by Cat Bruno
The memory of Bronwen warmed his skin as he recalled how she had glowed when he first looked upon her, strong and fierce beneath a star-filled sky. Even so weakened, he hungered for more, for another night with her. Yet, he knew that it would not be so, not now, with his father so near.
“What has happened to me?” he whispered, missing the fire-haired girl.
When a voice responded, he nearly jumped, yet his exhausted body refused to move. Recognizing the man who had spoken, Conri sat up, with effort, and stared across the room.
“My Lord, do not worry yourself. In a moon’s time, your strength will return, and your power with it. You are safe here, as you know, or you would not have come. The Crow flies and the Bear hunts, but here, they will not find you. Fear not.”
He nodded, leaning against the long-timbered wall, grateful for all that Hanrie had done to prepare for this day. He owed the man much and would see that Hanrie was richly rewarded once he was recovered. Hoarsely, he asked, “What would I do without you, Hanrie?”
The man laughed, and said, “Most likely the epidiuus would have taken you home had you not instructed him to come here. My lord, it was not Gwen who you rode, though. It was another, one I haven’t seen before. He dropped you here and flew off before I could see to his needs.”
“Gwen was otherwise engaged,” Conri answered, with a half-smile, knowing the epidiuus was soon to give birth.
Hanrie continued, “I met you at the door when I heard the wings overhead, but you had already opened it. Conri, you were like I have not seen you before, and I helped you in, half-dragging you I’m afraid. The room here is as how you wanted it to be, although I had not thought you to need it so.”
Conri had prepared well for this day, knowing that it would come, yet still half-hoping that Bronwen would not agree. It had taken many moons to find such a house, one distant and remote, far removed from the Tribelands, yet well-warded and hidden. It was still in the North, anywhere else and he might not ever recover as well, but it was far enough removed from the Tribelands that none would know where he was, not even his own kin. Under the Northern sky, he would heal. Until then, he would be an easy kill for ally or enemy.
For the last few moons, Hanrie had readied it for his arrival, stocking it with food and wine, stores and stores of it, enough to satisfy him as he mended. For only two men, the stacked shelves seemed enough to last a winter, yet Conri would need nearly all of it, as both men well knew, unless he found other ways to replenish his strength, yet doing so would cause too much attention to fall upon him and his location. And, therefore, moons before, he had decided that he must recover like any other man, with time and rest.
As Hanrie’s words continued, Conri’s eyes closed and he collapsed onto the bed once more, his thoughts foggy and his body exhausted. He mumbled something in reply to the man, but knew not what he had said. In the darkness that was offered, Conri could see the face of a girl, shining eyes as green as the Northern grasses, staring back at him. Her hair was wild an dark, yet streaked with a red he had come to know.
And so it begins, he thought, before sleep claimed him.
49
With the rising sun came many unanswered questions, and Willem paced the bright courtyard impatiently, unused to waiting. Chien had served him his morning kaffa, brewed strong, like he preferred. She had sat a tray of tiny pastries, cubed cheeses, and honeyed bread upon a marble-topped table. Willem had nibbled on a few pieces while he waited for Aldric to join him, the morning nearly half-gone. The dark mage was still sleeping, or so he wished him to believe, Willem thought.
So near the sea, the coastal birds flew with the sun, and their calling had long ago wakened Willem; he doubted that Aldric would not have been so affected.
Just as he was about to send Chien to find the mage, Aldric strolled into the courtyard, dressed finely in the clothes that Chien must have laid out for him. Willem hid a smile as the man neared, wondering what had happened between the two while he had slept off the heavy drink.
“Finally. I thought you might be tempted to sleep away the morning. Join me for some breakfast, for I am not due at the clinic until midday.”
Willem gestured toward the tray and the steaming mug of kaffa that sat beside it.
After Aldric had gathered a slice of the thick bread, he added, “You look the very picture of the gentleman this morning. Aldric. Although I do not believe that the clothing you wear is Rexterran. Planusian maybe? It is well-made for sure, yet the cut and style are simpler than what I prefer. I know not where Chien finds such clothing, but she is a remarkable woman, is she not?”
