But Byrne had said he was traveling straight north, entering the Fells through West Gate.
Would Micah Bayar go to this extreme to take revenge on Han? Would they send a triple of bluejackets out to murder a young girl? Or, as he’d guessed, had the real target been Captain Byrne, and Rebecca just happened to be there?
Where had she learned to ride like that? Not in less than a year at Oden’s Ford.
With so many missing pieces, this puzzle was still impossible to put together.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward, looking into her green eyes, speaking soothing nonsense. “What is it with you, Rebecca? Seems like you’re always waving a blade in my face. You any better with a knife these days?” And like that. She narrowed her eyes, frowning as though he were speaking a foreign language.
He’d always had quick hands. In a moment he had the knife away from her. He tucked it under his belt, while she struggled to reach it, calling him amazingly vile names. “Don’t worry,” he breathed. “I won’t lose it. I have it right here.” Prying her out of her hole, he gathered her into his arms, trapping her hands so she couldn’t reach for the knife or scratch out his eyes.
She flinched at his touch, eyes going wide with shock. A moment’s struggle, more a clash of wills than anything else, and then she settled, eyes wide and fixed on his face, trembling like an animal in a trap.
“I’m a wizard, remember?” he said, still running on like a clock wound too tight. “Remember when you told me all about wizard kisses? Wizard kisses sizzle, you said. It’s not so bad when you get used to it.” This brought no response, and he expected none. He kept talking like a Mad Tom, though, the one way he could think of to keep her in the world.
“Let’s go down and see Ragger. I’ve got some supplies in my saddlebags. We’ll try to find out where all this blood is coming from.”
She weighed nothing, but still it was awkward climbing downslope over boulders and ledges in the dark with Rebecca in his arms, afraid he would fall and do further damage. Her breath hissed out, and he knew he was hurting her. At one point she began to struggle, and it was all he could do not to pitch forward and tumble all the way to the bottom.
When he reached the canyon floor, he whistled for Ragger. To his amazement, the gelding came, though he snorted at all the blood and bodies lying about.
One-handed, Han untied his blanket roll and dropped it in a spot next to the canyon wall where the snow had been scoured away by the wind. He set Rebecca down atop it and wrestled off her coat. By then, despite his patter, she’d drifted into unconsciousness, lashes dark against bloodless skin. So pale, he pressed his fingers under her chin to feel her pulse and make sure she still lived.
As he worked, Han sorted through his worries. He didn’t know how many assassins there were to begin with, and whether more might show up at any moment. But he was more worried Rebecca might bleed to death before they made it to Marisa Pines.
Using her knife, he cut the bloody shirt away. Supporting her with one arm, he looked her over. The rose tattoo below her collarbone shone bloodred against her pallor.
She’d taken an arrow beneath her left shoulder blade. It must have knocked her off her horse. She’d managed to break off the shaft close to the skin, but the tip was deep inside.
The wound had quit bleeding. The flesh had swollen up around the shaft, closing it off. She might be bleeding inside, though. He laid his ear against her breast, her skin soft against his bristled cheek. Her breathing sounded normal, not wet, at least, and there was no evidence of air coming through the wound. So perhaps the lung had been spared. She hadn’t bled out all that much. The wound looked survivable if he could get her to a healer.
But something wasn’t right. She seemed muddy and confused, almost like the wound had begun to fester. Could she be in shock from loss of blood? She was a small person, after all.
He studied the flesh about the arrow shaft, pressing his fingers against the wound. Rebecca moaned and tried to shift away. Taking hold of his amulet, he sent a whisper of power in, exploring. It disappeared immediately. He tried again, and the same thing happened. A third time, stronger than ever, and power hissed off his fingers like smoke in a strong wind.
What the…? It was like something was sucking up the power before it could take effect. But he’d never noticed anything magical about Rebecca before.
