by Bex Hogan
I wait as he approaches, closer and closer, his growl a deep thunder that shakes the very mountains. I hear Rayvn scream at me to move. I see her spear fly towards the beast and miss as he ducks out of the way.
When he’s close enough for me to see the whites of his eyes, I throw my dagger. It lodges deep into the ice lion’s heart, and he collapses even as he runs, his body sliding through the snow until he comes to a stop right in front of me, empty of life.
Olwyn is already staggering back to her feet, and so I run straight towards Pip, whose blood is being greedily consumed by the snow.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, her voice weak, her already pale skin turning deathly white,
‘Are you kidding me?’ I say, shaking off my top layer of fur. ‘You didn’t flinch in front of that lion.’
‘But I didn’t kill it.’
‘You killed the other one.’
Rayvn’s joined us now, and she stares in horror at the blood gushing from her sister. ‘It’s my fault,’ she says. ‘My shot wasn’t accurate enough.’
I press my clothing hard against Pip’s leg. ‘Rayvn, hold this here.’
She does as I ask, while I tear a strip of material from my cloak and fashion a tourniquet round Pip’s thigh. There’s no way this girl is going to bleed to death on my watch.
Olwyn has reached us now, a deep gash on her forehead spilling blood down her face.
This time I take off my cloak altogether and throw it at her. ‘Use that to keep pressure on your wound,’ I say. And then I scoop Pip into my arms.
With great reluctance Rayvn stays to keep watch over the herd, most of whom have fled now up the mountain, while I run as fast as I can back towards the hut, reassuring Pip the whole way, even as she fades in my arms.
Once we’re inside, I start barking orders. ‘Get the fire burning brighter, and heat water. I need clean cloths, as many as you can get me, and a needle and thread.’
When I realise that Olwyn is struggling, still applying pressure to her head as she tries to fuel the fire, I call her over.
‘Let me look,’ I say, and examine the cut. It’s nasty, but not life-threatening. Already the bleeding is beginning to cease. ‘Here.’ I tie a strip of material round her head to keep the wound clean until I can deal with it. ‘I’ll stitch it up for you later.’
Olwyn gives me a strange look, but doesn’t argue. She lets me turn my attention back to Pip, and fetches me all I’ve asked for.
Pip has passed out, the blood loss too much for her. ‘Do you have any tonics?’ I ask Olwyn. ‘Any herbs?’
‘I’ll wake Mama, she’ll know.’
‘I’m already here.’ Mama is hurrying into the room, still in her nightgown and carrying several bottles in her arms. Without preamble she says to me, ‘I have mistshade, wormfoot and crystal-leaf, which do you want?’
I’ve not heard of any of them before, and ask to inspect the plants.
‘Mistshade is good for fighting infection,’ Mama says.
‘And the others?’
‘Crystal-leaf wards off a fever. Wormfoot aids digestion.’
‘Mash some mistshade and crystal-leaf with a little hot water until they make a paste.’
Mama nods, and staggers over to the pots in the kitchen. Olwyn goes to help her, and while they’re preparing the mixture I start to clean the wound left by the ice lion. It’s deep, but not down to the bone. As long as I can keep the cut free from infection, Pip should recover well.
I work through the night. Once Mama’s prepared the paste, I smear it over and into the cut, wiping away blood as I go, until I’m ready to stitch the wound closed.
‘This is going to hurt worse than anything so far,’ I warn Olwyn, who comes to sit beside her sister. ‘She will wake up. And I need you to keep her still.’
Olwyn nods, clenching her teeth, while I heat the needle in the fire’s flames. And then I get to work.
Almost immediately Pip rushes back to the horrors of consciousness, her scream consuming the air. But I don’t flinch, just focus on repairing the damage done, though Olwyn begs me to stop, and Pip’s screams turn to sobs. I hate to hurt her, but it’s the only way to save her.
When it’s over I take Olwyn’s hand. ‘Fetch some snow and wrap it in cloth. It will help the pain.’
