As he took the centress’ thin arm awkwardly into his hands, she cried out in sudden pain. A commotion started behind them. Following the woman’s eyes to Wynn’s form behind him, he found another slice beside the last.
“A moment, please!” Phillip hollered.
Staring down at the white arm… he could feel the sweat seeping through his clothing, running down his forehead. When he looked up at the centress, she was clearly frightened, likely wishing her father was not forcing a man who claimed he could not heal to attempt just that. Obviously, she did not trust him.
Well, she shouldn’t. Slowly moving the bone about, the poor woman screamed in frenzied pain, but Phillip persisted. Someway, somehow, it must fit back into place… or Wynn would suffer the consequences.
“Cease this, nomad!” commanded the centry. Another commotion drew another shriek from Wynn as a third mark was slashed upon her arm.
“Aaagh!” she cried out in pain and fury.
Before Phillip knew it, she had wretched herself from her captors and was kneeling beside him before the wounded centress. Taking the bone into her own hands, there was a final cry from the girl as Wynn correctly set the bone. The apprentice then tore a piece of fabric from her own tunic and formed a sling for the arm, forcing the woman to hold it tightly against her chest with the other.
“This sling isn’t right, I’m sure,” Wynn began apologetically, “but you mustn’t move it or it won’t heal properly. After a few weeks’ time, it should be all right.” She stood then and turned to the centry. “I have done what I could.”
A long silence commenced in which the centry bored Wynn with his eyes once again. Finally, he said very slowly, “She is not yet healed.”
The hairs on the back of Phillip’s neck stood on end. The man was not going to consider this as having performed their duty. They would be killed. But just as the centry moved to quirk his head again, Wynn wretched Phillip by the arm, jumped over the young centress and, to his utter horror, leaped from the veranda with him in tow.
Phillip lost his breath as they fell to their certain deaths until they were yanked to a halt some feet from the meadow below. Phillip went toppling past Wynn only to be caught painfully by the arm within her grip. Then… she let go. But it was only a moment before he had landed almost painlessly upon the ground. Quickly, he rolled aside as she dropped after him. It was then he noticed the rope around her waist.
“Where did you get that? And when did you have time to tie it?”
“While we were falling,” she said with an almost guilty smirk. “I saw it attached to the side of the terrace. I assume it is used in defense of the castle in times of war. Considering what we’ve just been through… I can only imagine they’ve seen a great deal of that.”
Phillip beamed at her in amazement. “Well… whatever works.”
At the sound of shouts far above, the time for gabbing had ended and they began their race from the palace. Phillip could not imagine it would prove to be a very fair race, as they had no idea where they were going. It wasn’t until they were passing through the commune that he realized Wynn recalled the way. Upon crossing the bridge from which he’d fallen, they began to hear the guards racing after them. Phillip was merely thankful they did not appear to have horses, else they would surely overtake them.
When at last they were within view of the cabin, Phillip praised the Great One for its reappearance and with no time to spare, for these men of the Wysterian dominion were quick and had gained on them in an unnaturally short span of time. In fact, Phillip was very nearly caught when the cabin door flew open of its own accord and he and Wynn leaped inside. They went tumbling to the floor in a heap as the door slammed shut behind them, instantly disappearing.
Breathing heavily, Phillip sat up and rested his head against the wall of logs where the door had previously been but found himself hitting it a little harder than was comfortable in the process. “Ow,” he muttered, rubbing the soon to be bump.
“You…” Wynn muttered through her breathing, “are the clumsiest fellow I have ever met.”
He could not disagree and even found himself chuckling softly before his eyes fell upon the bleeding slices upon her arm. Legs screaming, he stood to find something with which to clean and bandage it. Coming upon the bowl they had used to clear off that wretched perfume, he replaced the water and fetched a new cloth.
Kneeling beside her, he found her with her eyes closed, leaning against the opposite wall. With a shrug, he dabbed at the wounds, but she tore away with a cry. “Oh,” she murmured when she saw the bandages. “Sorry.”
Phillip proceeded dabbing as Wynn hissed in pain.
“You were something out there,” he began. “You handled everything as if you had done that sort of thing all your life. I cannot say I have seen the like.”
As she blinked up at him, he could tell by her surprise that she rarely received compliments, if ever. What sort of life had she led until that moment?
“Well… I haven’t lived anything quite like that before, but I am accustomed to having to think quickly.”
“How did you do it—reset the bone, I mean?”
“I’m not certain. Somehow, I… saw how it should work in my mind.”
Phillip shook his head. “Astonishing.”
He, meanwhile, had been utterly useless, not only incapable of helping her but of having any useful thought at all. He had blundered through it all while she had stood daringly and conquered at every turn.
“I still don’t know how you did not drop me when we were hanging from that rope. I’m not a small man.”
“No, you are not,” she agreed. “I think I nearly ripped my arm from its socket. I’m not used to catching the weight of a man your age.”
Phillip paused a moment, confused, then proceeded to silently bandage her arm. How old did she think he was? It might explain why she had yet to look at him as a comrade.
