The day creeps on, hours sliding by in a blur of treatments and tidying. Lestyn catches my eye across the table where I am busy grinding herbs and boiling rags for fresh bandages. I lift one finger to my lips and wink as I tip a vial of rose-hip oil into the vat—an addition Osain would no doubt frown upon, purist that he is. It’s a trick from the Midlands, one my old mentor Eli taught me. Infusing the bandages aids healing; it keeps air-starved skin healthy and hydrated upon removal. I’m willing to risk a tongue-lashing from Osain if it means my patients recover faster.
Lestyn’s answering grin is a flash of white in the dim room.
Good lad. He will keep my secrets.
I grab the stirring stick and turn the bandages within the barrel-sized pot. Steam off the surface rises into my face, much like the persistent fog that presses against the infirmary windows. The strange weather has not yet broken, and the city is on edge because of it. Folks cast uneasy looks at the sky, muttering about ill omens.
Each morning, as I move through the misty streets, I see more carts piled high with belongings, more Caelderans fleeing to far-flung reaches of the kingdom. They are bundled in their winter cloaks, shivering against the cold. A strange sight for late spring. But there have been no sun-drenched afternoons to burn off the chill, no balmy evenings to usher in the first sighs of summer. We are trapped in a constant cycle of dreariness, caught in the grips of incessant cloud cover.
As always, those who spot me are quick to bow their heads in respect. Some cast the sign of the sacred tetrad in the air—two fingers, held aloft, moving in the shape of a diamond. I watch their lips form soundless words.Wind weaver. Light bringer.I watch their grave expressions flicker with hope. As though I might somehow save them. As though I might do something, anything, to banish the miserable cold and restore the warmth that once suffused their crater city, where traces of the long-dead volcano’s heat linger in the stone even after a thousand years.
I want to stop and tell them the truth. That I am no savior. Not to them. Not to Penn. Not even to myself. But their misery is deep enough without my adding to it. So I merely nod and carry on my way.
Life is simpler in the darkness of the infirmary. Time slips away. Hunger pangs fade from focus, exhaustion is pushed to the back of the mind. I cease to exist as me, Rhya, a living being with needs of her own, and become no more than a set of hands. Mending and mixing, dressing and dosing. Tending to those in need with no heed to my body’s urgings.
With an apron cinched around my waist and my pale hair plaited out of the way, I am unrecognizable as the Remnant of Air. It helps, of course, that most of my patients are caught in the throes of fever, too addled to pay much mind to the hands that sponge their burning skin or the fingers that check their racingpulse points. I may not be able to save the city at large, but I can save them. One at a time, cot by cot, body by body.
When the door swings open behind me around midday, I look up from the pallet where my latest patient, a boy of ten with a sore throat and swollen glands, is sleeping fitfully. Blinking to clear my thoughts, I wipe my hands on my apron as I cross to the threshold where a familiar figure stands in silhouette.
“Hello, Teagan,” I say, smiling as I greet my former maid, now faithful friend. But my smile falters when I see she is dressed for travel, her slender form wrapped in a thick cloak, her back strapped with an orderly bundle. “No,” I whisper in disbelief, shaking my head rapidly. “Not you, too.”
She grimaces. “I’ve come to say farewell.”
“You cannot leave!”
“Oh, Rhya, don’t be upset with me.” Closing the distance between us, her damaged hands reach out to find mine. The long puckered scar on her forearm—a souvenir from a Reaver blade, received during battle—peeks out from beneath her sleeve and snakes down her fingers. It’s healed well enough but will never fully disappear, nor will she ever regain full function of the stiffened joints. And yet, the loss of dexterity is nothing compared to everything else that was taken from her that night. Her profession in the keep, the roof over her head, her sense of security. Above all, her closest friend.
Keda.
I witnessed her death, then avenged it—killed the Reaver who plunged his blade through her heart without blinking. But taking his life was little solace. No vengeance will bring Keda back. Just as no amount of salve or stitching will erase the jagged scar that mars the flesh of Teagan’s arm.
After the battle, she spent several weeks here in theinfirmary, under our care. Like many other survivors, her heart needed as much healing as her body. It was a time of great misery and pain for Teagan.
For Lestyn, though, it was love at first sight. The young novitiate took one look at my beautiful, heartbroken friend and vowed his everlasting devotion. He cared little that she is old enough to be his mother, hovering around her with the enthusiasm of an adoring puppy—and, thus, providing a source of much-needed amusement for everyone within earshot. He sulked relentlessly when she was discharged a month ago.
“You must understand,” Teagan urges, blinking back tears. Brown curls escape her kerchief as she shakes her head. “There is nothing left for me here. Nothing but painful memories and broken dreams.”
“But—”
“Please don’t. Don’t ask me to stay. You healed me after…” Her scarred hand jerks slightly as it clasps mine. “I owe you so much, I cannot deny you anything. So I hope you will not ask. I hope you will understand when I tell you I need to start over somewhere new. I hope you will wish me well and send me on my way.”
My mouth opens, then shuts without a sound.
Idounderstand.
Too well, in fact.
Suddenly, I am also blinking back tears. I force my voice to level out as I pull her into an embrace. “Safe travels, my friend, wherever the road may take you.”
“Our paths will cross again,” she whispers back, her own voice choked with emotion. “I am sure of that.”
“Where will you go?”
“There’s a caravan headed north, toward the sea. It won’t behard to find work at a country inn or a wealthy estate. I can still scrub and fold, even if my hands aren’t as quick as they used to be.”
“It’s cold as bollocks in the north,” a sullen voice interjects. “You’ll hate it.”
Pulling apart, we both turn to find Lestyn glaring at us from the shadows, hands planted on his slim hips, eyes narrowed behind his thick glass spectacles. The copper skin of his cheeks is tinged beet red and, beneath the scowl, it is easy enough to detect the slightest wobble to his lower lip.