Shaw didn’t argue or hesitate, merely headed toward a darkened doorway arched in stone. Along the way he plucked a torch from its sconce on the wall, carrying it before him and gesturing them all after. Calder nodded and made to conduct Brayden through, but Brayden jerked to as close to alertness as he’d been since they left the alley and pressed his hand to the wall to stop them.
“Wil.” Concern and confusion both. Brayden tried to turn his head, but the pain must have been lacing throughout his whole body, because his movements were stiff and clumsy.
Wil stepped around to save him the trouble. “Right here.” He tried a heartening smirk. “Are you all right?”
Brayden was drawn and pale, thick, clammy sweat greasing his fringe to his brow, dark eyes peering at Wil like chary little animals from the deep of a stygian cave, but he tried to smile back. “My fault. I’m sorry. This isn’t what—”
“It’s my turn on watch.” Wil pushed confidence and as much command as he could muster into his tone. “Trust me.”
“Watch the Watcher.” Brayden puffed a weak chuckle, gaze going fuzzy and trying not to. He nodded and swallowed thickly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Don’t do that,” Calder told him, serious beneath the small encouraging smile. “It’ll likely hurt like a bugger.”
Brayden nodded again, blinking blearily at Wil. He let go of the wall, dropping his hand to Wil’s, still wrapped around the rifle. “Keep it close. Choose you. Understand?” He peered at Wil through layers of pain, trying to clear the murk that was blurring the intensity in his eyes. “Wil. Understand? Choose—”
“I understand.” Wil pried Brayden’s great hand from around his own and shot his glance over Brayden’s shoulder to meet Calder’s sober gaze. Warning. He pulled up one more smile for Brayden. “The hearts of mountains, yeah? Show me that contrary nature. Impress me.”
IT WAS almost belatedly that Wil thought of Millard, of how he’d known simply by shaking Brayden’s hand.
He snatched at Calder’s elbow. “You can’t let that man touch him.” He slid a look over at Shaw, busy with preparations for surgery, then back to Calder. “He’ll know, he’ll see.”
Calder merely shook his head and gave Wil’s hand a light pat. “Lad,” he said quietly, “Shaw is the rare man who won’t see when blindness is necessary and won’t ask questions you shouldn’t answer. Trust him as you do me.”
Wil gave him a flat look. “Are you trying to be funny?”
Calder didn’t even waste time or effort on reassurances Wil wouldn’t believe anyway, only smirked and went to join Shaw.
Shaw was quick and precise, bullying Calder into getting Brayden laid out facedown on a cot that was much too small for him. Wil tried to stop Shaw from cutting Brayden’s coat—and his shirt and vest and trousers, but mostly the coat—from him, but Shaw patiently explained that as much of the surrounding fabric as possible must be removed so he could get a good look at the position and angle of the wound before removing the blade. Wil gave Brayden an apologetic shrug and let Shaw proceed. Brayden was nearly past protest but managed to growl his dissent when he heard Shaw mention mæting, and Wil didn’t back down from that objection. They used valerian and arnica instead. A lot of it.
Wil was chided by Shaw several times—gently at first and then rather insistently—for keeping the rifle poised across his torso and himself propped against the damp stone wall, but Wil refused to be moved on either point. He suffered himself to be chivvied into a far corner only because Shaw wouldn’t stop sighing at him every time he tripped over him, and because he still had a good view and semitactical angle, but that was the only concession he made. These men might be Brayden’s best chance, but that didn’t mean Wil had to trust them utterly.
For the most part, he watched quietly, listening to the dulcet chatter between the two men as they worked and alert for anything suspicious. But he didn’t really know what they were talking about in the first place, and in the second place, the many sharp little implements Shaw was using were plenty suspicious, but they were obviously healing tools. Wil only continued to follow the actions and words carefully, assuming he’d know somehow if something began to go wrong.
