The Girl from the North (Pathway of the Chosen Book 1)

by Cat Bruno

  For the first time since she had arrived in the room she looked at Mathias, locking eyes with him, exhaustion clear in their grayness. She reached toward him and placed her hand on his forearm.

  When Bronwen spoke, the healers looked up, her words scraping out of her throat, “I had feared that the bleeding would continue, but it has not, and I was able to finish stitching the worst of the lacerations. Yet, now we have another problem. If you notice, he is missing a very large patch that covered him from underneath his navel to just above his pelvis. What little that is left, I had hoped to stretch over the upper area. But that still leaves the lower area, which, left uncovered, will undoubtedly kill this man. Have you any ideas?”

  Mathias answered first, “Bronwen, you ask the wrong man. I couldn’t even find the source of the bleeding and had assumed this man to be beyond our help. Already, he has lost too much blood. Why waste any more of our time here? Surely he will not survive the night.”

  Bronwen stared at him, her eyes heavy but focused, and Mathias could feel sweat beading up on his forehead, and he reached up to wipe it away, nervous under her scrutiny. She turned away from him then, spinning until she spotted Sharron who silently stood at the foot of the cot, hands interlaced and resting on the large pouch she wore around her waist.

  “Sharron, is it your belief that we should let this man die with little regard to our oaths?”

  Her words had been crisp, clearer than anything she had said today, and they hung heavy in the stale air of the room, causing Mathias to redden in embarrassment.

  His humiliation only deepened with Sharron’s reply, “Bronwen, I too had believed there could be little done for this man, and I am awe-struck by what you have accomplished. And will admit to my own error in judgment. You have fixed the worst of it. He will be scarred, deformed even, but he might live if you are able to attach skin over his wounds. Have you thought of taking skin from another area of his body to attach to his stomach? If we sew what we can, and bandage the rest, in time his skin should heal.”

  “Very good, Sharron. First, we will see how much of his skin has remained, and if I can stretch it across his stomach. But, if not, we will take skin from elsewhere, perhaps his leg. When we are finished, I will show you how to dress and bandage the area. Now, let us finish, Sharron, if you would assist me, I would welcome the help.”

  The woman glided over to take her place at Bronwen’s side, next to the long cot, forcing Mathias to step backward from them both. Sharron had been at the Academy for several moon years and was a Northerner as well, yet Bronwen had rarely spent time with her, preferring to keep to herself or spend time with Kennet. Not much was known about the girl, and she was often overlooked due to her quiet nature. Bronwen was surprised that she had had so little contact with the girl, especially since they shared a homeland, yet her interest in the girl was growing.

  Bronwen could feel Mathias behind her, but she cared little and wondered why he had done so little for the bleeding man. While she had scolded him for his inaction, truly, she could not fault him entirely, as the man had been, and still was, very close to death. Bronwen gently shook her head and concentrated on what needed to be done next.

  She called out, “Sharron, I am trying to decide if it would be better to use finer thread laced close together or a thicker thread that would require less stitching. What do you think?”

  Sharron answered, a slight accent rolling under her words, “I believe you should use the finer strands and tighter stitches, even though it will take much longer.”

  “I agree. And while the heavier thread would certainly allow us the hold we need, I think it would not provide enough of a barrier against infection. Shall we start then? Donnavan, will you please find me as much fresh aloe vera as you can, as well as some calendula and comfrey? Also, I will need strips of linen to bind him when I am done.”

  Donnavan ran off, leaving only the three senior healers and the young girl still in the room, all staring at the man who lay motionless on the cot. Bronwen laced her needle and then directed Sharron to the man’s right side, as she herself rounded the bed and stood on his left, where she began sewing the man’s torn skin back onto his body. More than once, she wondered if what she attempted was possible, but she continued. She had never before attempted such a large repair, covering nearly all of the man’s front torso. Either the skin would die and blacken or it would heal itself and reattach. Bronwen could only stitch it into place and hope for the latter.

