After a moment, she nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
He gather her bloodied garments together, began folding them carefully.
“You call me scion and Idonea,” Adria said. “You call my uncle Duke Preinon... Why? We have abandoned such titles. My Uncle was even stripped of his.”
“Your people take up and abandon such titles with the whims of fashion. You deny the greatest among you in the want of one season or instate the same out of fear of a sword.” He shook his head. “You have not chosen who you are, child. You are an heir, for you live what roles are given to you. Preinon is a lord for he bears the same — as does your father, and as do your matriarchs... through the persistence of your ancestors and the fire of their blood.”
“I have left much of this behind, by my own choice,” Adria insisted. Her head swam, but she persisted. “My uncle gives me only what I ask of him. He is Aesidhe.”
He spoke again, after a long moment of watching her, and with surprising tenderness. “You have been kept all your life, child. Your story, your very words and actions dictated by others. You’ve borne hopes and promises out of obligation, and reacted to those you might have acted upon. You think that you have made choices, but those around you have limited you far beyond your knowledge.”
Adria considered. “I have been a child. This is what a child is. But it changes. I am changing.”
“Perhaps,” he nodded. “We shall see what you yet make of your disadvantages. How you overcome the games of others. The fear, the love.”
Adria shook her head, but he continued.
“Idonea, you are loved, even as you are feared for what you yet may be. Neither king nor Matriarch can know what you shall become — though they strain, even now, to make you in their own image. No first or second father can give you your freedom. Lord Preinon, for all he would see you be, would not give you all you ask of him. All the answers. All the promises. If you cannot make the answers for yourself, or keep the promises you make, then they have no meaning. They are bought and they are sold. This makes you hostage, not the shackles of slavers, nor the threat of violence.”
She blinked frantically and strained to follow his words, half still angry at his indignation, half amazed. He again sparked memories and images in her mind as if they had shared them.
“You do not see what prevents me from destroying you, Idonea,” Tabashi smiled. “But that does not mean it does not exist. Only a fool believes only in visibles.”
“You speak in circles,” Adria frowned.
“You live in circles,” he said, leaning over her a little to place her folded garments on her chest. “You breathe the air, and speak of spirit. You imagine, and believe in hope. You exhale words, and make promises. You feel pain, and you fear the dying. You remember violence and dream of vengeance. Are these invisibles of yours all and always faith?” He smiled, and, strangely, stroked her hair gently, as a mother might. “What is your anger and your love? The wound of an arrow, or perhaps the giving of one?”
She remained silent. Though he had done much to reduce her pain, still she hurt, all through and over, in visible and invisible places. She had spent three long days bleeding, and felt like she might just drain all away. But there was a little pride still, and she answered, “What we feel is decided by how we decide its path. Anger sends the arrow, love stays the hand.”
“Yes. You brought this arrow to you. Scion, you asked for the Hunter, and the Hunter came.”
Adria blinked, confused.
“You have been given a woman’s name, and you have made promises for it...” he shook his head when she tried to interrupt. “No, it does not matter how I know such things, and you could surmise it without the asking. Only listen now, as you would to your father or uncle, for our time together shortens, and I am not your enemy.”
He had let down his gray mask, and his face emoted. He spoke the truth, and with uncharacteristic sympathy. Adria nodded her assent, mute.
“You will in time have the chance to act for yourself,” he said slowly. “You are a woman, and an heir, and a person of will and power. In time, there will be many who will rely upon your actions, and not simply your reactions. When this time comes, you will have to make choices you will find... difficult. You may even have to break promises you have made, for the sake of deeper promises. Sometimes a law, or a trust, or a faith must be broken in order to prove it, and in order to vindicate a deeper truth. Do you understand this?”
Adria wasn’t sure. All that he had said seemed to have either deeper truths or greater lies.
“Can you remember this?” he smiled, and there was now an urgency in his tone. “That is enough...”
Adria nodded. “Yes.”
He looked nervously aside. “Do you know why I saved you?”
And she did, she believed, and answered, “You are a merchant. You trade things which you can carry upon your person, small things. A life, a spirit, a few words... You are a merchant of invisibles. You trade in... promises...”
“You understand,” he nodded. “It is no simple matter to live one’s life bound by oaths. I have fulfilled a promise today. But to fulfill this promise, I had to break another.” His head tilted, listening, his eyes calculated. One hand leaned down, and snuffed out the wick of a candle near Adria. Darkness and a strange smell filled the cave — the candle was made of something other than wax.
“I’ve heard what you have said, but... answer this,” Adria whispered. “Whose promise did you break, and whose did you keep?”
Tabashi rose, and backed to the doorway of the cave on his feet and hands, silhouetted in moonlight beyond. “Your father’s, scion, in both cases.”
And he had timed the conversation perfectly, almost absurdly so — he was gone, and even as she rose to follow, crying out at the pain, she heard her three names on the wind, in her uncle’s voice.
Without a word, and with only a brief glance at the dimly lit surroundings, Preinon lifted Adria into his arms and carried her from the cave and into sunlight. They returned quickly and in silence, Mateko scouting ahead of them to ward off any attackers.