“There you are,” he mumbled. “That is the best I can do until the prophet gets back.” He patted the arm.
She looked to him with that wide-eyed look again, as if she was utterly unused to such considerate treatment and he found his heart going out to her. Certainly, she put on a fierce show, but she was hurting deep within. In that moment he had seen into her eyes, it was as if he had ever so briefly glimpsed her spirit and it was there he found the grieving child smothered within.
As she drew to her feet, he realized he had been staring too long. But he could not help seeing things like this. He had always been that way, knowing what people were thinking and feeling, what they worked so hard to conceal. He never knew specifics, of course, but he had a gift for understanding the human heart. This girl’s heart needed a great deal of restoration.
- F I V E -
The Man Who Does Not Sleep
WYNN AWOKE TO THE blue blanket being draped over her frame. Opening her eyes ever so slightly, she found the prophet placing it there where she was sat before the fire.
“Where were you today?” she asked groggily, surprised to discover she had missed his company. But how could that be after having only known him but two evenings?
He turned in surprise from where he’d been tiptoeing away. “I’ve woken you! Do forgive me. And I must apologize for having been away. Truly, it was not my intention. Rather, it was the Great One’s, I suppose. I do hope you’ve found something to keep you entertained.”
Throwing off the blanket, she stood to her feet. “Indeed, I have!” she cried almost angrily. “Your door… rather, your doors, have been an utter nuisance! The front one was trouble enough, but the back one...” She paused to point down the corridor to the wall of logs. “…was incomprehensible! And not in a pleasant way!”
Blinking down the hall, he said, “The bedroom door, you mean? How can it have troubled you?”
“No, not that one—the vanishing one!” She walked down the hallway to show him where she meant.
“Oooooh, yes, that one,” he said with an eager grin. “I f
orgot about it.”
“Well, perhaps you might actually stick around long enough to answer your irregular door..."
"Oh, no, no, no, no,” he corrected. “That is not my door. I haven't used it for years. No, it appeared for you. It is yours now. The cabin arranged it.”
“What do you mean ‘the cabin?’”
“Why, hadn’t you noticed? This cabin is ever so slightly alive.” He took a few steps closer and leaned in to say, “You must always mind what you say about it. It hears everything.”
She stepped away from him. “Do you even realize how touched you sound?”
“Do I? Hm...” He appeared pleased. “Well, it is what it is. There’s nothing I can do about it. I wasn’t the one who built the place after all.”
“Oh? Who did then?”
“Haven't the faintest,” he said as he made his way to the kitchen things and began chopping butternut squash into bitesize pieces. “Don’t even think it was meant for me.”
“You mean you just moved into a cabin that wasn’t yours?” This presented a problem. “Whose could it be?”
He ceased his chopping to think a moment and then turned to her with, “I think it is yours actually. Er—here...” He waddled over to the desk where he began rummaging through the drawers. He then started into the piles of parchment on his desk. Finally, he stopped and rested his hands on his head. “Where, oh, where, oh, where?”
A crinkled-up sheet of parchment came tumbling down from the steps in the corridor and rolled into the main room, landing directly at his feet.
“Aha!” he declared. Smoothing it out, he began folding it into a peculiar little figure until it possessed wings. “There you are.” He tossed it into the air and watched as it soared to Wynn across the room. “That was sent me when I was staying with a Kierelian lord some years back.”
Catching it, Wynn studied the unusual figure of paper, then looked up at him with a brow raised and something of a charmed smile.
Unfolding it, she read:
Penned within the sixth season
of the 40th year since the birth of Kierelian reign
To whomever concerns themselves
with the prophet’s business:
We do hereby encourage the great prophet of the Kierelian kingdom to house within the Enchanted Wood of the southernmost region. Therein lies a cabin of sturdy logs and congenial temperament for which she might perform her businesses, etc. It will therefore be, thenceforth, hers upon arrival until the end of her days.
Most affectionately, earnestly and ceremonially,
H.S. & Co.
“‘She,’ you see?” he said, resuming his slicing. “So, it must have meant you.”
Wynn did not quite know what to make of this. “It proves nothing. I’m no prophet. It must’ve been a mistake.” However, she did begin to note the sort of tingly sensation the letter sent through her fingers, almost as if it was nestling into her hands where it had long desired to be.
Ceasing his preparations once more, the prophet turned to her with wide eyes. "Why do you think you are here then?"
Her face grew hot as she realized she had agreed to become his apprentice, and what was he? A prophet. Somehow, this fact had not sunk in until that moment. But it was too much for her to think of just then.
“I went to the kingdom of Wysteria today,” she said humbly, changing the subject. “Through that door.”
He raised his brows. “Oh, how lovely. How was Centry Jorenn? As passionate as ever?”
“Passionate? I should say not. He was venomous.”
“Yes, that is his charm.”
Wynn assumed he jested, but noted his face was free of mirth. “If you say so. But I do not understand how a door suddenly appears in your wall to reveal some other land.”
“Your wall,” he reminded. “And it was not only another land but another world entirely… in another realm, in fact.”
