he wore in Searing. Rivin wondered what was used to make the words black. Perhaps soot or burned wood. A broken piece might be sharp, might be able to draw the letters. He thought he might try with the wick of a burned down candle the next time they had one. It would not be sharp like burned wood, but, so far, there had been no fires in the room he shared with his mother. If it kept getting colder, maybe they would get to have a brazier in their room. They had been brought one sometimes, in the cells. Rivin now realize it had probably been in the coldest season, though all days had seemed the same in the cells, some had been colder than others, or warmer.
The thoughts fell away as his mind adjusted to the new script and he began to read. They were notes, not like the ones he thought the doctor must have written when he'd asked the questions, but stranger ones. Rivin did not know a good many of the words, even sounding them out silently to himself until he could pronounce them did not give him their meaning. Other words he knew but did not understand how they fit into the writing. It wasn't a story, nor a list, nor an explanation. As he read on his mind started to wrap around the idea of what type of thing it was. It was a set of ideas of what might be, suggestions on how the ideas might be tested, and, later in the book, the results of the tests. When he finally understood this, the thrill was back. This was information that could be useful to him. He could find out about the tests, study them, learn how to pass them.
His mother stirred and he jumped, thankful for the bed between them. Slipping the book just under the mattress on his bed he rolled under the frame and wiggled about until he could peek out from under it up at her as she woke. He had done this, now and then, playfully, before, so, when she saw him, she had smiled her small playful smile. The little chase and tickle game that had followed had eased any tension from him over what he had done, and what it might mean. Supper came and they shared it, as always, on the floor. They slept and woke, ate again, did morning exercise and afternoon reading. Rivin almost slipped up and spelled out one of the new words he'd read from the book. His mother had asked where he'd learned the work from and the lie came so quickly to his mouth that it didn't feel like he'd even thought it before he was hearing it in his own voice. He'd heard the doctor say the word at the exam, he told her, and then asked her what it meant. She had watched him as he spoke, but then read the word and told him that it was a way to make solid things into liquid. She did not sound sure of the answer, but she did not seem to have detected traces of his lie either. He accepted her answer, which did surprise her, as he rarely did when she wasn't detailed enough. But the lesson went on until it was over. They played and ate and slept again.
The next morning started as the previous had, and many before that, with food and working their bodies. But, before the midday meal had come a guard came. He did not bring them anything or ask them to come out. Instead, when he opened the door, another guard came in and began going through the room. Rivin's mother took him by the shoulders and pulled him into a corner so they took up as little space as possible. The guard looked in their chests and the wash table's drawer, in the pitcher, and under the beds. The quiet, sneaky feeling that had been slumbering in Rivin's belly since he'd been examined woke and turned instantly to cold fear and nausea. They were looking for the book.
When his pillows and covers were tossed off his bed he tensed, and when his mattress was lifted he gave a little cry of dismay and tried to move towards it. There was no thought behind the movement, no plan, only an animal instinct to protect the precious thing he had taken. His mother held him firmly, even as the guard stood back up with the small black volume in his hand. He showed it to the other guard who nodded and they both left.
When the door was locked again his mother turned him about to face her and looked at him. She did not speak. He did not speak. After a time her hands came away from his shoulders and she moved to sit on her bed, cross-legged. Rivin wanted to go to her, to hide under or inside her somehow. He wanted to climb up to the little window and lift the bars out so he could squirm through and get away. He wanted to hide under the bed.
He did none of these things, the first two because he was unable, and the last because it was pointless and would only make him more anxious to wait as if for something bad. The truth was he had no idea what would happen now. The something that informed him when and when not to ask questions was sure that asking her now what was to come would not help him. Either she would tell him and it would be bad, or she would not, and it would be bad.
Letting himself look at her he tried to read the answer on her face, even if he would not ask. Her face was impassive as ever, all but entirely blank; just enough expression not to appear as though no one lived inside her. She was not looking at him, not looking at anything in particular. She had always looked at him, unless she was teaching him something that required her to look elsewhere, or she was trying to sleep. So used was the boy to her eyes on him the lack left him feeling naked, stripped of some ethereal protection he hadn't noticed till it was gone.
