Warrior of the Dawn

by M. S. Brook

  I wrapped my arms around Rowland’s sturdy waist, and we tore across the fields and up the hill toward the north gate. I remembered that Uncle Leo had gone for the day to Wentworth, but what help would I be? I had no idea how to treat a broken leg.

  The ward was crowded with horses and Guardian regulars when we rode through the gates. Rowland brought me right up to the front steps of the hall. I slid out of the saddle and hurried to Uncle Fergal’s rooms on the second floor of the keep. Several Guardian officers were there, waiting in his sitting room, and Mama and Lord Kempton stood at his bedside. I was shocked at the sight of him. He lay shivering on the bed, his face as pale as the linens that were pulled up under his chin.

  “Uncle Fergal!”

  He made an effort to smile at me, barely nodding as if it hurt to move.

  “He’s been a day and a half bumping along on a farmer’s cart,” Lord Kempton said, “and he’s feeling it. We’ve sent a patrol to track down Lionel. I don’t know if you can do anything—”

  “I can help him, my lord.” I was glad my voice didn’t squeak, because it sure didn’t feel steady. “Has anyone given him brandy?”

  “As soon as we had him settled,” Mama said, “mixed with warm water. It’s hardly touched his pain.”

  I swallowed. “Let’s have a look.” I pulled the covers off his legs, and my knees went weak. His right trouser leg was cut away, revealing a bruised, swollen ankle and calf, but what concerned me most was the unnatural position of his foot. Clearly, his leg would need to be set, and I had no idea what to do. I gently touched the tight skin of his leg. It felt cold, and the toes were a bluish color. Uncle Leo would be back by nightfall at the latest, but I didn’t want anything to get worse while we waited. Uncle Fergal was already badly shaken by the long hours of pain. I would have to do something. “Let me go for supplies, and we’ll get started,” I said.

  Walking out of the room, I heard Lord Kempton say, “Lionel will be here soon. Just hold on ’til he gets here. Send for me if you need anything.”

  In the herb room, I found a small red bottle on the top shelf of the cupboard. I threw it into a medicine bag we used for house calls, along with some ointments and an armful of clean bandages. I closed my eyes and tried to gather my wits about me, but it didn’t help. All I could see was Uncle Fergal’s white-faced pain. Lord Kempton was right. There wasn’t much I could do. My stomach felt hollow as I leaned down to pick up the bag. I slung it over my shoulder, brushing against the rainbow pendant under my tunic. I stopped and pulled it out, letting the stone dangle on its chain. It soaked up what feeble light was in the room and transformed it into glowing colors. I spared another moment to look at it. The summer breeze was puffing the curtains in and out at the high windows, throwing dappled light around the room, making even the solid stone walls look alive.

  This time I knew the quiet whisper when it came. “You are a warrior. Draw on what you know to do!”

  “I am a warrior!” I agreed aloud.

  I felt a sense of calm come over me as I turned and carried my supplies back into Uncle Fergal’s room. I would start with what I knew how to do and go on from there.

  I asked Mama to get a glass for me and carefully measured out drops from the red bottle, mixing them with a few swallows of brandy and water. Tincture of poppies was the strongest medicine we had. I hoped it would ease the pain. Uncle Fergal raised his head for me and swallowed the medicine, grimacing. He eased back down with a muffled groan.

  Mama and I cleaned up his leg and propped it on pillows to bring the swelling down. He clenched his jaw every time we touched him, so I tried to distract him with questions while we worked. “Uncle Fergal, tell us what happened to you.”

  “We were riding on the road to Winderley,” he said in a tense voice. “It was late, but we were hoping to find a dry barn to sleep in. Near dusk we came upon a small pass through the hills. Right in the middle of it, Blackcoat riders and two vithons came out of nowhere and swept over the top. We were trapped.” Uncle Fergal shivered and pulled his covers up around his neck.

  “Vithons tore into the horses and terrified them. My horse reared back and fell on me. I twisted and landed badly…felt my leg snap as her weight came down on me.” His jaw tightened. “But for Azar I wouldn’t be here to tell the story. He got there just as a vithon was about to spring on me—rammed his spear down its throat.” Uncle Fergal’s blue eyes were huge in his pale face. “I will never forget those hideous jaws—it was like death coming for me!”

