An Accident of Stars

by Foz Meadows

  There were other casualties too. Wandering the battlefield of the Envas road, Gwen counted three dead animals – Zech’s horse, Viya’s roa and the enemy mount felled by Saffron’s axe – and was forced to give final mercy to two more who were beyond salvation: the gelding Viya had hamstrung, and the mare whose legs had been tangled by Yasha’s staff. Working with quiet efficiency, the Shavaktiin moved through the chaos, some stripping the dead of arrows, weapons and anything else of value while others rounded up the remaining horses with calm efficiency. At Yasha’s instruction, Pix and Matu pitched in to help, though Gwen had no strength left. Wearied by death, she sat on the grass and watched as the soldiers were steadily carried to the opposite side of the road and respectfully laid out: faces cleaned, eyes closed and hands crossed over their chests.

  For a moment, Gwen wondered if they shouldn’t be burned instead, rather than leaving them at the mercy of the wild – but then, she supposed, their superiors would know when and why the soldiers had ridden out, and would look for them when they didn’t return. Then, when the bodies were discovered, they could be returned to their families for proper funeral rites.

  Which left them with seventeen horses – a net gain of fifteen mounts, given their loss of a horse and a roa – thirty unexpected Shavaktiin, and five adolescents in varying stages of injury and emotional trauma.

  Soon, Gwen knew, she’d have to get up and start asking questions, like: Where did the Shavaktiin come from? Why did they help us? Where are we going, if Envas is enemy territory? How did Leoden know where to find us so soon, and how did his troops know, too? But just for the moment, she was content to sit, and catch her breath, and feel the salt sting of sweat in her cuts, and suffer the weight of the dead.

  Until she noticed Yasha daubing blood on the girls’ foreheads.

  White hot rage electrified Gwen. It was a baptism, a wretched Vekshi ritual of initiation offered when the recipient had taken a life in battle. And maybe there was a universe where the sight of the matriarch daubing red first on Yena’s unconscious brow, then Zech’s, might have failed to move to her to fury – after all, they were Vekshi-born, and for them, at least, the hideous rite had some cultural application, even if both of them were unconscious and therefore unable to appreciate it. (As, indeed, was Viya, whose ruined head she also touched.) But when she moved over to Saffron and pressed her bloody thumb to the girl’s forehead, breaking her out of her catatonic distress in the worst way possible, Gwen lost all control. As Saffron began screaming, Gwen leapt up, strode over to Yasha and bodily hauled the matriarch back by the scruff of her tunic.

  “Enough!” she roared in English. “You selfish, sadistic, bloody-minded old witch! You stay away from her! This is all your doing!”

  Yasha reeled, staring at Gwen in shock. For a moment, she looked unbalanced, undone. Then her gaze narrowed furiously. The message was unmistakable in any language.“I kept us alive!” she hissed. “What would you have had me do, Gwen – surrender?”

  “Rather than defend yourself with children? Yes!”

  “Those children saved all our lives, and ensured we were free to fulfil our purpose! You demean them; you belittle their competence.”

  “And you put too much faith in it! Look over there and tell me the price they paid was the same as yours or mine – you tell me this was an equal fight!”

  Yasha laughed harshly. “Fighting is never equal – if it was, it wouldn’t be necessary. And tell me, Gwen Vere, did those honoured swords look minded to surrender? They would have cut us down like rotten crops!”

  “We attacked them first!” Which was true, but the anger in Gwen was burning out. She knew Yasha had a point, however awful, and the matriarch knew it too, eyes glittering as she honed in on Gwen’s hesitation.

  “Which is why we won,” said Yasha. “But if I’d gambled – if I’d let us stand there like lambs for the slaughter and trusted them to accept surrender – then we’d either be captured or dead right now. Instead, we are free and wounded and alive.”

  Gwen rallied. “That may be so, but you didn’t need to have Safi fight. She’s completely untrained – you could have let her stay with Jeiden, kept them all back–”

  “And left them unarmed when their absence saw us overwhelmed?” She raised an eyebrow. “I did what I thought was best. Jeiden played his part, and Safi played hers. That rider slipped through your guard, Gwen Vere; if the girl hadn’t stopped her, you might be dead, and we wouldn’t be having this argument.” And then, more quietly, “Enough. This was not a perfect battle, if such a thing truly exists. There’s no gain to fighting it over again with words. I regret the choices I was left to make, but not what use I made of them. Leave it at that.”

