Nomad

by R. J. Anderson

  Meaning that even if Broch failed to save Marigold, the queen hoped Ivy would keep her half of the bargain anyway. But much as she had come to appreciate the faeries’ hospitality and goodwill, Ivy had no intention of selling Martin’s life so cheaply. There might still be some way of freeing him from the tenkyz, if only she could find it. “I appreciate your kindness,” she said, and made a little bow.

  “Then go with my blessing,” Queen Valerian told her gently. “And may the Great Gardener give you safety on your way.”

  “But Thorn,” pleaded Wink, hurrying after the other faery as she and Ivy came out onto the landing, “you’ve never gone so far from the Oak before. You’ve never been anywhere, except when we all went to fight the Empress. Why now?”

  “Why not?” asked Thorn irritably. “I don’t see the point of sitting here like a mushroom when I can make myself useful.”

  “Yes, but you can’t fly on your own wings, not all that distance. Broch’ll have to carry you, and you’re going to be terribly sick…”

  Thorn dismissed this with a snort. “We’ll meet you on the lawn in ten minutes,” she said to Ivy, then turned back to Wink. “And you, stop that hand-wringing or I’ll thump you. I’ll be fine.” She marched off the edge of the landing, wings buzzing to life behind her, and zoomed away.

  Wink watched her go, her brow creased with distress. Ivy had to wonder why the little redhead would be so protective, but that was none of her business. Rob was striding toward her now, with Rhosmari close behind him, and the last thing Ivy wanted was to be questioned about Martin. Hurriedly taking her leave of Wink, Ivy changed to swift-shape and flashed away.

  Once she landed and made her way outside, it wasn’t long before her new companions came to join her. Broch’s bird-form was a rook—a slow flier compared to Ivy’s peregrine, but large enough to carry Thorn and their baggage with ease. As they launched themselves toward the midday sun, Ivy heard Thorn muttering curses; the faery woman lay flat with her arms flung around Broch’s neck, and her legs gripped his sides so hard they trembled. But the rook’s wingbeats stayed smooth and even, and eventually Thorn began to relax, sitting up and even opening her eyes a crack before squeezing them shut again.

  But as they flew on, angling south to avoid the roar and stench of an airport and riding the winds over a rambling stretch of downland, it became clear that the faery woman was more than just uneasy; she was unwell. Her face had turned ashen, dark circles ringed her eyes, and she kept making faces as though trying not to be sick. It seemed Wink’s concerns had been justified.

  Yet Valerian was a healer as well as a queen, and surely knew Thorn’s weaknesses even better than Wink did. Why would she choose her to make such an arduous journey—and why send an emissary to Cornwall at all? Ivy’s mother wasn’t a queen or any kind of leader: she was just an ordinary faery woman, with no particular power or influence. This was hardly a diplomatic mission.

  On the other hand, the queen had said that skilled healers like Broch were rare, so perhaps she’d sent Thorn along to protect him. Certainly Thorn’s sturdy build and fierce expression made her look like a soldier, even if she didn’t seem to have much fight in her at the moment…

  Broch swooped below Ivy, gliding down to a little valley where a stream ran cold and clear. He came to a flapping halt on the bank, and Thorn slid off him and dropped to her knees. With a falcon’s scream of frustration at the delay, Ivy wheeled to join them.

  “It’s not wasted time,” said Broch, shifting out of bird-shape to talk to Ivy as Thorn doubled up and retched into the grass. “If we can leap back instead of flying, we’ll save hours on the return journey.”

  “It’ll be wasted if my mother dies before we get to her,” Ivy said. “You’re a healer—isn’t there something you can do to fix this?” She gestured at Thorn. “Surely you could put her to sleep, if nothing else.”

  “And I’ll hang onto him in my sleep too, I suppose?” Thorn snapped, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Besides, he can’t go flinging about healing spells like so much thistledown—he’s got to save his strength to help your mother. Have some sense.”

  “You see the problem,” Broch said drily to Ivy. “But don’t worry. We’ll get to Cornwall as quickly as we can.”