  “Oh, Fergal!” Mama said.

  “We lost two good horses—vithons gutted ’em, north to south. I can still hear the screaming.”

  Sweat stood in drops on his forehead. Mama blotted his face with a clean cloth. I kept my hands busy, making a poultice of boiled comfrey leaves to draw down the swelling, but I had to ask. “What did they look like?”

  “They’re like huge, bronze-colored lizards and so quick you can’t believe it. Bigger than a large hound, with a long muscular tail dragging behind. Head about waist-high, with rows of spiky teeth in the ugliest snout you ever saw. Big, pointed ears at the side and a forked tongue like a snake. Eyes as dark as the night.” Uncle Fergal drew his mouth into a hard line. “I hope you never come across one, and that’s the truth.”

  I shivered in spite of the warm afternoon and dragged my mind back to my work. I did everything I could think of doing, dosing him with blackberry root tea for the swelling in his leg, even putting out lavender and mint strewing herbs to freshen the room after I’d tidied up. But I would wait to sing the healing song until Uncle Leo returned. We always did that together.

  When Lord Kempton came back for a visit, he looked around the room, surprised. Uncle Fergal was resting. He’d stopped trembling and some color had come back to his face. “You look better already,” Lord Kempton said.

  Uncle Fergal gave a tight nod. “I have good help.”

  “Indeed. Ladies, you’ve done excellent work here,” said Lord Kempton.

  Uncle Fergal slept until time for evenfest. Papa came and helped him sit up to sip chicken broth and eat a few bites of bread and meat. He did seem a bit stronger, although I kept mopping sweat off his forehead. I feared his pain was still severe. What was holding up Uncle Leo?

  Mama took another peek at Uncle Fergal’s leg. “The swelling has already gone down a little. That’s a good sign, Fergal.”

  “Must be that interesting tea Aidriana gave me. It ought to work well, judging by the taste.” He managed a wry smile. “Are you sure you washed all the dirt off those blackberry roots before you made it?”

  I laughed. “You must be feeling better if you’re complaining about your medicine!”

  There was a knock at the door, and I ran to open it, relieved to see that Uncle Leo was back. He greeted us and then went to work on Uncle Fergal, his hands gently probing the leg while I told him what we’d done so far. The muscles bulged along Uncle Fergal’s jawline.

  “You can feel that, I take it?” Uncle Leo said.

  “A bit.”

  “Not surprising. You’ve broken the smaller of the two bones in your calf. It doesn’t appear to be crushed, but it’s hard to examine with your leg swollen like it is. Let’s hope I can set it back into position so it can heal. Aidriana, I need you to give him another dose of poppies mixed with brandy. And Daryn, before you go, would you get me the supplies we use to make snowshoes? I need strips of ash and leather webbing. Clare, I want a clean right boot and a sharp knife.” He laughed at Uncle Fergal’s expression. “For the boot, Fergal. I promise we won’t use the knife on you.”

  “Happy to hear it.”

  As soon as we had what we needed, Uncle Leo and I went to work. He slit the boot open, cut out the toe, and we positioned the swollen foot and leg inside. Uncle Leo cut the ash strips to length and interwove them around the boot with rawhide webbing. I was a third hand for him, but I kept m
y eyes on what I was doing—not wanting to see Uncle Fergal suffer. He grunted through his teeth from time to time, while Uncle Leo made the boot fast to his satisfaction.

  “There, I’m done.”

  Uncle Fergal sighed. “Already? I thought you’d be all night messing about with my leg.”

  Uncle Leo laughed. “Not this time, Captain. We’ve other things to do.” He picked up his flute and played a few warm up notes. “Aidriana, I want you to begin the healing song.”

  I looked at him, puzzled. “But you always start it.”

  “You don’t have to wait for me,” he said. “Just listen, the song will come to you whether I’m here or not.”

