There was darkness and there was pain.
The last thing he remembered was an arrow in among all the noise. His arrow. The soldiers had run across the bridge. The Rai were launching fire at them and he was loosing arrows. Watching them hit Rai, a killing blow with each arrow and the sense of pride that came with it. He had not realised how much he wanted this. How much they were not only a physical target but the target of his grief, and with each arrow he asked for Ranya’s guidance and he said the name of one who had been lost.
“Ranya, guide this arrow for Darmant.”
“Ranya, guide this arrow for Usest.”
“Ranya, guide this arrow for Bryent.”
He released each arrow with a sense of peace. A sense of rightness. He no longer hated the Rai for what had been done to his people. He thought of them more like a rogue gasmaw, or spearmaw, or orits when they came too near the village; they were simply doing what they did, it was their nature. That did not make them any less dangerous, or make the hunting of them any less necessary.
Then there was fire and pain. Voices and screaming. One of those voices his. Clawing at his eyes, falling backwards. Pain like he had never known. A voice.
“Get the wounded back.”
He tried to struggle, even through the pain, the darkness. He was there to fight. He had to fight. He was trying to tell them that but the noise coming out of his mouth was not words, only a harsh croak.
“I will get you to a healer.”
All was pain.
“Have… to… fight.”
“You have fought.” It had been Ania, he was sure. “You have fought well, now you must fight to live.” The strange sickening sensation of passing through the taffistone and the familiar scents and heat of the Forestals’ home. Shouting. Voices but they did not matter to him. He was fading away.
He woke, feeling cool. A sheet covered him. It was dark and he was aware of pain the same way he was aware of rootlings in the forest back in New Harnwood. He heard them, knew they were there but they did not bother him.
The pain was far away.
“Ont? Are you awake?”
He did not reply, the voice was of no more concern to him than the echoes of pain.
“It is hard to tell if he is.”
“Can he hear us?”
Something made a chattering noise, animalistic but not threatening.
“If he is awake maybe, but he has had so much sperrion syrup I doubt he cares what we say.”
They were right, he did not care about anything. He was tired and moved through a dream. The noise of the world outside dissolving into a gentle, quieting hum. He felt like he had failed. Failed again but this was just another thing for him not to care about.
He woke and the pain was more insistent. The world less gentle. He could hear moaning, a low and constant sound. Someone breathing, rhythmic in the way of gentle sleep. Voices, talking among each other, keeping low as if they did not want to be heard. Ont thought he should open his eyes soon. See where he was. Somewhere in Woodhome, he was sure about that, but where in the great tree he did not know. For now he would just lie here and listen.
“We need to find Cahan.” A soft voice. Venn, he thought.
“He is lost. You must forget him,” said the other voice and Ont felt something slip away within him. Hope fading away. Cahan, lost?
“Sera,” said Venn, “I know you do not trust him, but you are wrong. And I believe he—”
“He was seen to fall into the depths. The Osere have him now and considering what you tell me of him, that is for the best.”
“Cahan is not like other people.”
“Venn…”
“In the north, there is—”
“The Boughry; I know you think they would help him but my answer has not changed. They are too dangerous. So is he.”
“But Cahan and Udinny went to—”
“And how did that work out for them, Trion? The Woodhewn Nobles have great power, and know many things, but there is always a great price for their knowledge.”
“I would pay it.” The dying hope within Ont grew a little at that. At the bravery of the trion, their lack of selfishness. Ranya had chosen well.
“Yes,” said Tall Sera, “I know you would. But Brione has told me you are important to us, and I listen to their advice so do not ask again.” Before the conversation could continue Ont heard the flap of the hut open.
“How is he?” A little brightness within at the familiar growl of Ania.
“Healing,” said Venn.
“Thanks to you, Trion.”
“And his own strength was great, and your presence should not be overlooked.”
“I am not sure he even knows I am here.” Strange, how sad she sounded.
“I believe he does. Will you sit with him today?”
“For an hour, then I must go; the forces of the north are making great advances in the south. They will send more troops to Treefall soon. We must do as much damage as we can, while we can.”
“Walk Ranya’s road, Ania, and stay safe.”
“Thank you, Trion.”
Footsteps, coming closer. A touch, someone taking his hand and they squeezed gently.
“Ah, Ont, I must be away for a few days. But I will come back.” He squeezed back. “Ont?” He tried to nod and felt almost as if he had forgotten how to use his body. “Do not try to do too much,” said Ania. “You have been hurt.”
