The Dark Throne, page 26
“How long have you been up?” I asked in mingled disgust and awe.
“A while,” she answered vaguely.
I shook my head as I slowly coaxed my body into motion. My entire body ached, and my mouth was hot and dry. I remembered the force of the dragon-fire as it pummeled my protection and wondered just how much I understood about even my own power. Or, I thought, it might just be all the liquor I drank last night…most likely a combination of the two. I winced and stretched my legs before standing, running my heads briefly over my braids. They’d do, for the morning after a dragon hunt. I tugged at the hem of my shirt, smoothing some of the wrinkles; on second thought, I dug through my pack and found a leather vest, lacing it up quickly. I slid the strap of the Sword over my head, rolling the stiffness out of my shoulders as the familiar weight settled between my shoulder blades.
“Ready?” Calliea arched an eyebrow. She’d also managed to weave her hair into one sleek long braid, the feathers and dye mysteriously gone.
“How are you so chipper,” I muttered, following her through the curtain.
“We slept for almost eight hours,” she replied reasonably. “Or rather, you did.”
I did feel rather rested, all in all; the aching muscles were probably to be expected, after yesterday’s events. “I didn’t sleep for eight hours. At least half of that was spent Walking.”
Calliea slipped out the front entrance of the palatial tent. Cold gray light washed over me as I followed. The morning air sat oddly still and stagnant, a flat sky pressing down overhead, the thick clouds hiding the sun.
“Walking where? And with whom?” Calliea asked. A long table stood mere steps from the tent, reminiscent of the banquet tables in the Hall of the Outer Guard; and a simple yet abundant spread of fare stretched down its length. I glanced back at the unassuming silvery tent, which now looked to be of reasonable dimensions, and then stared at the table. Then I shrugged and began gathering my breakfast.
“Well,” I said, “an old friend wanted to talk. So we met in the ether.” I paused and then decided not to hide anything from Calliea. I trusted her. “He’s one of Mab’s Three, her new Vaelanbrigh.”
“Hm,” said Calliea noncommittally, biting into an apple. She nodded to a few warriors. The camp still seemed rather subdued. The celebration had probably lasted well into the morning, if I had to guess. I stuffed a piece of cheese into some bread and took a bite, chewing contemplatively as I glanced up at the sky. Calliea offered me her waterskin and I took a long pull, washing down the first bite of breakfast.
“Is this normal? The sky, I mean,” I said, squinting up into the oppressive grayness.
“No,” Calliea replied. “The land is dead. The sky is dead. It is poisoned, and it will only get worse as we draw closer to the Great Gate.”
“Will that affect the power of the queens?” I asked quietly, suddenly somber. “If the land is dead, and the queens draw their power from the land….”
Calliea tilted her head. “I think that the queens will make the land anew.”
“That seems like a pretty tall order.”
“So did finding the Bearer,” the Laedrek replied, arching one eyebrow. “And crowning the High Queen.”
“And, for that matter, killing a dragon,” I added with a smile. Calliea grinned.
“Besides,” she continued, “there are already signs of life in this earth again.”
“I don’t understand.”
Calliea paused, as if checking an invisible clock; and then she said, “Oh, they won’t miss us for a few moments. Come on.” Still finishing her apple, she led me through the camp with long strides. We walked carefully through long forms of slumbering lithe figures, past the gray and white ash of the funeral pyre; a lone sentry nodded wordlessly at us, and we climbed to the crest of the hill that separated our encampment from the battleground where the dragon had been slain.
Even with the still air, I caught the scent of rotting meat as we stood at the top of the hill. I gazed down at the dead dragon, its hulking carcass still in shadow in the dim gray light. I swallowed hard, feeling my breakfast crawling back up my throat.
“Vile creature,” muttered Calliea, her lip curling in revulsion. She spat to one side. As she turned, I noticed something in the light of the morning that I hadn’t seen in the torchlight of the night’s celebrations. I reached out and caught Calliea’s arm.
“The dragon’s blood burned you,” I said.
