by Willa Blair
“Someone get the Healer,” he ordered, his voice booming around the cavernous space and carrying up the stair. “Get Aileana. Quickly. Now!”
He heard several people start up the stairs at a run.
Donal, disbelief evident in his raised eyebrows, shouted, “Nay!”
The footsteps on the stairs faltered.
Toran looked up at him in disbelief. “Nay? Nay?” He clenched his fists at his side, glaring first at Donal, then at the faces gathered around them. “Will ye let Jamie die then?” he barked at Donal.
Donal had the grace to look abashed, but continued his objections. “Will ye have a stranger, new come from an enemy camp, have knowledge of the postern? That it exists? Where it is?” He pointed toward the wide fissure in the cave’s wall where daylight reflected off of angled surfaces from outside. “Many more than this man will die if word of this gets back to the invader.”
Toran looked down at his dying friend, and knew he had to take the risk. “That won’t happen,” he said in a calmer tone. “She’s with us, and with us she stays. She can save him. He is yer kin and friend, too.”
Donal started to object again, and Toran surged to his feet, grief supplanted by fury. “I’m laird here. Do as I say! Someone bring the Healer, now! Run!”
In the same tone of command, but more softly, he knelt back by Jamie and said, “Stay with us, lad. Help is coming. Jamie, hear yer laird. Stay with us.” He saw no reaction to his words, only the same shallow breathing, the same bubbling froth of blood at the corner of Jamie’s mouth, so he kept repeating it over and over, “Stay with us…hear yer laird, Jamie, stay with us…stay with me.”
****
Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him aside. Furious again, he surged to his feet, only to find her, the Healer, sinking past him to kneel beside the injured man. Toran clenched his fists, but stepped back to give her room.
She did the same thing he’d seen her do to Brodric MacAnalen in the camp, moving her hands over Jamie’s body, pausing to listen, then moving more. Toran watched, terrified yet fascinated, holding his breath. Finally she turned and looked up at him.
“You must pull the arrow from his side,” she said, quietly. Toran hesitated, shocked that such rough treatment could do anything to improve Jamie’s condition. But he knelt beside her and at her urging, put his hands on the wooden shaft. “Wait!” she commanded, still quiet, but urgent. “Do as I say if you want your friend to live. Move slowly; pull it straight and don’t twist it unless I tell you to. Pull a bit, then wait for me to tell you to before you pull again. I will heal what I can, but if you pull the arrow too quickly, he’ll finish bleeding to death before I can save him.”
Toran was not sure he believed any of this was happening, but after a glance at Senga and seeing her remorse, he realized that there was no other option. Senga nodded at him. Her message shone clear on her damp face: do what the Healer instructed and have a chance of saving Jamie, or watch his childhood friend die before his eyes. “Aye,” he finally managed to say. “Tell me when.”
“Now,” she commanded, after placing her hands on Jamie’s chest.
Toran pulled, and the shaft slid a fraction, then caught. His own breath hissed between his teeth, but the Healer stayed silent. He dared a glance at her face and saw that her eyes were closed below a frown of focus.
“Pull again,” she said. “Slowly.”
Toran tugged the shaft out a little further, feeling the resistance of the arrowhead’s points in Jamie’s torn flesh. Thank the saints that man had passed out, for the pain would have been monstrous. Toran’s teeth clenched on bile and his body shivered at the thought of bearing such agony.
“This time,” the Healer said, her voice interrupting his thoughts, demanding his attention. She seemed weaker, somehow diminished. “This time, twist a bit upward. The arrowhead must slip past the rib or it will catch there and do more damage.”
How did she know that? But Toran did as he was told and carefully, bit by bit, turned the shaft as she directed, then waited for her nod before pulling again.
“Stop!” she commanded and he froze, heart in his throat. He watched as her hands smoothed slowly over Jamie’s chest, following the path the arrow had taken.
“The next tug will remove it from his body,” she said, breathing heavily, almost panting now.
Toran risked a glance in her direction to see her pale and sweating and felt a shiver run up his back.
“There will be blood, but do not worry. It will stop.”
