Reaping the Aurora

by Joshua Palmatier

  For a moment, the desperation escalated, the crowd knotted as the intent shifted, and then, like a dam that suddenly breached, the rioters poured out of the square, scattering out into the tent city partially blocked by Darius and his men and into the side streets and alleys of the buildings to either side. Ty’s men chased after them briefly, until he called them back. Darius harassed the followers as they fled, although he left them a wide opening for the tents and Ty didn’t see any of his men landing a single solid blow.

  His eyes narrowed at his second, but then he tasted blood in his mouth. His lip throbbed and he touched it lightly with one hand. Someone had hit him hard enough to split his lip and he’d hardly felt it during the fight. He spat blood to one side, fresh bruises beginning to throb on his side, along one cheek. His knuckles throbbed as well, and there were multiple scratches across his arms and neck. He grunted and glanced around at the two dozen bodies littering the nearly empty plaza as Darius headed toward him with his own men. All of them were rocking back and forth, cradling wounds or curled into fetal positions, except for two, who weren’t moving at all. He stepped up to the nearest, rolled the man onto his back, then sighed in relief when he realized the man was simply unconscious, not dead.

  “Check the others,” he ordered, the scent of blood and sweat and vomit—the scents of violence—beginning to permeate his nostrils. “Take the wounded to the hospital. Inform me if any of them are dead.” He prayed to Korma that none of them were.

  “What happened?” Darius demanded, voice angry and accusing. “Why did you attack Father’s followers?”

  Ty turned on Darius slowly. “We didn’t attack them. They tried to break into the temple.”

  “And you couldn’t hold them off? A bunch of commoners with no weapons except words?”

  Ty bristled at the audacity of his second, confronting him here, in the plaza, in front of their enforcers. He should have waited until they were alone, back in the barracks or the orrery. “You will not speak to your alpha with that tone,” he said, low and dangerous. Anyone who’d been part of the Dogs would have recognized the warning for what it meant.

  Darius straightened in challenge. “Or what?”

  Ty’s hands clenched back into fists, but before he could call his beta out—the challenge was too blatant to go unremarked—one of the enforcers shouted, “Commander, look at this!”

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  “Someone’s defaced the temple wall. It’s some kind of . . . symbol.”

  He dipped his head toward Darius, his second not reacting, then spun on his heel. “Where?”

  “Here.”

  A cluster of enforcers stood beneath the jut of stone that Father Dalton used to deliver his sermons. The enforcers parted before him, revealing a section of gray temple stone where someone had used a piece of white chalk to scrawl a circular icon. He had expected the convergence symbol of the Kormanley, but this was completely different, more complicated and detailed, although it was still rudimentary. A simple circle sat in the center, surrounded by a serpent head and neck above, forked tongue obvious, and a dog-like figure beneath, both curled about the circle. The snake appeared to be biting the dog’s tail, the dog the serpent’s.

  The reference to Father’s vision was obvious. It sent a cramp through Ty’s gut and he tasted bile in the back of his throat.

  He turned to the enforcers hovering behind him. “Wash it off, before anyone else sees it. And I thought I ordered you to take care of those wounded in the scuffle!”

  At the sharp tone, the enforcers scrambled toward those who still remained in the plaza, a couple rushing toward the barracks where those off duty had been caught in the riot. Many of them were nursing bruises and scrapes as well, although none seemed inclined to report to the hospital. He surveyed the activity, before his gaze fell on Darius again.

  The second watched him a moment, then turned and gestured for his own men to return to the wall.

  Ty glanced back at the graphic symbol on the wall as three enforcers arrived with a bucket of water and some rags. He swore as they began to wash it off.

  “Where’s Kara?” he muttered to himself, heading back into the temple. “She needs to know about this.”

  “Help!” someone cried from the front of the hospital ward.

  Morrell glanced up from her current patient—a woman who’d accidentally stabbed herself with a spinning wheel’s spindle—to see two men entering the hospital, one of them supported by the other, both covered in blood. Behind them were others, some cradling arms, others limping or holding shirts or cloth to head wounds.