  The process was slow-going, and Bronwen’s hand ached with the repetitive movements, her forefinger and thumb gripping the needle with a solid, yet delicate hold. Again and again, she etched her needle into his skin, forming tight, delicate crosses that lined him from side to side. Then, she began to stitch in a downward line, and the silence around her comforted her. When she reached the area above his left hip bone, Bronwen held her needle aloft and swiftly crossed to the other side of the cot, standing beside Sharron once again. She stitched another row back from his left hip, over his pelvic bone, to his right hip, admiring the dark crosses that marked his body, nearly forming a complete rectangle, with one side missing.

  As she finished, she checked her work, noting how bits of skin were stripped entirely away in certain parts. But, she had done what she could and had closed him up as neatly as she could. He still breathed, which Mathias had checked often, feeling for the life pulse at the man’s wrist. He had not regained consciousness, which surprised no one, as the cloth that covered his face had been heavily saturated with lavender and passionflower, which might have kept him sedated, although for this man, the herbs must have been more than doubled. Bronwen had not been in the room when the oils had been applied to the cloth.

  Her work was still not complete, and Bronwen looked away from the man and back toward the people behind her as she searched for Donnavan. She was exhausted, her stomach empty and her head aching. Her hands were nearly numb, yet she felt satisfaction too, as she often did after a difficult healing. However, she could not stop, not yet, and if she rested, she would not be able to continue, she thought, so she resisted the urge to sit.

  When Donnavan returned, he carried with him a pile of neatly cut linens and a large handful of slender aloe stalks, light green and speckled, with spiked edges, orange flower buds, and small, almond-shaped leaves. As soon as he entered the room and stopped next to Bronwen, sweat dripped onto the floor from his face, and he apologized repeatedly.

  “You have brought everything, and quickly too. Nice work. Do either of you know what we will do next?” she asked, addressing the two senior healers, while ignoring Mathias, who stood with his fingers pressed to the man’s wrist.

  Donnavan was the first to answer, “Should we slice the aloe and place the whole leaf over this man’s body, or only the gel, Bronwen?”

  Bronwen smiled softly, “I think for one so severely injured, it would serve us best to lay the open leaves directly onto those areas that are in need of the most skin renewal. The calendula buds should be mixed with our base oil and rubbed in before we place the comfrey leaves and aloe down. After we have thoroughly covered him in the oil and the aloe and comfrey, we will then need to wrap his body in clean linens. At sunup and sundown, the whole process will need to be repeated, including fresh linens. And when the man wakes, he will need to be given frequent sips of honeyed water mixed with cayenne pepper, which will help to end any remaining internal bleeding. I would imagine that he will also need plenty of milk of the poppy, but I will leave that to your discretion, or to whomever remains to care for him. But, expect him to be in significant pain. And keep him sleeping.”

  Feeling suddenly weary, Bronwen stepped back from the edge of the cot, allowing the two others to finish what she had started, although she hovered near enough to supervise, and offer help, if needed. When she glanced out the long window that hung on the far side of the room, darkness greeted her, the sun having set recently. She had been working on the man for nearly half the day and her back ache
d and her fingers tingled.

  Bronwen longed to be alone in her rooms, lying comfortably on her bed, with only the book Kennet had given her for company, from which she still had much to learn. Yet, she would not leave until the healing was complete. It had taken much for her to step away and allow Sharron and Donnavan to finish, but she knew it was what a Master Apprentice should do.

  As they worked, she thought of the book, which had been translated into Common, although certain passages had been left untouched, which intrigued Bronwen. The book itself seemed old, pages were wrinkled, ripped, even mended in places, and the words faded and the word usage antiquated. But, the content had not changed, and the Tribe had certainly not changed, or what little she knew of it, she figured.