He had not tried to hide the teasing from his voice and knew that Aldric had noticed. Yet, the mage evenly replied, “Surely it is not my wardrobe that you wish to ask about, Willem. So be out with it. What is it that you want from me?”
Willem smiled, knowing that he had gotten his point across, even if Aldric had tried to avoid it. Yet, the dark mage was correct, there was much to discuss, and little enough time.
“What do you believe will happen to Bronwen?”
“Well, that is more like it, Lord Willem,” Aldric answered over the rim of his mug.
“Is there time to waste? Her fate is intertwined with ours now, is it not? And the two of us have limited options, Aldric. I would follow her anywhere if I thought I could help, but I fear my identity would only cause her greater problems. As long as my cousin still lives, that is,” Willem added, watching for any reaction from Aldric that might hint at his thoughts on Delwin, yet, unsurprisingly, Aldric’s face remained unreadable.
“We are both limited, for certain, yet why must Bronwen leave here at all, even if she is with child?” Aldric asked, reaching for the cubed cheese.
With a raised voice, he answered, “Surely you jest! She would not be permitted to stay at the Academy if her condition was discovered. We are life-givers here, and take oaths as such. As with the Mage-Guild, we are not permitted to tangle with the Dark Arts.”
“Yet, you have remained, Lord Willem, even after you served High Lord Conri.”
Aldric’s words cut across the courtyard like a dagger through the air, striking Willem in the chest as he fumbled for a response.
“I watched over Bronwen for him. No more than that, Aldric,” Willem fumed.
“I suppose that is one way to see it.” Aldric chimed, unconvinced. “Perhaps it is best to keep our minds on what we can do to aid Bronwen. You are certain that she will not be permitted to stay here? What if the Master Council only knew that she was with child, but not who had fathered the babe? What then?”
“You are suggesting that we keep the babe’s father a secret? Will that not be impossible? I know little of the Tribe, but such a feat seems impossible and ripe with risk.”
Aldric shrugged his bony shoulders beneath the new, deep-blue tunic that he wore and said, “I know little more than you I’d wager, but surely being with child, even a god-touched one, would not be so different for Bronwen as for other girls. Kennet might know what we do not.”
Willem nodded, then replied, “Yes, I had not thought to ask Kennet, but he would be a fine place to start. We must visit him after we are finished here. But, for now, nothing must be said of what might occur. It has not been so decided, Aldric. Bronwen is still a young woman with whims and wishes of her own. It is quite possible that the child will not come to be.”
Aldric swallowed and looked to Willem as he said, “Yet you have seen the girl. Grown and fully alive, if only a vision. We both know that the girl will be born, and the only question that remains will be when.”
With a tired nod, Willem answered, “I have seen her. And though it pains me to admit it, you are right, mage. The girl will be born, and Bronwen will have to leave here. Yet, where can safety be found for one god-touched?”
“If she is to stay in Cordisia, then Eirrannia will welcome her.”
“Then it must be so,” Willem replied gruffly.
Smirking across from him, Aldric add
ed, “Will you tell her as much? She does not seem so easily swayed to abide your orders.”
With a wave of his hand, Willem asked, “What choice does she have?”
The two men sat in silence as they finished the light meal, rising only when their mugs were empty.
50
The morning sun had not yet gotten hot, although Sharron was already exhausted, her legs sore and heavy and her head thick with fatigue. For over a half-moon, she had been needed more often at the clinic, ever since Bronwen had hastily departed, with no explanation. The girl, only a few moon years older and Northern as well, reminded Sharron of home, and she had a great fondness for her, although, in truth, she knew little of the woman. However, she felt a kinship with the older healer, newly named Master Apprentice, and hoped to become as skilled, just as she hoped that Bronwen would soon return to the clinic.