Mama comes to comfort Pip, gently wiping her brow, and whispering soothing words.
‘The worst is over,’ I say to Pip. ‘Sleep now and rest.’
She manages to give me a weak smile before she closes her eyes, and leans into her grandmother.
When Olwyn brings me the cold compress, I arrange it round Pip’s leg, hoping I’ve done enough to keep infection away. Only time will tell.
Once I’m finished with Pip, I turn my attention to Olwyn’s head. She swears under her breath a few times as I stitch it together, and when I’m done she rests her hand on my shoulder. ‘I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.’
She returns with two mugs, and passes me one. I take a sip, and almost choke on the strong liquid that sears my mouth and throat. By the time I’ve finished coughing, my nerves have already started to settle.
Olwyn grins at me. ‘Good, right? Icefire. That’s made from the sap of the ice trees.’
‘It’s lethal,’ I say with a smile, but take another sip.
‘Thank you,’ she says after a while. ‘For everything.’
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ I say, suddenly very tired. ‘Pip’s still not out of danger.’
‘She’s a lot safer than she would be without you.’
But as I take another longer sip of icefire, I wonder how true that really is. Without me raising the alarm, Pip would surely have killed the ice lion on her own. All I did was make things worse.
It is, after all, what I seem best at.
At first I think Pip is going to be lucky, but when the infection arrives it strikes fast.
If there had been any thought in my head of continuing my search for Esther, it’s soon extinguished. I simply cannot leave her to die. And so my stay in the mountains extends. I tend to Pip during the day and patrol the horses at night.
I experiment with different poultices, vary quantities of herbs, roam the land for any other plants that might heal. I keep Pip’s temperature low with damp cloths and snow compresses. And I wish that I knew enough magic to heal her with a single touch.
One afternoon, as weariness threatens to consume me, Olwyn brings me a bowl of frost-root stew.
While I eat, she takes my place, freshening the cloth draped over Pip’s forehead, and stoking the fire. After a while she gestures to my necklace, which has fallen free from its hiding place beneath my shirt.
‘That’s beautiful,’ she says. ‘Where did you get it?’
I reach for the stone, and hold it close to my chest, before tucking it back under my clothes. ‘It was a gift.’ I don’t want to think about Torin, though the truth is every moment I’ve sat tending to Pip I’ve felt guilt that it is her bedside I’m at, and not my husband’s. Every symptom I’ve treated, I’ve wondered how he is, whether he still lives, and willed him to keep breathing until I can return to his side.
‘From someone dear to you?’ Olwyn gently pries for answers.
‘Yes, very.’
She watches me closely, and I try to give nothing away.
‘Someone close to your heart, but not the one who possesses it.’
When I look up at her in surprise, she smiles back at me. ‘You hide your emotions well, but not entirely.’
‘What does it matter?’ I say a little too sharply. ‘I left them both behind.’
‘And now you’re stuck here.’ Olwyn says what I cannot.
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘But that’s how you feel?’
‘I left to help them. Instead I fear I’m failing them.’
Olwyn says nothing for a moment. ‘Maybe you’re too hard on yourself. The fate of the Twelve Isles can’t rest on one person alone.’
Wh
y then does it feel that way?
‘At least you can leave,’ Olwyn says. ‘You may be weighed by duty, but you’re not a literal prisoner to it.’
I glance up at her. ‘You’re not happy here?’ I had sensed that Rayvn wanted to break free from the mountains, suffocated by her life here, but Olwyn always seemed so steady, so calm; it never occurred to me that she might want to leave too.
‘It’s not that I’m unhappy,’ she says quickly. ‘But the thought that I might never learn the beauty of the other islands? Might never get to see all the world has to offer? It saddens me.’
She stands up to take my empty bowl away. ‘You are many things, Marianne. And you bear many burdens. But to me one thing is very clear. You are a healer. Of people, yes. But maybe of the lands too.’
