Kitalla looked around at the six men and women who had gathered to update her. “What do you expect us to be able to do? We’re only a handful of people. How are we going to change everything that has been in effect for centuries?”
One woman walked up to Kitalla and took the thief’s hands in her own. “We believe in your spirit. It is what you seek to do that awoke us all from our stupor. We know that you have it in you to succeed despite all else.”
“It’s going to take more than belief,” Kitalla explained. “We’re all going to risk dying if it comes to a conflict. Are you ready to die for this cause? Can each of you really say your life is a worthy cost for success?”
They were quiet for a time but then the youngest among them, Ylior, nodded. “I could not fight, in the eyes of the king.” He lifted his robe and showed Kitalla a withered leg that he had been born with and that magic had not been able to repair. “I would have been slain if not for the chance to join the healers, dismissed by my own ‘protector’ because I was deformed as an infant. I would like the chance to prove that his arrogance was wrong. I would like the chance to fight in my own way. And if I must die in the process of defending what’s right, and it somehow helps us reach a victory, then yes, my life would be an acceptable cost.”
Kitalla kept her voice level. “And what if we can’t achieve that victory?”
“Don’t you believe that we have a chance?”
She shook her head. “It isn’t that. For me… I don’t know. There is much I can do, but I also know that there will come a time when I won’t succeed. There will come a time that I fail. Completely. And I will die.” And she added in a whisper just for herself, touching her belly, “As I have died before.”
She cleared her throat. “I’m not here to end any war. I’m here to fight. To grow stronger. I know that I may not win. But I fight anyway. I know I may meet an opponent who is faster than me, or that my luck or skill won’t be enough. But I fight anyway. It’s a reality of what I face each time I battle. You have to accept that you might die a senseless death. You have to understand that you might not survive. And you have to admit to yourself that it might all be for naught.”
They stared at her in silence, their eyes wide and uncertain.
“Randler is better at this sort of thing, but try to understand me,” she implored, unsure why she was even talking. “Each day we live, we have sunlight and we have nighttime. You cannot deny the darkness of night and still call each day a day. You have to know it is there. You have to accept that it’s coming sometime in the future. It isn’t that you only focus on the darkness. But you don’t deny it, either. Yet if you come to understand it and keep both halves together, you have a better chance of living in the daylight. If you ignore the night, then it sneaks up on you and you’re lost in shadow when you need to be ready.
“So ask yourself again: If you die in this fight and we are not victorious, is your death worth it?”
There was silence for a while and Kitalla didn’t even realize that everyone in the healers’ hut was listening intently to her words, including her comrades who were nearby. She felt embarrassed but didn’t let it show.
Then the deformed healer spoke again. “My death would still be worth it,” Ylior decided. “Because I’ll be standing up for a safer future. If we fail, others won’t. Maybe it won’t be for another decade or century, but if no one ever rises up, there is no hope for success. So I will fight. I will rise up and I’ll do what I can to help those around me who need me. If that means I heal Hathrens and Kallisorians, mages and warriors, men and children, then that’s what I will do. For me, I fight; not to win, but to bring us all closer together.”
“Aye!” echoed someone else. “That’s a goal even I could get behind. A lot less fighting and a lot more of us all getting along.”
“Hear! Hear!”
Kitalla listened, amazed that she could incite such passion in them. She hoped she wasn’t instilling them with false beliefs, but then she remembered that she didn’t live her life on hope, belief, or speculation. She dealt with facts and cunning and preparation. Almost single-handedly, she had arranged for the defenses in Savvron before they had entered Hathreneir, and it was because of those defenses that Randler and Dariak’s small army was able to gather safely in the first place. She could do the same here. She could help them to prepare for the road ahead, though they weren’t the young, fit warriors the kings would send into battle.
Kitalla could level the field. She knew it.
Chapter 39
Healing Forces
Morning dawned in Marritosh and Dariak was uncertain of the day. He felt as if he had been incapacitated for at least a month. He reached his arms outward and rubbed them gently, still feeling an oddly heavy sensation in his skin. He knew people had died when he had slathered over them in his metal form and he wished he had been able to prevent those deaths, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
He remembered nothing of the others bringing him to Marritosh. Randler had filled him in on the whole frantic journey, complete with Frast’s control over the beast jade so the creatures would carry the mage safely. It seemed absurd, like something out of one of Randler’s own ballads, but in his heart he knew the truth of it.
He hadn’t really been there for a month yet. It only felt that way. Everything seemed strangely slow to him, even when people were talking to him. He remembered the amount of time he had needed after his recovery from a similar transformation through the lightning jade, so he understood full well that he had to wait it out.
This morning, though, he felt better mobility. All the mages in the town were working hard to restore the companions to their full health. They had succeeded in repairing Randler’s shoulder wound. He sported a garish scar now, but he hadn’t lost any of his finesse, thanks to the concerted efforts to heal him.
Kitalla seemed her usual self to Dariak, and in some way that felt odd. She had run off in such a state, leaving the metal jade behind, only to swoop in and reclaim the jade, all the while saving them in the process. Her battle skills were legendary, but she wasn’t exactly known for altruism. However, they had become a tight-knit family.
