by Ellyn, Court
Carah hoped to see the walls of the holdfast by noon, but the wagon was slow and cumbrous. It would take the party another day to reach Longmead, and that day waned quickly. Tomorrow morning, Da promised. Carah hoped so.
Drys turned on the bench and announced, “We’ll camp in those trees.” Everyone perked up and turned to look. A small lake glistened vermillion and violet in the fading light. Thick stands of alder and andyr clung to its northern bank.
Carah sighed. She would exchange her pinky finger for a bath. Every one of them reeked of sewage, and the White Falcon burned with fever. Undoubtedly, septic water from the moat had washed into the wound. But removing infection was beyond her skill, nor did she know how to deaden Arryk’s pain. The jostling of the wagon didn’t help; Carah feared his wound might break open again. He groaned and slept, groaned and slept.
Aisley rebounded, however. The wagon stopped once so she could throw up in a hedgerow, but after that her eyes brightened and her color improved. She let Carah stitch up the gash on her scalp and complained to her grandfather that she was hungry. They were all hungry, Rhogan said, and Aisley complained no more.
Maeret brooded, looking angrier by the mile. Drona and the White Mantles kept watch in all directions. Rorin stared at nothing, haunted over the death of his son. Carah, too. Barrin was her first dance partner of the evening, then Garrs’s shy nephew, then Master Brugge. All of them dead now. All but the White Falcon.
As soon as the wagon settled deep in the trees, Drys and Rhogan unhitched the drays and led them to the lakeside for water. Drona argued with Lieutenant Rance about unloading the king or not. Carah decided for them. “The ground is wet from the rain, and the less we move him, the less we risk opening the wound. He’ll stay in the wagon.” The lieutenant posted two Mantles to watch the king and ordered the other two to patrol the clearing. As dusk settled, their white armor glistened ghost-like among the trees.
“We can manage water from the lake,” said Rhogan, returning with his pair of drays, “but what do we do for food? We must eat something.” His granddaughter eyed him hopefully.
“There’s like to be a village or farm along the lakeside,” Kelyn said. “After dark we can—”
“Steal?” Drona supplied. “The honorable War Commander?”
“Unless you’d rather walk up to an inn and ask for bread, Fieran. But I guarantee you, Valryk sent his men to warn every town within thirty miles of Bramoran that we’re wanted by the crown and no one will help us. Besides, it’s called ‘foraging,’ lady.”
“Aye, you’re good at that.”
Kelyn clenched his teeth.
How dare anyone speak that way to Da! Carah glared at the old bat, but Drona paid her no mind.
“Well, at least we won’t go cold tonight,” said Rorin, stooping for branches. He carried a stack under one arm.
“No!” cried Kelyn and Drona together.
Rorin stared at them, startled.
“A fire is too easy to spot,” Kelyn explained. “We’ll have to make do without it.”
The man looked shattered and let the firewood fall at his feet.
Kelyn took pity. “Once it’s dark, Rorin, you and Drys will venture out and find us something to eat.”
“Me?” asked Lord Westport, voice thick.
Kelyn nodded. “It will keep you warm. Just be quiet about it, and do as Drys says.”
Lord Zeldanor chuckled. “He’s calling me a good forager, and I was too. Me and Laral and Kalla and the rest. We were just squires then. Robbed Brengarra blind before Laral married it’s lady. Hnh. As long as you’re not calling me short, m’ lord Commander, we’ll get along fine.”
“Short? I hadn’t noticed.” Kelyn turned away to hide his grin and beckoned his daughter. Lowly he said, “Take Maeret and Aisley around the bend where you can wash up. Get them moving, keep them busy. We mustn’t give in to despair.”
“But His Majesty—”
“He has plenty of attentive guards. He can spare you for a while.”
“But if he—”
Her father gave her an insistent nudge. “Go.”
