Krymzyn (The Journals of Krymzyn Book 1) by BC Powell Read Free Book Online Page B

who’s more than a few years older than I am looks so tall. I hold a hand up and snap my finger.
    “The time that snap took is called a second in my world. We have exact measurements of time, so sixty seconds makes a minute , sixty minutes an hour , twenty-four hours are in a day , and three hundred sixty-five days make a year . We track it all with things called clocks and calendars , time-measurement devices. I’m seventeen years old.”
    She holds her hand up and snaps her finger. “You’ve lived five hundred thirty-six million, one hundred twelve thousand snaps,” she says, “or seconds , as you call them.”
    I stare at her, astonished, and start to do the math in my head, but I get lost and start over. I quickly realize that I can’t do it without a calculator and accept that the number she gave me is accurate.
    “Do you have days and nights ?” I ask but quickly correct myself using words she’ll understand. “What do you call light and dark?”
    “We call them light and Darkness,” she replies. “Most of the time, it’s light. We never know when Darkness will fall, nor do we know how long it will last.”
    “How do you know when it’s time to do something?”
    “We sleep when we tire, consume sap when we hunger, and perform our purpose as needed. We know what needs to be done and when to do it. Krymzyn lets us know when it’s time for Communal or a Ritual.”
    It’s strange to me the way she refers to Krymzyn as though it’s a living entity, not just a place.
    Sash walks to a simple four-legged table made of brushed metal. It stands against the wall opposite the bed. Shelves are carved into the glossy stone above the table, home to several pitchers and cups, a pair of scissors, and a sheathed knife, all made of the same brushed steel. She points to a three-legged metallic stool by her side.
    “Please sit,” Sash says. “I know that now is the time to heal your wounds, although your measurement of time appears not to have alerted you.”
    I have to smile at what on Earth would have been a joke, even though her face is deadly serious.

Chapter 7
    I walk to the stool and sit in front of the table. Sash takes an etched-steel pitcher and two cups from the shelves, setting the cups in front of me. She pours thick liquid from the pitcher into each cup. The fluid looks like it should be scalding hot, but no steam rises from the mixture of red, orange, and yellow. I look inside to see undulating colors, like slowly morphing molten globs inside a lava lamp.
    “Take off your shirt,” she says.
    I pull the sleeveless black V-neck over my head, pausing to involuntarily flex at dull stabs of pain. She takes the shirt from me, crosses the room to the head of the mattress, and hangs it on one of several shiny hooks in the wall.
    Sash returns to me, carefully slips her hand under one of my scabbed, bloodstained arms, and lifts it to the table. She does the same with my other arm before she pours liquid from the cup into one hand.
    She slides her smooth, soft palm from the back of my wrist to my elbow, over my biceps, and up to my shoulder. I don’t even feel the liquid on my skin. No slime or stick as I thought there would be—just pleasing tingles.
    I blink firmly several times to make sure I see what I think I see. The scabs disappear, the scrapes in my arm heal before my eyes, and new skin spreads over the wounds. She pours more of the liquid into her hands, gently rubbing them up my arms, across my shoulders, and down my back. Every pain is instantly swept away, leaving my muscles alert and fresh.
    “Drink,” she says, tipping her head to the cup in front of me. She lifts her own cup and sips from it.
    “What is this?” I ask, looking inside my cup.
    “Sap of the sustaining trees,” she replies.
    I slowly raise the cup to my lips, staring at the swirling colors, and take a sip. No taste, no smell, not hot nor cold. It’s the texture of honey but not at all sticky, and the fluid flows down my