Luthiel's Song: The War of Mists

by Robert Marston Fannéy

  Luthiel watched as Winowe’s concentration deepened. Her face became twisted with pain and the shadows around her eyes darkened. Lyra moaned. There were things moving and knitting inside her. Winowe coughed and some blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. It trickled down to her chin. The healing went on for some time. About a quarter hour passed. Then, Winowe finally removed her hands and rocked back on her heels. Her palms were bloody and she wiped them on a rag at her hip. Pain and exhaustion carved deep hollows in her face.

  Lyra gave a contented smile and fell into a deep sleep. Her wound had closed and blood no longer flowed freely from it. Winowe put a fresh bandage over top. It smelled of herbs and flowers.

  “She should live. The poison will make her bleed a little more than she should. But the anti-venom seems to have taken the edge off. At least she’s whole on the inside now.”

  “You look exhausted.”

  “I am. I should stop. She’s my twenty fifth since last night. More will die if I stop now. But I’ll end up with them if I don’t.

  “I’ve shown you what I can. If you have the talent, you should at least be able to sense the hurt. A big part of healing is not drawing back from the pain. That’s the reason it usually takes some time to learn—even for those with the talent.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  Winowe smiled at her. “We’ll see, won’t we? Let’s start.”

  Leaving Mithorden and the others behind, she led Luthiel down the slope to another wounded. This one was a Blade Dancer. His thigh-bone had fractured and fragments were sticking up through the flesh. Blood pumped out and his face had become white. He stared skyward with a blank look. If Luthiel could have described his expression with one word she would have said ‘doomed.’

  “Usually, we’d start with a less dire wound. But everyone on this field is either maimed or on the cusp of death.”

  “I understand,” Luthiel said.

  “We’ll work together on this one,” Winowe said. “I’ll set the bone while you use the Wyrd to mend it and his other hurts. He’s not poisoned so at least you won’t have to worry about that.” She turned and shouted to a girl of about Luthiel’s age who was tending to another wounded. “Min! Take these vials! They’re anti-venom! Pass them on if you can’t use it all!”

  Min raised her head and seemed to start.

  “Luthiel?” she gasped as she approached. “Why? I mean, aren’t you queen now?”

  “Is there any reason why a queen should not also help with healing?”

  Min shook her head. “Well, now that I think of it, it’s good you’re here. It should give confidence—to wounded and healers both. I’ll spread word.” She gave a curtsey to Luthiel and then she was gone.

  “It’s good to see her,” Luthiel said. “Don’t know what to think about the curtsey.”

  “You’re queen,” Winowe said. “Now let’s see if you’re also a healer.”

  Luthiel brought her attention back to the wounded Blade Dancer. His armor was covered in gore and marked in a hundred places by the violence of battle. His Cat-o-Fae was likewise caked in blood and spider flesh. By the look of him, he’d survived through the very thick of the fighting. Luthiel was shocked by his size. For he would have rivaled even Ahmberen. And a Blade Dancer too! She guessed it had taken quite a lot to bring him down.

  “What’s your name, Blade Dancer?” Winowe asked.

  He clasped his hands across his chest in a brave effort to stop the shuddering. But his eyes were steady as he spoke.

  “Balnos. And who are you?” His fingers lurched to give the sign for Oerin’s Eye. “A blessing on you.”

  “I am Winowe. Queen Luthiel will help me. You will be her first patient.”

  Balnos’ eyes fell on Luthiel and the shuddering grew worse.

  “A healer queen? I wonder. I saw your charge. I was on the hill with the High Lord. Some say you rode to save—others to slay. But he named you queen. Was it glamer or honor that won you the throne? Are you an angel, as some say, or a witch?”

  “Neither,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’ve never wished for power and I’m not happy about coming to the throne. I fear it is only a short way from the tomb. Seems there are many who want me dead. More don’t know what to think. I’m not here to convince you. I’m here to save your life.”

  Balnos laughed and she could tell it pained him. “Well said. You have a golden tongue, little queen.”