Having slept little, a brief few hours in an unoccupied room at the back of the clinic, Sharron walked as if in a daze through the halls, enjoying the silence that the clinic had to offer at such an early hour. Master Ammon was not due to arrive until midday, and Mathias had been more demanding of her of late, more so after Bronwen had taken an interest, however small, in her. She had seen neither men yet, and, as the senior healer, began her duties, checking on the most seriously ill. A few younger healers milled about carrying linens, jugs of water, and trays of food. Merely nodding at them, she continued, until she neared a room on her left.
Pushing the hanging curtain aside, she quietly walked up to the small cot that stood in the center of the room, blanketed with white cotton. Underneath a bleached sheet, a small boy lay, his dark hair cropped short and peeking out from the fabric. His eyes were closed and his chest rose evenly, and Sharron did not want to wake him, so she quietly neared the side of the cot. Gently uncovering his neck, she put her fingers there, feeling for his life pulse. When she had found it strong and steady, she tucked him back in as he had been and exited the room, heading further down the hallway.
As she walked down a long hallway, to the far rear of the clinic, Sharron thought on the injured sailor. He still lived, despite being half-dead when he had arrived. Bronwen had done what none thought possible, repairing the man whose skin was torn open from chest to thigh. Even though he had not yet fully woken, each day brought a higher chance of his survival. Still heavily dependent on poppy milk for his pain, he had not yet spoken, but a few times he had opened his eyes and nodded at her as she coaxed him into drinking the honey-sweetened milk.
Bronwen had not once returned to the clinic, and, as far as Sharron knew, had not asked about the man’s recovery either. Several of the healers had guessed at what made her run from the room, Donnavan suggesting that perhaps she was just exhausted from the healing, as it had taken nearly a full day. But, Sharron had watched as Bronwen uncovered the man’s face.
And what she had seen there was not exhaustion. It was hatred, red and hot. It was recognition.
In the days that followed, Sharron told no one of what she saw and continued to care for the man. The few times he was awake, his eyes, heavily lashed and dark, would fall upon her, yet the man would say nothing. She would hurry to finish, leaving his room with prickles upon her skin and blaming Bronwen little for her actions.
Thinking on the man caused a chill to run across her and Sharron shivered as she walked the last few steps to his room. The hallway had been scrubbed bright by the second-years, the walls and stone-tiled floor shining and white. Rays of sunlight streaked in the large windows, and, for a moment, Sharron paused, leaning against the wall and letting the sun warm her. After a long moment, she raised her hand and pushed the hanging curtain aside slowly, reluctant to enter. When her hand brushed the thick, unbleached cotton, she trembled and dropped it, letting the curtain sway. Once more she raised her hand, this time pushing it aside quickly.
As the curtain swung behind her, Sharron fell to her knees, the metallic smell of blood filling her nose. She squeezed her eyes closed instinctively, but the smell of urine and feces nearly made her gag, despite moon years spent healing. When she forced herself to open her eyes, the sight that greeted her was worse than she had expected.
Blood was splattered across the far wall, dripping red and wet down the whitened walls.
Just across from her lay the man.
Slumped over and covered in blood, his head hung nearly to his knees. Around him, blood pooled on the stone tiles, glistening in the morning sun. His chest was bare, the linens that once wrapped it torn free and thrown about the room, dark with blood.
She could not see his face, but knew that he was dead.
Crossing the room on shaking legs, she knelt next to him, fighting the urge not to vomit. Her pale fingers reached for his arm, pressing against his wrist to feel for his life pulse. She need not have tried, yet she was healer still.
As she dropped his hand, Sharron glanced up.
With a cry, she fell back, holding the back of her blood-speckled hand across her mouth.
Much of his neck was missing.
Sharron rose then and silently backed out of the room, trying to avoid the puddles of blood, and again pushed the curtain out of the way, letting it fall back in place as she fled down the hallway on her sandaled feet, unaware of the bloody trail that followed her.
Near the entrance of the clinic, she noticed that Donnavan had arrived, still bleary-eyed with sleep, and she stopped him with a raised hand.