  I settled myself down and waited, trying not to think about what I’d do if I didn’t hear anything…then all of a sudden I knew what to sing. I saw a perfect leg and ankle, just as it was meant to be. I began singing about it as the notes came to me, and the music took on the familiar images and colors of dreamsong, same as it did when Uncle Leo played. I saw it in my mind’s eye, clear as anything. The song wrapped itself around Uncle Fergal’s leg, covering it with a soft glow of light. The flute came in and joined me, and I sang on, our voices dancing together in harmony like silken ribbons of floating, twirling colors.

  I sensed that a dark, heavy cloud was over my uncle. What happened next made no sense, but it seemed as if our song—light and airy as it was—slipped under that cloud and pushed it away. When the last note was sung and the colors faded, the cloud of fear and pain had disappeared.

  Uncle Fergal’s eyes had been closed throughout the whole song. Now he opened them a crack and smiled at me. “Feels good. Nice and warm.” He closed his eyes again. The pinched look was gone from his face.

  Uncle Leo moved closer. “What’s that, Fergal?”

  “Pain’s gone. My leg’s been thumping something fierce ever since I broke it, but it feels fine now. Even my toes feel warm.”

  Uncle Leo went to the foot of the bed where Uncle Fergal’s toes stuck out of the cut-away boot. He touched them and gave me a searching look across the bed. “His toes feel warm.”

  I reached over. The toes were warm and pink, when only minutes ago they’d been bluish and swollen. Something amazing had happened.

  Uncle Leo had taught me that our bodies were meant to heal themselves, but sometimes they couldn’t do it without help. The healer used herbs and the healing song to aid the process, but I’d never seen an immediate result like this.

  “Fergal, I’m sorry,” Uncle Leo said, “but we’re going to have to remove the boot—it’s loose now.”

  “That’s all right,” Uncle Fergal said in a sleepy voice.

  Uncle Leo quickly undid all of his painstaking work, glancing at Uncle Fergal’s face from time to time, but he never even flinched with the commotion.

  The unwrapped ankle looked completely different from the one we’d put into the boot. The swelling and bruising was gone, along with the bluish, mottled color. I touched the calf and it, too, was warm, the flesh rosy and firm.

  “Fergal, can you move your foot up and down?” asked Uncle Leo.

  For the first time, his face showed pain again. “It doesn’t seem to want to move. It hurts when I try.”

  “If you have pain, the bone must need time to heal further. I’m going to put the boot back on. We’ll keep your leg bound until we’re sure the bone is grown back together.”

  “All right.” Uncle Fergal’s eyes were closed. His whole body had shed the tight look of pain he’d worn all day.

  Uncle Leo felt his way up the leg. “The bones are set in good position. I can tell now that the swelling is gone.”

  “Good.” Uncle Fergal drifted off while we repeated our work, making the straps shorter to account for the reduced size of the leg. When we finished, Uncle Leo stood there looking at Uncle Fergal. I could see in his eyes that he was moved by what had happened. “Amazing!” he said at last. “This reminds me of stories from ancient times—things I only ever read about.”

  I thought back over the last few moments. We hadn’t done anything different. I’d listened for the Songmaker’s song and tried to give it voice. Nothing unusual. I couldn’t help thinking about Papa’s hip. We’d done the same for him.

  “Why doesn’t it happen this way all the time?” I asked Uncle Leo. “If this was the way it used to be, how could it have gotten lost? How could we ever lose something like this?”

  He was slow to answer, tugging absently on his beard. “I don’t know what happened, of course, but I do know a bit about human nature. When something of value becomes commonplace, we often forget its worth and let it to fall into neglect. It’s not until we lose it that we come to realize how precious it was.”

  “Do you think we’ll ever get it back like it was?”

  Uncle Leo considered my question for a moment. “If healing was once normal, even commonplace in our land, why should it not be so again? I see nothing to hold us back if we are willing to pursue it.”

  It was another riddle, but at least I had something solid to hold on to—Uncle Fergal was better. Much better. We left him sleeping soundly and went back to the Kings Hall where we ran into Lord Kempton. Uncle Leo reported that the leg was set and our patient was sleeping.