After much serious discussion between Calder and Shaw, the blood was sluiced from Brayden’s bared back, leaving only the knife and the small bits of fabric caught by its blade. Shaw unfolded a thin green blanket and covered Brayden’s legs, then cleansed the area around the knife with water and two oils, pausing now and again when Brayden loosed a small gasp or moan. It had the feel of unnecessary ritual to Wil, but it didn’t seem to be causing an inordinate amount of pain, and he didn’t know enough about it to object, so he kept silent. He watched with interest as Calder removed a small carved token from a pouch on his belt, kissed it, then placed it between his palms. His eyes fell closed, hands pressed together in front of his chest, head slightly bowed. Shaw only stood over Brayden and waited, patiently eyeing Calder, with quick glances down to Brayden’s face now and again.
Even in the warm glow of two torches and five oil lamps, Brayden was still ashen, his skin going waxy, hair plastered to his face in sticky swirls of gold darkening to ochre with sweat. He appeared deeply asleep, but Wil noted the frequent twitch of a frown twisting his eyebrows, the clenching and unclenching of his fist where it lay on the cot near his hip.
Calder leaned over the narrow bed, the little charm still between his hands as he hovered them over the knife, rubbing the token between his palms in rhythm to the low chant that flowed from his softly moving lips. A healing song in the First Tongue, likely persuading the Mother to look upon Her child and send Her blessings upon the path toward healing. At least Wil assumed. Hoped.
The song wound into the silence, working itself to a low crescendo. Shaw seemed to have been waiting for it. He splayed the fingers of one hand to either side of the blade, took hold of the hilt with the other, and slowly drew it out. Brayden didn’t cry out, but his fist clenched tight, knuckles white, and his jaw clamped, the muscles of his broad back contracting and bunching beneath pallid skin as he clawed in a harsh, shallow breath and held it.
Shaw worked quickly, staunching the slow ooze of blood with herb-soaked cloths, douching the wound with an infusion of oil and water. Brayden’s face remained pinched and drawn with pain, scrunching into a stony grimace, his pallor going nearly white when Shaw’s long fingers dipped down into the wound. Shaw’s eyes closed as he bowed his head, concentrating.
Calder began his song again, different this time—more soothing than insistent, the tone more beseeching than demanding. It seemed hours went by while Shaw’s long fingers worked, Calder’s chanting wending into time itself, stretching it and then pressing it narrow, until the hymn finally wound down, and Calder withdrew. He was sweating and breathing hard as he tipped a weary nod to Shaw. Shaw only grimaced, jerked a quick negation, and sank his fingers into Brayden’s wound yet again.
Wil watched it for as long as he could. “That’s hurting him. Aren’t you through yet?”
“It’s deep.” Shaw’s eyes were shut tight, head tilting slightly to the side. “I need to see if it’s hit anything important.”
Wil was under the impression that pretty much everything in there was fairly important. “Well, give him something more for the pain.”
The silent clenching and twitching were more unnerving than screaming would’ve been. Wil was beginning to feel an absurd phantom pain in his own lower back every time Shaw’s fingers moved. The whole business was setting Wil’s teeth on edge.
Shaw only shook his head. “I’ve given him enough for two men. I daren’t—”
“He’s the size of three men. Look at his face, he can feel everything you’re—”
“More might kill him,” Calder put in evenly. “Shall we take the chance?”
He stared at Wil, challenging; Wil stared back, fuming. If he knew a little more about all this healing business….
Wil backed down, slouched against the wal
l, and shut his mouth.
A small eternity later, Shaw slumped back, finally withdrawing his fingers then reaching for a clean cloth to mop up the blood. “Nothing vital.” He said it more to Calder than to Wil, but he politely shuttled his glance between them a few times.
Calder loosed a small sigh, shoulders drooping.
Wil decided “nothing vital” wasn’t precise enough. “So he’ll be all right?”
“The blade missed all of the organs.” Shaw sorted through his kit again before he came up with a suture needle. “Very fortunate. But it was long and the wound very deep. He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s very fit and should rebuild from that quickly. If we can avoid infection….” He shrugged and shot Wil an apologetic glance.
“And how do we avoid infection?”
Shaw sighed, and turned a dour look on Calder. “We hope,” Calder answered.
Two shamans—one of them an Old One, the most powerful clan elders in the known world, renowned for their magic and healing skills—and they were going to leave it up to hope? Wil scowled. Not bloody likely.