He risked a glance at Senga, but she was focused on Aileana’s hands, her gaze intense, as though she, too, had the Sight and it was boring into Jamie’s body, overseeing the work being done by the woman at Toran’s side. Aileana moved and he looked down to see her fingers curved onto Jamie’s side on either side of the arrow’s shaft. “Now.”
Toran held his breath and pulled. The arrow came free, along with a gush of red that quickly coated the Healer’s fingers before slowing to a stop after she reached into the wound. Toran watched, fascinated and terrified at the same time as her hands continued to move, covering the wound, slipping back along Jamie’s chest, then down his belly and across to the other shoulder, coming to rest on his chest. Finally, she sat back, bowed her head, and stilled. Toran saw that a bit of color had come back to Jamie’s skin—not much, but a bit. Aileana’s breathing was still labored, her eyes closed. Her hands lay in her lap as if spent, bloodied, unmoving. Blood soaked the skirt of her dress where she had knelt by Jamie. Toran supposed his own clothes were soaked as well, but he cared not.
Then Aileana’s head came up and her eyes opened. She looked first to Senga, as if she did not see the crowd encircling them, watching her magic. Senga met her gaze fully, and that seemed to give Aileana a bit of strength to replace what she’d lost healing Jamie. “He’ll need your warming poultice for tonight,” she said softly, and Senga nodded, seeming not to care that she was taking instruction from one who could have been her apprentice. “And water. When he wakes in a few hours, as much water and mead as he will take. He will sleep again, but each time he wakes, make him drink. He has lost much blood, much strength.” She started to rise, but stopped and turned back to Senga. “Keep him warm. Blankets. Warm the mead.”
“Aye.” Senga nodded and put a hand gently on Jamie’s chest. “Can we move him to his bed?”
“No, not yet. Cover him here. Bide with him…here. Perhaps tomorrow…”
Toran heard the catch in her voice as she paused between words, and realized that her own strength was flagging and about to fail her. “What do ye need, Healer?” he asked, putting a hand on her shoulder. He was shocked to find that she felt…cold.
She gave him a small, pale smile. “Food and drink. Then rest. I’ll be able to tend him again tomorrow.” Suddenly, she blanched and collapsed into Toran’s arms.
“Senga!” he cried while pulling Aileana up against his chest. She was so still, so pale, so cold, as though she had taken her own life and gifted it to Jamie.
Senga left Jamie’s side and reached out to Aileana, where she lay in Toran’s arms.
“She breathes, though weakly. She’s spent.” At the panicked look in Toran’s eyes, she continued, “Nay, no’ like that. She’ll no’ die on ye. She’s merely worn out, poor wee lass. This Healing she does, well, it’s strange, and more than a mite hard on her. Take her to her bed, now, and keep her warm until she wakes. Then do as she said—food and drink, as much as she will take, and let her sleep again. Stay with her, Laird. I’ll stay with Jamie.”
Toran nodded, comforted by Senga’s words. He stood, cradling Aileana to his chest, relieved to see hers rise and fall as she lay in his arms. When he looked up, the faces of his clan met him, surrounding the tableau that he, Jamie, Senga and Aileana made. Some looked relieved, and tears shone in many an eye, but there were also those, Donal included, who frowned at the woman in his arms, disapproval of Aileana’s gifts clear on their faces. He heard someone hiss “witch” clearly in the s
ilence, but couldn’t identify the speaker. He saw Coira near the back of the crowd, glaring at Aileana. Such animosity gave him a chill, but he set that aside for later.
“Do you wish to challenge the wisdom of yer laird and yer healer, do so later,” he growled at those gathered around him. “What’s done is done. For now, let me by.” The circle parted, and Senga nodded to him with a strange, wise look on her face. A small smile replaced it just as he turned to go. Toran noted that for later consideration, too, snugged Aileana closer to lend her the heat of his body, and mounted the stairs. Donal followed close on his heels all the way up into the keep, but said nothing. When they reached the door to Aileana’s chamber, it was Donal who held it open for Toran to pass by with his burden.