Carah grudgingly led the girls along the bank. When they had hiked out of sight of the camp, they stripped down and washed the filth from their skin, their hair, their clothes. As her father suggested, she tried to find pleasant conversation, but Maeret soaked in silence, then with grinding teeth scrubbed her dress on a stone as if Valryk’s face were embroidered on it. Carah had to be careful with her robe. It was ruined nonetheless, the silver satin stained with someone’s blood, a hole in the skirt where the quarrel had missed her leg by a hair. Aisley proved to be sweet and soft-spoken, a girl of sixteen who actually liked to embroider. “I can’t sit still that long,” Carah confessed, watching Maeret from the corner of her eye. “And my threads are always knotting—”
Maeret leapt up, a stone in each fist, and with a shriek she tossed them with all her strength. They sailed out into the lake. “Not both of them! It isn’t fair!”
Carah rushed to her, wrapped her up tight. “Shh,” she insisted, but Maeret couldn’t quell her sobs. Of all people to have an outburst, Maeret was the last Carah expected.
“I can’t be lady of Lunélion and Vonmora both. I need them.”
Over Maeret’s shoulder, Aisley’s eyes were dark and round, her hands opening and closing in helplessness, and soon she was weeping too. Carah couldn’t muster a single tear. Am I a monster? I can’t feel a thing. Uncle Thorn, where are you?
By the time they’d had their cry-out, the stars had unfurled. The red Blood Star and the Huntsman, whose arrow pointed the way north, dimmed as Forath rose full over the peaks of the Drakhans. The girls wrung out their clothes, but they would be cold and wet most of the night. Carah got warm enough trying to squeak into wet riding leathers. “And Longmead is closer than we think,” she said, encouraging them. “We’ll have a hot meal tomorrow, and proper baths with soap, and a crackling fire at Lord Morach’s hearth. We can survive one more night.”
Maeret’s fingers paused in the side stays of her gown. “I used to care about such petty things. Dues for the Society. Rumors. I saw Lord Lander struck down. He was protecting Lady Lanwyk though.”
A long, mournful note rippled across the lake. Wolves. Carah shivered at the sound. “We’d best hurry back.”
The men were arguing when the ladies stumbled back into the clearing. Carah made out who was who by their voices alone. “I’m not striking out in the dark with those wolves out there,” declared one of them. Had to be Lord Westport. “What if they’re as hungry as I am?”
“I don’t need some blundering merchant getting me caught anyway,” Drys retorted. “Stay here if it suits you.”
“Rorin, buck up,” Kelyn tossed in.
“I’ll go,” said Lord Mithlan, mild but firm.
“No, Grandda,” said Aisley, clutching his arm.
Oh, for the Mother’s sake, Carah thought and peered into the wagon. Her duty was clear at least. All she could see in the dark was the dim glow of Arryk’s white silk shirt, the pallor of his skin; her fingers had to do the work. His face was warmer than ever. His body shook with chills. “Goddess, help me,” she whispered.
One of the drays whickered. Another tugged at its tether and stomped nervously.
The argument hushed. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees. An owl shrieked and swooped away, a black specter against the face of the moon. Twigs crackled on Carah’s left, and moonlight slid like a drop of blood on the edge of the sword in Da’s hand. Past the clearing, along the path that brought them into the wood, leaves rustled.
“It’s those wolves,” Rorin hissed.
“Valryk’s men,” Daxon snarled.
“It’s my fault,” whispered Maeret. “I screamed. I made splashes.”
“Shh,” Kelyn said. Turning to Carah he asked, “The fairy wards?”
With Veil Sight she looked for Saffron’s golden light or Zephyr’s white. She saw neither. But the trees were backlit by two bril
liant azethion. The dray whickered again, and a horse far away replied. Carah broke into delighted laughter, startling the others. “Uncle Thorn!” She ran toward the azethion.
A small sphere of pale blue light flared at Thorn’s shoulder and lit his way to her. He swept her up and kissed her face. “Thank the Mother we find you safe,” he said. The fear and relief in his embrace nearly crushed her, but she didn’t mind. She held him just as tight.
“I thought … I thought,” she said but couldn’t finish. He wasn’t. That’s all that mattered. Over his shoulder, she saw Rhian holding the reins of the two Elaran blacks. The faint blue light turned the color of his eyes to a pale, otherworldly gray; they took anchor on Carah’s face, and she recognized something intense and perilous in them that she had no name for. She dared to wonder if it might be longing. Breaking away from her uncle she asked them, “Are you hurt?”