“Do the—?” Wil shot a quick glance to Shaw and then back again to Calder. He stepped in close and lowered his voice. “Is the Guardian a shaman?”
Calder puffed a jaded little snort. “Lad,” he said slowly, “the Guardian is the Shaman.”
Wil nodded, satisfied, then went back to his stance against the wall. Kept watching.
He counted fourteen sutures, wincing every time the tiny curved needle dipped and pulled. It would probably leave a worthy scar, at least. Wil hadn’t noticed before—he hadn’t really looked—but Brayden’s lack of additional scars was fairly remarkable, now that Wil thought about it. Brayden had spent eight years in the military, quite in the thick of it, from the little he’d divulged. It was strange that he was relatively unmarked. He was obviously very good at what he did—Wil had been rather impressed with the smooth, curling moves in the alley, the dependence not on brute force but finesse and brains—but Wil had to wonder if it was even possible to be that good.
Once the suturing was done, it was all rather anticlimactic. Brayden seemed to finally sink into a heavy sleep—painless, at least in the depths of it, Wil hoped—breathing going deep and even, a slight touch of color leaching back into otherwise waxen features. Calder helped with lifting and turning while Shaw changed the sheet then wound a bandage around Brayden’s torso before covering him with a thick blanket Calder retrieved from… well, Wil didn’t know, but somewhere else. Shaw tried to get Wil to come away, but Calder didn’t even bother to argue—he brought Wil a chair and propped it next the cot without a word.
Wil peered at Calder sideways with a frown as he sank slowly into the uncomfortable thing. There hadn’t been much of a chance to even think, let alone ask questions, but now that they were here, more or less trapped in this damp basement and placing too much trust in people they didn’t know, one question rose to the fore.
“Why?” Wil made a vague gesture toward his own face and let his gaze settle on the scar stretching over Calder’s cheek. “It seems a little over the top for the purpose of a mere test.”
“And it would be, if that were why I’d done it.” Calder leaned into the wall, gaze shifting between Wil and Brayden. “Only one may venture beyond the Bounds wearing the Marks. Only one’s path has been blessed.” He shrugged. “We do what we must.”
“It must’ve hurt.” Wil didn’t just mean physical pain. He only knew probably half of what those Marks meant to their wearers. To remove them must have been like losing a limb.
Calder merely shrugged. “We do what we must.”
“Did he do it for you?” Wil jerked his chin toward Shaw, still puttering silently, flitting in and out of the close little room with fresh potions and clean water.
Calder tilted a vague little smile. “He is the only one I would trust for such a business.”
Wil sighed and sagged down in the chair, feeling the events of the day settle into his bones. He’d been half expecting the pain in his hand to flare and renew itself, what with how much he’d been using it today, but it failed to throb or ache. He was glad. Considering what Brayden had been through, the residual ache of a few broken fingers seemed quite petty. The ache of an empty belly, on the other hand, was another thing entirely. Now that the anxiety was receding, hunger was starting to tap lightly. That made Wil think of the packs in the saddlebags, which in turn made him think of—
“Someone needs to retrieve the horses.” Calder was just sinking down into another rickety chair and didn’t seem at all impressed by Wil’s sudden demand. “We left them at the temporary posts by the gates. Has Shaw got a boy or someone who could go and get them?” Brayden had put the claim chit in his breast pocket—Wil had watched him do it. He hoped no one had pitched the clothes they’d cut up. The money and Brayden’s handguns were distributed through Wil’s own pockets.
Calder shook his head. “They’ll be watching. Can’t chance it.”
Wil opened his mouth to protest but couldn’t come up with anything reasonable with which to negate the statement. Except that he wanted them back, but he didn’t think Calder would be moved by that vague sentiment.
“What’ll happen to them?”
Calder shrugged, unconcerned. “When no one claims them by the time the gates close tonight, they’ll likely go to the common livery for boarding by the city.”
“Where is that? We need the packs, at least.”
Wil could sneak in easily, he was sure—wait ’til after dark, slip in, retrieve the packs, and slip back out again. He was good at it. He’d often suspected he’d make a good thief, should he ever decide to put his mind to it.