The midday meal did not come. Time moved around them, Rivin just standing where she had left him until his feet got tired and he went to sit on his bed. Before the last meal was supposed to come the door opened again and the guard told him he was to come. Rivin looked to his mother, but she did not look at him, or the guard, or anything. Standing up on legs that he thought would shake, even though they did not, Rivin walked towards the guard and out the door.
The walk felt instant, like the first step he took outside his room was the same one that took him into the exam room. Ilex was there, but there were no trays of instruments, everything was clean, white, and stark. It made the room seem darker, or maybe that was just the way his blood was pounding hard enough to cast shadows at the edges of his vision. Ilex pointed to a spot on the floor and the guard took Rivin to the spot. The doctor held out the little leather volume.
"Did you take this?" His voice was calm but there was an edge to it, sharp like the shine off the scalpel he had explained the use of. Rivin nodded, finding his throat very dry.
"Why?" The question was simple and, after swallowing hard, the boy answered,
"I wanted to read."
The doctor's surprise briefly overwhelmed his anger and he said, as if without thinking,
"Can you read?"
Rivin nodded again. Ilex stepped forward, opening the book to a random page and holding it open in one large hand where it had taken both of Rivin's to do so.
"Read it to me." The human instructed, curiosity and anger lacing together now.
Rivin stepped forward a little, until he could see the tiny letters and began to read. He stumbled over some of the unfamiliar words and had to sound out others, but it was less than a minute before the doctor closed the book again.
"How did you learn?"
"My mother." Rivin answered, never imagining that such things might be forbidden. The doctor nodded, not looking anything but thoughtful for a moment. Then he looked up at the guards. There were three of them, the one who had come to fetch the boy and two others who were had been in the exam room each time he had been brought before. Without inflection Ilex said,
"Beat him."
Rivin's mother had explained to him when he had been quite small, still toddling, that the people who had owned her before the doctor had beaten her sometimes; hit her to make her obey. He had not understood then, and he did not really understand now, but he understood enough. Spinning to look at the guards, his instincts screamed at him to act, thrusting adrenaline out into his veins to ensure he would act. But he didn't know what to do, and they were so big. The guard who always came to fetch him was nearer and took hold of his own, large hand wrapping around it entirely with room to spare. Rivin wanted to try yanking it free but he had never been so precisely aware of his own bones before, of how the man was not holding to his skin and muscle, but to the solidity below them.
The two other guards came close and took him from the first; one caught hold of him just below the wrists, one in each hand, and lifted him till the other could grasp just above his ankles. They stepped back till he was stretched between them, not bowed down and not pulled so hard it hurt, but made into a nearly flat line of person. Rivin couldn't think, all his thoughts had run away, he just looked down at the ground and the feet of the man that held his forearms, trying to remember that he should breathe. He could hear the clink and slide as the third guard removed his belt. Rivin had seen it many times, had even asked his mother what it was for. She had told him it held the man's trousers up, because they were a different kind than the loose ones they both wore.
The meaning of the removal was far beyond the boy in that moment, but there was a menace to it that made him was to be sick again. There were more of the same sorts of sounds, the clink of the buckle and the creak of the leather, then there was a swish. He had just the time it took to puzzle at the new sound before his body bowed a bit under a sudden weight. He had just enough time to be confused before pain reached around the stripe where the weight had landed. His cry was delayed, and small in confusion. But then it happened again. Twisting his neck around he was just able to see two things: The guard reaching back with the belt over his shoulder in preparation to hit him with it again, and Doctor Ilex standing, looking as passive as Rivin's mother ever had.
What followed was indescribable to him, his mind fled and would not try. His body did what it would without regard to any of the thoughts he tried to force through. The leather rose and fell.
