Mark of the Mage: Scribes of Medeisia Book I

by R.K. Ryals

  Chapter 20

  A peaceful month had passed within the rebels' camp. I was one of them now, or I should have been. I'd spent the past few weeks in hiding, sitting away from the rest of the rebels, crying occasionally, and practicing as much as I could. Healing. Only Lochlen, Maeve, Ena, and Nikalia had dared approach me. Many of the rebels were more afraid of the prophecy than they were of me, and others couldn't forget who my father was. And then there was Kye.

  Kye had disappeared the night after I'd spoken to him under the full moon. Four weeks he'd been gone. He was spying, Lochlen had told me. I felt a pang at the thought of him traveling once more with the king's army; dressed in the red surcoat, watching as more mage-fires were built, observing as scribes were marked and sentenced to death.

  His disappearance bothered me. I found myself wondering if he had left because he was afraid I'd do something foolish or if he'd left because staying too long from the army would make people suspicious. It didn't help that since Kye's disappearance, Lochlen had been entering my tent every evening—sleeping beside me—his back to me, and I had no doubt Kye had ordered the dragon to do it.

  I didn't understand Kye. I even felt uncomfortable with him considering how we'd met, and yet I found myself thinking often of his eyes as he watched me through the prison bars the night Aigneis had burned. He'd been tortured. That look somehow connected us.

  I shook myself, releasing all thought of the past. For now, I practiced.

  “Easy,” I said under my breath as I held up the bow, my eyes narrowing on the target. All background noise faded. There was only the mark I'd placed on a post in the distance and me. I pulled the arrow back, my arm steady.

  A release.

  A whir-swish.

  The arrow was embedded perfectly in the center of the black circle I'd made using left over ash from the evening's fire.

  “You do well with that,” Maeve said.

  Grinning, I looked up. Now it was easy for me to draw back the bow; a month of practice had strengthened my arms. And although I had bested Maeve twice in sword play, she was still stronger than I and more graceful. A month of training could not make up for years of fighting.

  “It's gotten easier,” I admitted.

  “Easier?” another voice broke in, and I glanced up to see Ena standing nearby, a spoon in her hand. The afternoon sun shone through the canopy onto her dark head and flushed cheeks. “I'd say you're better than most of the men and women here.”

  I smiled. The bow took a lot of concentration, and an incredible amount of strength, but it was also healing.

  “I do not aspire to be a great warrior,” I said.

  Ena waved her spoon at a big iron pot full of water. There was a creek near the camp, and the rebels took advantage of it.

  “Then maybe you and Maeve here could aspire to be washer women,” Ena teased, and Maeve grumbled.

  I grumbled with her. Kye had been right when he'd said my hands were satin compared to the other rebels, but not anymore. My skin was now as calloused, red, and chapped as the rest of them. There wasn't much room for idleness at the camp. Men and women alike shared in the washing, the hunting, and the cleaning. Some disappeared for days, either on a mission to attack the king's men or to rescue marked folk. There were new faces in the camp now.

  “Come now, get to it,” Ena said, a smile in her voice.

  I leaned my bow against a tree as I moved with Maeve to the pot. Two bars of lye soap lay nearby, and we pushed up our sleeves before grabbing a pile of dirty tunics and trousers.

  “I'd rather fight than wash any day,” Maeve groused.

  The soap burned my already sore hands, but I didn't complain. I'd fallen from grace, been branded and afraid. I'd loved and lost, I'd grieved, I'd sworn vengeance. I'd woken up needing comfort that wasn't there. My life would never be the same, but I'd finally come to terms with that. Washing seemed nothing compared to the transition I'd made.

  “Washing is good for the soul,” Nikalia sang as she danced into view. The child was filthy as usual; her cheeks streaked with dirt as she ran around us.

  Maeve scowled. “Mimicking Ena does nothing more than get you extra food, little sprite, and you need a bath!”