  Winowe looked at Luthiel and Balnos grew quiet. “We should start now. There will not be a later.”

  Luthiel nodded and placed her hands on Balnos’ broad chest. She did as Winowe instructed—slowly matching the pace of his breathing with her own. She found it helped to imagine the tune of her namesong and to set it to the pace of his breathing. As a rhythm emerged, her heartbeat slowly fell into pace.

  She felt Winowe’s hand touch her arm and stay there. Then it suddenly happened. The world seemed to fade and she had this overpowering sense of flesh. There was terrible pain as well and the shock of it almost drove her out. But her experience with the Vyrl had prepared her. To her, the gift of blood seemed oddly similar. As she’d seen with Winowe, blood oozed through her hands and into Balnos. It spread out, pushing through him and toward the damaged parts.

  She could sense his shattered bone and the torn blood vessels around it. She could also sense Winowe pushing the pieces back into his body. The pain was intense but she shared it with him. Between them, it became easier to bear. Her blood mingled with his, restoring what he’d lost. It moved where she directed and, layer by layer, healed the damaged flesh. It was exhausting work. Yet, in the end, she’d mended most of his hurts. He may not walk for another week without aid. But he was no longer in danger of dying.

  When she removed her hands, he was fast asleep and his face bore a contented smile. She looked at her palms and, like Winowe, there was blood. She found a cloth in her pouch and wiped them clean.

  Winowe smiled at her. “I should have believed Leowin,” she said with a shake of her head. “Elag was a liar. He tested you and found you lacking.”

  Luthiel didn’t like the talk of Elag. “Perhaps it’s because he’s so wise. Better to keep a woman from the temptation of magic? Or as Zalos says—I’m flawed.”

  Winowe bowed her head. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be. I’ll have to deal with it—with them—sooner or later.”

  Winowe placed a pouch of Yewstaff fruit on Balnos’ chest then tied a yellow ribbon around his head. “It’s to mark him. I forgot to do it with Lyra. We’ll go back.” She gave Luthiel a serious look—“You saved his life, you know. How does that feel?”

  Luthiel smiled. “Happy. But very tired.”

  “Can you try another?”

  She gave a nod. “Wait,” she said. “I think I see Melkion and Mindersnatch is with him!” She sprang up in such excitement that dizziness almost made her sit back down. She took a moment to steady herself. Spots floated before her eyes and, by the time they cleared, Melkion and the crow were flapping around her in a slow orbit. The dragon alighted on her pack and Mindersnatch perched on her outstretched hand.

  The crow bobbed his head in greeting as he fanned his silver-feathered wings.

  “A queen! A queen! But always one to me!” he croaked in greeting.

  “Word travels fast.”

  “With wings! It does! It does!”

  “I’ve a favor to ask.”

  The crow bobbed his head again. “Ask! Ask!”

  Luthiel smiled. “Many here were bitten by Widdershae. Yet they have no cure for the poison. Can you find Rendillo and ask him to get as much anti-venom as he can? Then, will you and your sisters and brothers bring it here?”

  Mindersnatch bobbed his head a third time. He looked pleased he could be of help. “I will! Vials! I’ll bring them!”

  With a flap of his wings, he was airborne again, his caws ringing out over the army. Soon a flock of excited Khoraz had gathered around him and were winging
off over the mounds.

  Winowe tried to smile, but on her exhausted face it seemed more like straining. “They’ll need to bring hundreds of those vials,” she said.

  “I hope they do,” Luthiel replied as they made their way back to Lyra.

  When they returned, they found Galwin leaning on his banner, glowering at Vaelros. From the look of it, the two had been arguing. There was no sign of Mithorden and Othalas lay on his side pretending boredom. Leowin stood a ways off casting angry glances back at Galwin and Vaelros.

  “Where’s the sorcerer?” she asked.

  “Riding here and there,” Galwin replied. “A faenmare came and he rode off without a word.”

  “I think he’s spreading news about you,” Vaelros said. “Look!” He motioned to a nearby hill where a group of fae gathered. All faces turned toward her. Then, a rumble of hooves rose behind them. As she looked, she saw Mithorden leading a group of cavalry. The sorcerer pointed and spoke with the Captain.