“Nothing we can’t heal ourselves,” Thorn answered.
“Rhian?”
“No,” he said and stopped staring at her. But in the shadow between them, his fingers found her hand and squeezed it hard.
“He’s shaken, is all,” Thorn said, and Carah snatched her hand free. “We both are. Never fought our own kind before.”
“It has nothing to do with that bloody avedra.” Rhian turned away abruptly and fussed inside a saddlebag.
“He’ll be all right,” Thorn whispered in Carah’s ear. “Just needs to be left alone. Brother!” He gripped Da’s hand as if the party had gathered for nothing more distressing than a picnic.
“What took you so damned long?” asked Kelyn.
Thorn chuckled. “I had no intention of jumping into a city’s worth of sewage.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“You, too. Who escaped with you?” Thorn greeted those who cared to be greeted. Lady Drona retreated toward the wagon, wanting less than nothing to do with the avedrin. The White Mantles stood at attention beside the wagon. “In truth, we’re late because we helped a few others escape.”
“Who?” Kelyn demanded. “We saw no one else.”
“They scattered into the city, got lost dodging crossbow quarrels, they said. The daughter of Lord Endhal was one of them, surrounded by a pair of King Ha’el’s guards. She was supposed to marry the prince, you know. Lord Haezeldale and Garrs’s nephew were the others.”
“Gheryn’s alive?” Carah cried. Another of her dance partners had survived then, thank the Goddess. She hated to think that her touch had been a curse.
“We wrapped them inside the veil and snuck them out a postern gate. They were determined to strike west for the Blythewater. I told them it was a long shot.”
“Why a long shot?” Lord Rhogan asked. “Is it rebellion as Rorin supposed?”
“If you want to call it that,” Thorn said. “But not by your kind.”
Before he could satisfy them with answers, Rhian brought his saddlebags into the gathering and lifted out loaves of bread, even a wineskin. The highborns rejoiced. Carah decided to eat later. She tugged her uncle’s hand instead. “Please, you have to help me. I don’t know what else to do.”
The small globe of blue light followed them across the clearing. Thorn grimaced when he saw the White Falcon lying in the back of the wagon. The lieutenant, it seemed, had tossed his great white cloak over the king in lieu of a blanket. Arryk shook anyway, and was just as pale as the velvet.
“Stay away from him,” Drona said, coiled like an angry serpent. The false blue light hardened the planes and creases in her face.
“You want him to die?” Thorn tossed back.
“He already did,” Carah said. “For a moment.”
“But she brought him back.” Lieutenant Rance joined them at the foot of the wagon. “Lady Drona, stand aside. Let them help.”
“Hnh,” she grunted, not budging. “You killed our last king, avedra. Why help this one?”
Carah eyed her uncle. He made no move to deny Drona’s accusation. Had he really? This was a tale he had neglected to tell her. “Everything in its own time, Lady Athmar,” he said. “Everything in its own time.”
She rose to her feet, looming high over them. “If he dies, Thorn Kingshield, it’s you I’m coming for.”
“I tremble.” They waged a battle of glares. As stubborn as Drona was, Carah guessed her uncle was more stubborn still. One did not move earth and fire without such a quality. “With every moment you impede us, you hasten his demise,” he said at last, never once blinking away.
Drona huffed and vaulted over the side of the wagon and stalked away into the dark.
Thorn watched her go. “Lieutenant, will you guard my back while I work?”
“Yessir.”
I saw her leave like that once before, Thorn confided to his niece. She returned with a poisoned dagger that nearly killed the Black Falcon.
Not Valryk.
No, the better one.
They climbed into the wagon and the lieutenant with them. The white cloak was just as damp and filthy as the rest of their garments. “All this wet, Uncle, it can’t be helping his fever.”
“No, but you can.”
Is it wise to learn on him? Carah asked.
We don’t have a choice. Be brave.
Thorn pulled back the cloak to inspect the wound. As Carah feared, some of her stitching had torn loose. Fresh blood dampened the dark stain on his right side.