“I’ll send Elspie,” he offered, then closed the door behind him. Toran laid Aileana on her bed, and heaped blankets and furs on top of her. Then he bent to stir the fire. Not knowing what else to do for her comfort, he found a rag and dampened it, then sat on the edge of the bed and began wiping the blood from her cold hands, stroking them much as he had when her hands had cramped on the ride to the Aerie.
There came a soft rap on the door, and Elspie pushed it open a crack and peeked in. “Is she well, Laird?” she asked quietly, entering the room at Toran’s nod.
“Senga says so, though it’s hard to credit, looking at her.”
Elspie stepped to the other side of the bed and shook her head. “Who can see her, the way ye have her buried, Toran!” She started pulling covers off of Aileana. When Elspie got the pile reduced to her satisfaction, she stood back, hands on hips. “The idea is to keep her warm, my laird, not to cook her in her own juices.”
Toran had nothing to say to that, but he didn’t have to say anything as Elspie offered, “I heard how it went, below.” She frowned as he tucked Aileana’s hands under the blankets. “She saved Jamie, she did, and what thanks for it from the clan? A few fools who believe the tales of witches that travel with the smoke from the south, do they? Not foolhardy enough to challenge their laird, I’ll wager.”
“Not yet,” Toran allowed. “What she can do seems unnatural, I’ll admit. But I’ve only seen her use her Talent, she calls it, to help others. No one can gainsay that. Even Senga approved.”
“Aye, she would. She’s had the care of us since most were bairns. She’ll knock some sense into those hotheads, if it’s needed.”
“I hope ye have the right of it, Elspie,” Toran replied evenly, “so I don’t have to.” After Elspie left, Toran said aloud what had been on his mind, the one thing that he could tell no one, the one thing that was tearing him in two. “The clan needs her. But I need her. And I don’t know how I can have her, if she’s to be our healer.”
****
Aileana woke to find Toran dozing in a chair next to her bed. How long had she slept? A glance toward the window showed her weak afternoon sunlight. Ah, she hadn’t quite slept the day away, then. Good. She could check on the man she’d saved from the arrow wound before nightfall. He was probably fine. Senga was a good healer and would tend him well, but it had been Aileana’s observation that as the sun sank, so did the spirits of the injured, which sometimes led to a worsening of their condition.
Taking a deep breath, she began to make small movements. Fingers and toes first, then arms and legs, then a satisfying stretch. Other than ravenous hunger and thirst, she seemed no worse for the wear.
She turned on her side and regarded the man sitting vigil over her. He must be exhausted, she thought, to sleep on in broad daylight. The injured man must’ve been dear to him, indeed. Weren’t warriors trained to rouse at the slightest movement or sound around them? But no, that could not be, else they’d never get a night’s sleep. Though he’d certainly demonstrated how light a sleeper he was when he surprised her in her Healing tent that morning she’d thought to check on him.
There was no help for it. She needed to get up and take care of necessities. She lifted the covers aside and sat up. At her movement, Toran’s eyelids popped open and he sat up, too, and reached for her.
“Aileana. How are ye? What do ye need?”
“I’m fine, Toran, truly. I just need a few minutes of privacy, and then something to eat and drink before I go check on my patient.”
Toran stood to take her arm and help her gain her feet. “I’ll send for something to be brought up.”
Gently, she patted his chest and then stepped away from him. “Thank you. While you do that, I’ll change and be ready when you come back.”
“I’ll send Elspie to ye.”
“Nay, you needn’t bother her. I’ll be done in a moment.”
Toran gave her a skeptical look, then nodded. “Verra well. I’ll return in a few minutes. Be careful, lass. Ye may not have quite all yer wits about ye yet.”
“My wits are just fine,” she answered, fixing him with an insulted stare. “Now go, please.”
Toran nodded and left her in peace. She quickly stripped off the bloodied gown and silently thanked Elspie for insisting that she needed more than one. The blood had soaked through to her undershift, and she removed that, too, then washed the sticky skin below it with the rag and warm, clean water someone had thoughtfully placed on the table next to the fire. After taking care of necessities, she pulled on clean clothes and inspected the bedding. Yes, it would have to be changed. Her patient’s blood had stained the sheeting, but fortunately had not penetrated to the woolen blankets and furs above it. Sighing, she began stripping the bed just as Toran reentered with a tray, followed by Elspie carrying another.