It reminded him of the silver cuffs he’d worn until Elena Cennestre took them off eight months ago. The clans had fastened them around his wrists when he was just a baby. They were like magical darbies—handcuffs of sorts. They suppressed his magic and prevented others from using their magic on him.
Several times, charmcasters had tried flaming him, or spelling him, and the cuffs had sucked the power away. Just like this.
He’d never tried spelling Rebecca before, save for a little wizardly leakage, but…
Frantically, Han searched her for something—an amulet, a token—anything that could be interfering with the magic. When he picked up her right hand, the gold wolf ring on her forefinger felt blazing hot.
“Hmm,” he said, examining the ring. It was the one that matched Captain Byrne’s, tucked away in his purse. And the one Corporal Byrne was likely still wearing.
Clanwork, they must be, since they were magical.
“Where did you get this?” he murmured. Gritting his teeth against the heat, Han tugged at the ring, finally managing to wrench it off her finger. “Sorry,” he said. Carefully, he tucked it into his purse next to Byrne’s. “I’ll give it back, I promise,” he said.
Once again, he pressed his fingers against the wound, sending power in, a diagnostic he’d learned in Master Leontus’s healing class. There was an unnatural cold all around the shaft, and it was spreading. It was too soon for it to be infection. Infection was hot anyway, right?
Poison. Likely a clan brew. They were widely available from clan traders and in the markets.
Han swore, feeling cheated—like all his hard work had been for nothing.
It was well that Rebecca had bled some, or she’d be dead already. If Merkle and his cronies had known she was wounded, they could have ridden away and left her to die without a worry.
Han knew one thing—there was nothing he could do for her here. He might be gifted, but he was no healer. He had to get her into more capable hands, and quickly. And that meant Marisa Pines. He had to hope that Willo was there. If she wasn’t, Rebecca would die.
Likely, she’d die anyway.
Fetching an old woolen shirt from his saddlebag, he dropped it over her head, without bothering to put her arms into the sleeves. It was huge on her, reaching to her knees, but it would keep her warm, at least.
He thought of constructing a litter, but knew that would take too much time. They’d have to ride double. The trip would be hard on her, perhaps fatal, but he had no choice. The bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed it down.
He would not lose her. He refused. He prayed to the Maker. Just let something work out for once. Let me save someone before this war begins.
It occurred to him that maybe his prayers were like curses—they simply drew the attention of vengeful gods.
Despite the urgency he felt, he took the time to put Rebecca’s horse and one of the assassins’ mounts onto a lead line. The horses were clues—evidence of the crime that had been committed. He pushed away the thought that Rebecca wouldn’t be able to tell what had happened because she’d be dead.
It was just as well Rebecca was light, or he wouldn’t have been able to mount Ragger with her slung over his shoulder. Once seated, he managed to turn her so she sat astride, leaning back against him, head tucked under his chin, one of his arms curled about her body to keep her from sliding from the saddle. The bow was in its boot at his knee, but it would do him no good riding double as they were. He’d be nearly helpless if they came under attack. He touched his amulet, reassuring himself.
He hoped the heat of his body would help. Hoped Willo was at Marisa Pi
nes and not visiting one of the other camps. Hoped they wouldn’t meet any more assassins along the way.
Hoped he would not have to hold Rebecca Morley as she died.
C H A P T E R T E N
THE PRICE
OF HEALING
By now it was completely dark. The birds had quit their evensong and it would be hours before the moon rose behind a layer of cloud. It was unnaturally quiet, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting to see how it would all come out. The only sound was the crunch of Ragger’s hooves on snow.
Han wanted to slam his heels into Ragger’s sides and propel him into a gallop that would take him to Marisa Pines Camp in a hurry.
There was such a tiny chance of success, all the odds stacked against them. If they went too slowly, Rebecca would die. If they went too fast, and Ragger broke a leg, Rebecca would die. If they ran into more assassins, Rebecca would die.
Rebecca lay mostly quiet in his arms, moaning now and then when he jostled her, otherwise exhibiting no signs of awareness. He sensed she was moving farther and farther away from him, retreating from the poison into some interior sanctuary from which she might not return.
