Instead, she found his arm, setting his sleeve on fire. Still, that was enough to make him halt. He dropped his blade, crying out and flailing at the flames with his other hand. In just a few seconds he had extinguished the fire, but by then one of the Aneiran soldiers had seen him and was sprinting to Yaella’s defense. The Eibitharian died before he could reclaim his weapon.
The hurling arms, however, could not be saved. The three that the Eibitharians had managed to set afire were now fully engulfed, frenzied flames crackling and swirling, dark smoke pouring into the midday sky.
Yaella heard more voices and, turning toward the tor, saw more Aneiran soldiers running down the road, reinforcements from the castle gate and walls. Before the men reached the hurling arms, Kentigern’s soldiers melted back into the woods and brush, vanishing almost as suddenly as they had appeared. By the time the duke arrived, the fighting had long since ended.
“Damn!” he said, glowering at the raging fires. “How many men did we lose?”
“We’re not certain yet, my lord,” one of the soldiers answered. “We’re making a count now.”
“Whatever the number, it’s too many. Demons and fire! How did this happen?”
“We had no warning, my lord. They must have snuck around from the north end of the castle.”
Rowan nodded, staring at the fires again, clearly struggling to control his ire. “Get started building new ones. I want them ready by sundown tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The duke walked to Yaella and squatted beside her. “You’ll live?”
“I expect so, my lord,” she managed to say, her voice as thin as parchment.
“Good. I’m going to have some men take you to the healers, again. This time see that you get there.”
It was something his father would have said. Yaella couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. “Yes, my lord.”
He called for the same two men who had carried her this far, to take her the rest of the way to the river. Then, as if an afterthought, he added two more men. Yaella wondered if he would have been so eager to protect her had he truly understood how weak she had grown.
The soldiers conveyed her down to the river without further incident. Rather than finding comfort in the prospect of a healer’s soothing touch, however, the minister was horrified by what she saw along the banks of the Tarbin. Everywhere she looked wounded soldiers awaited the Qirsi healers, some of them moaning, others silent, their eyes fixed on the sky and so sunken that they might have been dead already. A few had lost limbs, and most had suffered wounds so bloody that Yaella gagged just to look at them.
The soldiers tried to take her directly into one of the tents, but the minister shook her head. “No. We have to wait. These men were here before me.”
“Duke’s orders, First Minister,” said the one carrying her. “We were to take you to the healers right off.”
“But they need help more than I do.”
Before he could answer, one of the healers emerged from the tent, a Qirsi woman Yaella recognized from the castle. She was stout for a Qirsi, with short white hair and a round face. Yaella couldn’t remember her name.
“What’s this about?” the woman demanded, immediately examining Yaella’s injuries, gently probing the wound around the arrow shaft with her hands.
“This is the first minister. She-”
“I know who she is, you dolt. Why are you arguing with her?”
“It was my fault,” Yaella said, wincing under the woman’s touch. “I didn’t want him to take me into the tent, not with all these others waiting.”
“But the duke wants us to care for you first, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“What powers do you possess?”
“What? What does that-”
“What powers? Mists and winds? Fire? Language of beasts? Any of those will help end this siege sooner, and frankly, First Minister, that will save more lives than would any delay in your treatment. So stop wasting my time and let this man put you in my tent.”
She could do nothing but nod her agreement and remain silent as the soldier carried her into the tent.
It was warm within, and the air smelled of blood and rot, betony and sweetwort. Again the minister gagged.
“Put her there,” the woman said, following them into the tent and pointing at a pallet near the entrance. “Then get out.”
The soldier did as he was told and was gone before the minister could thank him.
“Does it hurt much?” the healer asked, kneeling next to her.
“Yes, and my leg is almost as bad.”
The woman laid her hands gently on Yaella’s leg, frowning. “How did this happen?”
“My horse-” She broke off, fearing that she would cry, knowing that if she did, the woman would think her weak and stupid.
“He fell on you?”
She nodded, her eyes stinging.
“All right. I need a tonic here!” she said, raising her voice for just an instant. “You’re going to be fine, but you need to rest, and I don’t want you conscious when I set this bone. Do you understand?”
A few moments later a second Qirsi brought a cup of steaming liquid to the healer, who sniffed it once before handing it to Yaella.
“Drink it all,” she said. “You’ll soon start feeling drowsy. Be sure you’re lying on your side. I don’t want you falling back on that arrow.”
The minister shuddered. “Of course.”
Both healers left her and Yaella downed the tonic, despite its sickly sweet taste. As the woman had warned, she began to feel sleepy almost immediately. She lay down on the pallet, positioning herself as comfortably as she could.
She was aware of little after that. She remembered hearing voices, feeling something in her leg akin to pain, though the sensation was fleeting. Later she dreamed of Shurik and the Weaver and another shadowy figure she assumed was Grinsa. But even with the tonic still in her blood, she could tell that none of these visions carried the weight of prophecy, nor did she believe that the Weaver’s presence in her dreams was anything more than an illusion.
When Yaella awoke, there were three healers nearby, none of them paying the slightest attention to her. She could tell that it was dark outside, though she had no sense of the time. The tent appeared even more crowded with wounded men than it had when she first entered, and she could hear wails and sobs coming from outside. She pushed herself up on one arm, feeling surprisingly clearheaded.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
One of the healers turned, an older man. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”
“Much better, thank you.”
He nodded, turning back to the soldier whose injuries he had been tending. “Good. It’s been a busy night. It seems Kentigern’s men attacked the last of the hurling arms and also made a run at our stores. The fighting spread all the way to the river, just east of here. Some thought that they might cross and press on to Mertesse, but at last, our soldiers managed to push them back. Good thing, too. There would have been no way for us to move all of you in time.”
“Did they destroy the other hurling arm?”
“Yes,” he said, still intent on the soldier. “Word is they nearly burned our provisions, too. But just a short while ago we caught most of the raiding party between the river and the castle. Most of them were killed, a few were captured. Some of the men you hear outside are from Kentigern.”
She wanted to ask if the duke had survived the night, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. She wasn’t even certain what answer she wanted to hear. Besides, if Rowan had died, the siege would probably be over. Surely the healer would have included such tidings in his description of the night’s events.