  “Bastion’s bloody hells,” Freesia said from three beds away, already rising and wiping her hands on a clean cloth. “Cerrin, Morrell, help me with the newcomers!”

  Morrell clutched the woman’s arm, the spindle still jutting from the palm of her hand, and said, “I’ll be back in a moment. Try not to move your hand.”

  The woman merely nodded, her face streaked with tears. There’d been surprisingly little blood and the spindle had slid between the bones. She’d be fine as long as no one tried to remove the wooden needle.

  Drayden stepped forward in concern as she stood, but she waved him back, then hustled to catch up to Freesia and Cerrin, already leading the walking wounded to new beds. She took one man by the arm and escorted him to a cot. He groaned as he sat down, clutching his side, but she’d already checked and the bruising wasn’t life threatening. She told him to wait, then grabbed someone else. As she, Freesia, and Cerrin sorted through the new arrivals, the men and women moaning or cursing or sobbing, Morrell pieced together what had happened, her stomach churning with fear and dismay as she realized that everyone present was a supporter of Father Dalton and that they’d been attacked in the plaza.

  “They attacked us!” one woman cried out in disbelief as Morrell lowered her to a bed. “They clubbed my husband to the ground and then began kicking him! When I tried to pull him away to safety, they began beating me!”

  Her cheek was covered in blood and multiple bruises were beginning to form on her face. Morrell quickly pulled back a length of hair and checked the scalp wound, but it wasn’t serious, merely bleeding profusely. Nothing was broken, and the bruises weren’t deep, although they’d be ugly by the time they finished darkening and swelling.

  “You’ll be fine,” Morrell said, pushing up from the side of the bed. But the woman grabbed her with trembling hands.

  “Have you seen my husband? He’s tall, with a dark, full beard. Is he all right?”

  Morrell pried the clawing fingers from her shoulder. “I haven’t seen him, but I’ll watch for him. Stay here. Someone will be by shortly to help you.”

  She pulled away and ran into a burly man, twice her width at the shoulders and at least a foot taller than her.

  “How could they do this?” he shouted in her face, then latched onto her upper arms and began shaking her. “We only want to see Father! We only want to speak to him!”

  “You’re hurting me,” Morrell gasped as pain shot up her arm and into her shoulder. She tried to wrench out of his grip, her head snapping back and forth, but she couldn’t gain any leverage, her feet practically lifted off the floor. “Stop it!” she shouted, panic crowding outward from her chest. It began to tingle in her arms and she realized her fingers were bathed in the auroral light, that she’d already woven herself into the man’s body. He’d only suffered a few scrapes and bruises, nothing significant, but his skin was flushed with a feverish fear and a growing hatred. But she couldn’t break free—

  “Why won’t they let us see him?” the man shouted, blood-flecked spittle flying from his lips.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught Drayden heading toward her, but when another sharp jolt of pain pierced through her shoulder, she reached forward with her power, frantic, and seized on his heart, squeezing. The man gasped and went rigid. At
the same time Cerrin flew blindly out of nowhere, crying out, “Let her go!” in a fierce snarl as he tackled the man from the side.

  All three of them crashed to the stone floor, Morrell wrenched out of the man’s grip. She rolled onto her hands and knees, wincing as numbness shot down the arm he’d held the tightest, and then Drayden was there, crouched at her side protectively, teeth bared. He helped her up. Before them, Cerrin and the man were grappling between two cots, the woman and man on either side clutching tight to the beds’ rails as they were jounced by an occasional hit. Cerrin pounded at the man with his fists, the blows ineffective. With Morrell’s connection to him broken, the man heaved Cerrin’s much lighter body aside and began crawling to his feet.