At first, each blow hurt more than anything he'd ever experienced, and the third brought his first real scream. They went on, on till his screams stopped being individual responses to each and became a continuous high-pitched wailing that rose in pitch when the belt fell. When his body remembered to cry it became worse, hard to breathe as his mouth and nose filled with a rush of fluid to choke him and gargle as his body kept trying to scream.
When he had been hit everywhere between his shoulders and his knees and the cycle started over his scream became a cough and he couched so hard that all of the phlegm from crying came up and then the little that was left in his stomach from his breakfast. The belt stopped falling until he was breathing again, but then it started back up and he was able to scream without obstruction, though his throat was raw, so he sounded different.
He began flailing with all his might suddenly, as if his body hadn't remembered it was capable of it till that moment. The effort did next to nothing except cause the hands on his arms and legs to tighten and himself to be pulled a little tighter. The lack of response did not stop him and he kept at it until he was too exhausted to anymore. The pain just kept notching up with each pass over his form until he was too dizzy to keep his eyes open. In that space, when every effort of his body had proved useless, his mind came back. Remembering what his mother had told him, that her owners had beaten her to get her to obey, he began babbling. Straining, even though everything hurt, until he could see the doctor, Rivin told him that he wouldn't take anything ever again, that he would be good, he would obey, that he was sorry. Nothing about Ilex's expression or posture changed at all. His face looked exactly as it did when he drew Rivin's blood, mildly interested and calm.
Rivin began to beg. With all the strength left in him, he pleaded, words tumbling over each other and not making sense, hoarse screams coming between them as the fire being set in him increased moment by moment. When he could not speak anymore from the pain, when he could not see from it, even when he opened his eyes, when the last thing he saw was Ilex, as if made of the walls of the house itself; Rivin broke.
There was nothing he could do. All his effort had changed what was happening not at all. He was left too weak to do anything but tremble and cry. It wasn't even the wild sobbing of before, only saltwater and sound leaking out of him as if pressed by the lash. The pain would go on forever and he was nothing before it.
He didn't even hear when the doctor finally told them to stop. Rivin had forgotten they were there, that even the doctor was there, the whole physicality of the situation had faded from his understanding, except the pain. Only it existed, ever-increasing even when he was sure there could be none greater, and him.
It took him time to realize it had stopped, to realize he was no longer held, but lying on his belly on the stones of the floor. He was dazed, barely conscious; it did not occur to him to try to stand, or even move. The hurting was still there, inside with him where he could not escape it, but it wasn't getting worse anymore and he was becoming slowly aware of other things again.
Ilex was talking, but Rivin could not understand, and the guards' voices were rising and falling also. When Rivin was picked up, not gently, but with care not to make him hurt more, and placed lightly over one of the guard's shoulders the sudden change made his eyes open, and seeing again caused him to focus for a moment. He could just see Ilex, and as he was carried out he heard him say,
"If he asks for books, give them to him."
Rivin murmured in his sleep, trying to warn his diminutive younger form to go back, return the book, say it had been a mistake. He wasn't sure what Ilex would have done had he made up some lie, said he'd wanted to know what the book felt like, and then forgotten he'd been holding it or some other such childlike tale. But he knew it wouldn't have been what had happened in reality. Even if it had earned him some sort of punishment, it wouldn't have been so devastating a thing. When he was in a very rational place, Rivin thought that, without the traumatic experience, he might not have become the person he was now; might not be a cautious, as enduring. There had been other incidents, plenty of them, but none quite like the first.
The dream marched on through his memories, giving them back to him in exacting detail, a gift he did not want. Riving began to twitch, in his sleep; a muted writhing, as he was dragged ever onward.
~~~~
The small parade of two, Rivin and his guard, were halfway back to his room before he remembered what he had done. His eyes went wide and he nearly stumbled, thankfully the guard was so used to him obeying (neither Rivin nor his mother had ever disobeyed or showed belligerence of any kind) that he walked in front and didn't notice. The boy had straightened out his thoughts and his face before he got back, so when his mother rose from where she'd been sitting and asked, casually, how things had gone he'd been able to answer her just as casually. He was learning that the nonchalance with which she approached almost everything was how she kept her power, and how she expected him to act as well.
