“An Endrenshan of the Elven Kingdom would not stoop to such a low,” Odellan said, adjusting the Baroness in his arms as he started through the small tent city of the encampment, Martaina and J’anda following behind. “Though another two months encamped here and this soldier might consider a pirate’s life.”
“Are you taking us to Curatio?” Martaina asked. Her mind was racing, her body fatigued, and she wondered how far away the healer was. He can still fix her wounds, make her whole again … physically, at least …. “Did they manage to resurrect Cyrus?”
“I remain uncertain,” Odellan said, carrying Cattrine against his mystical, shining armor, still polished even now, the carving in the breastplate filling the lines with blood from the Baroness. “I would assume a call would go up over the camp when the news made its way out, but I have heard nothing as yet.” Odellan’s already unexpressive face took a further downward turn. “Which, as you know, for an elf, is disquieting to say the least.”
“It means there’s likely nothing to be heard as yet,” Martaina said.
“Aye.” Odellan circuited the last campfire as they came upon a tent that Martaina knew had been used by the few healers who had come along on the expedition as a communal quarters. Warriors bunk with warriors, for whatever reason, rangers with rangers, and wielders of magic flock together as surely as any fowl of the waters. He didn’t even duck as he pushed his way through the tent flap, Martaina only a step behind him.
The smell in the tent was horrible, blood overwhelming, more of it possibly than even at the scene of the attack, though it wasn’t as confined a space. There was a lamp burning, too, and the oil helped cover it only a bit. The tent was long, at least twenty feet, and ten wide. There were three healers all huddled in the corner, and Martaina could see Curatio on his knees, between the others, who stood with their backs to the flap.
“We have another who needs help here,” Odellan announced, and one of the healers, a human, sprang toward him immediately, leading the elf to the corner where he laid the Baroness down upon a flat bedroll covered in a thin white sheet. Martaina watched for just a moment and knew that however the sheet had started, it was no longer white.
“Did you manage in time?” J’anda asked, stealing Martaina’s question before she could ask it. She held her tongue out of habit, realizing only now that she was the only non-officer, non-healer in the room save for those being healed. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder from carrying Cattrine at the distance she had, she was in fine condition-especially compared to the man who lost his head only an hour ago. Oh, Vidara, let it have been less than an hour ago.
Curatio’s face was lined by the shadow of the tent, lit by the faint orange glow of the lamp. “It was in time.” He ran a hand along his forehead, one drenched in blood that left markings in the lines of his brow. “Only just, I think, and because his head has been separated for some time, our healing efforts have been unable to fully repair the damage. Still,” he took a breath and blew it out through his lips, which seemed to have lost all their color in the darkness of the tent, “he is alive, and well enough for now, though unconscious. I would not be surprised if he developed a fever over this, though.”
“But he’ll live?” Martaina let her breath hang in her lungs, as though she dare not chance to believe she had heard it correctly.
“He’ll live,” Curatio said, “but with a scar across his neck, I’d expect. A thin one but there, from what we weren’t able to heal. It appears minimal, almost superficial, as I can heal somewhat more powerfully than most, but … it is there. He’ll need to travel in the wagon as we begin our journey north.”
I saved him, Thad, Martaina thought. I was faithful to my word … in this way. “Why are we moving the army north?” Martaina’s surprise at the question coming from her was genuine; she had not realized she asked it until it was out. A feeling of giddiness had flooded her, blotting out the pain of her arm.
“The scourge is sweeping through these lands,” J’anda said in answer. “It is … a problem we must deal with for several reasons. Especially since Sanctuary and Syloreas will be the only ones to stand between it and the balance of Luukessia.”
“You are wrong,” came a voice from the corner. It was faint, but stronger than when last Martaina had heard it. She turned, and Cattrine was sitting up on the bedroll, Odellan and the human healer at her side. “Actaluere will send its army north to aid you. I have seen to it.” Her face was still pale, white, and her eyes were sunken, as though she were already dead. I have not seen a more haunted and beleaguered look on a face since the night Termina fell.
“You were under the protection of Sanctuary, m’lady,” Curatio said, standing from where he had been at Cyrus’s bedroll. Martaina caught her first glimpse of the warrior; he looked almost normal, though his chest was bare and there was an accumulation of congealed blood about his throat. His chest rose and fell in a normal rhythm, though, and she felt her breathing return to normal and her focus shift back to Curatio.
“I no longer require it,” Cattrine said and, clutching the fabric of the robes closer to her figure, she stood tentatively, reminding Martaina of a foal get to its feet for the first time. Phantom pain, the searing agony that stays even after the flesh is knitted together. She is no doubt feeling it harshly now. “I’ll be making my way back to the Actaluere camp to rejoin my husband. Because of that, Actaluere will not go to war with Galbadien and my brother will be freed to send his troops north with Briyce Unger.”
“What a complicated little web we find ourselves in,” J’anda said.
“M’lady,” Curatio said, with a faint, almost patriarchial smile, “there will be no healer for you next time, you realize this, yes?” His hand swept the length of her. “No one will be able to save you from your husband when next he puts the whip to you, and none of us will be close at hand to soothe the damage afterward.”
Cattrine stared at him dully, then turned her back to him and let the robe slip to just above the small of her back. The other healers, humans, young-gasped at the scars, but Curatio managed to hold any reaction to himself. “I have never before had the luxury of protection from my husband, sir.” She paused, and Martaina could read the regret and fear in equal measure hidden underneath the bravery on the Baroness’s face. “And for the benefit of my people, that is a burden I will have to accept again.”
Chapter 48
Cyrus
The world swirled about him, to and fro, and he caught glimpses of darkness and light in twain, lamps and the sun. Everything hurt from the neck down, and other times everything hurt from the neck up, but the divide was there, at the neck, and consciousness was a fleeting thing.
His mouth was dry, appallingly so, like someone had opened it and poured sand in until it ran over his lips and out, down his face and off his chest, leaving everything scratchy and dusty. He could smell old, dried blood, that more than anything, but oil was in the air, too, and fire, and other smells, familiar ones, like plants or an ointment, and moldering flesh. Faces blurred in front of him, forcing him to thrash about. He felt pressure on his arms, saw Martaina before him, and Aisling, Curatio at least once, but they were gone again a moment later.
“He has a fever,” Curatio’s disembodied head told him. The words echoed through the dark space he was in, like booming words lit out of the clouds and born on thunder.
“Searing hot to the touch,” Aisling said, but she was not disembodied at all, he could see her plainly, see her naked, her dark blue curves hidden in the shadows around him, suggestive, and he took a deep, gasping breath as he looked at her.