“Another world? Realm? Whatever do you mean?”
“We live upon the planet Kaern within the kingdom of Kierelia, correct? Well, Wysteria is a kingdom upon the planet Morgus.” He said this as if it was an everyday statement—almost tedious to explain. “As for a realm… a realm is a… oh, a layer, I suppose, right over top of ours, but not within our reach... or not ordinarily.”
Wynn’s brows furrowed as she attempted to comprehend this. She came to the conclusion she would have to think upon it further at another time. “Well, poor, old Phillip and I scarcely escaped with our lives. I do not understand why the cabin should have sent us there.”
Tossing his chopped veg into the cauldron within the fireplace, he turned to her with new interest. “Phillip went along with you, did he? Well, good for him. I’m certain he’s never experienced anything like it previously. How did he care for it?”
“Oh, your dear, dear friend appeared to be liking it well enough before they began cutting into me, demanding some miraculous healing of him. As for me—though you’ve neglected to inquire—I lost my zeal for it at about the same moment he did.”
“You are injured?!” he cried, coming to stand very near her and searching until his eyes found her bandaged upper arm. “I can take care of that.”
“No, that is all right,” Wynn assured, uncomfortable with his sudden, intense concern. “It’s only a scratch.”
He took a turn at raising his brow at her before returning to his work surface. He fetched a bottle of an indigo spice labeled willowisp and sprinkled it over the frying vegetables.
“But you have not answered my question,” she pressed. “Why did that door take us to such a brutal world? Why should we have been expected to heal their centress?”
“Did you?”
“What?”
“Heal her.”
“Not exactly. I set the bone and placed it in a sling.”
“It will eventually heal, will it not?”
“That was the objective.”
“Then I should say you very likely accomplished what you were meant.”
“You mean the door or the cabin or what have you wanted us to heal her?”
“It never appears without a purpose, though I warn you its objective is not always so clear. But now the door has appeared to you, it is to be your responsibility… no matter where it may lead.”
Wynn did not like the sound of this and only hoped it would not appear again. Though Wysteria itself had been fascinating, the people had been dreadful. And his insinuation that it may lead to other peculiar places left no room for comfort.
"So…” She hesitated. “How… does this happen—my being your apprentice? Where do we begin?"
Drawing his brows together, the prophet appeared to be searching for the answer himself. “Mmm, I am not certain just how. We must give it time.”
She thought this a strange reply, but merely shrugged. “Perhaps I might attempt to tidy up some of this muddle.” She gestured to the room. “Would you mind?”
Casting a confused glance her way, he proceeded to toss a mound of sliced meat over the veg. “What muddle?”
Wynn very nearly laughed but did not wish to offend him. “You don’t think these things ought to be… put to rights?”
He appeared only terribly mystified, but replied, “You may most certainly do as you please.”
Wynn concluded she would do just that, though she could not bring herself to begin after the events of the day.
“So, where should I sleep?” she asked uncomfortably. The fact she would be remaining in his home… or her home… was such a foreign concept. Still, the renewed thought warmed her spirit. Indeed, the fact the prophet believed it to have been meant for her was really more than she could fathom at the moment—almost as peculiar as the mention of other worlds, layers and the like. “I cannot imagine you want me stealing your lovely room every night.”
“That is your room.”
“But where do you sleep?”
“I do not sleep. That chamber was previously kept for guests and lost wanderers in need
of rest. I suppose we’ll need to think up something else for that now. Perhaps you will come up with something in your… tidying.” It was clear the word felt alien on his tongue.
She blinked up at him. “I am having a terribly difficult time believing you do not sleep.”
“I do not need it. From time to time, I might drop in a field somewhere and have a nap, but typically only once or twice a season. I’m simply not built for sleeping anymore.”
“But… how can that be?”
“I am sustained by the anointing of the Great One.”
She weighed this before shaking her head, certain she would never understand it. “Then what do you do all the night long?”
“About the same as I do in the day mostly.” He handed her a plate of steaming glazed pork over butternut squash, brussels sprouts and pecans.
Wynn indulged in a long sniff of the almost cinnamon-scented plate and ignored his words. If he could not speak sensibly, she would encourage him no further.
- S I X -
The Saving of a Damsel
WYNN FOUND HERSELF in an irritable state. She had spent the last few days working to organize the cabin to no real avail. As soon as she had gotten any portion of it in order, the prophet would pop over to some corner, rifling for something he was accustomed to keeping there. Her stomach sank the first instance this arose. It had not occurred to her that what she had perceived as untidiness had been his idea of organization. She was then forced to undo half of what she had accomplished in locating the needed item.
Soon, she had ascertained the loft would be the new guest room, but it was also the best place to store much of what was on the lower level, so she found herself struggling to prepare it for visitors. One of the old, elaborate headboards she had discovered was dusted and prepared for a mattress, but what good would that do if one could not get to it? She hardly had time to clear a path as she went, for she was kept busy attempting to recover the articles the prophet required.
The Prophet's Apprentice (Chronicles of the Chosen) Page 8