  Broch was true to his word, and Ivy could tell that Thorn was doing her best to endure the long flight without complaint. But they still had to stop three more times before the countryside began to look familiar to Ivy. As they crossed into Cornwall she took the lead, flying faster and determined not to stop again. They’d reach Marigold in an hour, if the others would keep up. She flapped westward, the sun blazing in her hooded eyes.

  The sky was dusky and darkening to nightfall when they reached the house. As Ivy landed in the cobbled yard she scanned for signs of danger, but all seemed quiet. Broch and Thorn followed her, both of them transforming to human shape and size, and the three of them hurried up the path to the house.

  “Cicely!” Ivy shouted, rapping the knocker. “I’ve brought help! Let me in!”

  She pressed her ear to the wood, but all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Had her little sister fallen asleep? She knocked again, harder. “Cicely! Open the door!”

  Thorn cleared her throat. “It smells like humans have been here,” she said. “And not long ago, either.”

  Fear twisted inside Ivy. She’d been gone a night and a day—anything could have happened. What if one of their neighbors had seen smoke drifting from the kitchen, and come over to investigate? What if they’d called an ambulance? Her mother could be trapped in hospital right now, with Cicely helplessly watching as the doctors did all the wrong things, and by the time she found them it could be too late…

  “The curtain moved,” said Broch in a low voice. “There’s someone inside.”

  “Blight,” muttered Thorn. “What if it’s a trap?”

  But before any of them could move the lock clicked open, and the latch rattled. Ivy stepped forward—and froze in dismay.

  It wasn’t Cicely who’d answered the door. It was David Menadue.

  “What are you doing here?” Ivy demanded. “Where’s Cicely? Where’s my mother?”

  Molly’s father ran a hand over his face. “Sleeping,” he said thickly. “Both of them. Your sister was exhausted after being up all night, and Marigold…”

  That was all Ivy needed to hear. Her mother was still here, and alive. She pushed past David and raced down the corridor to the bedroom.

  The first thing that hit her was the sweet-sour stench, even worse than she remembered. Behind her Thorn made a gagging noise, but Broch followed Ivy into the room without breaking stride. Only his flared nostrils and the curl of his upper lip showed that he could smell it too.

  Marigold lay on her back, the limp hanks of her remaining hair spread across the pillow. Her eyes were closed, her body stiff, and when Ivy peeled the dampened sheet from her body she didn’t flinch. If not for the faint rasp of her breathing, she might have been dead already.

  Carefully Broch removed the honey-soaked dressings from Marigold’s arm and face, eyes narrowing as he examined the burns beneath. “These are the worst injuries I have seen,” he said at last. “It will take a great deal of power to heal them, and the shock may be more than your mother’s body can bear.” He gave Ivy a penetrating look. “Are you certain you want me to do this? Or I should say, are you certain it’s what she would want?”

  Ivy stared at him. “Of course it is. Why would you even ask?”

  “Because,” said Broch with a hint of impatience, “you have a choice to make. I can try for a complete healing, if you are prepared to take the risk that she may not survive it. Or I can give her a milder infusion of power to strengthen her body and ease her pain, and leave her to heal on her own. The scars will be permanent, and she may never get back the full use of her arm… but she will live.”

  Ivy shut her eyes, unable to look at her mother’s white, pain-lined face. The thought of Marigold s
pending the rest of her life disfigured and crippled, forever reminded of what Betony had done to her, was unbearable. Yet what would be the use of Broch making her whole if she died while he was doing it?

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know what she’d want.”

  “I do,” said David Menadue, walking over to them. His hair was rumpled and his eyes bleary, as though he’d just woken up from a too-short and not very comfortable sleep—which, Ivy realized as she caught sight of his jacket hanging over the bedside chair, he probably had. What was he doing here? Why didn’t he seem surprised about what was going on?

  “Your mother talked to me,” he went on before Ivy could ask, “when I arrived this morning. I think she must have been delirious or she wouldn’t have said some of the things she… well.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, she made it very clear that she’d rather die than go on living like this.”

  Broch met the human man’s gaze and held it, as though trying to decide whether to believe him. Then he said, “Very well.” He tossed the stained and sticky dressings into the bin, and turned to Thorn. “Are you ready?”