Rivin did his best, but he had not yet mastered the art, effortlessly, as she had. He was young, not yet seven. It occurred to him, in that moment, that his mother had an age. She had been born, had lived as he did. It didn't quite feel like a question he shouldn't ask, but it felt like one that should be asked at a time more right than the simple moment of their greeting. Moving over to sit on his own bed he told her what had happened, leaving out his taking of the book. She nodded at the end, as though it were nothing but what she had expected, and told him she was going to take a nap. This suited him well, for he had realized, as he'd been telling her of the examination, that there was almost no time, except at night when it was dark, that he might take the book out and read it that she would not see.
Once she was fully under he reached back and took the book from the waist of his flowing trousers and held it. That was all, for several long minutes; he held it and felt the textured black leather under his hands. Then, moving to the opposite side of his bed so that it was between himself and her sleeping form, he opened it. The letters were different from the large, obviously shaped ones that his mother and he drew with water on the table. They were slanted and sometimes curled, also small and written with something sharp so the lines were very thin. They were also black, on white sheets as thin as the clothing he wore in Searing. Rivin wondered what was used to make the words black. Perhaps soot or burned wood. A broken piece might be sharp, might be able to draw the letters. He thought he might try with the wick of a burned down candle the next time they had one. It would not be sharp like burned wood, but, so far, there had been no fires in the room he shared with his mother. If it kept getting colder, maybe they would get to have a brazier in their room. They had been brought one sometimes, in the cells. Rivin now realize it had probably been in the coldest season, though all days had seemed the same in the cells, some had been colder than others, or warmer.
The thoughts fell away as his mind adjusted to the new script and he began to read. They were notes, not like the ones he thought the doctor must have written when he'd asked the questions, but stranger ones. Rivin did not know a good many of the words, even sounding them out silently to himself until he could pronounce them did not give him their meaning. Other words he knew but did not understand how they fit into the writing. It wasn't a story, nor a list, nor an explanation. As he read on his mind started to wrap around the idea of what type of thing it was. It was a set of ideas of what might be, suggestions on how the ideas might be tested, and, later in the book, the results of the tests. When he finally understood this, the thrill was back. This was information that could be useful to him. He could find out about the tests, study them, learn how to pass them.
His mother stirred and he jumped, thankful for the bed between them. Slipping the book just under the mattress on his bed he rolled under the frame and wiggled about until he could peek out from under it up at her as she woke. He had done this, now and then, playfully, before, so, when she saw him, she had smiled her small playful smile. The little chase and tickle game that had followed had eased any tension from him over what he had done, and what it might mean. Supper came and they shared it, as always, on the floor. They slept and woke, ate again, did morning exercise and afternoon reading. Rivin almost slipped up and spelled out one of the new words he'd read from the book. His mother had asked where he'd learned the work from and the lie came so quickly to his mouth that it didn't feel like he'd even thought it before he was hearing it in his own voice. He'd heard the doctor say the word at the exam, he told her, and then asked her what it meant. She had watched him as he spoke, but then read the word and told him that it was a way to make solid things into liquid. She did not sound sure of the answer, but she did not seem to have detected traces of his lie either. He accepted her answer, which did surprise her, as he rarely did when she wasn't detailed enough. But the lesson went on until it was over. They played and ate and slept again.
The next morning started as the previous had, and many before that, with food and working their bodies. But, before the midday meal had come a guard came. He did not bring them anything or ask them to come out. Instead, when he opened the door, another guard came in and began going through the room. Rivin's mother took him by the shoulders and pulled him into a corner so they took up as little space as possible. The guard looked in their chests and the wash table's drawer, in the pitcher, and under the beds. The quiet, sneaky feeling that had been slumbering in Rivin's belly since he'd been examined woke and turned instantly to cold fear and nausea. They were looking for the book.
