My Shadow Warrior

by Jen Holling

  Rose sat on the bed, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths. Her heart twisted with the knowledge that this was most likely an ailment she could not help, but she refused to dwell on that until she knew for certain. She forced everything else from her mind—the rain, her father, Strathwick, Dumhnull—and the calm settled over her. Sometimes it was difficult to do, but when the situation was urgent, as this was, no matter how upset or anxious she was, she could always focus quickly.

  The magic curled inside her, twisting and turning like a serpent. She opened her eyes and the world was different. She placed her hands just over the child’s head, cupping it but not touching it. The color around her hands was a pale yellow overlaid with a vivid angry red from the child’s fever. She continued over the face to the throat, where she paused. A blackness clouded the throat. She continued down the rest of the body and saw nothing else.

  She returned to the throat to examine it now with her eyes, rather than magic. The throat was swollen beneath the jaw. Rose pressed on it and the child moaned fretfully. Rose motioned the hovering boy to fetch her box. He moved quickly, setting it on the bed beside her. She found her glass and a candle. She bade him to light it at the fireplace.

  “I need you to hold this near her mouth so I can see.”

  He nodded and did as she bid. Rose opened the child’s mouth. When she moved close, a sickly sweet odor assailed her, sending her back to her box to tie a handkerchief around her face and nose. Thus protected, she peered inside the child’s mouth, motioning to the boy several times to move the candle about so she could view it from different angles. Then she took her glass and peered through it, using the base of a spoon to depress Ailis’s tongue. She saw it then, the thick gray membrane spanning the back of the swollen throat. Her heart contracted with the knowledge that this small, sweet girl would probably die and there was little she could do to prevent that eventuality.

  She composed her expression, then shooed the boy away. “Stay back, lad. No need for you to get ill, too.”

  “My name is Lucas and I want to help my sister.”

  Rose forced a smile and squeezed his thin wrist. “You’ve been a great help to us both, but I need you to stay away now, aye?”

  He nodded, large dark eyes grave, and backed away to crouch in the shadows and ashes beside the hearth.

  Rose sat on the bed, gazing at the child. Bull throat. She quickly scanned her memory for possible remedies, but defeat settled hard on her shoulders as she realized there was nothing she could do but attempt to make the child comfortable. It was the curse of her hands, to show her what was wrong, even when she could do nothing. If it was a cancer or a wound—even a festering one—there was much Rose could do, but with an illness like Ailis’s Rose was as helpless as any other healer. She could try to bring the fever down and ease her patient’s discomfort, but beyond that, it was in God’s hands. The magic still constricted her chest, curling down to knot uselessly in the pit of her belly. She closed her eyes and willed it away before it made her sick and weak.

  When the mother returned Rose was boiling water at the fireplace for an infusion. The mother was filthy, mud splattered her skirts, her coarse gown soaked, her hair straggling around her face. Her eyes were empty. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her child.

  “How long has she been like this?” Rose asked softly.

  “Last night she said her throat hurt, but she seemed fine today. Then…then this…” The woman’s voice was dull. Her empty gaze met Rose’s. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Rose licked her lips. “Morbus suffocus—bull throat. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Bull throat…” The woman looked back at her daughter, her eyes wide with horror. “Will she die?”

  Rose bit her lip. “I don’t know.” It was a lie, but Rose couldn’t take away the mother’s hope, especially when in some part of her heart she had not yet released hope. But the fact was, Ailis would most likely die. Certainly people pulled through even the direst illnesses, but rarely children as small and frail as Ailis. The last person she’d seen with bull throat had suffocated—a man, hale and strong. His throat had swollen, and a black, leathery membrane had formed, closing his throat off. When Rose had removed the membrane, he’d bled, almost drowning in his own blood. The membrane had re-formed, and he’d died a horrible death.

  Rose rubbed a trembling hand over her mouth at the memory, chilled by a deep reluctance to relive it through this small child. She pushed it away and fisted her hands to ward off the shaking. This was what she did. She was all Ailis had now, and she would do her best for the child, however paltry that aid might be.