  “Of course,” said the faery woman crossly, shoving past David. She still had one hand pressed to her stomach, but the color was coming back into her face. “Where do you want me?”

  “Here.” He pointed to the chair, and Thorn sat down. “And now Ivy.” He gestured to his other side. “Stand here, if you will.”

  David Menadue shifted uneasily. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can close the door behind you,” replied Broch, not looking up. “And don’t bother us until we’re done.”

  For a few seconds Molly’s father hesitated, his eyes on Marigold. Then he bowed out and shut the door.

  “Why do you need me?” Ivy asked. “I’m no healer.”

  “Neither is Thorn,” Broch replied. “But for a healing this deep, I’ll need you both.” He went down on one knee beside the bed. “Though I won’t draw magic from either one of you, unless I have to. I’m just using you as anchors.”

  Linden had said something to Rob about an anchor, too. “What does that mean?” asked Ivy.

  “Minor wounds are easily healed,” Broch said, in the crisp tone of a scholar. “But when a patient is severely injured, the healer has to put intense concentration and a considerable amount of power into healing them, and that can cause… difficulties.”

  “Such as?”

  “It depends,” said Broch reluctantly, but Ivy persisted, “On what?”

  “On how close the two of you were to start with, of course,” snapped Thorn. “It’s all very well making someone better, but if you don’t know what you’re doing and your magic ends up all muddled with theirs…”

  “It can be awkward.” Broch’s mouth twitched, halfway between a grimace and a smile. “That’s why many healers don’t do deep work on anyone but close friends and relatives if they can help it. Or else they make sure they’ve got at least one anchor with them: someone who knows either the healer or the patient well, and can remind them where one ends and the other begins.”

  So with Ivy and Thorn beside him, Broch would have two such anchors. Clearly he was taking no risks—and it also showed how demanding this spell would be. No wonder Queen Valerian had said the cost of such healing was high.

  Had Martin known the risk of not having an anchor, when he’d poured his magic into saving Ivy’s life? Or had he been as unaware as she was of how that impulsive healing would connect them? She touched the copper bracelet on her wrist, wondering if she would ever have the chance to find out.

  “Now,” said Broch, interrupting her thoughts, “we begin.” He stretched out his hands with deliberate slowness, laying one on Marigold’s head and the other on her heart. Then he closed his eyes, and his fingers began, very softly, to glow.

  This was nothing like Ivy remembered from her own near-death healing, which had been brief and violent—a concentrated burst of power that had shocked her to life at once. Broch worked with painstaking caution, magic curling from his hands in rosy wisps and slow golden spirals to spread, inch by inch, across Marigold’s burned side.

  “Thorn,” he said between his teeth, and the faery woman put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Broch,” she replied, her voice gruff but strangely gentle. Broch bent lower, a shudder running through him, and the livid burns on Marigold’s cheek and arm began to change.

  First the raw wounds smoothed over, healthy pink flesh rising in their place. The stench that had permeated the room faded away. Then the magic swirled faster, spiraling down Marigold’s arm and arcing over her chest, and her mother’s harsh breaths became even. The scorched parts of her hair grew back, golden-brown waves unfurling where there had been only stubble. The color returned to her cheeks, and the tension in her face eased. She looked like a healthy, beautiful woman resting peacefully in bed, and there was no sign that she had been injured at all.

  “Mum?” whispered Ivy, and Marigold’s eyes fluttered open. She focused on Ivy, and her lips curved. She reached up to touch her daughter’s cheek, and Ivy’s eyes welled up as she smiled back.

  “Broch!” barked Thorn, jumping up to catch the healer as he crumpled. She dragged him against the wall, where he slumped with head lolling, spent.

  Ivy waited until she was sure Broch was all right, then turned back to her mother. “Mum,” she said softly, “I have so much to—”

  Marigold’s breath caught, then stopped. Her smile faded, the light went out of her eyes, and her arm fell limp to the bed.

  “Mum?” Ivy grabbed her mother and shook her. “Mum!”