Calliea raised her face obligingly. “Yes, in a few places where the direflame had worn thin during the battle.” The burns looked almost healed, though it had been scarcely a day, leaving pearly pink marks on Calliea’s tawny skin. I stared at the pattern, too fascinated to be polite—somehow I knew she wouldn’t mind, and in fact she smiled a little as I examined her face. There was a splatter pattern about her left eye, a splash of pearly marks across her jaw, and long pinkish streaks down her throat. Her right ear was almost entirely covered with the nacreous scars.
“It would have been much worse without the direflame and my armor. And the vyldretning gave me some salve after the Naming.”
“Did it hurt?” I asked, flexing my own hands.
“Not nearly as much as yours did, I imagine,” Calliea replied. “Mine was merely blood, hot from the heart of a dragon. You might as well have held the heart of a star.”
“Our scars will tell the tale for us if we survive,” I said with a wry smile. The Caedbranr thrummed on my back at my last phrase. I’d acknowledged the possibility of death or defeat. But the Sword merely thrummed once, and Calliea didn’t correct me. Instead, she gazed down at the hill beneath our feet, smiling.
“Look.”
I followed her motion, and blinked in amazement. At the center of the hill, where Vell had knelt with her ivory staff, a small new tree unfurled its tender green leaves. I stepped carefully around it, gazing at its beautiful slender trunk and smooth bark. Already as tall as my hip, the sapling promised height in its young branches, which stretched farther than my arms’ span. Blades of grass pushed through the dull dirt of the hilltop, highest and greenest around the young tree’s trunk.
“Everything is happening so fast,” I murmured. I swept my eyes over the ground of the hilltop, and I saw that at the four points of the compass, where I’d laid the river-stones on the dirt, something else was growing. I stepped closer and sat on my haunches.
“So Vell plants a tree, and I plant brambles?” I asked with a little laugh, looking at the still-green but unmistakably thorny vines.
“They’re not brambles, Tess,” said Calliea. I glanced back at her, and she smiled. “They’re roses.”
“Roses.” I stood and wiped my hands on my thighs. “Interesting.”
Calliea shrugged. “Beautiful, yet—”
“Tough, thorny, yeah, I get it,” I finished for her, waving one hand in the air. We smiled at each other. I glanced over my shoulder at the dead dragon. “How long until the other little beasties start scavenging?”
“They already have,” said Calliea dismissively. “They just prefer the cover of darkness.”
I made a sound of disgust in the back of my throat and looked at the beautiful little tree one last time to wipe the sight of the dragon from my mind’s eye. “We’re working the morning shift, right?”
“Yes,” Calliea said as we walked back down the hill toward camp.
“I’m on your hip again?” I asked, trying to sound business-like rather than hopeful and failing.
“If by ‘on my hip’ you mean working with me, yes,” Calliea replied with a smile. Her dragon’s-blood scars caught the light, shimmering faintly as she turned her head. My heart contracted with a flash of jealousy—even Sidhe scars were more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. But I firmly tamped down on the emotion: my job was not to be beautiful, it was to be the Bearer, and all that entailed. In the next few hours that meant I would be a healer, putting my skills—such as they were—to good use.
“Oh,” Calliea said as we threaded our way back through camp, “just as a reminder….not that I think you would, after what I observed yesterday, but the vyldretning has said that no power be used in healing.”
“No taebramh?” I wondered suddenly if Finnead had told Vell about my dalliances with what he termed necromancy. What did I call it? I thought as we walked. I called it dancing on the line between life and death, which was itself very blurred sometimes.
“Exactly,” said Calliea. “It’s just an overall policy, I suppose to conserve everyone’s strength.”
“And perhaps she doesn’t want any more beacons for Malravenar’s beasts to track,” I added.
Calliea shrugged slightly. “I doubt it matters. We made a statement yesterday, killing the dragon.”
“True. I suppose a dragon carcass at the border of the camp is quite a calling card.”
