by Cat Bruno
She would have said more, but her throat burned and even she could barely understand her own muffled words.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
Whispering, Sharron pleaded, “Please come with me, Master Ammon. The man that Bronwen saved is dead. And I do not think his death was a natural one. There is a feel about the room that burns with power.”
Ammon’s face paled.
He stepped toward her and grabbed her shoulders roughly.
“Do not speak of this again. You were right to come here. But no one else must know about this. Not yet, not until we understand more of what has occurred. We do not want the whole of the Academy fearful and panicking. Wait here a moment, and I will return. Then, we will go back to the clinic, and you can tell me all that you remember.”
She nodded her agreement and waited in silence for Master Ammon to return. While she waited, Sharron rubbed her fingers against her healer’s robe, staining it red. Faster than she thought possible, Master Ammon had returned. Behind him was a tall, thin man, dark haired and light eyed, his long face grave and guarded. Quickly looking away before he could notice that she watched him, Sharron shivered once again. The haunted look that she observed crowding his eyes and masking them would not disappear from her mind, and she wondered who he was, recognizing him to be dark-touched.
*****
As the three of them quickly walked toward the clinic, Ammon called out to Aldric, “What of Bronwen? Do you think that she could be hurt?”
Sharron wasn’t certain if she should answer, but quietly said, “Sir, I have not seen Bronwen at the clinic in some time.”
Finally, the strange man with the masked eyes answered, speaking for the first time in Sharron’s presence. His voice was low and deep, and it stirred her, but not in the same way that the room at the clinic had, and, for a moment, she relaxed.
“This man has long been marked for death it seems. I will know once more when I can the manner in which he was killed.” In response, Ammon shook his head, hurrying with long strides, nearly running, as if he would knock anything or anyone down who might be in his way. Sharron, with a heavy head and burning throat worked hard to catch up. As she struggled to keep pace with the master, she noticed that the man called Aldric continued slowly, and, soon, he trailed behind.
When they finally arrived back at the clinic, Sharron was wiping sweat from her face and Aldric was missing. Ammon noticed neither and lunged for the huge glass door that welcomed visitors to the clinic. After he grabbed the brass handle, he flung the door open, and, had Sharron not hurried, she would have been left behind, so little did he remember that she was still with him. Squeezing in before the heavy door could slam shut, she followed Master Ammon down the hall, knowing where it was that he went.
As she caught up to him, he was placing the hanging curtain in the hook attached to the wall, and she shook with memory. His back was all that she could see, yet by the way that his head dropped and his broad shoulders drooped, Sharron knew that the scene had still come as a shock to him. She wondered if she should have told him more.
For a long moment, he only stood there, staring into the room and not moving, standing just outside, as if the sight had turned him to stone. Behind them came the sound of boot on stone, and she turned to find Aldric. Before she or Master Ammon could speak, he had swept past them and was crossing the room, leaving them both wide-eyed.
After a moment, Ammon called, “Sharron, come here and drop the curtain.” When she entered the room, standing as far from the body as she could, he asked, “Does it appear as if anything has changed since last you were here?”
Master Ammon’s question forced her to look about the room, which she reluctantly did. With little choice, she walked over to where both men stood and quickly looked down at the slumped, twisted man, kneeling next to him once more. Again, she forced her eyes to the man, trying to decide if he was as he had been when she first found him.
Finally, without rising, she whispered, “It is as it was when I first entered, sir.”
Ammon nodded, “Sharron, I thank you for all that you have done this morning. You were right to come for me. If you have nothing more to add, though, I think it best that you leave.”
Suddenly, she remembered the man’s words and understood why Master Ammon had brought the dark man with him.
Standing up, she called, “Master Ammon, there is one more thing that you both should know.”
The memory of Bronwen looking upon the man’s face and her reaction after recognizing him flashed, and, before Sharron could continue, she recalled how Bronwen had fled the room, in fear or from hatred, she did not know. But, the girl was Northern all the same, and Sharron let her mouth close, keeping her words unspoken.
