Children of the Healer

by Barbara Ann Wright

  “I do not know.”

  She thought it best not to touch it, then, not until they had more time. Cordelia mounted her ossor again, gritting her teeth through the pain. “The best thing we can do is get to Pool before we pass out or get an infection.”

  “Infection?”

  “Yeah, the wound itself gets…sick.” She dug in her pack and passed Nettle a spare shirt. “Put this around the arrow. Maybe you can staunch the bleeding.”

  Nettle did so while Cordelia ripped her other shirt and tied some around her leg, trying to keep her own arrow from moving around.

  “I know nothing of this wound sickness,” Nettle said as they rode again. “Can one die of it, Sa?”

  Cordelia nodded. If Nettle hadn’t heard of infection, that probably meant she couldn’t get one; a bit of good news, at least. Cordelia took Nettle’s reins but didn’t push the ossors as hard. She tried to look for the easiest, most level ground so the ossors wouldn’t have to jump or trip, but the plains were rife with rocks and ditches. Even as slow as they were going, every step seemed to make Nettle slump farther.

  They couldn’t keep riding after dark, so as the sun began to set, Cordelia headed toward the faint sound of water. They reached a creek just before the light disappeared.

  “Do we risk a fire?” Nettle asked as Cordelia helped her down. “Will it keep your wound sickness away?”

  “I don’t think so, but it can’t hurt.” She sat Nettle in front of a boulder that would shield her from the wind. Cordelia made a fire quickly; the air was chilly, and they could both use the warmth. Once she was done, she took the packs off the ossors and eased Nettle onto one of their bedrolls so she could look at the wound again. She didn’t remember seeing barbed arrows among the plains dwellers or Sun-Moon worshipers. The tips she remembered were perfect ovals. If she could get the angle right, the arrow might slide right out, and then she could bandage the wound as best she could.

  “Do drushka cauterize wounds?” she asked. “Burn the opening so it can’t bleed?”

  Nettle sucked her teeth. “The shawnessi pack the wounds with moss and sing.”

  Cordelia looked to the fire, wondering if she should experiment, but she didn’t know if it would help. She certainly didn’t want to risk injuring Nettle further or setting her dry skin on fire. “I think we should pull this out, for starters. The hole seems wider than before, and I don’t want it tearing you up.” Cordelia kissed her cheeks. “It’s going to hurt. I’m sorry.”

  Nettle closed her eyes. “Be quick.” She gripped Cordelia’s thigh, her claw tucked away into her palm. Even injured, she was still mindful. Cordelia blinked away a few tears. Nettle was not going to die. Cordelia wouldn’t fucking let her.

  She wrapped some cloth around the sticky arrow, trying to get as much purchase as she could. With one quick yank, she drew it out. Nettle arched, her head thrown back, eyes wide. She didn’t cry out, but her breath came in short, panting gasps. Cordelia pressed her body flat, held the wadded shirt against the wound, and used another strip of fabric to hold the makeshift bandage in place. Sticky, golden blood covered her hands, but she pressed them to Nettle’s cheeks and brought their faces close together.

  “Little breaths,” Cordelia said. “Just keep breathing, love.”

  Nettle was looking at nothing, the nictitating membranes across half her eyes. Finally, she focused on Cordelia, her gaze going back to normal.

  “Hello again,” Cordelia said, nearly sobbing. She’d feared a drushkan version of shock.

  “And your wound?” Nettle asked.

  Cordelia looked to her leg. She could yank the rest of the arrow out, but it didn’t seem to be doing as much damage as Nettle’s, though when she moved, she could feel her muscles clenching painfully around it. But she feared unplugging a bleeding artery or something she couldn’t see. She’d heard that arrows could sometimes do less damage if they were pushed through a limb, but she didn’t think she could do that by herself, and Nettle was in no condition to help. “I think we leave it for now. We can’t have two streaming wounds to care for.” She stroked Nettle’s hair. “When we catch up to Pool, the healers will have an easier time with my leg than they’ll have with you.” She kissed Nettle’s soft, narrow lips. “Thanks for making me the easier one to deal with.”