He turned his head towards her, slow and excruciating movements. He wanted to see her but could not, it was too dark in the hut.
“Light,” he said, his tongue was very dry. The words were hard to make. “Bring some light.”
“A drink,” she said, he felt something against his lips and realised he was propped up in the bed, not lying down. The water was like nectar, and taken away far too soon. “Not too much,” she said, “it will make you sick.”
“Bring some light.”
“Ont, how much do you remember?”
How much? He did not know. It would be so much easier if it was not so dark.
“I remember loosing arrows.” Halting words, each one a struggle. “Then the Rai. I remember thinking you were in danger and… not much else.” Another squeeze of his hand. He was tired again, just from those words. “For Ranya’s sake, bring a little light. I feel I have lain in the dark for ever.”
“You killed three Rai,” said Ania. “Saved lives.”
“Stories later, please, a little light.”
“Saved my life, Ont. The Rai loosed fire at us, and you stepped in front of me. Shielded me.”
“I do not remember,” he said. A flash of fire, the brightest thing he had ever known. Pain like nothing before. Something inside him growing, a suspicion he did not want to examine.
“They thought you dead. But I did not. I dragged you back here with the other wounded.” Ont was seized by a desire for her to stop talking that was so strong, so powerful, that he could do nothing but give in to it.
“Please, no more, Ania.” He did not want to know what had happened because there could be hope without knowing.
A silence.
He felt the need to fill it. “Did we get Furin out?”
“We did.” Ont let out a breath. That was good. He needed good news. It was so dark. “She was sorely hurt, but gets better every day. Venn and the other trion here work miracles. The trunk commander woman, Dassit, and her second made it back also.”
“The other Forestal woman? The murder priest?”
“The priest helped me get you back. Then returned to help others. Something happened, he hit his head and has not woken. His body lives but Venn says whatever was within it, the mind, they think it gone. Tanhir sits over him watching. I think she guards him from death, and cannot stand the fact he may escape her justice.” A quiet, grim laugh from Ania. “He is near you, his breathing has kept us company for many nights. That and the occasional chatter of Furin’s woodling boy, Issofur. He also sits with the priest, he will not leave his side though none know why and none will move one who belongs to the Boughry.”
“How many nights?” Soft words, quiet words.
“Many.”
“Oh.” No answer. No more questions. Only one left and he was sure he knew the answer to it. The fear was still there, the desire not to know but the panic was gone, replaced with the knowledge he could not run from what was. “I am blind, Ania, am I not?”
“I am sorry.” He felt trapped, like he needed to run but there was nowhere to run to.
“Surely Venn can fix me. I have seen them do such things and…”
“They can only work with what is there, Ont.” She held his hand even tighter. “The fire took your eyes. It took so much.” He did not speak again, not straight away. He had seen those few who had survived fire, and was not sure he would ever describe them as lucky. The fire of Rai was a strange thing, wounds would reopen years later, or never heal.
“How hurt am I?”
“It is remarkable you survived.” He could barely hear her. She took his hand in both of hers, aware as she did that it did not feel right. Pain shooting through him as he moved. Blood in his mouth. His fingers, his fingers were not in the right place.
“What is left of me, Ania?”
Silence. Only the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping priest. The soft whine of what may have been a garaur or Issofur. It was not, in the end, Ania that answered though, it was the Forestal, Tanhir.
“You have lost most of your fingers to the second knuckle. Though the two first fingers on your right hand survive intact. Boots protected your feet, though the heat melted them into your skin and to get them off damage was done. But they think you will be able to walk again.”
“My face?”
“Tanhir,” said Ania, “there is no need for this now.”
“Better to rip the bandage off,” said Tanhir.
“My face?” he said again.
“Gone,” she said. “They had to cut you a new mouth. Most thought you would never speak but Venn was confident that you would.” He let that sink in, glad in that moment of his blindness and that he could not see the ruin of his body.
“I will need a mask,” he said, the words little more than an exhalation of air. “Or people will think I am a skinfetch, with no features but those I can steal off others.”
“You are more than your face, Ont,” said Ania.
“I will never loose a bow again.” That hurt, and mostly because he would no longer have time with Ania. It had been a long time since he had been anyone’s first, second or third husband. He had all but given up on the idea of romantic attachment but he had cherished his time with her. “I had enjoyed our work with the bow.”
“And you were good at it,” said Ania.
“I think,” he said softly, “I would like some time alone.”