  Nikalia stuck out her tongue before disappearing behind a small group of people at the cooking fires. I shook my head, my eyes skirting the familiar faces. I'd finally begun to feel comfortable here, but I still didn't know many of the people by name. It didn't seem right. Maeve must have noticed my expression because she bumped me with her shoulder.

  “Many of us avoid getting to know each other. It's not just you. We fear getting close and then losing someone we've come to care for,” Maeve said.

  I looked at her. “It doesn't really make me feel any better to hear that.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe not, but it is the truth of things.”

  We both turned back to the washing, the chilly water making us shiver as we scrubbed. I got lost in the monotonous chore, the splashing clothes and the chatter from beyond the pot almost making me miss the words from the forest.

  “A boy is injured,” the trees called out.

  I looked up, my eyes on the limbs above my head. “What?”

  Maeve glanced at me, but didn't comment. She was used to me talking to things she couldn't hear.

  “Not far from here, there is a young man injured.”

  I dropped the soap.

  Maeve reached over and touched my shoulder, her dripping hand soaking my tunic.

  “Stone,” she said.

  “Where?” I asked the trees, ignoring her.

  The trees shook, and Oran appeared, his silver fur contrasting with the trees as he emerged from the foliage.

  “Follow me,” the wolf said. “Bring help.”

  I rubbed my hands down my trousers.

  “There's been a man injured!” I shouted as I took off at a run behind Oran.

  I could hear shouts from behind me as I grabbed my bow before crashing into the undergrowth. There were footsteps in my wake, and I knew some of the rebels followed.

  We hadn't been running long when I heard the moan, and saw the stooped figure, the flash of a familiar face as the man leaned against a tree, one hand against his side. A step closer, and I gasped. He was wearing the king's red surcoat, but there was no doubt who it was.

  “Kye,” I breathed as I neared him.

  He looked up, barely glancing at my bow before looking down at his hand. He held it out, and I realized it was covered in blood.

  “By the gods,” I said, my eyes coming up to meet his. There was pain there, but he didn't make a sound.

  “A sword,” he said through clenched teeth.

  I was next to him now, but there was no way to get a close look at the wound without removing some of his clothes.

  “Ho, Kye!” a man yelled as rebels fell in behind me.

  Maeve was past me and wrapping Kye's arm behind her neck before I'd even had a chance to blink.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Kye leaned on her, his eyes still on my face. It was the first time I noticed how flushed his cheeks were, how distant his gaze. My palms tingled, and I fisted them against my sides.

  “Help me,” Maeve called.

  She barely glanced at me as a man shoved past me to grasp Kye's other arm. I didn't know this man. He was a little shorter than Kye and young with the same dark hair and eyes as the rest of the men in our country.

  “Be careful, Daegan,” Maeve admonished when Kye tightened his jaw. “Let's get him back to the camp.”

  My palms were on fire now, and I found myself wondering if I had grown a sensitivity to lye soap.

  “He shouldn't be moved. Do not let them move him!” the trees yelled. The sound caused my head to ache, and I braced myself on the tree Kye had vacated, my hand going to my forehead.

  “He needs help,” I whispered, knowing the trees would hear me no matter how low I spoke. Ari had circled down into the tre
es and Oran had moved next to me.

  “The trees are right, Stone,” Ari said. “They would know. He should not be moved if they say he shouldn't.”

  I looked up at the Falcon above me. “Are you sure?”

  She didn't answer, but somehow I knew she was right. I turned abruptly.

  “Stop!” I yelled. Maeve and Daegan had made little ground, and Kye had slumped between them, his breathing loud. “He shouldn't be moved!”

  Maeve looked over her shoulder. “How do you know?”

  There was anger in her voice. It was obvious she cared about Kye, and seeing him hurt had her cross and afraid.

  “Be firm,” the trees encouraged.

  I stood straight, my eyes on Kye. “Lay him down. We should check the wound.”

  It was hard to sound confident when my burning hands were shaking. I clasped them behind my back.

  “We need to get him back to the camp,” Maeve argued.

  Daegan looked up. “He doesn't look so good, Maeve. The girl may be right. We should see how bad it is.”