  “Let’s show them what they came to see,” Othalas growled as he stood and shook himself.

  “What is that?” she asked the wolf.

  “Their queen can heal.”

  Luthiel took a deep breath and then put a hand on Winowe’s arm. “Take me to the next one,” she said. “I’ll do what I can.”

  They picked through the field and came next to a tiny faerie. She was less than half Luthiel’s size but her beautiful wings lay around her like a strange and colorful sheet. In them nestled flir-bugs. Drawn by the warmth and life, they flooded light through the clear wings, revealing pink veins and gossamer membranes. She was perfect but for one terrible detail. A metal spike thrust through one eye and out the back of her head. Its two-foot length was covered in the broken writing of Widdershae. Blood and milky fluid stained her brilliant green hair.

  Seeing her, Luthiel was amazed she still lived. But she breathed and her remaining eye roved here and there, taking in Luthiel and Winowe. It was wide with fear and tears streamed down the side of her face.

  She can still think? She can still understand what’s happening?

  From watching, it was clear she did. She even acknowledged Luthiel’s presence with a slight tick of her hand. One side of her mouth turned up. The movement was a sort of spasm and Luthiel’s chest pounded when she realized the faerie was trying to smile.

  Poor, poor thing. A shame I don’t know more about them. Maybe I could say something to comfort her?

  Faeries were from Ashiroth, mostly. Luthiel noticed, looking around, that many had stayed behind. Over the years, more and more had come to the Minonowe. But these were sad things for they missed the Tree of Life at the great forest’s center. Luthiel wondered at how little she knew of faeries and their male counterparts the Qlune.

  She fell to her knees before the little faerie and ran a hand over her cheek.

  “She’s very close,” Winowe whispered. “You think you can do this?”

  “I can certainly try.” She felt the unnatural coolness in the faerie’s skin, saw the overwhelming bloom of her pupil.

  “It will be anything but easy. The thing has punctured a good part of her brain. You can never return what ability she’s lost. But you can repair what’s there. She will have to relearn things—even flying.”

  Luthiel looked at the glorious wings and bent over to whisper in her ear.

  “You’re meant to fly,” she said. “I promise, you will again.”

  The faerie’s one good eye filled with hope and her hand jerked up to clasp Luthiel’s arm. It squeezed and the grip was fierce.

  Please, it seemed to say.

  Luthiel lay her hands on the faerie. She was shocked by how large her hands looked against the tiny body. Heartbeats pattered against her skin. Faint, fast, hard to feel. Worse, her breathing came so fast it was tricky to match. She grew light-headed and, at last, had to sing out loud—matching the rhythms of her music to those of the little faerie’s body. It took far longer than before, but after some time, her heartbeat fell into pace.

  Now everything seemed broken and disjointed. There was less a sense of pain. Instead, she struggled with lost senses and feelings. It was as if the tiny fae’s thought and body were covered in growing patches of nothing. As she touched the blank spots, terror shot through her. She recoiled. It took tremendous effort to keep her hands in place.

  This is how death must feel. Little patches of nothing devour you. To Luthiel, it was far worse than pain. Trembling, she forced herself to sense the empty spaces. Blood seeped through her hands and flowed into those places. When her blood touched it, she was filled with a deep sense of cold and was forced to withdraw. She tried again and again. But it was impossible. With each new push, she fell deeper into exhaustion. Wet trickled down her neck from a reopened Vyrl’s bite and her senses began to fade.

  I’m doing something wrong. The cold and fear seeped up from the faerie and into her arms. Heavy. They felt so heavy.

  That dark thing. That death in her. It’s eating me up. She almost lifted her hands. Almost let the little faerie go. Then she remembered her promise. So Luthiel clenched her eyes shut and returned to the bloody work of healing. She trusted her fear this time and avoided the empty places. Instead, she worked at the edges. With her blood, she built the faerie’s body back. New life grew on top of the old. Filling the dark places. After what seemed an endless time, the emptiness was gone. So was her strength. She collapsed and lay beside the little faerie. She could feel Winowe touching her, hear her concerned voice. But she was too exhausted to answer.