  Her eyes were beginning to drift closed, and she could feel herself swaying on her feet, the chatter between Sharron and Donnavan distant, even though they were only steps from her. The sound of Sharron’s faint laughter jolted her awake, and, for a moment, Bronwen was envious of the young girl, innocence untouched, her love for healing whole and untarnished, reminding Bronwen of herself, before the mind-lock had been undone. With her mind still on the book, and on Conri, Bronwen ached for those days, like she had never ached before, realizing how simple life had once been.

  But before she could get too lost in those thoughts, Donnavan was calling out to her, and the man on the bed jerked underneath their hands, his body shifting and convulsing, the sheets that covered him thrown from his body. As Bronwen rushed forward, she thought that she heard the man mumbling, his words thick and hard to understand while his face remained hidden beneath the oiled cloth. Her feet dragged behind her, heavy and reluctant.

  “Help me! He comes for me. The Birdman comes,” the man screamed, his words slurred and slow, yet each word reached out to Bronwen, as if to grab her by the throat.

  When she finally reached the side of the cot, the man was mumbling, words beyond recognition, and his body lay flat, trembling, but calm. Her hand reached for the cloth that slanted across his face, his right eye, peeking out beneath it, closed. With shaking hands, she grabbed the cotton square and pulled it from his face, aged lavender and valerian scenting the air as she flung it to the ground.

  Within one breath, the room shifted, and her knees buckled underneath her. But it was her eyes that the others noticed, as they blackened with knowledge and fury.

  A scrape marked the right side of the man’s face, yet not enough to conceal his identity to one who knew him. His eyes were closed, but Bronwen remembered what she would find there had they been open. A shiver splintered through her body, until she was nearly convulsing. She knew not whether the room was quiet or humming behind her, as the only sound that she was aware of was the shrieking inside her head.

  Finding a strength that she did not believe that she had, Bronwen stepped back from the man, sliding her feet along the stone floor, and stopped only when her back slammed into the wall. What have I done, she thought, sickened, tasting the bile that thickened her mouth. She forced herself to look back to the cot and stared at the immobile man before locking her gaze with Sharron’s.

  “Who is that man?” she rasped, as she hugged her arms about her body and tried to end her shaking.

  Sharron answered her shortly, unease written across her pleasant face, “He is a sailor. Little more than that we know. Brought in by his shipmates. I think he must be Tretorian by the looks of him.”

  Bronwen could only shake her head, no longer willing to discuss the man nor look upon his lifeless body. Her vision was cloudy and her head felt like a rock atop her body, and she wanted nothing more than to be as far as she could from the room. She turned and walked toward the door that she had entered many hours before, unaware of the curious stares behind her.

  Mathias called out to her, “Bronwen, what are we to do with the man?”

  Bronwen had forgotten that Mathias was still in the room, and she halted when he addressed her, but she didn’t turn around, instead whispering hoarsely, “I have done all that I will for him.”

  Then, she ran from the room, ignoring the voices that trailed behind her, racing away, as fast as her weary feet could take her. She ran until she was outside the clinic doors, her sandaled feet leaving soft footprints on the shelled path. Then, she was running on the large, flat rectangular stones that formed the majority of the roads in Tretoria, feet echoing loudly on the hard surface. With little light to guide her, the moon veiled with dark streams of clouds, Bronwen hurried on, heading toward the Academy as she tried to ignore her cramping midsection. With each step that she took, her head cleared, although the nausea remained.

  She had saved his life, of that there could be little doubt. The gods could be cruel, so ravishingly unfair and spiteful.

  With her anger to fuel her, Bronwen arrived home faster than she would have thought possible, then slumped into the door, letting it hold the weight of her body as sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging them. She blinked away the tears, rubbing the back of her hand across her face, uncertain if she was wiping away sweat or tears.

  As she was about to open her door, a voice called out behind her, and Bronwen’s heart nearly stopped.

  “Bronwen, what in the hells happened back there? I have been chasing you since the clinic.”

  Even in the darkness, Kennet’s tall, lean body and bespectacled face were distinguishable, and Bronwen sighed, placing her hand in the center of her door and pushing it open. She waited until they were both inside before answering him, and even then she hesitated.