Olwyn walks away, but her words stay with me. I know she meant healing the division between East and West, but what if it’s more than that? When Adler scorched the Fourth Isle, the magic bled away from the land entirely. And now the Six Isles are sick. The symptoms were all there, I just didn’t pay enough attention. But I finally understand.
The land needs to heal. Magic is the cure.
If I don’t find a way to restore magic, it isn’t simply that peace can’t return. It’s far worse than that. If I can’t bring the magic back, the sickness will spread. The islands will die.
And so will everyone who lives there.
For all Olwyn calls me a healer, still Pip does not improve. The wound is festering now, and I know that unless something changes soon, I’m going to lose the battle for her life. One morning, when I’ve returned exhausted from my night patrol, I slump into the chair by the fire, and start to remove my layers of clothing.
‘I think I should go back down the mountain,’ I say to Mama, who has been up all night with Pip.
Rayvn, who’s preparing the breakfast, turns to look at me, a knife still raised in her hand. ‘You’re going to give up?’
I’m too tired for her relentless distrust. ‘No, of course not. I want to try to find some more firewort. It healed the mare, it can heal Pip.’
Rayvn frowns ‘You know how rare it is. Even if you were able to find it, Pip doesn’t have the time.’
‘I wonder if you should search for a death asp.’ Mama speaks so quietly I almost miss it.
‘Why would she want to do that? You used to warn us to stay away from caves in case one was lurking about.’ But Rayvn’s abandoned the food and has come to join us.
‘Yes, they’re lethal, their venom toxic enough to kill with one bite, but my mother once told me something else about them. A myth that their venom could also heal. That the snake itself decided whether to kill or cure. Maybe now’s the time to start believing in myths.’
I leap to my feet with such force that they both jump. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. The diamond dust. It’s been in my satchel all along, and I’d forgotten about it until Mama’s story of the snake jogged my memory. A venom that could serve for good or ill. Like the dust.
Without offering them an explanation I run to fetch my bag, which I’d thrown under the bed I share with Olwyn to keep it out of the way. Delving to the bottom and hunting about, my hand finally closes around the small pouch filled with the ingredient I had intended to take back for Torin.
For the briefest moment I hesitate. If I use this to help Pip, I’ll have to think of something else to help Torin.
If he’s even still alive.
The fact is Torin isn’t here. Pip is, and this is the only thing I haven’t tried.
I run back out to the kitchen and start putting together the ingredients for a poultice.
‘You know I made a new one not even an hour ago,’ Rayvn says, but her tone is tinged with curiosity.
‘Not with this.’ And I hold up the pouch. ‘I forgot I had it, but Mama reminded me. It’s dust from the crystal mines back home. Supposedly it makes a potion more potent. It’s your intentions that dictate how it works. If I wished it to poison, it would. And if I wish it to cure …’
‘You think it’ll work?’ Rayvn doesn’t sound convinced.
‘No idea, but do you have any other suggestions?’
She doesn’t, and so I focus on what I’m doing. I only have one chance at this. Once the paste is prepared, I sprinkle the fine, sparkling powder over it before stirring it in.
Let her live, let her heal.
A plea from my heart poured into the remedy. I just hope it’s enough. That what I read in the books was true.
When it’s ready, I carry the bowl with great care to where Pip lies, deeply asleep in the grip of the fever. After I’ve wiped away the old paste, I apply my potion, still willing it to save the small girl lying before me.
I don’t know what to expect, but apparently we were all hoping for an immediate reaction because when nothing happens, Rayvn raises a dubious eyebrow.
‘Is that it?’
Biting back a snappish response, I simply say, ‘Be patient.’ But inside, panic is rising. What if nothing happens?
Time will tell. For now, we can only wait.
We don’t have to wait long. Only an hour later, Pip’s temperature drops. By midday she awakens from her fevered dreams, and by the time Olwyn returns from patrol the wound in Pip’s leg is forming a scab.
