“You can’t make me go to no witch,” a man growled, gasping every other word. Sweat bathed his forehead and blood dripped to the floor as two soldiers carried him inside. Even from across the cavernous room, Sardelle could feel the pain radiating from him. The man wore a wrinkled, blood-saturated uniform, his rank proclaiming him a corporal.
Sardelle stood and took a deep breath. He wouldn’t be the first person that night who had fought her, and she’d had to promise more than one man that she would only use mundane bandages and sutures and burn creams on them. Of course, that had usually been followed by sedating them with her talent and healing the wounds surreptitiously. Lying made her uncomfortable, but she had left their wounds bandaged, even if they’d no longer needed such measures then. They could curse her later.
“Bring him down here, please.” Sardelle pointed to an empty blanket.
“No!” The man twisted, then gasped, grabbing at a broken metal bar embedded in his abdomen.
Sardelle rushed to help the soldiers carrying him. A wound like that would kill him. Why hadn’t he been brought in earlier?
Though she did not voice the words aloud, the soldiers must have read the question on her face. One winced and said, “Found him hiding, ma’am. Doesn’t want to be treated by a wit—by, uhm, magic.”
“I wouldn’t, either,” the second soldier muttered, his eyes wide, like those of a spooked horse as he glanced from her to the patients and back to her.
“Quiet,” his comrade hissed to him. “She’s the general’s wit—thing. Woman.”
Had Sardelle not been guiding the wounded man to the ground and worrying about his injury, she might have laughed at the soldiers. Or maybe not. They were both tense and nervous, and she reminded herself once again that Ridge’s pilots weren’t indicative of the common soldier. Just because she had earned a place with them did not mean every other soldier would give her a chance to prove herself an ally.
The injured man seemed to have passed out, but he roused as soon as his back was on the blanket and she touched his chest. All she wanted to do was examine the wound to see if she should extricate the jagged bar before starting the healing process, but he jerked away from even her light touch.
“No witches,” he cried, pain and terror contorting his face. “Don’t wanna… be possessed. Evil.” He panted, knocking her hand aside.
“The only thing possessing you is that piece of metal,” Sardelle said, keeping her tone calm and smiling at him. “All I’m going to do is remove it. Then we’ll bandage it up.”
“Don’t touch me. I’ll kill you if you touch me.”
“Don’t say that, Drok,” one soldier hissed. “She’s the general’s woman.”
“Possessed him too! That’s what they say. Witches are evil.” Blood trickled from his mouth as he gasped and writhed. Why couldn’t he pass out naturally? This would be much easier.
“Hold him down, please,” Sardelle told the soldiers. She was too tired to do it herself. She needed to save her energy for healing, especially since others were still waiting.
The more helpful of the two soldiers came forward and squatted by his head, pressing his shoulders down. Sardelle touched her patient’s chest again, this time reaching out with her mind to manipulate the part of his brain that would cause him to lose consciousness. Once he slept, this would be a much simpler matter.
Be careful, Jaxi warned. She sounded tired too. She had been quiet the last few hours, busy researching. He’s thinking about his pistol.
Of using it on me?
The man’s eyes widened as he seemed to sense what she was trying to do. He fought her, both with body and mind. In his agitated state, she couldn’t soothe him enough to make him pass out.
“There’s no need for all this,” she said quietly. “I want to help.”
He grasped his pistol. Sardelle pulled back and raised a shield in front of herself. It only took her a split second to realize she’d made a mistake, that she wasn’t his target. Before she could change tactics, he jerked the pistol up to his head and jammed it to his skull. She lunged for it, but he pulled the trigger first.
This close, the bullet firing sounded like a bomb going off. She drew back, her limbs shaking as she looked away. It was too late to unsee the sight of the man’s skull being blown open.
“Seven gods, Drok,” the soldier who had been holding him said. “What were you thinking?”
The dead man did not answer.