  All the strength went out of Gwen. She was still angry, but less at Yasha than at circumstance. She nodded, too tired to argue, and when Yasha held out an arm, Gwen took it, the two of them leaning on each other as they headed back to the healers.

  Thirteen

  Blood Will Out

  When Zech awoke, night had fallen. Her wounded leg ached with a bruising pulse, and though she didn’t know exactly where she was, she knew from Jeiden’s presence that it was where she was meant to be. Wherever that was, it was clearly outdoors: Zech was covered with a patchwork blanket and lying on a well-stuffed bedroll, while Jeiden sat cross-legged at her side, his face illuminated by a nearby torch. Almost absently, as both his gaze and thoughts were clearly elsewhere, his right hand grasped her left, but as soon as she squeezed his fingers, he fixated on her in unabashed relief.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  Zech smiled weakly. “I’ve been better.” She pulled her hand free, tentatively seeing if she could push herself upright. But even lifting her head off the bedroll dizzied her; the stars blurred and swum like silver fish.

  “You need to rest,” Jeiden said, worriedly. “Zech, you nearly died.”

  She remembered the battle then – the bite of steel in her leg, the sound of her horse screaming, and the bright spray of blood as she’d slashed the throat of her attacker. Her pulse quickened, bringing with it an increase of pain. The memories threatened to overwhelm her, but Zech was nothing if not strong-willed, and so she pushed them away.

  “The others,” she forced herself to ask. She was shivering, though whether from cold or grief, she couldn’t say. “Is everyone else all right?”

  “Everyone’s alive,” Jeiden said quickly. “Some wounded, but none worse than you, and all alive.”

  Zech almost wept with relief. Sensing this, Jeiden put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. Zech covered his hand with hers, and wondered how she’d ever thought him snobbish. “But we were overwhelmed. There were so many riders, I… How did we get here? How did we win?”

  At that, Jeiden’s eyes lit up, though Zech felt her own glaze over, curiosity fighting a losing battle against pain and exhaustion. She tried to follow Jeiden’s explanation, but couldn’t quite keep the thread of it: something about the Shavaktiin aiding them – she flashed back to the player who’d shadowed them from the Square of Gods – though why was still anyone’s guess. Who knew, when it came to the Shavaktiin? She shook her head, confused, as Jeiden fell silent.

  Zech nodded to show she’d heard. Her shivering was getting worse, her leg ached, and her body felt weird and empty, like her bones had been hollowed out. She ought to just lie down, she knew, but some stubborn, ancient part of her didn’t want to let Jeiden know that she was struggling. “Where are we now then?” she forced herself to ask.

  “The far side of the Dekan River,” Jeiden said, as though he expected Zech to know exactly where that was, and promptly launched into another explanation about the Shavaktiin and stolen horses and diversions, and how it was they’d been found and attacked in the first place. She forced herself to listen to this last, gut tightening as Jeiden talked about the arakoi tracking Trishka’s magic, messages ahead to Envas, the lot of them branded dangerous traitors – and then, just her vision began to grey out
, Jeiden said, “We’re safe,” and finally fell silent.

  “Good,” Zech whispered, hoarsely. “Good. “A feeling of peace spread through her. Dimly, she was aware of Jeiden shouting, but it all seemed so distant, it hardly mattered. She lay down again, or maybe fell, the ground beneath her giving way like a broken branch. The cold in her bones, which had hurt only moments earlier, now felt like the touch of her long-since-absent mother. Almost, she could picture her face, smiling fondly as she stretched out a welcoming hand.

  I’ll come with you, Zech said – or at least, she thought she said it. Her tongue wouldn’t work, but like so much else, it didn’t matter. She let herself drift, eyes closing as she tried to follow her mother. I’ll come with you and stay.