  Thorn shoved Ivy aside, bending to listen to Marigold’s chest. When she straightened up, her expression was grimmer than ever.

  “No good,” she said. “Her heart’s stopped.”

  “No.” Ivy stumbled back, eyes locked on her mother’s body. “No, not now, not after all this, no—” Then a sob broke from her lips, and she flung the bedroom door open and ran out.

  She collided with David Menadue in the hallway; he caught her and said sharply, “What is it?” while Cicely’s door flew open and Ivy saw her pale, frightened face. But Ivy had no words to give either of them. She wrenched free of David’s grip, staggered through the sitting room and burst outside into the cold evening light, blinded with tears.

  She’d flown so far and sacrificed so much to save her mother. She’d pushed herself harder, taken greater risks, than ever before. But it had all been for nothing, because Marigold was dead.

  And it was Betony’s fault.

  Ivy braced her hands on her knees and drew a shuddering breath. Then she rubbed her sleeve across her wet face and walked back into the house. From Marigold’s bedroom she could hear Thorn and David Menadue arguing while Cicely wept, but Ivy paid no heed to any of them. She reached beneath the wardrobe for the sword she’d taken from the Grey Man’s trove, pulled it free of the scabbard and tested its edge with her thumb. Then she sheathed it, buckled it around her waist, and willed herself to the Delve.

  “Ivy? Surely it can’t be—It is! Ivy!”

  Fern wasn’t the first neighbor Ivy had heard calling after her, but she didn’t break stride. She’d got this far into the Delve by moving fast and not stopping for anyone, though she’d left Jenny’s brother Quartz goggling when she pushed past him in the Narrows, and she’d been swarmed by excited children when she passed the Upper Rise. But she’d turned the sword at her side invisible, so while her fellow piskeys might be surprised to see Ivy, they had no reason to suspect she was there for anything but a visit. The Joan had never publicly admitted to banishing her, after all.

  Still, she was coming into Long Way now, and the door of her old home cavern was mere paces ahead. If Mica had heard Fern shout, he’d come bursting out into the tunnel any minute. Was she prepared to fight her own brother to get to Betony? And would she have any chance of beating him, if she did?

  Ivy’s hand dropped to the hilt of her sword, gripping it h
ard. Stay inside, Mica, she thought. Don’t make me do this. She stepped to the side of the tunnel, watching as the door cracked open—

  But no, it wasn’t moving, it must have been a trick of the light. Ivy breathed out and quickened her pace, galloping down the stairs to the next level. The workday had ended over an hour ago, so by now most of the men would be home with their feet up, and the piskey-wives calling their children for dinner. If she kept away from the common caverns, she had a good chance of getting to Betony without anyone noticing…

  “Ivy?”

  His voice was soft, as always. But after the things he’d said to her in Redruth, Ivy knew better than to think he was on her side. She spun and whipped out her sword.

  “I don’t have time to argue with you, Matt,” she said. “Walk away now, and forget you ever saw me.”

  Mattock moved cautiously out of the side tunnel. “What are you doing here? Mum told me she’d seen you, but I couldn’t believe…” His brows creased. “Why are you holding your hand like that?” He stepped forward—and the point of the sword bumped his chest. His eyes widened.

  “I told you,” Ivy said, “walk away.”

  Mattock raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and began walking backward, his miner’s boots scuffing loudly on the granite. “Just tell me what this is about,” he urged, but Ivy set her jaw.

  “It’s none of your business,” she said. “This is between Betony and me.”

  “Not any more it isn’t,” said her brother curtly from behind her, and seized Ivy’s arms, wrenching them behind her back. The sword clattered to the floor. Ivy struggled to reach it, but Mica was as strong as any knocker in the Delve, and he held her fast.

  “I’m sorry, Ivy.” Matt sounded shaken, but he didn’t move to help her. “We can’t let you do this.”

  So he’d known her brother was there all along. “Traitor!” Ivy spat, wrenching against Mica’s hold. “Coward!”

  “Stop it, you little fool! You’re only making it worse.” Mica gripped her wrists tight, lashing them together. “Ivy daughter of Flint, I arrest you in the name of the Joan.”