Master Ammon and the mage were kneeling next to the body, and, without turning back, Ammon called, “What else is it, Sharron?”
With a start, she mumbled, “The clinic will be full soon. Something must be done with the body.” Her words were not unwarranted, she knew, forcing herself to relax.
Nodding curtly, Ammon answered, “I will see to it. Keep the others away from the back of the clinic. Go now.”
Relieved to be gone, Sharron hurried from the room. As she neared the front, she spotted Donnavan. As quickly as she could, Sharron told him of Master Ammon’s orders, and when he seemed to understand, she pushed open the doors, stumbling into the morning sun, low and bright.
Her sandaled feet kicked up dust as she half-ran from the clinic, her blood-covered robe sticking to her wet body. Blurry-eyed and sweating, she hurried, and, soon, she was outside Bronwen’s door. Breathing hard, she leaned her suddenly weary body against the door and closed her eyes, wiping at her face.
As if she could sense, in a way that only a Northerner could, she knew, that her life was about to change, Sharron smiled slightly, with exhaustion. Then, she raised her hand, tapping at the door with white knuckles. Three times she knocked, bowing her head and pounding with more intensity each time, knowing that she could not leave without speaking with Bronwen, regardless of what it took to do so. While she was not gifted with much mage-talent, Sharron knew enough to realize that the door was warded. She pounded again, banging on the center, and stepped closer, pressing an ear to the door.
There was no response and she heard nothing. Still, Sharron walked over to where a large window hid behind a blooming juniper bush, getting close enough to the window to be able to see inside, or would have, had the curtains not been drawn closed. Bronwen’s home was like many of the other detached cottages that most of the senior healers lived in, and, although it was small, it had windows on all but one side.
Quickly, she walked to the back, nearing another window, smaller than the one at the front, and higher too. When she looked closer, Sharron noticed that if she could get high enough to see through the glass pane, then she would have a clear view into Bronwen’s rooms. Looking around for something to stand on proved to be easier than she would have thought, and, within moments, she was carrying pairs of large stones over to the back edge of the cottage. After stacking them against the outside wall, she carefully climbed up the make-shift stairs, balancing herself against the hard stone wall.
Hovering on the top step, she peered into Bronwen’s room, her eyes just above the bottom edge of the window, but high enough to look down into the room. She scanned the room, hoping to spot Bronwen, having not seen her in days, perhaps as long as a quarter-moon, she figured. Again, Sharron pounded on the window with the side of her fist, banging so hard that twice she nearly toppled from her spot.
Just as she was about to climb down, Sharron noticed something in the corner of the room. Pressing her face further into the glass, which eliminated the glare that had crossed her vision before, her mouth fell open. The figure moved, rolling from her back to her side, clutching something to her stomach, as if in pain, or so it seemed.
Her flaming hair spread around her, wild and knotty, Bronwen lay in a corner, her mouth open as
if she cried out in pain.
Sharron pounded harder on the window, hoping to break the glass, yet it was solid and Bronwen heard nothing.
Mumbling to herself, she said, “I must get inside.”
After she climbed down from her hastily crafted steps, Sharron found herself back at the front door, and she leaned her forehead onto the thick wood, inhaling the sweet scent that still lingered there after so many years. With her eyes closed, she did not move, uncertain what to do. Under her ear, the door hummed, the wood nearly throbbing with the ward-lock. Her own door was guarded too, yet she somehow knew that Bronwen’s was not like hers. Still, she placed both hands on the center of the door, feeling it ripple beneath her fingers.
As she stayed, Sharron suddenly remembered her a story from her childhood, one that her mother often told, about the trees of Eirrannia and the special gifts that they offered.
With a gentle kiss on the door, Sharron waited, letting the gentle vibration ripple through her body.