One look at Mateko, one look at Preinon, confirmed that they were both unharmed, but the blood staining their arms and clothing told her that others had not fared as well, ally or enemy.
The pain caused by the motion of their passage was constant and great, but Adria focused now on pushing it away from her mind, and managed not to cry out, though her exhalations became somewhat more forceful now and then.
She was anxious to speak, to know more of the attack, to tell of her strange encounter with Tabashi. But she could see that Preinon’s thoughts were too full to interrupt, and Adria herself could not seem to bring even the simplest of questions to her lips.
There will be time enough later, she hoped. He has returned to find the war is within as well as without. He must know more. He was warned, as I was. But… how, and why?
Perhaps she did not even want to put these pieces together. The possible answers that shimmered at the edges of her thoughts were too strange or terrible to contemplate, at least just yet.
It is just as well, she thought. We should be silent in case of danger.
But they encountered nothing but Runner sentries on their way home. Preinon set her carefully on her feet at the edge of camp, and then pressed his hand on her shoulder and gave her a grim smile. It seemed an expression she had never seen upon his face before, an odd mix of thankfulness and apology.
“You are safe now, Lózha,” he said simply, before turning away. He had not even glanced at her wound.
Mateko smiled comfortingly, kneeling, and held out her pack to her, then followed Preinon off into the camp.
Adria edged into the camp, dazed, but now seeing, even from the same vantage point as earlier, the scene unfold in its true horror, without the suspension of time she had felt before.
C
ries of pain, blood, and fire filled the aftermath. She could not have been gone long, for many tribespersons still scrambled about — putting out fires, assessing the state of the wounded, and reassembling their defenses.
Very near where she had reentered the camp with Preinon, Adria found that Tabashi had spoken truthfully. Although her quiver and arrows were gone, the dark, bone-tipped shaft of her bow remained, beside the bloodstained remains of her leather tunic.
Adria opened her pack to retrieve her over cloak, which she draped absently around her bare shoulders. Then she took up the bow and strapped it back onto the side of the pack, from where it had been loosed.
Did my pack remain here? She could somehow not remember, the last long minutes of her life now seeming to cover with fog. Mateko must have brought it to me, but left the bow.
It made no sense, but there was no time to think upon it just then, as she waded further into the horror of the camp to the central fire, where most of those whose wounds were not severe were carrying or dragging the bodies of the dead or dying.
Now Adria could see that she was among the least of the wounded. Many were wounded by arrows or spears, but some bore the wider wounds of bladed weapons, or the broken bones of crude clubs.
Mechushegiya of the tribe attended to the first care of the worst among the victims, but Adria saw Shísha follow along behind them, examining each afresh, in turn. She seemed to be mostly sniffing about among the wounded, moving very slowly, very carefully, as if hunting a fish in water.
When she sensed Adria nearby, she approached quickly, and poked her fingers around the edges of Adria’s bandage, nodding with satisfaction. “It is well tended, and you are not too weak.”
“No, Lichushegi,” Adria said roughly, just realizing she had not spoken since the cave, and glancing at the torn flesh of those nearby. “I have been… fortunate.”
Promises made and broken, Adria remembered, the clouds clearing a little again. Promises of my father. What does this mean? Is this all because of me? Did I bring this attack, somehow?
But Shísha regained her attention, squeezing her hand once, simply, within her own. “You will be my eyes, and you will be my second hands, and we will save many from death today.”
Even days before, Adria would have objected, would have said that there were others more suitable, but she could see for herself that anyone who was conscious was already aiding those who weren’t.
She closed here eyes once, for only a moment, and pushed the pain and fog away. “What must I do?”
“Follow,” Shísha said simply. “Listen.”
Green Faces and Red Beads
Shísha proved Tabashi’s assessment on Aesidhe healing well true, and Adria learned more in the next few hours than she had from years of Sisterhood tutelage and many of the most prominent medical texts.
The blind Lichushegi could determine, by scent alone, who among the wounded was most in need of care, and who could wait to be cared for — how much blood someone had lost, whether an infection was setting in, and if they already had a fever.
Shísha felt for broken bones and, with Adria’s help, worked to set them. At the healer’s direction, Adria fashioned simple splints out of wood and twine and, when this grew scarce, she used lengths of vine or gut that some of the Hunters were sent to gather.
Pots were set up about the fires for the brewing of Medicines and the comfort of food and drink. Kochushegiya chanted healing songs and made prayers over the healing. Those least wounded were soon made use of, and the number of bodies decreased — quickly at first, then more slowly, until only a score or so remained.
Many of these Shísha only looked over once, with her sightless eyes, and shook her head sadly, and quietly said a few words over them.
No one weeps, Adria slowly realized. They mourned with prayers, but did not yet lose control of themselves. Again, for this there will be time later.
Adria could see that some among the wounded were bound, hands and feet, and these had their arms and faces painted deep evergreen, their hair braided in a strange pattern.
These are our attackers, Adria realized.