  “Enough!” Freesia bellowed through the escalating turmoil as others began to get riled up by the fight. The healer’s voice cut through the complaints like a heated knife, slicing and cauterizing at the same time. The burly man halted, half standing, using the two beds on either side for support. His breath came in heaves and he glared at Freesia. She didn’t flinch. Cerrin scrambled up from where he’d landed, ready to attack again, his motions lithe and quick, like a feral cat. Morrell wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d hissed in warning.

  The man’s gaze shifted to Cerrin, and he lurched fully upright. Cerrin took two steps forward, placing himself between Morrell, Drayden, and the man, but Freesia’s voice brought them both up short again.

  “I said enough!” She stalked forward, facing off against the man, making certain she stepped in front of Cerrin. “You brought the first few wounded in here, didn’t you?”

  The man dropped his gaze from Cerrin to Freesia. “Yes.”

  “Good. We’ll take care of them now. You should go see if there are any others that need help.”

  The man drew back from her as if she’d slapped him, then glared around at everyone, his anger fading, replaced by bewilderment. He rubbed at his chest and Morrell shuddered. “I suppose I could do that.”

  He hesitated, but then he turned and headed toward the door. As he passed by the last few cots, three enforcers stepped inside. For a moment, the man and the enforcers stared at each other. Then the man pushed past them, vanishing into the outer room and the street beyond.

  The enforcers watched him go, tense, then turned back toward the room. Morrell recognized the leader: the second, Darius. She didn’t know the mousy man with the mustache or the red-haired woman.

  “Is everything in order here?” Darius asked.

  Many of those on cots shifted forward, a restless, unsettled sound, but Freesia stepped toward the enforcers purposefully. “Everything is fine. Should we expect any more wounded? We are already over capacity.” Morrell scanned the room and realized that many had been seated on the floor between beds or were standing off to one side.

  Darius’ eyes narrowed, but he nodded respectfully. “The riot in the plaza has been halted. There should be no more wounded from that incident.”

  “Good. I would hope that next time the enforcers could be so kind as to temper their reactions to such gatherings. We much prefer our hospital be inactive.”

  The enforcer with the mustache snorted and the red-haired woman grinned.

  “We’ll take that into account. Next time.”

  Darius waved the other two out as he cast one last look around. The tight smile of satisfaction as he turned to leave sent a stab of unease into Morrell’s gut.

  “I think he was marking faces,” Morrell muttered.

  “Probably taking note of the troublemakers,” Cerrin said, “so they can catch them more easily next time. Or beat them more soundly.”

  Morrell stared at him, his face in profile as he watched the doorway. His hair was mussed from the scuffle and his cheek reddened and dirty from an abrasion, probably received when he was thrown to the floor. His hands were still closed into fists. He huffed and turned toward her, their eyes catching. His were a tawny brown. She hadn’t noticed before.

  “Thanks,” she said. “For trying to help me.” She didn’t mention that Drayden would have stopped the man cold in another moment. Or that she could have saved herself. The thought of what she’d done—or nearly done—already sickened her. She didn’t need to add to her guilt with whatever Cerrin’s reaction would be. Although the way he was looking at her now . . . could all his venom be a front? Why had he rushed to help her? He hadn’t needed to do that, not with Drayden always so close. Unless . . . he actually liked her?

  “Are you healers or are you gawkers?” Freesia snapped from a few paces away, causing both her and Cerrin to jump. Morrell placed a hand over her racing heart; Cerrin scowled.

  “Why don’t we let Morrell heal them all?” he asked in an ugly tone. “She’s the one with the magical powers.”

  Morrell’s gut curdled at derision in his tone and she stiffened, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. How could she have thought, even for a second, that he cared for her? She was a Hollower. And she was different.

  Freesia cuffed him upside the head. “I thought we’d discussed that particular sentiment of yours already. Do I need to repeat myself?”

  Cerrin ducked his head. “No.”

  “Then go take care of the wounded. Start at the far end on the left and work your way forward. Morrell, take the right. Treat only what needs to be treated and send them on their way, except for any serious cases, of course.”

  Cerrin shot Morrell a dark look, as if it were her fault, then trudged to the back of the hall.