  “My lord is not coming, is he?” the woman said, her voice empty, resigned. “He’s punishing us for hunting him.” Tears tracked her face.

  Rose knelt beside the woman and took her hands, squeezing them firmly. “Aye, I’m sorry to say it looks that way. There’s naught we can do about that now, though. We cannot force him to do what he doesn’t wish to—and it would be foolish to sit about and wait for a miracle. We must act now to help your daughter. I need your help. Will you help me?” She gave the woman’s hands another hard squeeze. “What is your name?”

  She was a few years older than Rose’s twenty years. She looked so lost and empty, but her gaze focused on Rose. “I am Iona, and I will do anything you ask, cut out my own heart if it means saving Ailis.”

  Rose choked back her emotion, putting it firmly where it belonged—deep in the recesses of her heart, to be examined later, when this was over. But not now. “Well met, Iona. Let’s get busy.”

  Rose stayed with Ailis through the night. She wiped the child’s small, delicate limbs with rags dipped in cool water and gave her infusions of willow bark for the fever, cantharis for the swelling, and monkshood to assuage her pain and help her sleep. When the moon rose, hope filled Rose that this time she’d made a difference. The child’s fevered skin had cooled and the swelling was reduced. But around midnight, Ailis began to wheeze. Rose opened the child’s mouth and peered inside. The membrane nearly covered the throat.

  She checked Ailis’s fingernails. Pale blue. She turned to her box as if in a dream, her heart beating slow and calm. This time she would do it. She couldn’t watch Ailis suffer a horribly painful death, would not force Iona through it. She took out the bottle of laudanum, stared at it for a long moment.

  “What is it? What’s wrong with her?” Iona asked, her voice still hopeful, still believing Rose could make a difference.

  Rose replaced the laudanum in the box, choosing instead a small probe.

  “I need your help again,” Rose said. “What I must do will hurt and frighten her, but it will help her breathe again. Please hold her down.”

  Iona’s eyes widened, looking from the gleaming probe to the resolve in Rose’s eyes, and she nodded slowly, grasping her child’s limbs. She trusted Rose and would do anything Rose asked now.

  Ailis struggled against her mother. Tears streamed down their faces. With Iona’s help Rose managed to push back part of the membrane, widening the opening. In the short term it caused Ailis to choke and cough terribly, but when the spasm passed, she breathed easier. For the moment.

  Lucas still huddled in the corner, his face buried in his knees, thin arms wrapped tightly about his legs, as if trying to block out the horror of it. Iona lay close to Ailis, whispering how sorry she was. She looked up, meeting Rose’s eyes, and mouthed her thanks. For what? Rose wondered. For prolonging her daughter’s suffering? She had to look away from Iona’s grateful eyes, wondering why she still tried.

  She sat by the bed all night, alternately pouring infusions down Ailis’s throat and battling the membrane. By morning it became impossible. Her efforts caused the child’s throat to bleed. A tracery of veins webbed her red cheeks, and a thin line of blood trickled from her nose. Ailis had not even struggled the last time Rose had attempted to remove the black and putrid membrane, so Rose had not needed Iona’s help. A blessing, that, as the odor had
become so foul that it had sent the mother heaving in the chamber pot afterward.

  Iona was asleep on the mattress beside her daughter. Rose wondered if she should wake her, for the end was surely near. Rose watched helplessly as Ailis’s small body strained to take in each breath, the fever burning her alive. Wallace had come a short time ago, peered in the door, then left with Lucas before Rose could give him a tongue lashing to take back to his master. How could Strathwick allow this child to suffer? Heartless, he was. Either that or a charlatan even more useless than she was. Even so, Rose was grateful the boy was gone. He should not have to witness his sister’s painful death.

  Rose was for all purposes alone. Reluctantly, she took the bottle of laudanum in her hands. Enough of the dark poppy juice would give Ailis a painless death, a deep dark sleep from which she would never wake. Rose should have given it to her earlier, not made her and her mother suffer. A wave of hopelessness washed over Rose. Useless. She was useless to everyone. She wanted to help people live, not help them to an easier death, but what else could she do for the child?