Calliea pushed aside the entrance to the tent and strode down the main corridor, toward another gray curtain. When we slipped past that curtain, all the hum and noise of a healing ward enveloped us, though it had been silent in the corridor. I turned.
“Where are you going?” Calliea caught my arm.
“Oh, just back to our compartment. I forgot my…satchel.” I blinked as Calliea handed me one of a dozen identical satchels, laid out neatly on a table by the entrance.
“It’s easier if everyone has the same kit, once the dust settles,” Calliea explained. “We just drop these back on the table after shift, and they’ll be refilled.”
I nodded. “Makes sense.”
Suspended globes of light lit the healing ward, spaced evenly between the rows of the wounded. On either side of a wide center aisle, warriors lay on beds of furs much like those in our own little tent compartment. It was still very much a camp hospital, though again I was impressed by the size of the tent and the comfort of its furnishings. A handful of other healers wearing identical satchels moved down the rows.
“There’s at least six on duty at any given time,” Calliea said. “Wait here for a moment, and I’ll see who we’ll be relieving.” She slipped down the center aisle, silent as a shadow, and conversed in a low voice with a slight, silver-haired Seelie. Calliea nodded, and the silver-haired healer motioned to two other healers, who, after a brief word from her, wearily deposited their satchels on the table and slipped out of the ward.
“That’s Maeve,” said Calliea as she returned, gesturing to the small silver-haired woman. “She’s been healing longer than I’ve been alive. And she’s wicked with a spear.”
“Good to know,” I said. I expected to feel surprised, that the healer in charge of the wounded had a reputation for deadliness with a spear, but little about the Sidhe surprised me anymore. I settled the strap of the satchel over my shoulder, untangling it from the strap of the Sword; and then I looked at Calliea and said, “Okay. Where do we start?”
For the next hours, I focused solely on helping Calliea tend to the wounded. It was soothing, in a way, to push all thought of the future from my mind, to collect my consciousness and concentration in the simple yet profound tasks of healing: changing blood-soaked bandages, checking the set of broken limbs with delicate probing fingers, washing gore from bruised flesh. I didn’t count how many wounded we tended, but it was enough that I would have lost track if I’d tried; the Sword remained silent, for which I was strangely grateful. The Caedbranr’s words in my head would have drawn me back into thoughts of looming battle. I preferred the simplicity of both physical and mental exertion. It left little room for musing on war, though I was dealing with the aftermath of a battle in the broken bones and torn limbs of the Sidhe warriors.
I didn’t know how much time had really passed, only that my supplies in my satchel were about half gone. It was a few moments before I registered Vell’s presence, and even then it was only because Beryk ghosted up to me, watching me with solemn golden eyes as I bandaged a deep gash on a Valkyrie’s arm. The Valkyrie was one of those who’d been knocked from the air by a sweep of the dragon’s spiny tail, with the gash on his arm the least of his injuries. A cloth soaked in a potent sedative wrapped his other arm—the arm was the only part of his body not stitched together or bruised or broken. I could tell by sight that the cloth was still damp; when the sedative needed to be reapplied, I’d have to wear gloves so it didn’t soak into my own skin. I watched the Valkyrie’s face for a moment, wondering if he dreamed, or merely lay wrapped in featureless darkness. Beryk raised his head and joined me in gazing down at the still warrior.
“Hey, fur-face,” I said softly. I reached up and moved the orb of light to the Valkyrie’s feet, near the aisle. With a twist of my wrist, I dimmed the light, glanced down at the Valkyrie to make sure we could still see the rise and fall of his chest, and stepped back into the center aisle, wiping my hands with a cloth that I kept tucked into my belt. When I turned to move to the next pallet, I caught sight of Maeve, deep in conversation with Vell. The golden circlet glimmered against Vell’s dark hair, catching even the muted light of the healing tent with its brilliance. I tilted my head, thinking that perhaps it was just my eyes, tired from concentrating for the past hours; but no matter how I blinked, the radiance hovering about Vell remained. The High Queen created her own light. It shimmered about her as she moved, a softly glowing aura that whispered of incredible power. I squinted down at Beryk.