  Then she felt strong arms lifting her.

  “You did it, Luthiel,” Winowe whispered in her ear. Luthiel wanted to look but lacked the strength to turn her head or even to open her eyes. But she did smile. Then, she heard a familiar voice.

  “I shouldn’t have doubted.” It was Vanye. Her last thought was of the Blade Dancer.

  I’m the reason his grandfather died. Yet he came to carry me.

  Huntress

  She slept. They carried her away and laid her on a bed of soft flir-silk and moss beneath the open sky. Soelee was at noon and Oerin’s Eye just beyond. They were briefly obscured by a great flight of Khoraz. Hundreds swept in. The shadow beneath the flocks—a momentary respite from the heat. With a chorus, they settled upon the field. Beside each wounded, they left two vials. Then, with continued cries, they lifted away. A slight breeze rose, pushing them skyward.

  Through it all she slept. Until day sank down and pulled the moons and stars behind. When she finally stirred, many hours of darkness had passed. Her wounds were tended with new bandages and fresh Yewstaff fruit rested on a folded cloth beside her. This she grabbed and greedily devoured. Some of the juice dripped down her chin. She hungered for the warm explosion inside her. The healing. The soothing of all aches and exhaustion. Fresh Yewstaff fruit was very rare this far from the Tree of Life—even more rare than dried Yewstaff fruit. And its healing was far greater. She plucked the crucis leaf from the top and laid it on her tongue, letting the mint taste fill her mouth.

  She touched her hair and found it freshly braided. Tiny star flowers wove through it. A few soft petals tucked beneath her light crown, forming into a garland. Her clothes had been replaced by fine garments of Flir-Silk beneath her mail shirt and a green and silver tunic over top. Beside her stood a shield with the Vyrl’s tabard fixed to it for a blazon. She stared at the spiral sign and thought sadly of the owl, Ecthellien, and Tuorlin.

  Behind her, there came a “whoo, whoo.” Turning her head, she saw a beautiful white owl. It curled its head into a circular dip, then spread its wings and lifted off.

  “He brought the fruit,” Melkion hissed dryly.

  “They’ve been so kind to me,” she said.

  Melkion arched his neck “Ssssss??”

  “Animals. Rats brought me something the other night.”

  The dragon nodded. “They followed you in battle. I’ve never seen such a thing.”

  “I wondered about it too. W
here’s Othalas?” she looked around and noticed the wolf had left along with the others. Only Melkion and a couple Blade Dancers she didn’t recognize remained.

  “Gone to hunt Widdershae. They all went. Fae and Vyrl burned webs all day. Then, just as darkness fell, the spiders started to slip out. At first, only one by one. Then a trickle. Soon they were flooding out—running for the mountains.”

  Slowly, but with limbs reinvigorated by rest and fresh Yewstaff fruit, she stood. Her sword belt lay nearby and she strapped it on. From it hung the silver horn Othalas had given her. She picked it up and placed it to her lips. At first, no sound came. Then, a high peal filled the night. It dropped in pitch sending its great bellow through the darkness. Trees around her seemed to echo the call back. Her wind finally gone, she lowered the horn.

  In the silence that followed, she lifted her quiver and slung it over her shoulder. She noticed the arrows were replaced.

  Khoraz? she wondered.

  “Why did you call him?” the dragon asked.

  “So I might hunt with him.”

  Quiet fell over the fae army. Many turned to stare up at their new queen. Then, far off, there was an answering howl.

  Othalas, she thought with a grim smile. “Come then, my wolf,” she whispered. “It is time to call your kin. Time to raise the hunt.”

  Galwin, who stood a ways off, shivered when he heard those words. To him, Luthiel’s eyes seemed filled with a passion he could not understand. It was enough to make him step back and clutch his banner tight. She seemed strange to him then and, for the first time, his feeling for her was replaced by fear.