  She rarely gave in to self-indulgent bouts of despair, instead choosing to channel her frustration into working harder to heal the next person. But this…after all that had gone on before, her disappointment in Strathwick, the hopelessness of her father’s illness…it was too much. Her useless hands clutched the small bottle, pressing it hard into her stomach, trying to alleviate the hollow ache, shutting her eyes against the burning, clenching her teeth against the scream that threatened to rip from her throat.

  She was leaning forward, making a keening sound, tears squeezing from her tightly closed eyes, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away, tumbling from her stool beside the bed. She looked up from where she sprawled on the packed dirt floor.

  Dumhnull stood above her, his face grim and taut, as if facing a terrible foe alone and unarmed but resigned to the necessity of it. Rose put a hand to her chest and let out the breath he’d startled out of her.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered. She started to get to her feet, but he squatted beside her.

  He didn’t speak, studying her with grave eyes. He reached his hand out and took hers, pulling her fingers open and staring down at the vial of laudanum she held. He met her gaze again.

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do,” she heard herself saying. “I tried. I feel as if I should be able to do more, but I’m useless when it matters.”

  He frowned slightly and made a soft sound to hush her. She quieted immediately, staring up at him, confused by his presence and yet comforted by it.

  “It’s clear,” someone said at the door.

  Dumhnull sat back on his heels and looked over his shoulder. Rose followed his gaze. Wallace peered out the door, and Strathwick stood at the window across the room, peeking out a crack in the shutters, dag drawn.

  “He came,” Rose breathed, clutching Dumhnull’s arm. “He came.”

  The groom turned back to her, his face dark, withdrawn. “Aye, he came.”

  A strange feeling overcame Rose as she gazed up at him, a swelling in her chest, a mixture of fear and confusion and wonder.

  The bed trembled, and Rose jumped to her feet. Ailis convulsed, her tiny body rigid. Iona woke immediately in hysterics, trying to grab her daughter, as if her arms could absorb the child’s pain.

  “Hush,” Dumhnull said. He put a hand out, urging the mother to move back.

  “My lord,” Iona said, her voice soft and awed, her eyes wide. She moved away from her daughter.

  Rose looked to the window. Strathwick still stood there, peering outward, glancing quickly back at the groom but keeping his attention on whatever was outside the window.

  She turned slowly back to the bed, her heart beating hard and fast with slow understanding. Dumhnull—or the man she’d known as Dumhnull—sat on the bed beside Ailis. She was rooted in place, unable to speak or move, only stare. His hands passed over Ailis’s head, just as Rose’s had earlier. They came to rest on the throat. Then, instead of hovering over it, his hands closed around her throat, as if he meant to strangle her. His head bent. The convulsions stilled. A moment later, he released the child with one hand. It moved down to her chest and stayed there.

  The man she’d thought was Strathwick came away from the window to stand behind the “groom.” When Dumhnull finally released Ailis, he bent over the bed, his breathing labored.

  The fake Strathwick took his arm. “Come on,” he said softly, his voice gentle but insistent.

  Wallace turned from the door, eyes hard. “They’re coming.”

  Dumhnull stood and walked slowly toward the door, wheezing and struggling for air. He stopped at the door to the cottage and leaned heavily against the frame, coughing violently. It was a horrible cough, a metallic rattle deep in his chest.

  “We must go now,” the fake Strathwick urged.

  Heart-wrenching sobs distracted Rose. She turned to find Ailis awake, her skin pale and clear, large brown eyes blinking dazedly. Her mother held her in her arms, weeping.

  Rose sat on the bed beside the child. “Open your mouth, sweetheart.”

  The child complied. Her throat was pink and healthy. No signs of swelling or a membrane, or even the bleeding from Rose’s attempts to open the passageway. Dumb-founded, Rose stared at the child for a long moment. She summoned her magic again, passing her hands over the child, seeing nothing but the child’s pale yellow color, pulsing with health.