  Nettle grinned weakly. Cordelia laid a blanket over her and curled up at her side. She wondered if she should slip free of her body and try to warn Pool, but she didn’t want to leave Nettle with no one to defend her. The ossors were tethered nearby, and she hoped the rocks would shield them from anyone who came looking. She stared at the flames and rested her head near Nettle’s shoulder as the last of her adrenaline left her, and sleep came easier than expected.

  In the dark of night, Cordelia woke up, hearing her stomach growl loudly. Nettle could probably hear it, too. She chuckled, glad some things never changed. She should have made them both eat something before she’d drifted off. Now it was nearly pitch-black. The fire had burned to embers. She sat up, reaching for her pack when she heard the growl again. She froze. It came from the grass nearby.

  The ossors shifted; she could just make them out in the dim light. Cordelia caught a harsh scent, one she’d smelled once before, when she’d volunteered to sit up with a member of Wuran’s clan and watch for the predator that had been stalking their campsite.

  She shook Nettle gently and leaned toward her ear. “Grelcat.”

  Nettle stiffened and began to stir. Cordelia helped her sit. “Weapons out. Stay here.”

  Nettle didn’t argue, but Cordelia felt her shift as she drew her daggers. Cordelia eased toward the fire and drew her blade. She didn’t want to go stumbling after the predator in the dark. Maybe if she got the fire going again, the grelcat would spook. She prodded the coals. The Svenal had given her some dried geaver dung to use as firewood, but she didn’t have much left. Still, a little flame bloomed. She could see the legs of the ossors clearly as they pulled against their tethers. Behind them, she caught a flash of silver fur.

  Cordelia pushed to her feet, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in her leg. When she blinked, the grelcat had disappeared. She limped toward the ossors. The meager light reflected off their bulbous, multifaceted eyes. She touched the thick, rubbery neck of one, and it calmed. The vestigial wings of the other flared, making a fast, flapping sound. It clicked its mandibles as if it could sense the grelcat watching.

  Cordelia could still smell it, too. She hoped it wasn’t circling around to get to Nettle, but she was even closer to the fire than the ossors. Maybe that was the key: keep everything closer. Cordelia undid the first tether and led one ossor toward the fire. She turned for the other when it keened and jerked backward into the dark as if yanked by a giant hand.

  The tether pulled taut, still caught on the ground. The ossor screamed, and there came an answering growl. Cordelia shuffled forward as fast as she could, shouting, but the keens of the ossor ended in a massive crunch that made Cordelia’s insides go cold. She took another cautious step and saw eyes that shined back at her as if glowing with green fire. She could just see the glossy fur on its snout, the peculiar tufts of hair to the sides of its wide mouth, and the gleam of its teeth, two sharp rows bared at her. It seemed larger than the one she’d seen before, but now that it had what it wanted, it didn’t seem interested in a fight.

  It dipped its head and tugged at the ossor again, pulling against the tether. Cordelia considered taking it on, but it was night, she was injured, and it could see in the dark. She swiped her sword down and cut the tether, letting the grelcat take its prize before she limped back to the fire.

  Nettle was looking anxiously into the dark. She relaxed slightly as Cordelia sat. At least she’d thought to take the packs off both animals before she’d fallen asleep. “We were raided by a grelcat.”

  Nettle sighed, looked relieved but still pained. The whorls in her skin seemed more like cracks in the dim light. “Will it return?”

  “Nah.” Once they’
d eaten, they lost interest in hunting, or so Wuran said, but she bet it would return to this spot tomorrow night, hoping someone else had caught it a tasty meal. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, Sa,” Nettle said, sounding tired more than anything.

  Cordelia made her drink some water. “Sleep. I’ll stay awake just in case.” She helped Nettle ease down again before she dug in the pack and pulled out some rations. At dawn, they would set out again, and Cordelia would let Nettle ride. Nettle would object, but if it came to it, Cordelia would pick her up and tie her in the saddle.

  She leaned her head back and tried to focus on what it would be like when she got back to Gale. First thing she’d do after getting Nettle healed: drink the Pickled Prog dry. Everything else that had to happen: meetings or briefings or bullshit could wait.