She whispered through barely open lips, “I mean her no harm and offer only help. Mother of tree and mountain, please allow me to enter.”
Before Sharron had time to think herself a fool, the door’s throbbing ceased completely, and she knew, still without understanding, that the warding had been dropped. She quickly pushed the door open, nearly falling into the room as she did so, and ran to where Bronwen was lying on the ground, clothed in what appeared to be men’s wear, and fell to her side.
“Bronwen! Can you hear me?”
The older healer rolled onto her back, still with her arms wrapped about her abdomen, and opened her eyes, taking a moment to stare at the green-eyed girl staring down at her. Sharron knew that her face was pale and her eyes grave.
Shaking her head, Bronwen mumbled, “I do not know what is happening to me. A moment ago I thought that I would split in half from the pain. Yet now it is gone. I do not think that I can survive this either way.”
The woman’s eyes were foggy, as if she did not quite understood what she had said, and Sharron wasn’t certain that she did either.
Sitting up and raising a hand, Bronwen called, “Please, just wait for a moment. This one will be gone soon, and I will be recovered for a time.”
So Sharron waited, sitting by Bronwen’s side as she moaned and rolled, all the while still clutching her abdomen. After several moments, Bronwen sat up, panting hard. But, there was color back in her cheeks and a clarity to her gray-green eyes that had not been there when Sharron first arrived.
“So the pain has passed? You had me worried,” she said, pushing herself back from Bronwen but remaining seated.
Bronwen looked at her closely and asked, “How did you get in here, Sharron?”
The depth of Bronwen’s eyes was bottomless, Sharron thought as she stared back at the woman who had barely been able to speak moments ago. Now, she was watching Sharron with suspicious eyes. Unable to look away, Sharron continued to gaze into the eyes that seemed at once familiar, the color shared by many Northerners, yet distant and detached too. With something unreadable hidden there, troubling and serious, Sharron feared that any answer she gave might be the wrong one, so she said nothing.
Sitting up again, Bronwen said, more clearly this time, “Please tell me how you were able to open a warded door.”
Her voice was as hard as the look in her eyes, and Sharron knew that she could no longer be silent.
“Truthfully, Bronwen, I do not know what happened. When I arrived, I knocked several times, and I even climbed some stones so that I could peer into your window. It was then that I saw you lying on the ground, as you just were. So I tried the door again, and I could feel the warding, which was odd. I was desperate, I guess, and when I felt the ward beneath my hands, I asked permission to enter. It was granted, I guess.”
Bronwen again watched her, although she shifted her gaze away and asked, “Who might it be that granted your passage?” Sharron could hear the disbelief in Bronwen’s voice. While she bristled at the suggestion that she might be lying, she could understand Bronwen’s doubts, especially since her explanation sounded hollow to her own ears too. Yet, she knew no other way to explain what had happened.
“I have been at the Academy nearly as long as you have and have never studied mage-art. My mother and brothers both had some skill, although I long thought that I was not so blessed. I do not know what occurred here. However, I mean you no harm.”
By the time she finished talking, Bronwen was back on her feet, standing in the center of the room. While her legs trembled a little, she was otherwise fine.
“Why are you here?” the other healer asked.
There was much she could say, but Sharron’s words were simple ones when she finally replied.
“I’m here to help you, Bronwen, however I can.”
With some bitterness, Bronwen sighed, “So many have offered to help, yet none truly can.”
Not knowing what the words meant, Sharron said, “Tell me about the man from the clinic. The one who you ran from.”
Sharron noticed how Bronwen’s face paled before she turned from her, walking over to a crowded desk. With her back still toward Sharron, she called, “So you are from the North then, Sharron? Is mage-skill common there? I know so little of my home country.”
“It is rather common, in some way or other. Mage-sight is perhaps the most common.”
It was clear that Bronwen had chosen to ignore her query, but Sharron walked across the room, until she was on the other side of the desk. Over a pile of papers, she reached for Bronwen’s arm, and asked, “How do you know that man?”
