“How do you answer to that?” Brishen directed his question back at Rheq.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Rheq responded, “I don’t know! If you were to tell any of your people to avoid stepping in puddles, and they continued to do so, what would you do?”
“That’s not a fair example,” Prakzen said. “We all know what a puddle looks like and how to spot one. But if it is completely dark, how could we possibly see where the puddles are?”
“But it’s not completely dark—ever,” Rheq said. “There is always some light which shines through. You need to look for that light.”
Prakzen’s thick, dark eyebrows lowered as he scowled. “The puddles reflect the light of the sun, moon, and stars—they do not give off light.”
“Agreed,” Rheq said. “Yet living creatures do.”
To that, all of the Gymads tensed up, including Brishen. Rheq had lived with these people through the winter and had never seen them react in such a way.
“What did you say?” Brishen asked, his tone guarded.
Rheq instinctively took a step backward. “I said living creatures give off a form of light. Even in the darkest of nights, part of that light always remains visible—though you need to focus to see it.” He gestured at the men he had been training. “They aren’t focusing enough to recognize it.”
“You never said anything about a light,” Prakzen said. “You only said to look closely in the shadows for those in hiding.”
The ridiculous statement added to Rheq’s frustration. “How would you see them in the shadows if it were not for the light? Why should I need to explain something so basic? What’s next? Someone telling you that fire gives off heat?”
“This light,” Brishen said. “What does it look like?”
“What does light look like?” Rheq said. “Are you trying to trick me?”
Prakzen took a step forward. “Answer the question.”
“Please tell me you have seen fireflies,” Rheq said.
The men nodded.
“It’s much the same. Except instead of the green shimmer of light, living creatures’ light is red.”
Brishen’s reaction to the clarification startled Rheq—the leader of the Gymads pulled a knife from his belt and pointed it threateningly.
“Why did you not tell us sooner?” Brishen asked.
Each of the other seven men also armed themselves.
Lifting his hands in the air, Rheq slowly backed up. “Tell you what? I hid nothing from you.”
“Those who can touch the myelur, in any form, are tainted,” Brishen said.
The myelur? Rheq had heard of people using a strange power in unnatural ways—even though discussing it at any length was considered taboo in Umstead. “But— but— I can’t.”
“You can!” Brishen shouted. “You just admitted it. Only those who can touch the myelur are able to see the red glimmers.”
That made no sense to Rheq. If it were true, his parents would have told him. Or would they? If they had had the same ability, they most likely kept it a secret. Had it been known, they would have been forced to leave Umstead—their home.
“Honestly,” Rheq said, “I didn’t know that what I could do was tied to the myelur. You must believe me.”
“No, I don’t,” Brishen said. “The only question which remains is how quickly you’ll be killed.”
“Killed? I’ve done nothing but help you!”
Prakzen took another step forward, lifting his knife a bit higher. “Let me do it, Brishen. I need to be cleansed.”
“No! Me!” Another of the men said. “I can’t have the taint remain.”
The rest of the men spoke up, demanding to be the one. Brishen turned to address them—that was the opening Rheq needed.
Spinning and ducking, Rheq dashed to his right behind the wagon and toward the forest wall. He heard the swishing of the men’s knives slicing through the air as he stepped behind a maple. Sprinting, while continuing to zig-zag as to make a harder target, Rheq began to put distance between him and the Gymad camp.
He thought he was clear when he heard another swishing sound—a noise Rheq knew instinctively as another knife being thrown at him. Bending at the waist, Rheq made an attempt to dodge the incoming projectile. He was almost successful.
A searing pain sliced across his right shoulder. The knife had not hit him squarely enough to become embedded, but rather the glancing blow bit into the flesh. Instead of pausing to investigate how severe the knife wounded him, Rheq picked up the weapon which rested on the forest floor ahead of him and pushed deeper into the forest. He knew he could lose anyone chasing him—but only if he could get enough distance.
Time passed, Rheq was not sure how much, but it was long enough that he could stop running to see if the Gymads still pursued him. Focusing his eyesight, he searched behind to see if he could spot any red glimmers indicating men close by. Part of his mind realized he was using the myelur, but it could not be helped. That was an issue for another time.
While red glimmers popped up here and there from the direction he had come, none of them were strong or big enough to belong to a human. It was time to make sure he lost them for good.
Rheq doubled back, jumping on roots and rocks as much as possible to mask his trail. He then climbed a tree—one close enough where he could jump from one thick branch to a tree next to him. He went from tree to tree, convinced they could not find his tracks. His shoulder throbbed, but he ignored it. There would be time to tend to the wound later.
It was mid-day before Rheq felt comfortable enough to stop for longer than just a few heartbeats. Inspecting his shoulder, he saw the knife had cut through his tunic and into his skin. The wound was shallow and had bled little. However, a closer look made Rheq realize that despite losing his attackers, peril remained a real concern. Around the cut was a greenish tint—one which came from a type of poison Gymads used on their blades.
Chapter 49
The alarm sounded during Danla’s morning training.
