Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Loose Id Titles by Christina Quinn
Christina Quinn
Arwn’s Gift 1:
HEART OF THE FOREST
Christina Quinn
www.loose-id.com
Arwn’s Gift 1: Heart of the Forest
Copyright © July 2016 by Christina Quinn
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eISBN 9781682521540
Editor: Kerry Genova
Cover Artist: Fiona Jayde
Published in the United States of America
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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning
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Dedication
To everyone who put up with me being overly worried and hypercritical of my writing.
Acknowledgment
Special thanks to Morwen Navarre and C.L. Mustafic. Without you two, I would have never sent this off to a publisher. And to my editor Kerry who answered all of my stupid questions and put countless hours into helping me polish my manuscript. Also to Tahn, DirtyAngel, PippyChick, and Kokoa_B on AFF, whose friendship, delightful nicknames for the characters, and support helped make this possible.
Chapter One
Winter, 1355
The butcher’s boy, Miksa, was with fever again. It was the sixth time since the first snowfall that sickness burned through him. He was a fighter. Most in the minuscule village of Laeth didn’t survive one fever a season, let alone six. I was fairly certain the carcass of something was rotting at the mouth of the river, putrefying the water. However, no one dared venture into the forest to check, and we would suffer for it come spring. The bitter, frigid wind howled around me as I packed snow into my old wooden bucket. Shivering, I pulled the thick, fur-lined cloak tighter around my shoulders. It did nothing. This would be a hard, long winter. The worst was yet to come, and it was only half over.
As I trudged back through the snow toward town, that was all that preoccupied my mind. It was going to get worse, which meant more death. Not just from the fetid river but also from frostbite, fires, poisoning, and injury—not to mention the inevitable starvation. As I reached the gate and noticed the small paper announcement tacked into the thick wood, I grumbled. “NO NON-HUMAN NON-RESIDENTS ALLOWED—BY ORDER OF FREDRIK FRANZ EALDORMAN OF LAETH,” read the paper. I stared at it for a moment before tearing it down and throwing it into the snow. Laeth, you have bigger problems.
Sighing, I slipped through the unmanned gate and wended my way through the deserted, snow-covered street. I could hear the butcher already: “Why did ya have ta go all the ’ay to the tree line for snow?” I was growing sick of explaining to them that horses, goats, cows, sheep, pigs, and drunkards piss and shit in our muddy streets and the snow inside of town is worthless because of it.
Opening the door to my modest two-room shack, I was greeted by the sobbing mother and irate father. Looking at them, I could guess what happened: while I was gone, the boy probably had a seizure, or either of the well-meaning parents gave him more of the polluted water, and he was dead.
“Wot took you so fuckin’ long?” the butcher yelled as I stepped past him. He was a large man, with arms the size of my waist, and as many teeth as I had fingers and thumbs.
“Did anything happen while I was gone?” I asked as I sat beside the small boy’s body. He was six, and last summer he threw a rock at me, spat at me, and called me a witch—I could only guess where he’d picked up that behavior. But sleeping, with fever, he was tolerable—it wasn’t the boy’s fault he had a boar for a father.
“N-nofin’, miss,” the mother stammered out, wiping away her tears. “I jus’ know this be it for my boy.”
“He’s a tough one,” I reassured her before I checked to see if the boy was breathing. He wasn’t. It felt like my heart stopped as I stared at his lifeless body. Last month, the night of the first snowfall, the next town over burned their Cunning Woman on a pyre because she couldn’t cure a fever and a baby died. “But sometimes, the toughest don’t always pull through,” I whispered as I checked the boy. He was still warm, and his lips weren’t blue yet. My sadness and fear quickly gave way to anger. “Whichever one of you gave him more of that fucking water, get out!” I yelled as I quickly turned the boy on his stomach, brown water pouring out of his mouth. “I said get the fuck out!” I yelled again, over my shoulder. The butcher grabbed his heavy cloak and left looking a bit scared as I patted the boy’s back and he started coughing and vomited up more of the water.
“I sh-shoul’ prolly go see ’bout ’im.” The woman sighed.
“It’ll be a while this time. I’ll send for you if anything changes.” I offered the woman a small, warm smile. She pulled her cloak back on before heading back out into the snow.
After they left, I locked the door and finally took off my cloak. I moved the bucket of snow to the rough dining table and warmed my hands a bit at the fire. My home was one of the larger hovels in the village. Most were simple one-room shacks, but mine had two. One was the outer room, where I treated patients; there were two cots, a stove, a table and chairs, and shelves that lined the walls, full of ointments, tinctures, poultices, potions, and various other concoctions. Herbs dangled from the ceiling as they dried, filling the air with the scent of a woodland grove.
I was a healer, what some called a Wise Woman or Cunning Woman. I knew how to make charms to keep just about any beast out of a home, and I knew how to treat illness. Even with the fear of witchcr
aft that had started to take hold in Ersland, most would still rather see a Cunning Woman than a Barber Surgeon.