Han struggled to remember Master Leontus’s lectures on healing, the recitations he’d drowsed through. I’ll never have need of that, Han had thought. I’m being trained to kill people, not heal them. He’d thought everyone he’d ever want to heal was already dead.
He’d been wrong.
Han concentrated. Bits and pieces came back to him. Leontus marching up and down the classroom, Adam’s apple bobbing wildly as he attempted to convince his skeptical audience of students to consider healing as a vocation.
Gifted healers work by taking on the illnesses and injuries of their patients. This involves considerable pain, suffering, and expenditure of power.
Healers search out discordance in the bodies of their clients. They create order out of chaos, protecting body and spirit from toxins.
It’s important that healers set boundaries during the healing process. You are of no help to your patient if you yourself succumb.
Healers are teachers as well as therapists. They teach their clients to fight back.
Healers are braver than the most valorous warrior, because they make themselves vulnerable. They open channels between them and those they treat.
Leontus was a wire-haired zealot preaching to the unconverted, and students made fun of him each time he turned his back.
Han recalled only remnants of charms—both to help the patient and protect the healer. He spoke them aloud, hoping he could recapture them that way.
Rebecca stiffened against him, then trembled as a seizure rolled through her body. Once again, Han pressed his fingers against the wound, sending power in. The area around the wound had gone icy.
The poison was doing its work. Han knew she would not make it to Marisa Pines.
Ragger lurched forward, responding to the sudden grip of Han’s knees. Making soothing noises at the gelding, Han opened his coat and shirt, ignoring the rapidly dropping temperature. Lifting Rebecca’s shirt, he pulled her body tight against his bare chest, wrapping his coat around her to hold the heat in.
Gripping his amulet, he whispered the opening charm for healing. Then he tentatively reached out for her with his mind. That much, he remembered—how to get hold of the thoughts of others for a purpose.
He’d halfheartedly participated in the exercises in class. They’d paired off, and…
The channel opened, and he was through. She was cold, so cold, the poisoned wound like an open window that drew the heat and life of her body away.
Healers nudged the patient, convincing them to fight back. Shivering, he burrowed deeper, cautiously making his way toward the spark of life that smoldered at her center.
Come on, Rebecca. Fight back. Don’t go down on the bricks for them. Stick with me. Don’t give in. Don’t let them win.
It was as if he’d wandered into a cold cave without a map, bumping into memories and emotions in the dark. Images slid through his mind, from a different life—much of which made no sense to him. A vast expanse of water—an ocean he’d never seen. A pair of red dancing shoes. Opulent palace interiors. An emerald necklace in the shape of a serpent. A view of Fellsmarch at night through a wall of glass, the wizard lamps pricking out the streets below.
And people: Amon Byrne in a fancy dress uniform, standing at rigid attention in an entryway. Averill Lightfoot Demonai, his face softened by an affection meant for someone else.
Lord Demonai? Rebecca knows Lord Demonai?
Well, she is of clan blood.
An elegant blond-haired lady cradling a newborn baby, singing a lullaby in a high, clear voice. Micah Bayar, clad in black and white, extending his hands, the black eyes glittering with lust and triumph.
No. Han turned away from that one to see himself, in the upstairs room at the Turtle, holding the music box he’d given Rebecca. And now, there he was, very close, leaning down for a kiss, his eyes blue flecked with gold. It was a peculiar inside-out feeling to experience this from the other side.
Han swam in a sea of emotions—bone-deep guilt. A longing for home. An aching sense of loss that was not his own. Anger and betrayal and fear.
Now she was fighting back, fiercely, with what little strength she had left. But she was fighting him. She saw his presence as a threat, not a help. Maybe she didn’t want him finding out her secrets.
“Hey, now, save your strength,” he whispered. “I won’t intrude where I’m not wanted.”