  “What were you doing at the clinic, Kenny?”

  “I was waiting for you and had been waiting for hours. As I was sitting there, you came running down the hallway and before I could catch you, you were halfway down the road. I followed you as quickly as I could and screamed your name many times.”

  With little emotion, she replied, “What is it that you needed me for?”

  He looked frightened, his face shining white amid the strong mage-light. He had watched as Bronwen fled from the clinic, watched too as two male healers and a robed female one stumbled after her, the older male yelling for her to stop. She had listened to none of them. Her face had been as pale as the moon, and the robe that she wore had been stained with maroon blood.

  “Bronwen, what has you so upset? Did the man you were working on die? If so, it would not be the first time that you have lost a patient.”

  Then, she turned to face him, her body trembling, emotions exploding, and screamed, “I wish he had died! Nothing would make me happier than having him beg me to save him before I walked away, leaving him to die! Instead, I spent hours tending to him, Kennet. My arms were numb and my head throbbed, but still I worked, even when I thought the room was spinning around me. And for what? For what? So he can throw his repulsive body on top of another woman?”

  Kennet slowly made sense of what had happened at the clinic, and his stomach heaved, rumbling loudly in the now hushed room.

  “Are you saying that you just healed the man who raped you?”

  The words dirtied the air, and Kennet instantly regretted letting them spill from his mouth. Yet, he had to know and needed to hear her admit to what he suspected.

  When he looked toward Bronwen, his heart rolled inside his chest, and her silence was answer enough. She looked shattered, and her eyes, usually so lively and wild, like the Northern forests, were lifeless.

  Suddenly, he remembered why he had been at the clinic.

  “Bronwen, I had completely forgotten to tell you why I was at the clinic in the first place,” he said, hoping that the news he brought would lift her spirits, “I have had word from my uncle. He received my letter and will be coming to Litusia soon. Soon! Within days, maybe.”

  Bronwen crossed the room and sat down at her desk, laying her head on a pile of books, and yawning as she looked over to where Kennet stood, the action at once simple and troubling.

  Quietly, she cried, “What have I done to deserve this? Do you know th
at I did not know it was him until after I had completed most of the healing? Had I known as soon as I walked into the room, I would have turned and left. And he would have died. Now, if he survives, he will not be able to leave the clinic for a moon. Yet, if I go back there, I will kill him myself.”

  Kennet sat down on her cot and looked toward his friend. She was covered in blood, and her robe was more red than cream. Dark-crimson streaks slashed across her forehead and cheeks, and her hands were still blood-covered too.

  He crossed the room, stopping to grab a large cloth and a pitcher of water. The Rexterran leggings and tunic were lying on top of a trunk, and Kennet picked up those as well. Then, he walked to where Bronwen still sat.

  After he poured water onto the cloth, he handed it to her, and said, “You are a healer, Bronwen. The best one I know. Cling to your oath. When all else changed around you, you still clung to that.”

  As he watched her wipe at her face, he added, “Did you not hear me before? When my uncle arrives, we will be able to track Conri. Aldric will be able to provide us with answers.”

  “What can Conri do now?”

  Before he could reply, she asked, “Do you know who the Birdman is?”

  The question sounded silly, even to her own ears, but she wondered what it meant. When she noticed that Kennet was gaping at her, wide-eyed and confused, she quickly explained what had happened, not skipping over anything and telling him exactly what the man had said.

  When she finished, he took off his spectacles and rubbed his nose, holding the framed lenses in his hand.

  “The Birdman? I have not heard the term before, but perhaps he referred to the Tribe. Not High Lord Conri or his kind, but another clan. The Ravens. The death-mongers. The scavengers, but Tribe as well.”

  Bronwen darted out of her chair and ran across the room, falling on her bed and rummaging around her sheets, staining them with the blood from her fingers. When Kennet walked over to where she stood, he arrived just as she yelped.