The second room was really my home. It held only a bed, a small bookshelf, and two chests. One contained rare and expensive ingredients. The other held what passed as my wardrobe: eight dresses—three wool, four linen, one velvet—and three cloaks. Also in that chest, in a small red box buried at the bottom, were two gold wedding rings, neither of which had been worn in four years.
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After tidying up and putting straw over the floor where the boy had vomited, I wrapped my thick wool shawl around my shoulders and drifted off to sleep in front of the fire. My lids had barely closed before I was jolted awake by banging on my door. Oh joy, more idiots who drank the water. Groaning, I made my way to the door and opened it. Standing almost knee-deep in the snow were four men, supporting a fifth. The smell of blood was heavy on the air, that distinct odor of freshly minted coppers.
“Please, we have coin. Our…friend’s hurt real bad.” That accent. I froze in the doorway staring up at the towering males. They were elves. I knew the only elves in the village, which meant they had to be from the forest. The elves were why those who lived in Laeth were afraid to go through the forest. We humans had pushed them to the brink of extinction, and now they pushed back, killing travelers and taking captives. I was a tad nervous, but I still stepped aside.
“Lay him on the cot,” I instructed them. Gesturing in the direction of the cot I grabbed a few wads of linen bandages, then a needle, thread, and a few jars of ointment. “How did he get hurt? I won’t judge. But I need to know what I’m dealing with.” I didn’t pay attention to the others once they set the injured one on the cot. He was half-conscious, muttering words under his breath that I didn’t understand.
“We went to see friends in Nathton. We were in the tavern. He went out to relieve himself, and the city guard jumped him. No one saw what happened. We just know he ended up on the ground unconscious and bleeding,” the one who spoke at the door said softly. I could hear the sadness in his voice.
“Are you the only one who speaks common?” I asked, glancing back at him.
“Yes, well… Aneurin does as well.” He nodded toward his friend on the cot.
“I’ve only treated one elf before,” I confessed, turning my attention back to the bleeding elf on the cot. I started peeling off the heavy winter layers he wore. “I can’t use an iron needle, right?” I asked as I unbuckled the tunic. I gasped at the red, angry wound in his side. There was blood everywhere, so much that I was curious how they made the six-hour hard ride without him bleeding out.
“You can use an iron needle. That’s a lesser fae, like a pixie or nymph.”
“Lesser fae. Right. Sorry.” I shook my head as I opened one of the jars of ointment. Staring at the elf on the cot, I rubbed the herbal mixture over my hands. He is going to die. The thought made me inexplicably sad. The give of the flesh under my fingertips told me it couldn’t be sewn. The sliced tissue was going to need to be cauterized. The sides of the wound were rough. They had attempted to sew it, which was probably the only reason he made it to my door, but the wound had reopened. “Stupid fucking guards,” I grumbled as I stood. Then, taking a handful of sage off the shelf, I tossed it into the fire, followed by my cauterizing iron. I haven’t gotten to use it yet this season. I smirked at the thought as I snatched more gauze and filled a bowl with a few ladles of melted snow.
“So you don’t hate us?” I jumped at the voice as I returned to the wounded elf’s side.
“No, I don’t. I have no reason to hate anyone particularly. Am I afraid of you? Yes, but not here. Only an idiot doesn’t fear elves in their domain,” I murmured as I set to cleaning the massive gaping wound in the poor elf’s side. He whimpered as I poured the cold water over it. Once the wound was clean, it was clear that it wasn’t bleeding as badly as I’d initially thought. A soft sigh of relief escaped my lips as I retrieved the red-hot iron from the fire. The elves who didn’t speak common started yelling at me, but I tuned them out. I was used to it. Usually, when I walked toward anyone’s ailing friend or relative with the large hot iron, people started yelling. The one who spoke common bellowed something in their strange, melodic tongue and pointed to the door. The others left with a grumble. “I need you to hold him down,” I said, brandishing the hot iron.
“All right, I’ve done this before, you know. My mother was a healer.” He pulled a dagger out of his boot and put the hilt in his friend’s mouth like a horse bit. I was going to say that his friend might break his teeth on the dagger, but I was fatigued and didn’t want to argue with him. Once he was holding his friend down, I smeared the wound with more ointment before pressing the red-hot metal to the maimed flesh. The iron sizzled and popped against the wound, and the smell of burned flesh filled the room like roast pork. The wounded elf on my cot screamed the whole time, yowling behind the knife in his mouth. His left leg kicked, but the right one didn’t move. Great, his leg’s broken. I wasn’t in the mood to reset a broken limb.