So he turned his attention to the wound. Maybe there was a way he could detoxify the poison, or drive it out of her body. But he just didn’t know enough.
Well. If he couldn’t rid her of the poison, maybe he could keep it at bay, keep it from killing her before they reached Marisa Pines. And so he dug in, throwing up barricades between the poison and the life force in her.
Minutes passed, and the poison halted its spread. It stayed, quarantined in the flesh surrounding the wound.
It was not without a cost. Rebecca might be protected from the poison, but now he himself was vulnerable to it, despite his much larger body size. Soon he was reeling in the saddle, head pounding, chilled and nauseated. Ragger snorted and danced, wary of the muddled stranger on his back. If they’d come upon more assassins, there was no way Han could have mounted a defense.
He was a stranger in enemy territory, and instinct told him to hide his serpent amulet from view. He poked it under his shirt, out of sight, so it rested against his skin. He pulled out the lone hunter piece Dancer had made, and displayed it on the outside.
But he slid his hand under his shirt and kept hold of the flash that had once belonged to the Demon King.
Time passed. The shadows of the trees shortened, then lengthened again. The snow came, falling softly all around them, shrouding the hard edges of the world. Somehow, he drank the rest of his water. The last drops burned like flames down his throat. Hot was cold and cold was hot—an apparent side effect of the poison.
He kept one hand fastened on the serpent amulet, the other pressed Rebecca close. His amulet flamed and cooled in his hand. Power flowed from the amulet, through Han, into Rebecca. Where Han had been hot, and Rebecca cold, now it was reversed. She blazed against the frozen skin of his chest. Ragger chose his own way now, the reins slack over the pommel of the saddle.
Han heard a familiar voice in his head, persistent, unrelenting, badgering him.
Alister. What are you doing? Stop! Let the girl go. You’ll ruin everything. You’re killing yourself. After all the time I’ve invested in you, you are not allowed to destroy yourself.
Shut up, Crow, Han thought. I know what I’m doing.
Other voices joined in. This one sounded like Corporal Byrne. Stay alive, Rai. Stay alive. Stay alive until I come. Don’t give up.
Rai?
Han was seeing things now, so maybe he was hearing things too. The landscape flickered and crawled in his peripheral vis
ion. Wolves. Gray wolves flanked them to either side, weaving through curtains of snow. The wolves turned into fine blueblood ladies, their skirts sliding over the snow. Then back to wolves. He tried to ignore them, to pretend they weren’t there. But it seemed almost like they were helping, keeping them moving in the right direction. An escort of sorts, through the blinding snow.
He made a plan, practiced what he would say like a small child might. If he practiced it enough, engraved it into his mind, he still might remember even if he was out of his head. Any delay might be fatal to Rebecca.
Find Willo Watersong. We need Willo. The girl is poisoned.
He stared down at the snow, thinking that it would refresh his burning throat, but he couldn’t figure out how to get to it.
He became oddly conscious of his breathing, focused on it, convinced that if he didn’t remember to breathe, he would simply stop.
Breathe.
He tilted his head back, and snowflakes sizzled on his tongue like sparks. The forest around him rippled and quaked, the colors running down like paint on a canvas. Or fireworks. He remembered something about fireworks and rooftops and hope.
Leaves glittered in the sunlight.
Sunlight. The sun was up. The snow had stopped. Or was it just another hallucination?
Breathe.
With an odd clarity, he noticed that the fresh snow on the trail had been churned by many horses. Plumes of steam rose around him, and the stink of sulfur and wood smoke intruded into his clouded mind. He just couldn’t remember why it was important.
Looking down, he saw with some surprise that there was a girl in his arms, dark head drooping against his shoulder, cheeks flushed with the cold, lips slightly parted in sleep. He squinted at her. What was her name again?
He brushed her cheek with a trembling forefinger. Her face was black and blue where someone had hurt her, but she was alive. He released a long breath of relief as tears ran down his face. He must have slept and dreamed she was dead.
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