“A squad has been attacked!” one of the scouts shouted. “The wounded are arriving soon!”
This, in and of itself, was not unexpected. Danla learned that to counter the random attacks on Nothcar, dozens of squads—groups of fourteen men—had been sent along the border to find and destroy the enemy. Danla’s camp, consisting of healers and support troops, was stationed far enough to the north as to be considered safe, but close enough to lend help as needed.
Men adorned in the king’s colors of green and silver rode in a large wagon drawn by two horses. This was a medical cart sent out to bring in the wounded. The vehicle was large enough to transport a full squad, though now it held not nearly that many. Danla did a quick count as the wagon pulled into camp. Only seven of the squad had lived through the battle.
She, along with the other healers in the camp, went to the long, flat tables designed to hold the wounded. One-by-one, soldiers brought each of the men from the cart to where the healers would do their work.
“This one is already dead,” Yarma said, her voice cracking.
Danla wanted to comfort her friend but did not have time as a soldier was placed on the table before her to heal. Remembering what Mistress Halima had taught her, she did not look at the man’s face. If it was someone she knew, it could distract her enough from reacting as quickly as needed to save him. Over the winter, Danla had sharpened her skills as a healer. She did not flinch at the sight of blood or broken bones anymore—though this wound was unlike any she had seen before.
She focused first on where his armored breastplate had been pierced just below his ribcage. The blow must have been powerful—more than what was possible from a normal man. A quick inspection of the wound gave understanding. The metal tip of a lance was broken off and still lodged in his body. He has been skewered by a man on horseback.
Deftly, Danla reached in and pulled out the tip, causing the man to let out a guttural moan of pain. She ignored it, knowing she could not be distracted.
Quickly, she pulled on the green myelur which resided in her body, letting it flow from her to the injured man.
With the healing process came a sense of the soldier’s overall well-being. She felt a sense of familiarity which meant she had met him before. Still, she remained focused on his wound. He was as near to death as any she had healed in the past. The damage was more than just from the hole in his chest. His whole body is nearly drained of energy! That was something which only time and rest could replace, yet he would have neither of those if she did not complete her task of fixing the harm done to him.
The time she practiced and trained over the winter came into play. First, she mended the internal organs, restoring them to their natural state. Next, his skin was sealed together. Upon completion, healthy skin and tissue replaced the wound.
Danla’s strength waned from the amount of green myelur needed to complete the healing. Blood coated her hands. She fought the urge to wipe them clean on her robes. Instead, she drew in a deep breath and for the first time looked at the face of the man she had healed.
It was Pendr.
That explained why he seemed familiar, and why she had been distracted by his moan. She knew him as well as anyone she had ever known.
With this understanding, the barriers she had developed to shield herself from feeling any emotions while healing shattered. “No!” she sobbed. “No! Not him!”
Someone placed a hand on her shoulder. Danla turned to see it was Yarma. “I recognize him. He’s the one who saved us when we were first in training, correct?”
Unthinking, Danla reached up with the back of her hand to wipe away the tears—and in doing so, smeared blood on her cheeks. “Yes. His name is Pendr. We grew up together.”
Yarma reached down and placed her hand on Pendr’s chest. After a moment, she said, “He’ll live. You saved him. Why are you upset?”
It was a fair question. Danla had healed numerous people since she had learned to use her gift with the green myelur. Never before had she reacted in such a strong manner. Pendr was a soldier, just like the rest of them. No, he’s not. He never wanted this. He has a gentle spirit.
Trying to save face with Yarma, Danla responded, “You’re right. I should be happy he’s alive. Are there any others who need to be healed?”
“You are in no position to heal others,” Yarma said. “I sensed that when I touched you. Healing him took nearly all your strength.”
“But, the other men. Are they—”
“Only three others could be saved,” Yarma interrupted. “None of them are coherent enough to tell us what happened. Mistress Halima has sent scouts to the other squads to pull back and protect this camp. We need to rest up, heal, and find out what happened—as well as await further instructions from Captain Mux.”
Danla could not find reasons to argue with that course of action. Her initial shock of realizing it was Pendr who she healed began to wear off, and with it, she recognized how drained she truly had become.
“Can you arrange it so that I can rest close to Pendr?” she asked. “I’d like to be there when he awakes. He’ll talk to me. I can find out what happened and report it.”
“Of course,” Yarma said. “I’ll find where we can place you. Stay here.”
After the other healer had walked away, Danla rested her head on Pendr. She could feel his chest rising and lowering with each deep breath. In studying his face, she found some comfort in its familiarity. Yet, there was something different about him. Even in a relaxed state as in now, she could see it: a hardness in his jaw and around his eyes.
The horrors of war were changing him. How could it not? With that thought, Danla realized that she, too, had changed. Just moments ago, she pulled part of a weapon from Pendr’s side. While they lived in Logs Pond, she had never seen such a wound, let alone reacted in such a decisive manner. I couldn’t have done it back then. I would have been too afraid.