  Second thing… Killing Fajir sounded nice. That was a vengeance quest she could get behind.

  * * *

  Fajir awoke to a ceiling over her head. She frowned, remembering the plains, the camp. Was she dreaming or dead? Captured? After Nettle had scratched her, making fire run through her veins and freeze her muscles, she couldn’t recall anything. Wouldn’t the vermin rather kill her then capture her? After all, she’d attacked one of their children.

  In the moment, it had seemed so right. After Cordelia had spoken of finding peace, Fajir feared the future, feared what she would do after Halaan’s killer was dead. What reason would she have to keep breathing? No, she’d decided, better to kill the child, make the murderer suffer as she had suffered, and then the vermin would kill her, and she would go to Halaan while the murderer lived in anguish. It would have been perfect.

  Nico leaned over her, healthy, unbound, and she knew what had happened. Nettle had foiled her shot, but Nico had rescued her, and now the cycle would start again. It left her sad and empty, but she would keep going. Halaan needed her.

  “How do you feel?” Nico asked.

  Fajir tried to speak but found her throat too dry. She swallowed, licked her lips, and tried again. “Where are we?”

  “Home.” Nico put a hand under her and helped her sit up in a narrow cot. She recognized the small clay house: a table with two chairs, sealed barrels and pots in the corner, the remains of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling along with a lone lantern. It was Nico’s old house, where he’d helped lost travelers. He’d brought her here after finding her on the plains, just after Halaan had died.

  Her throat caught. Ah well, if she had to start again, she supposed it was only fitting she start here. Or maybe she’d gone back in time, and Halaan had just died again. Maybe she could get her revenge sooner this time. Or when they burned Halaan’s body, perhaps she could evade Nico’s grasp and cast herself into the flames.

  But she would never be so fortunate.

  Nico passed her a clay mug, and she sipped water, swirling it in her mouth before swallowing. “How long?”

  “A few hours. She scratched you deeply. It’s nearly dark out.” He sat at the foot of the cot and stared at his feet, despair hanging over him like a cloud.

  She squeezed his hand, happy that he always shared her moods. “Don’t worry. Next time, I won’t miss.”

  The sadness in his dark blue eyes didn’t lift. “You weren’t aiming at the man. You wanted to shoot the little girl.”

  He looked so pained, she shook her head. “I thought you’d understand.” She started to explain and stopped. Maybe he couldn’t understand. He had no target for his grief. “If he suffers as I have suffered…” She stopped. The words didn’t sound right outside of her head.

  Nico smiled, and a few tears fell, but he wiped them away. He seemed smaller as he leaned against the clay wall. As a dual child, a man born in a female body, she’d always thought of him as male, but the light of the single flame softened his face.

  “I…haven’t been honest with you, Seren.” He chuckled and swallowed. “Do you know why I call you that, even after you gave me permission to use your name?”

  “You’ve always been respectful of rank.”

  “No. I cannot call you Fajir because…” He took a deep breath. “My heart always wanted to shorten your name as if we were lovers. Faja.” He closed his eyes and exhaled as if the word lifted a weight from his chest. “My Faja.”

  She blinked in surprise and fought the urge to squirm. Part of her had sensed his attraction, but she thought it more like admiration for a leader than lust for a mate. She didn’t know what to say.

  “But that’s not the dishonest part,” Nico said. “When the storm took Shira from me, I could never put her to rest, not truly. I could only guide the lost, could only guide you, Faja. After I came to know you, I hoped that when we honored Halaan, we could find some peace together. I loved you, and even if you never loved me, I still wanted to help. We could always be friends.”

  She couldn’t meet his gaze; the words were too bold, the emotion in his eyes too raw. “I…” And what could she say? She didn’t love him, didn’t know if she could love anyone again.

  “Faja,” he said, leaning forward and making her look at him. “You had a chance to lay Halaan to rest. So few of us have a single target, and you didn’t take it. You chose instead to make the circle of violence wider.” He bit his lip as if he’d witnessed a great tragedy and was holding in the urge to weep. “Faja, you…don’t want to be found. Ever.”