When his pillows and covers were tossed off his bed he tensed, and when his mattress was lifted he gave a little cry of dismay and tried to move towards it. There was no thought behind the movement, no plan, only an animal instinct to protect the precious thing he had taken. His mother held him firmly, even as the guard stood back up with the small black volume in his hand. He showed it to the other guard who nodded and they both left.
When the door was locked again his mother turned him about to face her and looked at him. She did not speak. He did not speak. After a time her hands came away from his shoulders and she moved to sit on her bed, cross-legged. Rivin wanted to go to her, to hide under or inside her somehow. He wanted to climb up to the little window and lift the bars out so he could squirm through and get away. He wanted to hide under the bed.
He did none of these things, the first two because he was unable, and the last because it was pointless and would only make him more anxious to wait as if for something bad. The truth was he had no idea what would happen now. The something that informed him when and when not to ask questions was sure that asking her now what was to come would not help him. Either she would tell him and it would be bad, or she would not, and it would be bad.
Letting himself look at her he tried to read the answer on her face, even if he would not ask. Her face was impassive as ever, all but entirely blank; just enough expression not to appear as though no one lived inside her. She was not looking at him, not looking at anything in particular. She had always looked at him, unless she was teaching him something that required her to look elsewhere, or she was trying to sleep. So used was the boy to her eyes on him the lack left him feeling naked, stripped of some ethereal protection he hadn't noticed till it was gone.
The midday meal did not come. Time moved around them, Rivin just standing where she had left him until his feet got tired and he went to sit on his bed. Before the last meal was supposed to come the door opened again and the guard told him he was to come. Rivin looked to his mother, but she did not look at him, or the guard, or anything. Standing up on legs that he thought would shake, even though they did not, Rivin walked towards the guard and out the door.
The walk felt instant, like the first step he took outside his room was the same one that took him into the exam room. Ilex was there, but there were no trays of instruments, everything was clean, white, and stark. It made the room seem darker, or maybe that was just the way his blood was pounding hard enough to cast shadows at the edges of his vision. Ilex pointed to a spot on the floor and the guard took Rivin to the spot. The doctor held out the little leather volume.
"Did you take this?" His voice was calm but there was an edge to it, sharp like the shine off the scalpel he had explained the use of. Rivin nodded, finding his throat very dry.
"Why?" The question was simple and, after swallowing hard, the boy answered,
"I wanted to read."
The doctor's surprise briefly overwhelmed his anger and he said, as if without thinking,
"Can you read?"
Rivin nodded again. Ilex stepped forward, opening the book to a random page and holding it open in one large hand where it had taken both of Rivin's to do so.
"Read it to me." The human instructed, curiosity and anger lacing together now.
Rivin stepped forward a little, until he could see the tiny letters and began to read. He stumbled over some of the unfamiliar words and had to sound out others, but it was less than a minute before the doctor closed the book again.
"How did you learn?"
"My mother." Rivin answered, never imagining that such things might be forbidden. The doctor nodded, not looking anything but thoughtful for a moment. Then he looked up at the guards. There were three of them, the one who had come to fetch the boy and two others who were had been in the exam room each time he had been brought before. Without inflection Ilex said,
"Beat him."
Rivin's mother had explained to him when he had been quite small, still toddling, that the people who had owned her before the doctor had beaten her sometimes; hit her to make her obey. He had not understood then, and he did not really understand now, but he understood enough. Spinning to look at the guards, his instincts screamed at him to act, thrusting adrenaline out into his veins to ensure he would act. But he didn't know what to do, and they were so big. The guard who always came to fetch him was nearer and took hold of his own, large hand wrapping around it entirely with room to spare. Rivin wanted to try yanking it free but he had never been so precisely aware of his own bones before, of how the man was not holding to his skin and muscle, but to the solidity below them.