None of us can really believe it, but our eyes are not deceived. The diamond dust has been almost as miraculous as the firewort, and I’m simultaneously elated and furious. Why had I never heard of its effects until I read an archaic book in a hidden library? Surely this would be an invaluable ingredient to healers? In fact, something so desirable would be beyond the purse of all but the very richest. Yet among the many treasures Adler obtained for the King, I never heard tell of diamond dust.
It takes a little longer for Pip’s strength to return, her body weakened from the prolonged incapacitation, and so I make her daily tonics in an effort to fortify her.
And all the while my need to leave builds. I will not go until Pip is fully recovered, but my dreams are tortured by images of Torin dying – alongside the islands he was born to rule – in the light of the blood moon, as Bronn lies trapped behind flames, beyond my reach. All the while the cocooned woman haunts the background, telling me over and over again to run, so that every time I awake I’m exhausted and terrified and desperate to flee.
My only peace is in the stillness of the night during my patrols, when I find a connection to the mountains. To the mares. To the magic.
Alone in silence, I listen to the gentle song of the island, a lullaby I can’t hear during the day, and though the view is little more than white and grey, the land never seems more vibrant.
It allows me to breathe. It’s the only time I can think clearly, without being consumed by panic. The magic of the land reaches to embrace me, and I bask in its quiet energy, feeling at one with nature. Here, Old Tatty’s warnings and Raoul’s prophecies hold no fear for me; here, I don’t seek to harness magic, or control it. I just draw comfort from it.
Often the mares seek me out, quietly revelling in the moon’s glow with me, and I like to walk among them, knowing our time together is drawing to a close, and making the most of what remains.
After one particularly long day, I’m lying in the snow with the horses surrounding me, looking up at the blanket of stars illuminating the night sky, when the mare besides me nudges my arm with urgency. I’m so tired that I hadn’t noticed the horses’ agitation but now I’m instantly alert. The horses are nervous, rising from the ground and edging away. I’m on my feet in a second, my spear in one hand, my dagger in the other.
It happens quickly. One minute the air is still, the next the intruder is charging at me; in a heartbeat I am a warrior once more. The man comes straight for me, but I easily dodge his advance. Protecting the mares is my only concern and so I instantly launch a counter-attack, but he easily evades my blows. His speed matches my own, and though my reflexes are lightning-fast, he seems to anticipate my every move as if he knows
what I’m going to do before I do it.
This ability to read my thoughts serves him well, and he manages to knock me off balance, sending me hurtling into the snow. I leap back to my feet, expecting him already to be chasing the mares, but he isn’t. He’s still facing me, bracing for my next attack. And that’s when I realise he isn’t here for the horses. He’s here for me.
I don’t waste a second, bombarding him with an even more vicious assault, but again he’s one step ahead of me, and I can’t get the upper hand. But then something strikes me. I’ve been so busy trying to outmanoeuvre him that I’ve failed to notice the obvious. He’s not fighting to kill me. He’s fighting to defend himself. Who is he? Wanting answers, I adjust my tactics, hurting him no longer my priority. Shifting my weight backwards, I flick my spear under his feet and send him hurtling to the ground. Once he’s on his back, I straddle him, pinning him down and resting my knife at his neck in warning. He’s going nowhere. I reach to pull his mask down. And I freeze.
It’s like looking at a ghost. The features, the shape, every contour of the face is identical to Grace’s, just slightly more masculine. There’s only one person this can be.
‘Jax?’
Grace’s twin frowns. ‘How do you know my name?’
My mind is racing. If Jax is here, then the Guardians have found me. How?
Ignoring his question, I grab his collar and ask one of my own. ‘How did you know I was here?’
I think he would have answered, were it not for the blade that suddenly slips against my throat, causing me to freeze.
‘You’re outnumbered. Let him go.’
I don’t recognise the man’s deep voice, but if he thinks I’m frightened, then the Guardians haven’t been watching me long enough. ‘You think two of you is going to be a problem?’ I scoff.
‘I said, let him go.’
I look at Jax, who doesn’t seem afraid either – in fact, I can almost hear his mind turning over, still wondering how I know who he is. By the look on his face he’s reached an accurate conclusion.