  She stared hard, her own sadness welling. Was it true? Something in her wanted to lean into his arms and weep, wanted to beg him to understand, to beg him to help, perhaps. Pride demanded she lean away and snarl. “You only helped me because you wanted me for yourself!”

  He sighed and looked to the ceiling. “Perhaps that’s true. I might be guilty of selfishness even as I thought I was doing good. But now I know I can’t do anything for you. No one can.” He stood and moved to the door where his pack waited. “The other ossor is tethered outside. I hope you find your peace. I love you, Faja.”

  Before she could ask him to wait, he was gone. Fajir stared at the door and breathed hard, part of her wanting to run after him and the other half saying it was good that he was gone. Now she could go on the killing rampage she’d always desired in her heart.

  Alone? She’d never been truly alone in her life. She staggered to the door, her muscles still heavy. She threw it open in time to watch Nico disappear into the fading light. The wind howled through the grass, and she could see the faint lights of Celeste through the gloom, but there wasn’t a soul around. She sank to her knees in the doorway. He was wrong. She wanted peace. Didn’t she? It was so hard to know anymore. The need for vengeance still burned within her, but now there was something else, too. She was tired, body and spirit. She’d been tired for a long time. Maybe that was another reason she’d fired at the child. She wanted to make sure the Engali would kill her quickly.

  She looked to the north. They might still be searching for her. She could ride that way, hope to run into them. Maybe they’d grant her wish.

  Or she could follow Nico to Celeste and ask his forgiveness. He’d give it to her eventually. She cared for him. Even if they never became lovers, they could be friends, as he said. They could laugh together, share wine, take a house with other widows and just…live.

  And Halaan? Nico had been right about him, at least. She’d had an opportunity for true vengeance and hadn’t taken it. And from the world beyond, Halaan would know that. If her people were to be believed, that meant he still suffered, his death not paid for.

  She couldn’t let that continue.

  Fajir stiffened and stood. If Nico abandoned her, so be it. The idea of death didn’t frighten her nearly as much as being alone, but then, she wouldn’t be alive to be alone much longer. She would ride north and confront every Engali she met until she found Halaan’s killer again. If he managed to overcome her, so be it. But if she killed him, then his family would kill her. Either way, she and Halaan would be together again.

  She went back inside the house. First, she would sleep, then she w
ould set her feet on the path to her destiny, and no one would stop her, not Nico, not Cordelia, and not another vermin.

  * * *

  Simon felt Gale before he saw it. The palisade was only a haze in the distance, but after what the drushkan spy had said, Simon had been stretching his powers as far as they would reach, using Pool’s tree like an antenna. The entire population of Gale hovered on the edge of death, poisoned. He pictured them lying in their beds, in doorways, in the streets. He clasped Horace’s hand and tried to stretch their powers beyond sensing to healing, but there were limits.

  “Easy,” Horace said. “We’re almost there.”

  Simon shut his eyes tightly. “Hurry, Pool.”

  The tree picked up speed, but Simon didn’t know how much faster it could go without toppling. They’d be there soon, but not enough for some. He felt two people die, even at this distance. More would follow.

  “Pool,” Simon said, “set Horace and me down just inside the palisade. Can your people spread through the city, gathering everyone they find, and bring them to us?” He turned to where Pakesh rode beside them. “We won’t be able to cover you with our power while we’re healing so many.”

  Pakesh nodded, his face pinched with anxiety. “I’ll stay outside the wall.”

  “Be ready, shawness,” Pool said in Simon’s mind.

  He nodded, and when they reached Gale, the long branches reached over the palisade and lowered Simon and Horace inside. They clasped hands and ran for a person lying in the street. When they knelt beside her, Simon repaired all the systems the poison had damaged then looked for the contaminant itself, but the woman’s body was laced with it. He sensed the same wrongness Horace had detected in the captured Galeans, but this person had ingested something else, too. Her nervous system was shot, but this poison was easier to cure than the Svenal’s disease. He supposed he should be grateful he’d had so much practice healing recently.

  He and Horace went cell by cell, cleaning the woman’s systems with the efficiency of a street sweeper. One last nudge, one last check, and she was done. Simon waved at a nearby drushka. “She’s done. Next one.”