  “Are you all right?” Drayden asked, his voice rumbling up from his chest. The hair on the nape of his neck still bristled.

  She patted his arm in reassurance. “I’m fine. Just . . . shaken.”

  Morrell sank into the work, bandaging a scrape, stitching up lacerated skin and muscle, prodding bruises and testing arms and legs for broken bones. She used the aurora only to make certain she wasn’t missing any internal bleeding from those who’d been kicked in the gut or back or chest, or to verify bones weren’t fractured. Most who caught the faint flickers of auroral lights around her fingers merely gasped, staring at her with an awe like that they showed for Father Dalton; a few flinched or ground their teeth together until the lights faded. Only one refused to let her examine him, shifting from her side of the room to Cerrin’s.

  Drayden kept a sharp eye on them all from the nearest wall.

  The entire time she worked, her patients grumbled about what had happened in the plaza. A few compared it to the riots in Erenthrall during the Purge. Others were silent, seething with an intense anger. The majority simply wanted Morrell to stop their pain and let them go, more wearied or shocked than anything. Morrell remained silent as they spoke. She hadn’t grown up in Erenthrall, hadn’t been there for the Purge. Her father had only taken her to the city once, right before the Shattering, and that had been a disaster. They’d been captured by the Dogs and locked into the cells beneath the Amber Tower. Of course, if they hadn’t been in the cells when the Shattering hit, they likely would have died in the explosion. They would have died afterward, if not for Kara.

  She grimaced, her thoughts circling around and around, refusing to settle or focus on what was truly bothering her: what she’d done to the man shaking her using the auroral lights. She’d squeezed his heart. If Cerrin hadn’t intervened, what would she have done? What could she have done? Twisted him, as the auroral lights had twisted the Dogs from Erenthrall, making them into Wolves? She’d spent days transforming the Wolves who’d wished it back into humans, or as close to what they’d been before as she could manage. Some of the Wolves had chosen to remain transformed, although most of those had gone with Grant and her father to Erenthrall.

  Sudden tears leaked from her eyes, but she scrubbed them away angrily. She wanted to speak to her father, to tell him what she’d done, but of course he wasn’t here. He was never here, not when she needed him. Which she knew
wasn’t fair, but she felt that way anyway. She couldn’t help it.

  “It’s all right, poppet.”

  Morrell lurched back with a gasp, dropping the old woman’s wrinkled and callused hand she’d been checking.

  The old woman’s eyes widened slightly. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m . . .” Morrell swallowed, leaning forward and taking up her hand again, flustered. “I’m fine. It’s just . . . you called me poppet. My father always calls me that. I hate it.”

  The old woman chuckled as Morrell turned her hand over. “It doesn’t mean anything. I’m old. Everyone is a ‘poppet’ to me. You were crying. I thought it would make you feel better.”

  She brushed at her eyes again with the back of her hand. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking about him, that’s all. He’s . . . away. He’s always away.”

  “Ah, I thought you were upset because of what happened at the plaza.”

  “No,” Morrell said, then realized how that sounded. “I mean, yes! I am upset about that, but . . .”

  The old woman eyed her. “But that wasn’t why you were crying.”

  “No, that wasn’t why I was crying.” She turned back to the woman’s hand. “It’s only an abrasion. I don’t think anything’s broken. Keep it clean and it should heal like new.”

  “Nothing heals like new at my age,” the woman said, but she sighed and shifted, as if getting ready to stand, before catching Morrell’s gaze. “Does he leave on purpose? Does he want to go?”

  It took Morrell a moment to realize she meant her father. “Yes. No.” She sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Then he’s leaving out of a sense of duty and you can’t fault him for that. No more than you can fault us for wanting to hear from Father, or the enforcers for wanting us to remain peaceful. That doesn’t mean you—or any of us—have to like it. You do what you can with the abilities you have.”

  Then she stood, using Morrell’s shoulder for support, and walked steadily out of the hospital hall.