It took a moment before Sardelle could still her shaking hands and find words. The two soldiers were staring at her. She didn’t know if they were shocked that the man had taken his life or if they wondered if she had caused it. She didn’t know what to tell them.
“I’m sorry,” she said. It seemed so inadequate.
Her limbs wobbly, she pushed herself to her feet. There were others who needed help, others who would accept it. She had to keep working, to stay in professional mode, even if she wanted nothing more than to run across the compound and find Ridge for a hug.
“You two,” Bosmont said, walking over. “Help me move the body over there with the others. We’ll do a group funeral tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” they mumbled.
Sardelle was relieved Bosmont was there to do something, as her mind kept hiccuping. There had already been blood on her sleeves and her trousers, but the fresh splatters seemed a condemnation. Why hadn’t she focused on knocking him out sooner? As soon as they brought him into the room?
Because people aren’t supposed to kill themselves, Jaxi said. It wasn’t your fault.
“Sardelle?” came a whisper from behind her. Tylie touched her arm. “What happened? Why did he do that?”
Somehow, having her there gave Sardelle more strength than she would have had alone. She was the teacher, the mentor. She needed to hold it together so she could advise someone who had seen far less death than she had.
“Sometimes fear overrides common sense.” Sardelle offered her arm for a hug, since Tylie appeared just as shocked as the soldiers had been, as well as lost and confused. “People are afraid of magic, especially these days.”
Tylie leaned against her, staring down at the bloodstained blanket where the man had died. Better than looking toward the bodies of those who had been beyond saving. Before she had arrived, the medic had started setting them in a dark corner of the machine shop.
“But you were trying to help,” Tylie said.
“Yes.” Sardelle groped for something more useful to say, an explanation that would make sense, but in her century, when magic had been more commonplace, this kind of irrational fear had not been typical. People had feared sorcerers, yes, but they’d known healers could help, and she had never encountered anything like this.
“They were afraid of me at home,” Tylie whispered. “I didn’t have much magic, not like you do, but when I started hearing Phel… sometimes, I said things that didn’t make sense. Father was embarrassed, and Mother was afraid of me. She had to know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, but I could see her thoughts. I knew she was afraid of me and afraid for me. The girls I used to play with stopped talking to me. I miss them. We played fairies and mushroom rings, and we even pretended to have magic when we were little. But then when I did some things by accident, they thought I was a freak. Booksy Betta called me a harbinger of death. The others said I was possessed, like that man said. Can you do that? Possess someone?”
“No sorceress with any scruples would try to control another’s mind.” Sardelle had seen degrees of that between enemies, especially when mind magic was involved, but she didn’t want to get into that now. She just wanted to finish up, so she could wash the man’s blood off her hands. “I’m sorry your childhood wasn’t a comfortable one.”
“Tolemek was the only one who didn’t think I was a freak. I wish he’d been there more, but he was at the soldier school, learning to fight and command. And then he was a soldier. But he played with me when he came home. I pretended I had a ranch. He was the h
orse.”
Sardelle managed a wan smile. “I’m sure he loved that.”
“Not really, but he neighed and carried me on his shoulders. He—” Tylie blinked and looked toward the door in the back, where Bosmont was directing the others to carry the bodies outside. “Phelistoth is coming.”
“Coming to the mountains?” Sardelle stretched out with her senses, though it was hard to feel much beyond the outpost, since the other dragon was still out there, his aura dampening how far afield she could search. “Or here?”
“I hope he comes here.”
“Uh.” Sardelle hoped he did not. How would they explain to a fortress full of people who had just been attacked by a dragon that the silver one was on their side—or at least wasn’t going to burn the place down?
When she sensed Phelistoth’s approach, he was closer than she would have liked and traveling closer quickly. She released Tylie and reached out, trying to find Ridge in the outpost. She needed to warn him that they would have company.
She had no sooner than found him than a white owl glided through the open door and toward them. Even though Sardelle knew that dragons could change shapes, she wouldn’t have guessed it was Phelistoth if she hadn’t had her senses stretched outward. His aura wasn’t anywhere near as overpowering as it was when he was in dragon form.