The only part he didn’t understand was Gabrion’s delay. The elders of Marritosh had visited with Dariak and informed him of Gabrion’s departure to the castle a week earlier, taking several of the villagers with him. They were concerned he hadn’t returned yet.
Not much took place that day as the companions all took turns helping Dariak to his feet and reminding his body how to walk. Randler spent a good portion of the time testing out various instruments and making sure his shoulder worked properly. He was often stiff and sluggish, but it was nothing that time and a good deal of stretching wouldn’t fix. Frast held back a little, especially if Randler was visiting with Dariak. His own feelings for the brown-haired bard had grown on their mission to save Dariak, and he feared they would swell out of control and at the wrong time.
In the predawn hours the next day, the calm healing period ended. The army returned from the castle, haggard, worn out, and depleted of nearly two dozen fighters. Most of the mages were carried on stretchers, though not because of injury. They had spent the entire return trip pressing their energies to the limit trying to heal any of the injured they were able to reclaim from the castle.
Kitalla’s eyes scoured the group as it entered the town, but there was no sign of Gabrion. Her gaze was drawn aside by one particular stretcher, around which five mages were poised, arms weaving in unison. She examined the enwrapped figure under their care and was both relieved and saddened that it wasn’t Gabrion. But she soon realized it was Ervinor and something was terribly wrong.
The men carrying the mages and Ervinor hurried to the healers’ den where the injured man could be tended by a more skilled set of practitioners. The stretcher was brought inside and set near Dariak, who gasped when he saw Ervinor’s fate.
The healers went immediately to work, supported by Lica and
a few other mages from Kallisor. They tore off Ervinor’s tunic and cringed at the sight of the damage. The shoulder simply ended in a ragged gash. The mages had done well to preserve him, but they hadn’t been able to repair any actual damage and the little healing his own body had done was nothing compared to what remained.
Though the healers were mostly mages themselves, they employed a wide array of techniques, especially in a case like this. They started by cleansing the wound with several buckets of clean water, while one mage worked steadily to help regulate Ervinor’s blood flow and to keep it from gushing out of the shoulder. There was a constant trickle, but it was slight and actually necessary, for his lifeblood was needed for the healing process.
Needles were prepped, as were several cloth towels, a packet of herbs, and a host of gems and minerals. Another healer concocted a strong sleeping draft, the scent of which made Dariak woozy from across the room. He tried following the action, listening intently to whispered instructions from the main healer. It looked to Dariak like a hopeless cause, but the healer wasn’t going to give up just yet.
The sleeping tonic was administered to Ervinor slowly. He was unconscious already but the work they were about to do would otherwise awaken him. Even with the draft, there was little chance of him remaining still. They took a few precautions and secured Ervinor’s body to the table with leather straps, but because of the locations in which they needed to work, they knew the bindings wouldn’t have much effect.
Two mages stood opposite the main healer and directed their energies toward Ervinor’s belly, which Dariak thought was odd considering the location of the wound. Then another healer came in and started cutting a large round layer of skin off Ervinor’s stomach. It was gruesome to watch, but the layer was needed to help seal off the shoulder wound. Already, Ervinor started trembling in his sleep.
Dariak could feel the healing energies amplifying in the room. The magic tugged at his senses and he yearned to be a part of it, but he knew it wasn’t a good idea after his recent ordeal. He continued to watch, amazed at the efficiency with which they tackled the injury. He understood basic medicine and healing but the level of skill in this room impressed him. At least a dozen men and women were tending to Ervinor’s needs. The room was in constant motion.
But as the healing became more invasive, Ervinor started to rouse from his stupor. They tried adding more sleeping draft and tightening his restraints, but the pain was too great and soon the young man was howling in agony, his body writhing and thrashing on the table, knocking over pieces of rose quartz in the process.
Ready for this, a few nearby villagers ran in to help subdue the thrashing, but the exuberant youth was too strong for them. The mages who were using their healing powers couldn’t turn their energies toward keeping him sedated, else the healing forces would falter and they would lose him entirely. Saving Ervinor would apparently take more people than they had available.
Dariak knew what he had to do and he didn’t care much about the consequences. “Help me up,” he called out to one of the villagers, persisting until the man came over. Dariak made his way over to Ervinor, then he sent his helper off to gather a few items he needed. The other healers didn’t protest Dariak’s appearance at the table. Poor Ervinor thrashed about so rashly, the healers could barely do anything at the moment but hold him. Three of the bindings had already snapped and those that remained were barely fulfilling their purpose.
Soon the supplies Dariak needed were in his hands. He cast an incantation over a thick twig, “Connioshtose joierinus umblasser, porial.” He proceeded to coat the twig with a greasy syrup, taking care to press the viscous liquid into the nooks. “Proteis, rathrafar helliosh nai.” He grabbed a pinch of talc next and coated the sticky twig until it was smooth and soft to the touch.
He then snapped the twig in two and moved on to his next spell. “Bendinariosh fruthic kai morrish santhrineir.” One of the twigs grew warm and slightly malleable. He turned his attention to the other half. “Absorifice rectiss menarr farrithoni lea shhar.”