“Let it go for now.” Calder closed his eyes and rubbed at the back of his neck. “You’ve come away with your lives. Let that be enough for tonight.”
“No thanks to you.” Wil couldn’t help the bitter little growl. He glanced at Brayden, lying on his stomach, face scrunched into the flat pillow and feet jutting out over the edge of the flat mattress. Wil got up without thinking, angling to the foot of the small bed, and pulled the blanket down to cover Brayden more evenly. “What were you doing to him?” He tucked the blanket’s corners around Brayden’s bare feet. “He said you’d been mucking about in his head, and no one could’ve got behind him otherwise.” He straightened to level a mild glare at Calder. “Whatever you were doing, it was cocking up his reflexes.”
Calder sighed. “We didn’t know where either of you had gone. We didn’t know what had become of you.” He lifted a cagey look up at Wil. “Nor what you’d become. I had to know.”
Wil walked slowly back to his chair, and sat down. “And are you satisfied now?” He kept his voice deliberately soft and even, but a slight bit of challenge leaked into the tone.
“I know what he is.” Calder nodded toward Brayden. “Better than he does, I expect, else I wouldn’t’ve been able to touch him, let alone cock anything up.” He looked down at his big hands, then angled a shrewd sideways stare at Wil. “What you are is an entirely different matter.”
Wil snorted. “Is this where I’m meant to come over all weepy and spill my guts?” He hunched down in his chair, jaw clenched. He twitched his chin toward Brayden. “He knows. If he chooses to trust you with it, then I’ll abide by his decision.” He slanted his gaze back toward Calder, hard. “Right now it only matters who I trust. I trust him.”
He let the rest hang there, unspoken.
Then frowned as the truth of the statement sank in.
Calder didn’t seem to take offense, only sighed again, weary and resigned. “His magic has a green feel to it, new and largely unclaimed.” A frown wrinkled his browned forehead. “He fears it, I think.”
Wil thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “He fears very little. He denies it because his life made it necessary to disbelieve. Give him time.”
“It isn’t mine to give.” Calder paused, faded blue gaze sliding sideways. “And you may not have it.�
�� It was quiet, no judgment.
Wil flicked out a hand, palm up, with a shrug. “When you’ve lived outside of time….” It was his turn to pause, discomfited suddenly that he was speaking so freely. He slouched down and looked away. “It’s all relative.”
“That tells me very little. And I don’t mind telling you that the only reason you’re a guest in the Temple and not a prisoner is because I could read him”—Calder jerked his chin at Brayden—“which I shouldn’t have been able to do.” He looked Wil over keenly, lips pursed. “Where’ve you been, lad?”
Genuine concern and distress. Accompanied by a vast question without any simple answers, regardless of the angle from which it was approached.
Wil stared at Brayden in the light of the lamps, at the steadiness of his breathing, at the intermittent flick and twitch of his eyebrows as a spasm of pain worked its lethargic way through the haze of sedatives and exhaustion.
“I think….”
Wil looked down at the rifle propped across his knees, picked at the dirty linen wrapped about his hand. Thought about how he’d walked a straight line for three years, his feet leading him inexorably even when his head tried to direct him otherwise. Thought about Brayden’s commander’s apparent remarks, how Brayden had fought his way into Ríocht and tried to fight on into the Guild itself. How he obviously had no idea he’d a motivation other than duty to his country.
Wil rubbed at his brow. “Seeking,” he muttered to his lap, blinked up at Calder, and then quickly looked away again. He cleared his throat. “Is there anything to eat around here?”
THEY MUSTERED up some cold vegetable pies for both Wil and Calder, Shaw apologizing for the lack of gravy. Wil ate them dry and with no complaints. The vegetables were tender and the crust divinely flaky, and cold filled his belly just as well as hot did. A cup of deep red wine accompanied the meal, its flavor rich and woody with a touch of smoke beneath it. It was overtly suspicious, terribly rude, and a little bit silly, considering he’d wolfed down the food without a second thought, but Wil waited until Calder had taken a sip of his wine before Wil did the same.
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