“When he shape changes, other dragons can’t find him as easily,” Tylie whispered, waving cheerfully at the owl as it settled onto a giant wheel leaning against the wall.
The “owl” transformed, feathers melting away as the figure grew and turned into the human form Sardelle had seen several times. With straight silver hair that fell to his shoulders and a handsome clean-shaven face, he might have passed for a human, but his eyes were not quite right, having an amber hue that always reminded her of a wolf rather than a man.
Most of the people on the blankets were sleeping, but one who was awake and recovering gasped. He grabbed his shoes and ran toward the back door. He glanced back as he turned the knob and tried to run outside before he had it open. His head thudded into the wood, but that didn’t slow him down. He sprinted into the daylight, slamming the door behind him.
Sardelle sighed. Having shape-shifting going on in her presence would do nothing to improve her reputation here.
Oblivious to the terrified man’s departure, Tylie ran over and hugged Phelistoth. “You’re better!”
He did not return the hug, but he also did not push her away.
Iskandian, his voice rumbled in Sardelle’s head with all of the subtlety of a foghorn. Why are you not seeking a soulblade for Tylie?
My name is Sardelle, she reminded him for the fifth or sixth time. He had come by the house several times, eaten their food, and observed her lessons with Tylie, but he couldn’t be bothered to use it. She did not know if he used Tylie’s name because of the bond they shared, or because in his eyes, Cofah humans deserved names. We have people to heal first. You wouldn’t care to help us, would you?
You wish me to heal Iskandians? Even though his expressions weren’t quite human, when he gazed at her with those cool amber eyes, she had no trouble reading his distaste.
Yes, they’re the ones who can help us get the soulblade. They’ve already dug miles and miles of mines through the mountain, so it will be easier to find the ruins.
Phelistoth surveyed the blankets. They will dig after they are healed?
Sardelle hesitated. She did not know what Ridge’s plans were or how much help she could expect, so she did not want to promise that these specific people would assist in the sword hunt. Once people are healed, the outpost can focus on building up its defenses again, and we should be able to get some of the miners to guide us through the tunnels.
Defenses. Phelistoth sniffed in a derisive manner that reminded her of Jaxi, even if Jaxi lacked nostrils to give it the additional nasal flare.
Please, Jaxi thought. He’s far more derisive than I am. I’m only mildly disdainful. And I don’t leave owl pellets on things.
Because you haven’t figured out how to shape-shift yet.
I’m working on it.
Maybe if we find an older soulblade, he or she will share the secret with you.
Sardelle thought Jaxi might issue a derisive—or disdainful—snort, but she sounded intrigued when she responded. That could be interesting.
There is no magic to guard this settlement, Phelistoth continued. It will fall if my rival wishes it to fall. Iskandians have grown weak.
The Cofah have turned their backs on the ways of magic as well, Sardelle said. And in case nobody told you, a Cofah sorceress is the one who freed your rival. He was a prisoner for millennia until she released him. Now it seems he wants you dead as much as he wants us dead.
Phelistoth gazed at her, his arrogance the only thing readable in his aura. You tell me nothing I do not know, Iskandian.
Tylie squeezed Phelistoth’s arm. “Please help her. She wants to help us.”
Phelistoth’s lip curled. She wants you to feel indebted to her people so you’ll stay with them and fight against the empire.
Sardelle held her breath. She hadn’t been trying to hide her intentions from Tylie, but she also hadn’t been that blunt about them. She would have helped her no matter what, since she had promised to do so to Tolemek months ago, but would she have helped a Cofah girl under other circumstances? Knowing she might be creating an enemy for her people?
“But I like her.” Tylie smiled.
You like too easily.
“You don’t like easily enough. And you’re grouchy.”
Sardelle almost coughed at Tylie’s fearless criticism of the dragon. She wasn’t one to fawn herself, but everything she’d read about dragons suggested that tact and diplomacy were wise when dealing with them.
