A Dawn of Dragonfire - By Daniel Arenson Page 0,70
skin, flesh, and bones decaying
Feed upon our sweetest meats
Your tainted blood again shall bloom
Crave and eat the lesser treats
And rot forever in our room
"What does it mean?" Elethor asked, standing beside her. He was pale, and his dark hair clung to his damp forehead.
Lyana looked back at the feast covering the table: roast ducks, fresh fruit, pastries, breads… Would one of these heal her?
"What is the sweetest meat?" she asked. "Feast upon our sweetest meats, and your tainted blood again shall bloom. Does that mean that if I eat the right food, I'll be cured?"
Elethor shivered. "Eat the lesser treats, and rot forever in our room." He gestured at the Shrivels who gasped upon the chairs. "That must be what happened to them. They ate the wrong dish."
Heart hammering, Lyana walked to the table. The scents of the feast filled her nostrils. Her left arm dangled at her side, a flap of useless skin, its bones so brittle now, no wider than a porcupine's quill. When she looked at a golden bowl, she saw her reflection. Already her left cheek sagged, the skin gray.
"What should I eat?" she called, turning to the Shrivels on the seats. She grabbed one and shook it. Its skin was clammy, and its spine rattled. "What did you eat?"
The creature's head flapped from side to side. It gasped and sucked its gums. "Eat, child, eat the treats, join us, count with us…"
Tears stinging her eyes, Lyana tossed the creature aside. It slapped against the floor and squirmed. She grabbed another Shrivel. She shook it, and its heart pulsed behind its clear skin, shooting black blood down a single vein.
"What do I eat here?" she demanded, tears on her cheeks. "Tell me!"
The Shrivel whispered, and its eyes shed black tears. "Please, light one, please, tell him, tell him to turn, he has to turn it, he has to turn the screws, please tell him!"
She tossed this creature aside too and spun toward the table, trembling. Her left leg shook, and when she took a step, her foot pulled out from her boot.
"Lyana!" Elethor cried. He ran toward her and held her, and she gasped, clinging to him. Her sock fell off, revealing a shriveled foot, no larger than the foot of a baby. Her toes curled inward, white and brittle.
"Oh stars, Elethor, stars," she whispered.
"Eat something!" Elethor said. He pulled her toward the table. "Eat… what is the sweetest meat? Duck? Veal? Ham?"
Lyana looked at the feast. For the first time, she saw that drool covered the dishes. The marks of toothless gums filled the geese, the ham, the fruit.
The Shrivels had tried eating these foods, she knew. They all chose wrong. She raised her head and looked at the empty seat. She trembled, wept, and held Elethor tight.
"Please, Elethor," she whispered. "Please, don't let him turn the screws, please, tell him, tell him."
She tried to say more, but felt a tooth come loose. She spat it out, and she wanted to sink her gums into the meat, to feed, to count, to line things up, to…
No! No, not yet. You are not a Shrivel yet. She fumbled toward the table, tossed her sword down, and lifted an apple with her good hand. Even that hand was shrivelling; it looked like the hand of an old woman. She raised the apple to her lips. Was this the fruit? Was this the sweetest meat?
I will feast upon you… I will feast upon your sweet meat…
The words echoed in her mind, and Lyana gasped. She had heard this before! She had hung in cobwebs in Nedath's lair. The great demon had bitten her shoulder, wrapped her webs around her, and whispered and cackled in her ear. You will be my sweet meat, child, I will feed upon you….
"It's the Shrivels!" she shouted. She turned toward them, trembling. "It's not the food. Those are just lesser treats. This is Nedath's Feast, and she eats what lies on the chairs, not the table."
She stepped toward one seat, where lay a Shrivel with hairy tufts on its hanging skin. Her right foot pulled out from her boot, skin and bones twisting and rotting, and Lyana fell to the floor. She reached out her right arm, which was now thin as a twig, and grabbed the Shrivel on the seat. She pulled it down to the floor, like pulling down a wet cloth. Ignoring the nausea that twisted her belly, she bit into the creature.