Shísha cared for them no differently, though it was clear she knew the difference. “Shíme Hoshegi Bobeya,” she said to Adria after they cared for the second or third among them. “They are from the north and west. In the cradle of the mountains you call Greywards.”
It still did not seem time for Adria to ask her questions.
Shísha nodded and smiled her satisfaction, speaking quietly and for Adria’s benefit. “You will heal, zheniste. Pray you are led to find better prey.”
The worst among the still-living was a boy, perhaps maybe ten or twelve, whom Shísha tended last. He had been struck in his leg by an arrow probably not meant for him, and although this wound was not critical in itself, the impact had sent him falling into the fire.
The left side of his body had been terribly burned, but he still lived, writhing about on an oiled skin and moaning. Ash clung to his flesh, and in places he oozed blood and other fluids. He could not cry out loudly, but his voice droned, constantly, horribly, while others’ cries subsided into sleep, into better comfort, or into death.
The sickening smell of his scorched flesh filled the air, so that Adria covered her mouth and nose with her hand, steadied herself so as not to empty her stomach.
Shísha stood over him a long moment, considering.
“Will he live?” Adria asked weakly, her throat half shut. Have I made this happen?
“That is not what we would ask,” Shísha said. “A burn is the worst kind of wound. Suffering an arrow or a blade, the body can lose much of its water through the blood, but can eventually regain it. For a burn...” she shook her head. “Where the body is burned, it can no longer hold water.”
Adria wasn’t certain what Shísha meant by water. Maybe like a humour, or like the spirit, but not actual water. But then she remembered Tabashi’s remarks about the humours, and decided simply to take Shísha at her word. Besides, for Aeman not being her original tongue, she nonetheless speaks it well. She knows that water is water.
Shísha leaned down over him, and passed her hands slowly, carefully, over his body, somehow without touching the skin. She seemed to feel the heat of the burns, and could tell the boundaries of his wounds without contact. “The arrow was removed quickly, and he has not lost much blood. This is good.”
“What must we do?” Adria asked, her stomach coiling, serpents and wings. “Would… would bathing him help?”
“First he must be cleaned, yes, and he must be moved from here,” she whispered. “But the pain will be more than he can easily bear.”
Adria could see that the cloth bandage wrapped around his unburned thigh was already stained through with blood, but not terribly. It resembled hers in this. “Is there something to make him sleep, so we can move him?”
“That is what he was given already, but he does not quite sleep. It is dangerous to give him more. He is small. It could make him sleep...” she struggled for this word. ”Forever.”
Adria nodded, eyes full of tears, and Shísha beckoned her to lean closer. “Can you hear what he is saying?”
Adria listened, but the moans he made did not seem to be words at all. He was not even moving his tongue, or his lips. “No.”
Shísha nodded, and began to stroke the boy’s throat on one side, and then the other, upwards. It did not seem to change the sound.
“What did you see in the sweat lodge?” she asked Adria.
The question seemed so unrelated that it took Adria a moment to even understand it. “I... I saw lights, like... fireflies, but brighter, and white, no... almost blue.”
Shísha nodded, and seemed to be pleased. “Do you know what these were?”
Adria thought she knew the correct answer, though she wasn’t certain how much she believed it. “Messenge
rs...? Spirit Helpers.”
“That is what we would say,” Shísha agreed. “Aesidhe believe these are creatures of spirit, like insects without body, or animals, or anything which lives.”
Adria nodded. “I think I understand.”
“Do you?” Shísha sighed, and felt the boy’s forehead with the back of her hand, still stroking his neck with the other. “Close your eyes, almost, and look at this boy, beyond his burned skin. Let the other sounds and sights around you go away, and see only him.”
Adria did as Shísha asked.
“Breathe very slowly, and think of nothing but the boy, and listen to his voice.”
As she did as she was asked, Adria’s vision widened, just as it had during the attack, and everything seemed to slow. She wasn’t really looking at anything at all, soon, and all she could hear was the boy’s voice, but it seemed lower, now, hollow, and almost strangely musical.
And slowly, through much of his body she could see — maybe not even see, but just... feel — a fine, blue-white web. It looked very fragile, and somewhat torn, caught among arcs and points of fire. It all seemed fluid, seemed to be moving, irregularly, and the web itself focused upwards, as if stars rippled upon disturbed waters.
Adria blinked, then, and the vision blurred, then faded. “I saw it...” she breathed.
“What did you see?” Shísha urged.
“His... spirit,” Adria said. “It is... trying to leave his body.”
Shísha nodded. “When the body is in great pain, the spirit may leave — either for awhile, while the body heals, or forever, if the damage is too terrible.”
“Is he…” …dying, Adria would have asked, before she remembered she already had. “Is his spirit leaving forever?”
“No,” Shísha said, after a long moment of consideration. “Not yet. The boy is crying his spirit out, for it wants to leave, but is not able. It is caught by the fire. I am helping it along, and soon he will sleep, and the healing can begin. And then, perhaps, we will ask for his return.”
Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 Page 35