Arryk tossed. His eyes opened and he shifted away from Carah’s outstretched hand. “Nathryk, don’t!”
Startled, Carah glanced up at the lieutenant. The alarm in Rance’s face, in his frantic gestures to quiet his king, told her she had overheard a secret. “Sire, you’re safe,” he said. “Do you hear me? Safe. Lie still now.” In an instant, his tenderness turned to ferocity. “You’ll respect his privacy, avedrin. No mind reading.”
Thorn leant away, as if taken aback. “It’s just a fever dream, Lieutenant. Saffron, quiet His Majesty.”
A glittering of stars gathered over the flailing king. To his credit, Rance swatted at the creature as if she were a wasp with her stinger bared, but Saffron darted nimbly aside and smiled bashfully at him, her golden lashes sweeping across large lavender eyes. Awed, the lieutenant muttered something about the Mother’s mercy and let the fairy work her magic. Her tiny hand touched Arryk’s cheek, and she blew a sweet breath across his face.
Arryk sank back into the bed of the wagon, restful at last.
Thorn took up Carah’s hand, laid it across the bloody splotch on Arryk’s shirt. “If you concentrate, you can feel infection just like any other energy. It’s a poison in the blood, in the tissue. You can command it like you command fire and water and draw it out.”
“Not yet, I can’t.”
“In time. This is more important than fire and water, love.”
Carah breathed and let her mind dive down into the wound, just like before. Don’t stitch it up yet, her uncle said. It needs to seep. Do you feel the rivulets? Rivers of infection?
Rivers? No, to her they were shards. Yellow and black shards like broken glass, coursing in the blood, gnawing at the tissue. Some of them were rancid green. Around the tear in Arryk’s skin and down through the broken, bruised flesh, the shards pulsed red-black, as though they had a heartbeat of their own.
Draw these out, a little at a time. Some of the shards drew up and away from her awareness, gathering to her uncle’s touch. She tried to emulated him. The healthy tissue responded, tossing the shards at her as though it vomited the infection away. But in the damaged tissue the sickness was too deeply rooted. And there were so many shards. Too many to count. She would never gather them all.
Take one at a time, her uncle consoled. One area, one touch, don’t worry about the rest.
Carah took a deep breath, let it out slowly, focused on the shards sweeping by her in the blood while her uncle concentrated on the deep wound.
Check your palm. Keep it clean.
Hard to disentangle herself, like forcing herself awake in the m
iddle of a nightmare. She turned over her hand and found ugly yellow beads like thin pus mixed with mercury puddling in her palm. The fluid reeked of sewage and rot and salty sickness. Without opening his eyes Thorn whipped out a kerchief, dried his own palm on it, then passed it to her. Time and time again, Carah dived down to gather shards and sat back again to clean her palm. Sweat trickled down her face, between her should blades and breasts. Pain pounded at the base of her skull. Her hands began to tremble.
After what felt like hours, Thorn said, That’s enough for now. Carah wanted to try one more time, but her uncle lifted her hand from Arryk’s side. “This is a long, slow process. It will take days, love. Let’s get cleaned up and eat something. Then we should all rest. Lieutenant, you too. Our fairies can see what you can’t. They’ll alert us.”
Rance glanced at Saffron who sat on the bench seat, swinging her twig-thin legs. “Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”
“Suit yourself,” Thorn said and hopped out of the wagon.
Carah wasn’t so quick to abandon her patient. Arryk’s brow felt a measure cooler. Or perhaps she was merely hopeful. She tucked the damp cloak about his shoulders and told Rance, “I’ll bring him water.” She clambered out of the wagon, stiff and awkward, and followed the glow of the blue light to the lakeside. Her uncle knelt on the bank washing his hands and face.
“How did you bring him back?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” A touch, a whisper, a lie. Carah scooped up a handful of sand to scrub between her fingers. “He thought I was his queen. He followed me back.”
“Are you sure that was the right thing to do?”
Carah sat back on her heels. “I couldn’t let him die! And I did it right this time. I found the right moment to separate myself—”
“I mean, are you sure he wasn’t meant to die today? Did you act according to the Mother-Father’s desire, or your own? Did you think of that at all?”