  Rose’s hands went to her mouth as her heart seemed to rise in it, her vision blurring. “Dear Lord,” she whispered. Her gaze went to Iona. “That man…that was Lord Strathwick.” It was a statement, but still the mother nodded.

  Her Dumhnull was really the Wizard of the North. Of course. She should have known. There had been a compassion in him, lacking in the imposter. And his presence was like no other; he filled a room with authority even when told to fetch mulled ale. But why had he still refused her? Her mind instantly turned to his condition after healing Ailis. He was unwell. What had he said to her in the stable? It’s fatiguing for him to heal. One does not ask him to do it for such minor complaints. She saw it all with such clarity that it brought her to her feet, propelled her toward the door.

  Before she reached it, the door burst open and men poured in, bearing weapons of their trade. Hoes, hammers, scythes, pitchforks, axes, butchering and tanning knives. The leader was a huge man with a blond beard like a tangled bush.

  “Where is he?” he bellowed.

  When Rose just stared up at him, he grabbed her arm and shook her. “You saw him! Where did he go?”

  “Who?” Rose heard herself ask. She seemed numb, as if she watched everything from outside her body.

  The blond man bared his teeth at her and thrust her away, turning on Ailis and her mother.

  “He was here—Strathwick was here!”

  Iona shook her head, her face defiant. “You’re wrong, Allister! Only this healer and my family.”

  The man grabbed Ailis’s chin and pushed her head up, peering at her throat. He twisted his neck to peer at one of the men crowded inside the cottage. “You said your daughter’s throat was swollen, did you not? That she was dying.”

  A man with long wet hair streaming down his back nodded hesitantly.

  “Pol?” Iona whispered, her voice full of helpless betrayal.

  “I healed this child,” Rose said, finally regaining her wits. “And not with magic.” She waved her hand at her wooden box. “I did it with herbs. I spent the night feeding her physiks, and as you can see, they were exceedingly effective.”

  The men murmured amongst themselves. The blond man growled, and his dark blue eyes narrowed. “I know he was here! I can smell him!”

  Rose sniffed delicately. “Indeed? And of what does he smell? For I can detect little above the stench of wet men and wool. And I’ve been told my sense of smell is exceptional.”

  Allister turned on her with a torpid frown. “He
smells like evil.”

  Rose cocked her head in mock interest. “The scent of evil. Hmm. Could you describe that in more specific terms? I’m not familiar with it. I hope it doesn’t reek of sweat and livestock, for I fear you detect something on your person.”

  Allister stared at her with slowly dawning insult. He looked quickly at the men behind him as if for support, then turned back to Rose. “Did you just say I stink?”

  Rose gathered her things together and replaced them in her box. “No, I don’t think I did. I simply urged you to have a care. The stench you perceive could very well be coming from yourself.”

  His mouth gaped, a dark hole in his tangled beard.

  Rose went to the open door. “The rain has stopped.”

  The morning sun burned away the fog. Droplets of rain clung to blades of grass and dripped from the thatching. Rose inhaled the scent of rain-washed earth deep into her body, then turned and smiled at the blank faces gazing back at her.

  “I think this will be a fine day after all.”

  And she left them, skipping over, and sometimes through, puddles on her way to Strathwick Castle.

  Her mood quickly darkened when she could not gain entrance to the castle. She pounded on the door in the gate with her dirk hilt, but the porter didn’t even open his window. She circled around to the postern door and pounded on it for what seemed an eternity, but again drew no response.

  She returned to the gatehouse and started over. She had to see him. Now that she knew Dumhnull was Strathwick, and had seen him perform a miracle, she would not go away without speaking to him. And she knew that if she pushed hard enough, he would see her—her friend Dumhnull would. And maybe, just maybe, he would help her. Besides, he was ill. That had been obvious when he’d left the cottage.

  She stepped back, gazing up at the ramparts, hoping to catch a man-at-arm’s eye, but when they passed they didn’t look down at her. She shouted at them, and still they pretended she didn’t exist. She was pacing irritably outside the gatehouse when the door beside the gate opened.