The two other guards came close and took him from the first; one caught hold of him just below the wrists, one in each hand, and lifted him till the other could grasp just above his ankles. They stepped back till he was stretched between them, not bowed down and not pulled so hard it hurt, but made into a nearly flat line of person. Rivin couldn't think, all his thoughts had run away, he just looked down at the ground and the feet of the man that held his forearms, trying to remember that he should breathe. He could hear the clink and slide as the third guard removed his belt. Rivin had seen it many times, had even asked his mother what it was for. She had told him it held the man's trousers up, because they were a different kind than the loose ones they both wore.
The meaning of the removal was far beyond the boy in that moment, but there was a menace to it that made him was to be sick again. There were more of the same sorts of sounds, the clink of the buckle and the creak of the leather, then there was a swish. He had just the time it took to puzzle at the new sound before his body bowed a bit under a sudden weight. He had just enough time to be confused before pain reached around the stripe where the weight had landed. His cry was delayed, and small in confusion. But then it happened again. Twisting his neck around he was just able to see two things: The guard reaching back with the belt over his shoulder in preparation to hit him with it again, and Doctor Ilex standing, looking as passive as Rivin's mother ever had.
What followed was indescribable to him, his mind fled and would not try. His body did what it would without regard to any of the thoughts he tried to force through. The leather rose and fell.
At first, each blow hurt more than anything he'd ever experienced, and the third brought his first real scream. They went on, on till his screams stopped being individual responses to each and became a continuous high-pitched wailing that rose in pitch when the belt fell. When his body remembered to cry it became worse, hard to breathe as his mouth and nose filled with a rush of fluid to choke him and gargle as his body kept trying to scream.
When he had been hit everywhere between his shoulders and his knees and the cycle started over his scream became a cough and he couched so hard that all of the phlegm from crying came up and then the little that was left in his stomach from his breakfast. The belt stopped falling until he was breathing again, but then it started back up and he was able to scream without obstruction, though his throat was raw, so he sounded different.
He began flailing with all his might suddenly, as if his body hadn't remembered it was capable of it till that moment. The effort did next to nothing except cause the hands on his arms and legs to tighten and himself to be pulled a little tighter. The lack of response did not stop him and he kept at it until he was too exhausted to anymore. The pain just kept notching up with each pass over his form until he was too dizzy to keep his eyes open. In that space, when every effort of his body had proved useless, his mind came back. Remembering what his mother had told him, that her owners had beaten her to get her to obey, he began babbling. Straining, even though everything hurt, until he could see the doctor, Rivin told him that he wouldn't take anything ever again, that he would be good, he would obey, that he was sorry. Nothing about Ilex's expression or posture changed at all. His face looked exactly as it did when he drew Rivin's blood, mildly interested and calm.
Rivin began to beg. With all the strength left in him, he pleaded, words tumbling over each other and not making sense, hoarse screams coming between them as the fire being set in him increased moment by moment. When he could not speak anymore from the pain, when he could not see from it, even when he opened his eyes, when the last thing he saw was Ilex, as if made of the walls of the house itself; Rivin broke.
There was nothing he could do. All his effort had changed what was happening not at all. He was left too weak to do anything but tremble and cry. It wasn't even the wild sobbing of before, only saltwater and sound leaking out of him as if pressed by the lash. The pain would go on forever and he was nothing before it.
He didn't even hear when the doctor finally told them to stop. Rivin had forgotten they were there, that even the doctor was there, the whole physicality of the situation had faded from his understanding, except the pain. Only it existed, ever-increasing even when he was sure there could be none greater, and him.
It took him time to realize it had stopped, to realize he was no longer held, but lying on his belly on the stones of the floor. He was dazed, barely conscious; it did not occur to him to try to stand, or even move. The hurting was still there, inside with him where he could not escape it, but it wasn't getting worse anymore and he was becoming slowly aware of other things again.
Ilex was talking, but Rivin could not understand, and the guards' voices were rising and falling also. When Rivin was picked up, not gently, but with care not to make him hurt more, and placed lightly over one of the guard's shoulders the sudden change made his eyes open, and seeing again caused him to focus for a moment. He could just see Ilex, and as he was carried out he heard him say,
"If he asks for books, give them to him."