“You see that she’s glowing too, right? And not metaphorically.” I looked at the sable wolf for a long moment, trying to discern any difference about him, but Beryk was as always just Beryk—though, I thought, he’d been different from the first moment I’d encountered him, drenched under the river-tree. Beryk huffed out a breath that may or may not have been a response to my question, gliding past me down the center aisle. I followed him, wiping my hands again. Calliea straightened from where she was stitching a wound, gave me a brief nod and bent again over her work.
As I approached the head healer and the High Queen, Beryk slid past the pair, disappearing into the rest of the tent. One of Maeve’s silver eyebrows arched fractionally, but that was all the surprise—or perhaps disapproval—she showed at a wolf walking among the wounded. I waited a respectful distance from the two, and I felt the Caedbranr’s power awaken, circling lazily in my chest. Being near Vell or her Three seemed to rouse the Sword.
I waited and watched. From the way that Calliea had spoken about her, I gathered that Maeve was a respected elder, but the Sidhe didn’t show age as mortals do. Physically, Maeve looked only a little older than Gray or even Calliea; somehow I knew that her hair had always been silver, like Rowan the White, the captain of Titania’s Outer Guard. But there was an air of experience and authority about the slender healer. She spoke to Vell without the awestruck wonder of the younger Sidhe.
After a few moments, the High Queen gave a regal nod to Maeve, who replied with an elegant half bow. A new pair of healers appeared at the entrance to the ward, and Maeve turned to Calliea. The wordless communication didn’t surprise me, but it took a moment for my mind to translate after hours of concentration. Calliea wiped her hands and touched my elbow as she slid past.
“We’ve been relieved,” she said to me. Then she touched two fingers to her forehead, her obeisance directed toward Vell. “My queen.”
“My Laedrek,” replied Vell with a half-smile. The use of her vyldgard name brought an answering smile to Calliea’s lips. “How are the wounded?” Vell asked, her eyes roaming the ward.
“I expect Maeve will have told you,” Calliea said, a little frown marring her smooth forehead.
“I am not asking Maeve. I am asking the Laedrek.” Vell brought her gaze back to Calliea, a quiet intensity behind her words. “You must understand. You are not one of my Three, but as foremost among my First Score, I expect you and the Arrisyn to be my eyes and ears as my Three cannot be. I demand your honesty.”
Calliea bowed her head briefly. “Yes, my queen.” She raised her eyes to meet Vell’s piercing stare. “There are many gravely wounded. Half the Valkyrie’s number lie in this ward, with at least six close to the boundary between life and death. It will be many days until all these fighters will be ready to travel, much less ride to battle.”
Vell nodded, the light glimmering on her crown. “And there are enough healers, and enough supplies?”
“Yes, my queen.” Calliea offered Vell her satchel. “Each healer carries one of these for their shift, and they are refilled by the apprentices and those who are not gifted with healing skills.”
“You mean those who have never bothered to learn.” Vell raised one eyebrow slightly. She took Calliea’s satchel and rifled through the depleted contents, then returned it and nodded. “I trust you will keep me updated on your Valkyrie.”
Calliea raised her chin. “I will.”
Vell turned to me. “Lady Bearer, we need to speak. Your shift is over, is it not?”
I looked at Calliea, who nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Then we shall walk.”
Slipping the strap of the satchel over my head, I followed Vell, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness in my muscles. I deposited the satchel on the table by the entrance, where a young Seelie with a bandage on his brow promptly scooped it up. When he raised his eyes after slinging the straps of the empty satchels over his shoulder, he gave a start, his eyes widening slightly into an expression of awe as he recognized the High Queen and the Bearer of the Iron Sword. My tiredness dissipated; I caught the young Seelie’s eye and gave him a wink and a grin. His mouth fell open just slightly and then we swept through the curtains.
“Feeling cheeky today, are we?” Vell murmured to me over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows.
I shrugged. “Maybe I just want to remind everyone that I’m not so different from them.”