“Aileana, what do ye think ye’re doing?” Toran barked.
“Here now, lass,” Elspie complained when she saw what had upset Toran. “That’s no work for a lady. Come sit by the fire and eat while I take care of the bed.”
Aileana gratefully ceased her efforts. The strength she’d gained from resting was deserting her quickly. She sat obediently under Toran’s withering stare. He meant well. She took the tankard he handed her and drank deeply. Ah, cider. Wet and cool, it tasted wonderful. And the sweetness of it would revive her faster than almost anything else. She emptied the tray of food quickly, then drank down another tankard of cider. Toran leaned against the wall, looking like he would have preferred to hand-feed her if she’d allowed it, but there was no need. She knew her limits, and she’d been through this kind of recovery many times before, though never after healing someone so near death. The experience frightened her, but it also gave her even more confidence in her Talent, and in her ability to know just how far she could go and still protect herself.
Elspie finished changing the bedding as Aileana devoured the food and drink she’d brought. She bundled up the bloodied sheets and secured them against one hip with her elbow, then picked up the trays. “Shall I bring more?” she asked as she headed for the door. Toran straightened and went to open it for her.
“Nay, but thank you,” Aileana replied. I’ll be fine now.”
“And I’ll bring her down to supper later,” Toran promised. “Have no fear, we’ll see the Healer fully restored.”
“That’s good then,” Elspie said as Toran closed the door behind her.
“Toran, I need to go see…the man I Healed.”
“Jamie. His name is Jamie. My cousin and my oldest friend.” He knelt by her chair and took her hands in his. “Lass, I dinna ken how to thank ye for saving his life. I thought he was lost to us.”
“He’ll be fine after he rests for a few days,” she answered, squeezing his fingers before pulling her hands from his and gripping the arms of the chair. She did not deserve his thanks. “Toran, I need to apologize. It’s my fault he was injured.”
“What?”
“If not for me, Colbridge would not be here. He might have turned south after defeating the MacAnalens. Instead, he’s set up camp across your glen, he’s attacking your men and trying to break into your keep. All because he wants me back.”
“Do ye truly believe that?”
“Ay
e, of course.”
“What about the fact that I stayed a day longer with the MacAnalens than I should have and so was taken in the battle and then caused all of their prisoners to be set free? Do ye think that might have caused a bit of resentment among the invaders?”
“Perhaps. But…”
“But nothing, lass. Aye, he wants ye back. Ye explained why to me the first night ye were here. And ye have the right of that. ’Tis hardly fair, though, to put the blame for everything on yer slender shoulders when mine are broad enough to share the load. I brought ye home with me, after all.” A droll grin lit his face, causing Aileana to snort, but then he continued more seriously. “But more than that, a warrior canna ignore the insult we gave him. He’s here because of me, because of what I and my men did in his camp. And even if I had no’ been there and had no’ met ye and none o’ the rest of it had happened, ye said yerself he’s bent on conquering the Highland clans. He would have shown up here eventually, with or without ye. This way, the timing works in our favor, not Colbridge’s. Winter is coming on. His force is small and shrinking by the day. ’Tis better to defeat him here and now when he’s worn and at the end of a long march than to face him again in the spring with a larger army and all summer to harass us. My presence in the MacAnalen camp and yer presence in the Aerie only served to hasten the inevitable.”
“Ye make a strong case, Laird Lathan.” Aileana sighed as the weight left her shoulders.
“I’m right, and well ye ken it.”
Aileana nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, you are. And thank you for that. The guilt was tearing me apart.”
“Ye have nothing to feel guilty for, lass.” He stood and held out his hand to her. “Now, if ye’re ready, I’ll take ye to Jamie.”
Chapter Nine
Toran sat alone by the fire in the Great Hall, sipping wine and pondering the rumblings of discontent within the clan that had reached him. He had to find a way to deal with the situation in the Aerie before it grew into something much more threatening than disgruntled mutterings.