Bronwen shrugged her hand off, but answered, “He came upon me one night on the beach. I was there as I often was by myself. Before I could stop him, he was on top of me. I’m sure you know how this tale ends, Sharron.”
Much made sense to her now, and Bronwen’s words were not surprising ones, as Sharron had seen the way she looked after uncovering the man’s face. And she had seen that look before with a few women at the clinic.
Before she could stop the words, Sharron said, “A woman’s fate is a difficult one at times.”
Pouring water into two mugs, Bronwen said, “You know enough now, anymore I don’t wish to discuss. Nor do I want any others to know.”
“Of course,” Sharron replied.
Handing a mug to Sharron, Bronwen insisted, “Tell me why are you really here. Did someone send you?” After sipping the water, which Sharron much needed after her morning, she answered, “I was at the clinic this morning, as I usually am, and went to check on the sailor. He has not spoken much, although he grew stronger. Bronwen, I know not how to say this but directly. The man is dead.”
Without emotion, Bronwen sighed, “His injuries were serious ones. His death is not surprising.”
Shaking her head, Sharron cried, “He did not die from his injuries. He was killed.”
When Bronwen said nothing, Sharron looked to her, across the desk, but the woman’s face was empty. As if she already knew, Sharron thought.
Her voice cold, Sharron added, “I have seen him, Bronwen, and I do not believe what was done to him could have come from one of us.”
Bronwen paled and leaned into the desk, her eyes bright with pain, and hissed, “One of us?”
Sharron noticed that Bronwen was hunched over again, as if the cramping had returned. Her words had been spoken through strained lips, and Sharron wanted to reach for her, yet, there was still distrust between them. Her arms hanging at her sides, she answered, “A human, I mean. Someone with no mage-skill or power.”
Bronwen’s eyes were ablaze, with fever or fear, Sharron did not know. Yet, she continued, “The man was thrown like a doll across the room and I know of no one with such strength. Nor did anyone hear a confrontation, and I have been at the clinic all morning. And, there is a certain taste in the air that turns my stomach, Bronwen. More than that, I will leave to the masters. I was the first to find him. I have no doubt that the man was attacked,
as if by a hunting dog.”
Her words had not been gentle ones, yet Bronwen’s reaction still surprised her, as she bowed her head and her shoulders sagged. Her chest pumped softly and her body trembled, and, soon, sobbing overtook her, surrounding her whole body and shaking it in rhythm with the tears that streaked her face. Sharron waited, again struggling against a desire to comfort her.
Suddenly, as if she remembered that she was not alone, Bronwen looked up with a blotchy face and shining eyes. Then, she wiped at her face with the bottom of her shirt. With a sigh, she lifted her eyes back to Sharron, and said, “I’m sorry that you had to see that. It has been a difficult few days. Give me a moment, and then we can head to the clinic.”
Bronwen’s voice had a tired sound to it, but, soon, she was moving about the room, slipping off the tunic and replacing it with one of a similar style and cut, although the color was a vibrant blue, a shade between the morning and evening sky. Against Bronwen’s coppery hair, the sight was stunning.
After a few moments, Bronwen crossed the room and nodded toward the door. “Perhaps your parents should have sent you to Rexterra, Sharron. I would guess that not many could have undone such a warding. But a fine healer you will make nonetheless.”
With her hand on the door, Bronwen said, “Come. Let us be off.”
Sharron followed Bronwen as she made her way out the door and down the path, and not once did she try to stop her, despite Willem’s words warning all from the room. When they were at the edge of the campus grounds, Bronwen suddenly stopped. Sharron, coming up behind her, heard gasping and hurried. Placing her arms around Bronwen’s waist, she caught her before Bronwen collapsed. She held tightly as the other woman convulsed in pain, her thin body shaking and dampening.
Nearly fully supported by Sharron, Bronwen mumbled to her, “How long must it take, do you think?”