Phelistoth glared down at Tylie. Most people would have wilted under that glare, but Tylie pointed at Sardelle and kept talking.
“Please heal the people, so we can go look for a soulblade. Then I won’t be defenseless when we fly together. And Jaxi can have someone to play with!” Tylie seemed delighted at that last idea.
Soulblades do not play, Jaxi said, possibly speaking to all of them, because Tylie grinned.
“Everybody should play and have fun,” she said.
“Good advice,” Sardelle said. She wished she could think of playing and having fun, but the soldier’s suicide was too fresh in her mind. “I’m going to finish here. If you decide to help, Phelistoth, I can tell you what to do.”
His nostrils flared. I do not need to be told what to do.
You know, he’s not any more charming than the gold dragon, Jaxi said.
He hasn’t burned anything down or incinerated any of our furniture, Sardelle responded. I find a degree of charm in that.
You’re almost as easy to please as Tylie.
I will heal these humans, and then I will lead the search for a soulblade, Phelistoth announced. A Cofah soulblade.
“Ah, this was a Referatu stronghold,” Sardelle said. “Only Iskandians lived and worked here.”
That does not mean your people never stole soulblades from the Cofah. You even have stolen dragon artifacts down there, among all of your buried junk.
“We—what?” Now that she thought about it, Sardelle could believe her people might have brought captured Cofah soulblades home from missions, but his certainty that there were dragon artifacts startled her. She had never heard anything about that.
You heard me. Come. I will show you, and we will find Tylie a worthy blade. His amber eyes narrowed. A Cofah blade.
Though intrigued to learn there might be artifacts related to dragons in the rubble down there, Sardelle grimaced at this new twist. An Iskandian blade with a loyal Iskandian soul inside might have helped convince Tylie to become a permanent resident of the country. A Cofah soul might work very hard to convince her to do the opposite.
Phelistoth never smiled, but he was smiling slightly now as he met her eyes, like the fox that had just outsma
rted its prey.
“The healing?” she asked, thinking she might delay him. Not that a delay would help much. Unless the other dragon came back to attack the outpost, she couldn’t justify not going down into the tunnels to look for soulblades, not when that had been their main reason for coming here.
Yes. Phelistoth held out a hand, palm down, fingers spread. Yellow light gathered around it, growing so intense that Sardelle had to look away.
The presence of powerful magic filled the building, muffling her senses, so she couldn’t tell what was happening. The light surged, growing and filling every nook of the machine shop. Someone gasped. Someone else groaned. Several of her patients sighed with what sounded like relief.
After less than a minute, the light faded. Phelistoth lowered his hand.
Sardelle looked out over the patients. Most remained sleeping, but a few eyes had opened. She could feel the absence of pain in those who were awake. Though she still struggled to use her mental senses with Phelistoth’s overpowering presence so close, she saw that some people had been affected by an energy that had changed their auras, at least temporarily. To her mind’s eye, they glowed the same way those with dragon blood did, and those auras were regenerating their wounds. In most cases, it had already been done.
They are healed, Phelistoth informed her. They will have an increased energy to regenerate wounds for the rest of their lives. Phelistoth tilted his head, regarding her in that dismissive and arrogant way. You are welcome, Iskandian.
Sardelle. She felt stunned—and also regretful that he hadn’t come twenty minutes earlier, so he might have healed the soldier who had killed himself. His method had been so quick that there wouldn’t have been time for an objection. Though his arrogance was off-putting, she managed a sincere, Thank you.
Come. Phelistoth nodded toward the door. We will hunt.
• • • • •
He healed everyone? Ridge asked. By just waving his hand?
Yes. Sardelle shared the memory with him as the tram cage bumped and clanked its way into the lowest levels of the mine. She wasn’t sure her range would allow her to communicate with Ridge once they were all the way down in the mountain, so she was filling him in on the way. You can tell Therrik that a dragon healed his people instead of a dirty witch.
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