After returning the iron back to its place on the shelf, I went back to the wounded elf. I felt along his leg, down his thigh, to his knee and then his calf. The femur was broken right before the joint. I cringed, feeling the give of the bone. If he were human, I’d say he’d never walk again. I covered my face for a few moments.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes…no. I’m exhausted, sorry.” I wet my chapped lips. “His leg is badly broken. It takes an astonishing amount of force to break that part of a leg. But he saved his knee. I think he turned as the pressure came down.” I bit my bottom lip. “I can give him something for the pain, bind it, and hope for the best. Though I can’t say if he’ll be walking again anytime soon—if ever. I know your kind heals differently. The elvish-smith’s daughter broke her ankle. It was a terrible break, and she was walking on it within a week, sooo…” I shrugged and bandaged the elf’s stomach. The unconscious were like lumps of meat to me. I only saw contusions, lacerations…whatever wound was afflicting the nonlucid party; I didn’t see faces. I only noticed the flat, hard, lean muscle of the wounded elf’s stomach as I passed the bandage over the cauterized, now only weeping, wound.
“Is it safe to leave him here?” the hooded elf asked softly.
“See that boy on the cot? That’s the butcher’s son. The butcher is a devout follower of the Dawn, and he’ll be here in…” I looked out the window. The sky was pale gray, dawn was soon to crest, and I had barely gotten an hour of sleep. “Minutes,” I finally finished as I glanced around the room. I would have to figure out a way to brace and bind the leg before the butcher came to check on Miksa. “Help me move him.”
The elf complied while the wounded one he called Aneurin whimpered all the while. Probably too exhausted to make much louder noises. I can sympathize. We lowered him onto my bed, and I started unfastening his trousers.
“I need you to walk down the road, that way.” I pointed toward the rising sun. “At the end will be a small elvish-smith’s workshop. Tell the smith—his name is Ynyr—that Valentina needs a long brace for a patient, and that I’ll trade three weeks of poultice for it.” The elf nodded and slipped out the door with silent footsteps, leaving me alone with my two unconscious patients. Once I had removed the elf’s trousers and he was lying naked in my bed, I focused my attention on his leg.
Above his knee it was largely swollen. I tenderly pressed the flesh; it was hot to the touch. Those whimpers continued. It could have been worse; it was only one break. Last year some idiot merchant was trampled by his horse, and the bone broke in six places; there was nothing anyone could do. I bound his leg, and because I did, he can walk, though with great difficulty. The front door was flung open, and I scrambled to leave my room, hastily closing the door behind me.
As I predicted, the butcher was back, and he didn’t look pleased. With a sigh, I made my way to the cot where the child lay. I checked his breathing and his fever. Surprisingly e
nough, young Miksa would live. The fever had broken.
“So? What of my boy?”
“He’ll live if you stop giving him water from the river. It’s not safe to drink. As I told you, as I told your wife. As I told the town and posted the notice on my door.” Sighing, I shook my head.
“So I can…I can take ’im ’ome?” He was humbled, as he always was after I told him his son would live.
“Yes. But again—”
“I know, ya damnable wench. Don’ let ’im drink the water,” he snarled at me. I simply stared at him. I was too tired to care.
“Next time you should call the gravedigger and pay him instead. Miksa won’t survive another bout of this illness.” My tone was empty. With a blank expression, I watched as the butcher gathered his son in his arms. He stared down at the boy, and a look of sadness washed over his hard features.
“I’ll cut up the best fat goose for ya. Say wha’ they will in th’ cap’tal, buh’ I dunna see how yer kind deserves the fire. Ya migh’ be a right proper bitch…buh’ ya serve us well,” he said before leaving with Miksa in his arms. And now I’m alone!
I opened the door to my room and groaned with frustration. I had almost forgotten about the stranger in my bed. That was when I first really saw him. Because I wasn’t focusing on his wounds, I was able to take in the sum of him. He was pale, but all elves were. His skin was the color of cream, and his hair was a warm earthen brown. It was cropped short almost all around but was somewhat long in the front—it was a distinctly elvish style. He had high cheekbones, and long dark lashes that rested on his cheeks artfully. His nose was pointed and twitched when he whimpered. He had a beautiful jawline and an exquisite neck. His lips were full, and a warm blush color, the kind of lips that begged to be kissed. I winced as I swooned over him like a stupid girl.
The outer door opened again, and I jumped, pausing in the threshold of the inner doorway with my hand to my chest before I continued into the room beyond. The hooded elf had returned with the splint in hand. It was a simple contraption the elvish-smith and I had designed together: two long metal rods held together in a few places by leather straps, with a small stand at one end to prop up the leg a little. I locked the door behind the elf and gathered a few herbs from my shelf. Cursing, I looked down at the bucket of snow, which was almost empty now. Damnit. I sighed exasperatedly as I put the teakettle on and tossed another handful of sage into the fire. I grabbed the vial of spirit of hartshorn.
Heart of the Forest (Arwn's Gift Book 1) Page 1