Swallowing hard when she noticed the blood that covered the tops of her fingers, Sharron said, “Donnavan, something terrible has happened. I must find Master Ammon at once. Let no one near the sailor’s room. No one. Do you hear?”
He blinked a few times, clearing his eyes. “Is there anything else that I should do?”
Sharron shook her head, and repeated, “Just do not let anyone enter the room. Not even yourself, Donnavan. I will be back with Master Ammon just as soon as I can.”
Donnavan had always been one to follow directions, and he simply nodded. Then, she turned and walked out of the clinic, ignoring the stares that greeted her. When her feet found the hard stones, she started running, slowing down when her chest burned and her breathing became shallow, but hurrying as quickly as she could to Master Ammon’s villa.
Even though she had never been to his home, she recalled hearing rumors about where he lived, especially since few healers lived outside of the grounds of the Academy. As she neared the edge of the beach, Sharron spotted the large complex and knew that it must be his home. When she came upon the gated entrance to the villa, she hesitated, realizing that it was locked. Yet, as a child, she had often roamed free, as many Northern children did, in the hills and valleys that surrounded her home and had been quite skilled at climbing trees, more so than even her brothers. Mounting the shoulder-high gate was easy work for her, even so many moon years later, and she hurried over it.
Once inside, she approached the doors and lifted her still-bloody fingers, knocking loudly on the heavy, dark door. Sharron was still breathing hard and sweat dripped down her face and stung her eyes. As she lifted the back of her hand to wipe at her forehead, the door opened. A small, pale woman with slanting eyes and long, straight, black hair stared up at her, smiling for a moment until she noticed the blood on Sharron’s robes and hands.
The woman’s eyes were wide and unblinking, staring at Sharron, and, for a moment, she feared that she had guessed wrong and this was not Master Ammon’s villa.
Before she could move, the woman said, “You are healer, yes? Are you hurt? There is much blood on your robe.”
Sharron shook her head, her hair falling about her face, having loosened as she ran, tumbling free from the healer’s knot she had tied at the back of her neck.
“I am fine, but I must speak to Master Ammon straight away. He is needed at the clinic urgently.”
For a moment, Sharron thought that the woman would send her away, and she opened her mouth to protest. Before the words could come out, the delicate woma
n, who reminded Sharron of a bird, not the gulls who flew overhead here in Litusia, but of the dark-feathered, small-boned, deep-purple swallows in the North, had turned away and walked back into the villa, inviting Sharron to follow her. Her smooth hair glided down her back in shining ebony, so deep it appeared purple. As she walked, the silky fabric of her long dress moved with the gentle grace of her body.
With her eyes on the floor, a curling, soft marble, Sharron walked behind her, embarrassed as her sandaled feet rang noisily in contrast to the silent woman that she followed. Without looking up, she could tell that Master Ammon’s villa was not an ordinary healer’s home, and she remembered back to the rumors she had heard about him when she had first entered the Academy, yet she had little time to think on such things now.
“Stay here, Healer, and I will speak with Master Ammon,” the woman said when they had reached an inner courtyard.
As she waited, Sharron had a moment to think about what she had left back at the clinic. Something unnatural had hung in the air of the room, a feeling that had caused the hairs on her neck to stand up and her head to spin. She thought back to when she had checked to see if the man was still breathing and realized that his skin had not yet been cold, nor was his body stiffening. The blood on him was warm and wet, not dry like she would have expected.
Sharron knew, for certain, that his death had not been a natural one. But before she could think more on the matter, the woman was back, and with her was Master Ammon, looking flushed with sun, and smelling of strong drink.
“What is it that you need, Sharron? Is it not known that I do not receive visitors here at my home?”
His tone had been harsh, and Sharron’s voice cracked when she tried to answer, the words falling fast and thick from dry lips. “Sir, you are needed at the clinic. The sailor is dead. Murdered, I believe, in his room at the clinic.”