  “Good, good,” Lord Kempton said. “Many thanks for all you’ve done. And you too, Miss Aidriana.” He gave me a kindly pat on the shoulder. “Give my compliments to your father and mother. You were very helpful to us today. The healing arts suit you far better than the smithy. More fitting for a nice young lady.”

  I bowed, making an effort to be quiet and respectful as I’d been taught, but inside, I felt like Gwyn must feel when I rubbed her fur the wrong way. My face grew warm with the effort of keeping my thoughts to myself.

  After Lord Kempton walked away, Uncle Leo smiled at me. “Well done! I could tell that was hard for you. Sometimes it’s easier to fight a battle than to hold your tongue. That’s a lesson every warrior must learn.”

  Chapter 8

  Following the attack on Uncle Fergal, there were long, hot sessions in the council room on the first floor of the keep, down a long corridor from the herb room. The arguments sometimes spilled out into the hallway. Even from behind closed doors, I heard the raised voices as I tended to Uncle Leo’s plants. Summer was harvest time for herbs too, and I had plenty of work to keep me there during meeting times.

  Lord Kempton was convinced that a strong response to Domaine was required, but the full council was not in agreement. Sir Ailin was his chief opponent, and he never gave up. I heard his sharp voice more than once, insisting there was no need for war, that the troubles would calm down again like they always did.

  One afternoon the door of the council room jerked open, and Lord Kempton’s deep voice echoed down the hallway. “Great thunders! Would you have us repeat our every failure and mistake? Had we pressed forward after Prince Alestar was killed, we might have trapped Saduk in the North and won back Domaine. Instead, we have Blackcoats raiding our farms and villages, and we can’t even manage to slap Saduk on the hand.”

  Sir Donal’s mild reply was barely discernable. “But Jamis, you know we can’t take this into our own hands. The people wouldn’t stand for it. There are the rules of succession to consider. We must wait for King Aidan.”

  “Yes, yes, I agree, but we’ve had no word for two summers! Our hope for a victory in the Northlands is long gone. I like it no better than you, but the king, at best, is in no position to help us just now. And we’re sitting here arguing while Saduk threatens to steal the land out from under our feet.”

  The door slammed shut with a thud, and angry footsteps stumped down the corridor and faded away. The voices in the room returned to a low level, but I’d heard enough to arouse my curiosity. With a pounding heart, and not without a sharp twinge of conscience, I tiptoed up to the door, crouched down, and put my ear to the larg
e brass keyhole.

  “He’s right,” Sir Ailin said. “There’s only one likely reason that we haven’t heard from the king. Saduk has chased him from one end of the Northlands to the other—”

  “If we’d gone to his aid when we should have, we’d know!” Uncle Fergal’s voice held an unusual sour note as he added, “We wouldn’t have to speculate.”

  “You know we couldn’t do that. We had to protect Canwyrrie—”

  “Look, the past can’t be helped,” said Sir Donal. “But we need to find out if the king is dead or just in hiding.”

  Dead? I pulled away from the keyhole in shock, but was drawn back in the next moment by Sir Donal’s level voice. “Trouble is, how do we do it? Even if we go by sea, a Canwyr will be exposed in the Northlands.”

  “Lionel could do it,” Uncle Fergal said.

  “Lionel would be the man for it…with his contacts in the North. What if he could locate Queen Riana’s son and bring him here? He’s still a boy, but we would secure the line of succession. That would go a long way.”

  Queen Riana’s son? Since when? I held my breath and pressed my ear to the keyhole until it hurt.

  “He would make Highfield a target,” Sir Ailin countered.

  “But wouldn’t the benefits outweigh that? His presence would do much to strengthen our cause, and we could keep him safe here in the tower until he’s grown.”

  “I don’t like it. Everything we’ve learned about the heir comes from Lionel, and you know how secretive he is. I’m not at all sure he shares our interests. I think he knows more than he’s saying. He might already know where the boy is.”

  “Oh, come now,” Uncle Fergal said. “Lionel Wells is as solid and true as any of us, and I’ll not sit by while you question his loyalty.”

  “But he’s not one of us. He is a Northlander—that’s where his loyalties lie.”

  “We are still one realm in heart even if the war with Domaine divides us.”