  The trees swayed above me even though there was no wind.

  “You are no physician or wise woman!” Maeve pointed out, angry pink spots developing on her cheeks.

  I could feel myself weakening, but Ari made a loud kek, kek that caught everyone's attention. She plunged off of the limb she sat on, diving toward Kye before using her talons to pull at his surcoat. Daegan waved his arms at her, and she flew upward again. Another rebel placed an arrow in his bow, aiming it at the falcon. I pulled my own bow up, an arrow instantly in place.

  “Shoot her, and I will kill you!” I screamed. I'd watched Ari grow. No one would take her away from me. Not now.

  The man lowered his bow, but I kept mine raised.

  “Let me lay down,” Kye's low, pain-filled voice murmured.

  Maeve quickly complied, her eyes finding mine. “We'll do it your way, but if he dies, I will … I will …. ” her words trailed off.

  I clenched my jaw, my palms on fire as I stepped toward them. Daegan and the man who'd drawn the bow were next to Kye now, pulling daggers from their waists to cut at the red surcoat. There was chain mail beneath, and Maeve lifted it carefully over Kye's head before Daegan began cutting at a padded shirt beneath the mail.

  And then there was the wound.

  It was an angry wound, a long, deep gash in his right side. Maeve was right. I was no physician or wise woman, and I had no battle experience, but from the gasps emanating from the others, I knew it was bad. And then there was the odor.

  “It's full of infection, it is,” the bowman said.

  Maeve glared at him. “Hush, Brennus!”

  Kye's eyes were closed, and he was moaning now. Low moans, delirious sounds as if he wasn't even aware of his surroundings.

  “What do we do?” Daegan asked, his eyes on Maeve.

  “It's too far gone,” Brennus said.

  Maeve shook her fist at the group. “No!”

  The trees swayed again, and I felt Oran stiffen beside me.

  “It's only the dragon,” the trees assured, and the wolf relaxed.

  Lochlen walked out of the trees, his eyes skirting our group before landing on Kye. Maeve stood.

  “He's badly wounded,” she said as Lochlen moved toward her before leaning over to inspect Kye's side. “Will he make it, Lochlen?” Maeve asked.

  Lochlen looked up, his eyes finding the tree where I stood.

  “Daughter of Soren,” he said, “come.”

  I stepped toward them carefully, kneeling when Lochlen gestured at the ground. He grasped me by the wrist, turning my hand so that he could see my palm. He sighed.

  “You have the gift,” Lochlen said. “Do they burn you?”

  He indicated my hands, and I nodded.

  Lochlen glanced at the group. “Back away! All of you!”

  No one argued with the dragon. He pulled at my hand.

  “You remember my father telling you Soren was a healer?” Lochlen asked. I nodded, and he lifted my hand higher. “Your palms burn now because you have the same gift. Lay your hands on his wound, Stone. You can heal him where the rest of us can't.”

  I stared. “What? Touch it?”

  It was true the closer I got to Kye, the more my palms burned, but I didn't have much experience with battle wounds and blood. The sight was making me nauseous. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It was a bad idea. I gagged when the wound's odor infiltrated my nose.

  “Stone,” Lochlen said gently. “You will have to do nothing more than touch it. Your magic, like all mages, needs no prompting. Training can make it stronger, but even without it, magic is bred into you. Touch the wound. Your magic will do the rest. We have no healers in the camp.”

  I took a deep breath and held it before leaning over Kye slowly.

  “Your magic comes from Silveet, child. Your healing comes from the forest. In your hands, you hold a connection to us all. We will not fail you.”

  The trees' soothing, confident words were the push I needed. I grit my teeth as I lowered my hands, touching Kye's wound tentatively. He bucked off of the ground, and I gagged, closing my eyes against the feel of his blood against my hands. My palms heated, growing so warm I'm pretty sure I whimpered. And then . . . fire, a raging flame in the palms of my hands. It was unbearable, excruciating.

  There was screaming.

  In the end, I wasn't sure if it was Kye or me.