The main healer looked up from his work. “What do you think you’re doing? Stop this instant!”
“His need is greater than mine. I will be all right.”
“But you—”
Ervinor screamed and thrashed on the table, and the healers surrounding him were unable to do anything to subdue him. If he continued, all their efforts would be in vain and he would likely die of massive infection or loss of blood. They maintained their healing spells in the hopes of aligning with the young man’s own natural healing powers and finding a means of repairing him.
The main healer acceded. “I cannot argue with you, as his need is indeed great. But I recognize parts of your spell and it worries me. Take great care, Dariak, if you intend to succeed.”
“I do. And I will.” He nodded his head sharply and then brought one half of the twig to Ervinor’s jaw, setting it between his teeth. To some, it looked like a precaution to keep him from breaking his jaw, but Dariak’s ensorcelled stick held a strong spell set, similar in some way to the one Frast had used to help Randler’s ruse at Magehaven. Dariak made his way back to his bed and then set the other half of twig into his own mouth. “Commellious.”
Instantly, the pain in Ervinor’s body was absorbed into the wooden stick and transmitted to Dariak, sending the violent spasms of pain into the mage. He immediately began screaming and thrashing about. It startled the other healers in the room, but the main healer drew their attention back to their current patient and demanded they ignore the new sounds of agony.
Dariak no longer knew anything except for his intolerable pain. He felt a searing emptiness on his right side, and he knew his arm was gone. He couldn’t see with his own eyes, for they were tearing endlessly, blinding him. He felt the ax cutting downward, scraping metal against bone, severing the bond of life that was never meant to be cut. It was a wound like no other.
Then other pains were alive everywhere. The cutting of his belly, pinpricks at his slashed shoulder, welts all along his body, a deep laceration in his throat. Everything was a war field and he had no defenses against any of it.
But that wasn’t true, he tried to remind himself. He had chosen to accept this pain, for it wasn’t real, at least not for him. He was only connecting the pain to his own self so he could calm the fighter enough to allow the healers to do their work. He could also send information back along the connection. He only had to remember... remember...
Something jabbed into his shoulder and he vaguely heard voices calling out in dismay. He had no idea what was going on, but he could sense a great distress. He tried to open his eyes, but he was still unable to make sense of anything. Spellcasting filled the room in tense panic.
It was that sound that helped Dariak to remember. He was a mage and though he was not proficient at it, he could be a healer too. It was a matter of drawing the balancing forces in the world and pulling them through himself, guiding the energy through the conduit clenched between his teeth and then releasing it into Ervinor where it was most needed. The syrup and talc coating he had given the stick before breaking it in two would prevent the energies from extending outward errantly. He clung to this image and strained beneath the torrents of agony to seek the knowledge buried within his own mind.
Dariak started with a basic healing spell. It was only good for reducing the pain of a sting, like after slapping a table with an open palm. It was a tiny wisp of power, but it was enough to remind him of who he was. He called again and reached more deeply within himself, seeking the old spells that he hadn’t spent much time studying after the rudimentary skills.
He found a spell for sealing a slight laceration. It wouldn’t do much for the great damage to his—to Ervinor’s—shoulder. But every bit would help. He knew it had to help. Gently flowing power enveloped his mind and he let mental hands mold it into a brighter light. He cast it forward, into and through the twig, where it leaped over to Ervinor and swam around his body, leaving traces of
healing at random points.
Dariak felt a bit of success, for some of the pain within him began to lessen. He opted to continue his efforts, drawing power from some unknown source and casting it outward, wrapping Ervinor in its light and healing him, ever so slightly. Wave after wave, Dariak pulled and released, keeping his thoughts as calm as possible all the while.
The pain within him grew weaker and weaker. He was glad, but it worried him, too, for he wasn’t entirely certain that it was a good sign. Sure, it could mean that the wounds were closing, but it could also suggest that Ervinor was dying and that the weakness was from his body shutting down. He tried to listen for the others in the room, but the blood was rushing through him, fighting off the pain he still felt. He could only continue his work and hope somehow that he was helping.
Dariak had no concept of time, and not just because of the aftereffects of his transformation with the metal jade. The spell linking him to Ervinor pulled the young man’s haziness into himself as well and, in essence, Dariak realized that he was also feeling drugged by the sleeping draft. Maybe that was why the voices had started shouting moments ago. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t hear them anymore. There was no reason to stop, so he pulled and drew the energies around himself, then he cast them off to Ervinor.
At some point he wondered how he was able to use so much magic at once. He hadn’t used any spell components. The few things he had taken from the villager were part of the binding itself. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but he vaguely told himself that he must be using the jades somehow. They must have sensed his distress and sought to help him, like all those times before.
The thought comforted him and he relaxed his concerns, pulling in more energy and sweeping it all through the room to bolster the efforts of the other healers while also sending a few tendrils specifically toward Ervinor. The pain was still decreasing and he knew he wouldn’t need to work at this for much longer.
The Shattered Shards Page 44