  * * *

  Gwen was just checking on Viya when she heard Jeiden shout. Though exhausted, she forced herself up – she’d given the Cuivexa moonsleep, the better to aid her healing with a deep, dreamless rest – and hurried to Zech’s side. Though the Shavaktiin healers, Kadar and Dom, had done their best back at the road, even a single serious injury would have been taxing, and instead they’d been forced to deal with three, plus Trishka’s burns and innumerable smaller hurts besides. Without their magic, Zech would have been dead hours ago, but that didn’t mean she was out of danger. Gwen’s heart skipped, and as she reached Jeiden’s side, the feeling only intensified. Zech was shivering violently, convulsing in her blankets, eyes rolled back in her head. Jeiden was ashy and terrified.

  “She was fine a minute ago! We were talking, and then she just… She just–”

  “Go and get the healers,” Gwen said, doing her best to keep her voice steady. “Now.”

  Jeiden obeyed.

  His absence felt like hours, though in reality he was only gone a few minutes. Gwen sat crouched by Zech’s side, one hand clamped to the girl’s forehead in a futile effort to ease her shaking. When Jeiden finally returned with the Shavaktiin – Kada in pale red robes, Dom in dark yellow – she moved away, watching with a fear that verged on fury as they worked their magic. Yasha, if this girl dies, I will never forgive you.

  Slowly, Zech’s shivering stilled, but her skin was even paler than before, her breathing hoarse and shallow.

  “She’s lost too much blood,” said Kada, standing up. His voice was warm and deep, and the skin of his hands was darker than Gwen’s own. Though even his eyes were hidden behind a veil, there was no mistaking the worry in his voice. “She needs a transfusion.”

  Instantly, Jeiden held out his arm. “Give her some of mine, then. Please!”

  “It’s not that simple, Jei,” said Gwen, squeezing his shoulder. Her eyes remained fixed on the healers. “Blood has a type, and yours might not match. The wrong kind would only hurt her.”

  “But we can test you,” Dom said kindly. Though it was hard to tell with the Shavaktiin, Gwen thought the other healer was female; her voice was lighter than Kada’s, at any rate, and her body smaller. “Give me your palm.”

  Obligingly, Jeiden obeyed, standing straight and stoic as Dom pricked his thumb-pad and placed a finger on the wound. After a moment, she drew away.

  “Not a match,” she said, apologetically. “The girl’s blood is unusual – none among our Shavaktiin shares it, and unless someone in your party does, there’s not much we can do.”

  Gwen’s heart sank. Proffering her own hand, she let Dom test her too, but was unsurprised when the healer shook her head.

  “Come,” she said. “We should test your friends.”

  While Kada and Jeiden stayed behind to monitor Zech, Gwen accompanied Dom on her quest. From personal experience, Gwen knew that race was sometimes a factor when it came to matching rare blood types, which was why she hadn’t been surprised when Dom disqualified her. But Zech, despite her mottled skin, was Vekshi, and from what she’d seen of their Shavaktiin rescuers, none among them shared that nationality. As Pix, Matu and Yena were all rejected, Gwen entertained the brief, satisfying notion that Yasha would be the one to give her blood for the girl; but when the matriarch, too, was ruled unsuitable, she felt her hopes shrivel. That left only Trishka and Viya, both of whom were badly wounded themselves, and Saffron, who had lapsed back into shock.

  Remembering what had happened when Yasha had decided to smear the blood of the dead on Saffron’s forehead, Gwen quietly suggested that they leave her for last. But when neither Trishka nor Viya proved a match, there was nothing else for it: they had to test her too.

  With everything that had happened, Gwen was intensely grateful for Pix’s foresight in bringing the moonsleep she’d originally used to drug Viya. A powerful sedative, it had not only helped their treatment of the wounded, but had, in a much smaller dose, calmed Saffron enough after the battle that she’d been able to get back on a horse and ride under her own steam. Arriving at the camp, she’d let herself be led about like a doll, so that for the past two hours, she quite literally hadn’t moved, sitting blank-faced and cross-legged near one of the bigger campfires. The Shavaktiin understood her blank state, and didn’t try to interfere. Instead, they kept an eye on her, occasionally leaving food or water within easy reach, but otherwise letting her be.