At that moment, Danla understood that there was no returning to her previous life. Neither she nor Pendr could return to live as they had once before—a time of blissful innocence. With that, Danla felt a profound sadness for the loss of who they were and could have been.
Chapter 50
Nestov hoped with each new sunrise that today would be the day. Last night he had once again been told the same news since he had arrived: King Viskum had been too occupied with important matters to receive visitors. At first, Nestov graciously accepted the explanation. However, after being told the same thing each night through the winter moon cycles, Nestov felt as if he had failed his mission.
Friar Janus had tasked him to be the envoy to Nothcar, to inform the king of the impending darkness which would cover the land: news for the king’s ears only. No one else in the castle, aside from Nestov’s protector, Brother Mey, knew the reason why Virqyna had sent a representative.
With each passing day, Brother Mey grew more frustrated. He considered the lack of a response for so long to be an insult. Nestov pointed out that the king’s men knew they were here. After all, they had a room in the castle to stay, were fed three meals a day, and Nestov had limited access to the library where he spent his days studying texts not found in his homeland.
Though Nestov could not explain why, he felt that today was the day he needed to see the king—the news could no longer wait. He expressed his thoughts to Brother Mey as they woke. The monk responded with a dubious expression.
“And what, pray tell, are you going to do today which we have yet to try?” Mey asked.
“I will be persistent to the point where we can’t be ignored any longer.”
Mey grunted. “Oh? And how are you going to do that? Throw a tantrum?”
The comment was ironic because Nestov rarely showed any strong emotions—a trait which seemed to baffle Brother Mey. Many a time his protector noted how a normal person would be upset by any number of situations which they had experienced since the start of their trip, but not Nestov. It was not part of his character.
“No, I won’t throw a tantrum,” Nestov said. “Even if I did, do you honestly believe that would grant us the audience we’ve been seeking?”
“Of course not,” Mey said. “But I don’t know what else you can do.”
It was a fair question. Nestov considered standing outside King Viskum’s throne room all day until they let him in but doubted that was enough. He had to say something to make an impression. The idea of being so forceful created a tight knot in his stomach. It would be much easier to spend the day in the library…
With that thought, an idea came to Nestov which should work.
“Get dressed,” he told Brother Mey. “We’re going to see the king first thing this morning.”
“You have an idea,” Mey deduced.
Nestov reached for his brown robes. “Yes. I have an excellent idea.”
The two readied themselves to see the king as quickly as possible—even to the point of scarfing down the morning meal of ham and biscuits left outside their door.
A guard stood outside the room where they slept—as had been the case since their arrival. The guard was there to protect them, or so they were told, though it made Nestov feel like somewhat of a prisoner.
There were several guards who took turns watching over Nestov and Mey. This morning, the guard was a man named Reginal. He was of a height and build of Brother Mey, but that is where the similarities ended. The guard’s skin was dark—the darkest Nestov had ever seen. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. Though Reginal rarely smiled, on the few instances when Nestov had seen the big guard grin, his white teeth were a stark contrast to his ebony skin.
“Reginal,” Nestov said in greeting. “We will be seeing the king today.”
The guard appeared to notice the statement was not in the form of a question. “I will place your request in front of the magister,” Reginal said, in clearly enunciated words.
“It’s not a request,” Nestov said. “Take us to the magistrate now.”
Reginal pause
d for only a brief moment before nodding. “Follow me.”
The room in which Nestov and Mey resided was on the third floor, near the far back corner of the castle. The throne room sat in the center of the castle on the first floor. In the past, Nestov had admired the tapestries which lined the stone walls of the castle. Not today. At this moment, he needed to stay focused.
Their guard led them down two flights of stairs and around to the front of the throne room. The entrance was a large stone archway. Two, stout wooden doors were closed, blocking the view into the room. Nestov had never seen the doors open. That needed to change today.
Sitting at a desk outside the doors was an older man, as indicated by his wrinkled features and silvery hair. He was using a quill dipped in ink to write something in a tome laid before him. Nestov had been introduced to Magistrate Cason when they first arrived, and it was this same man that delivered the news each night that the king was too busy to grant an audience.
“Ah, Envoy Nestov and Brother Mey,” Cason said, greeting them in a pleasant voice. “You are up early this morning. I’m afraid that—”
“Does Nothcar need all its resources to fight the war with Sothcar?” Nestov interrupted.
“I— what? Why do you ask such a question?” For the first time since Nestov had known the magistrate, Cason looked confused.
“Nothcar is at war with Sothcar. That is what we have been told is keeping the king so occupied,” Nestov said. “Per the treaty with Virqyna, either one of our lands could request aid from the other in time of need.”
“Yes, that is in the treaty. But, we’ve made no request of Virqyna,” Cason said. “And yes, we do need all our resources for the war.”
“Then unless I am granted an audience with the king right now, I will invoke Virqyna’s right of requesting aid from Nothcar to help us in our time of need,” Nestov said.
Cason’s eyes grew wide. “Your … need? I’m unaware of any such need that you claim. Why have you not said something before now?”
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