  Now, though, such courtesy was no longer an option. As they approached Saffron, Gwen’s heart broke afresh at what all four girls had suffered. Saffron’s injuries might not have been physical, but that didn’t make her any less wounded than Zech or Viya.

  As Dom waited respectfully to one side, Gwen knelt in front of Saffron, studying her before speaking. Dried blood still streaked her face and forehead. Her eyes were glassy, fixed on her lap. From time to time, her fingers twitched, but otherwise she remained motionless.

  “Saffron,” Gwen said. She didn’t so much as blink. Gwen sighed, stifling the commingled sense of guilt and impatience that threatened to well up within her. Gently, she reached out and took Saffron’s hand in her own. “Saffron Coulter.”

  Saffron shuddered, gaze jerking fearfully upwards. Her eyes were wide, and there were tear tracks on her cheeks. “I killed her,” she whispered in English, her voice raw with despair. “Gwen, I killed that woman.”

  “It was the fall that killed her,” Gwen said softly, in the same language. “She broke her neck when her horse went down.” Almost she added, you only cut off her hand, but stopped herself in time. Saffron needed fewer reminders of guilt, not more. “And she was trying to kill you. It was self-defence.”

  “I know.” Saffron blinked, lifting a hand to rub new tears out of her eyes. “At least, part of me does. But I just keep seeing it happen, over and over. I keep hearing that horse scream, and the sound of the axe… I killed a horse.” She made a choked sound. “I like horses. And I know that’s not worse than killing a person, but it still counts, doesn’t it? And she was married, Gwen, I saw her braids. I can’t stop seeing them. What if she was a mother, too?”

  “I know,” said Gwen, though she dearly wished otherwise. She didn’t want to change the topic, but the immediacy of Zech’s need demanded it. “Saffron, you know the others were hurt in the fight?”

  “I know.” The words were barely audible.

  “Well, Zechalia’s lost a lot of blood. The healers need to give her a transfusion, but no one else has the right blood type. The only person left to check is you.”

  She braced, waiting for the fear to return, but strangely, the news had a calming effect on Saffron, just as the moonsleep had done. “I can help?” she asked, straightening a little.

  “Maybe,” Gwen said, not wanting to get her hopes up. “We need to test your blood first.” She turned and motioned to Dom, who came forward, crouched down, and showed Saffron the pin she’d been using to prick people’s fingers.

  “Like this,” she said in Kenan.

  “All right.” Saffron nodded, and Gwen watched, heart in mouth, as she held out her hand for the needle.

  As the blood welled up, the girl winced, but nothing more. Dom placed her finger over the cut, paused – and nodded. Gwen exhaled a breath she d
idn’t remember holding.

  “It’s a match,” Dom said. “Come with me. We need to act quickly.”

  Slowly, her muscles visibly stiff from being locked into the same posture for hours on end, Saffron stood. Gwen caught her arm when she staggered.

  “Sorry,” Saffron murmured.

  “It’s all right.”

  Saffron limped at first, but soon straightened out as her muscles uncramped. Gwen snuck glances at her from the corner of her eye, not wanting to appear overly concerned. For all she’d responded well so far, there was still something of the dream-state about Saffron’s movements, as though she’d only managed to function by convincing herself that nothing around her was real.

  Or was that giving her too little credit? Gwen faltered mid-stride, caught off balance by the realisation that she’d slipped into thinking of Saffron as helpless; that because she was blonde and pretty and a foreigner to this place, she wouldn’t be able to cope. The other girls had all been taught to fight, but none of them had ever properly done so before today, and training was no guarantee of competence or composure when it came to the real thing. Yena, Viya and Zech’s physical injuries didn’t mean they weren’t also hurt emotionally; and yet somehow, Gwen had managed to trick herself that it did. It made her angry, unspeakably angry, to think that she’d done so, even for a minute–Or maybe, a more helpful internal voice whispered, you’re just in shock, too. You can’t process everything at a time like this, rationally or otherwise – it’s too much to take in. They’re all children, all hurt. Help them now, and deconstruct yourself later.