A Touch of Knowing

Hefting a jug of water, Bethniel scanned the rows of wounded and pasted on a bright smile. Kragnashians no longer crossed the moat into camp, but they still tore through supply lines and ravaged perimeter patrols, leaving few empty cots in the hospital. Moving pallet to pallet, she filled troopers’ cups and waited until each took a few sips. Some refused, and she knelt beside them, asked about their homes, their families, their faith or lack thereof until they took some water. Few of the soldiers had mindspeech; Listening was easy, and many found it a comfort that she knew their minds without them saying a word. Some had grievous wounds and would be lucky to live beyond the night. That she hid from them.

Jug empty, she returned to the curtained corner where a hand pump dripped into a sink. The handle cold wrought iron, she marveled at the intricate scrollwork and the ease with which it drew water out of the ground.

“Have you anything like it in the East Reach, my lady?”

She started at the oily voice but fixed her lips into a pleasant curve as she turned to Nelchior. “No, sir. In my father’s house, the pipes are ceramic and the pumps enameled wood, but many of my people carry their water from wells, in buckets.”

He nodded. “So it is in the southern Kiareinoll. Murnoran supplied most of the iron and steel we have. His army includes more smiths than soldiers.”

“I believe your alliance is the first Knownearth has ever seen, sir.”

He inclined his head. “So it is.”

His gaze raked her, his lips stretching into a leer as an awkward silence lengthened. Face heating, she took a cup from the shelf and splashed water into it. “Were you thirsty, sir?”

The leer shifted into a malicious grin. “I was, thank you.” As he took the cup, his fingers grazed hers. A shock snapped between them. The cup smashed, water spraying boots and hemlines. A jolting heart pumped fire up her neck. Ducking, she picked up the porcelain shards and offered apologies.

“It’s only water,” Nelchior said, glee edging his voice as he filled a new cup for himself. “We must be more careful next time. Until then, my lady.”

The curtain fell into place behind him, and she slumped onto the floor. Her heart thudded, and worry stuffed the space behind her eyes. He knows. He’d seen her with Thabean, and now he’d touched her. Thabean had felt her Woern almost instantly, and he hadn’t been looking for them. Elesendar, Nelchior knew!

* * *

“Ow!” Vic yelped as Prenlin’s fingers probed her ankle.

The healer grunted and began wrapping fresh linen around the splint. “It would heal faster if you would stay off it.”

“I do.” A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she had a sensation of floating, her feet kicking for purchase as dark cold water swirled around her. The sensation had hit her from time to time over the past month. More than mere wooziness, it felt peculiarly specific and, for some reason, reminded her of Wineyll.

“Are you all right?” Prenlin asked, sharp eyes roving over Vic’s face.

Vic waved the feeling away. “Fine. Just a spot of dizziness. As for the ankle, I can’t lie in bed all day. I have duties.”

“Do your duty as you must, madam, but do not stand on this foot.” Prenlin pressed a tube to Vic’s belly, the other end to her ear. “The babe’s heart is strong. How do you feel?”

Her lips curled around a soft chuckle. “Good. Actually, good. My head hasn’t hurt in weeks, and I can hardly remember what nausea feels like. The brooding sickness—or Woernsickness, either one—they’re gone.”

The healer smiled, a rare sight. “I always felt my best in the middle of a brooding term. You’ll tire more easily, though, and your appetite will increase. Feed yourself with whatever you wish, but make sure to eat red meat when you can. Horseflesh is best, if you can get it.”

“I think I’ll have to settle for goat.” Whatever horses they had in camp were for hauling, not feeding rogue pregnant wizards.

“Perhaps so. Good day, madam.” Prenlin stalled her exit as Bethniel swept inside. “Did you finish your tasks already?”

“Yes—I got permission from one of the other Healers to leave early. We’re burying Dealn today.”

“Of course. My condolences, my lady. Madam.” With a nod, the Healer left.

Vic hopped out of bed and shrugged into the robe Beth had laid out for her. “I suppose it’s time to get ready.” She blinked at the princess’s stained hospital smock. “You’re not wearing that, are you?”

Bethniel glanced down. “Oh! Oh, no. No.” She ducked behind the privacy screen; water splashed into the basin and dribbled on the floor while Vic threaded her robe’s sashes through its slits. “My hair’s a mess,” the princess said, emerging in one of the formal gowns she kept in Vic’s tent.

Vic picked at the silken snarls knotted across her waist. “If you can fix this, I’ll take care of your hair.”

A smile ghosted over Beth’s face as she knelt and tugged the sashes loose. While Vic tucked curls into place, the princess relaced the robe and gnawed pensively on her lip. “This is getting tight—we need to ask the tailors to add a panel.”

“What’s wrong, Beth?”

Her foster sister laid a palm flat on the finished weave, her eyes glistening. “Do you mind?”

Vic covered her hand. “Of course not . . . wait . . .” She shut her eyes and imagined the baby in her womb, reached out and gave him a gentle nudge. The babe awakened and jabbed a foot at Beth’s palm.

“Was that her—or him?”

“Him,” Vic said. Warmth flushed over her skin as she imagined Ashel’s dark eyes shimmering while he held his son, and she grinned at the Woern-borne certainty that it was a son.

Tears spilled down Beth’s cheeks.

“What is wrong?”

“I think Nelchior knows about me. He saw me helping Thabean recover. He knows you’re the only wizard who didn’t take ill when you were all making the moat. And in the hospital just now, he contrived a way to . . . to touch me, and a spark passed between us. I think he felt the Woern.”

“Touch you? How?”

“Just a brush of the fingers as I handed him something.”

“Why were you talking to him?”

“He spoke to me—just some trivial observation about Munoran’s iron. It’s not as if I can ignore him—here, the wizards are the nobility, Vic.” Her breath caught round a sob. “And Thabean said . . .” Shivering, she cleared her throat. “When I think about how Woern can pass from someone like me to a wizard, and what Thabean said about how the wizards of old would hold latents captive—Elesendar, I think about what you went through with Lornk Korng and—”

Vic pulled Bethniel around to face her. “Nelchior will not harm you. I will kill him before he does.”

“He could tell the Council.”

“Saelbeneth will keep him under control because she’d have to explain to the others why she kept your secret. But if it gets out, we’ll leave.”

“And go where? What about history—we can’t go home unless we can get to the master Device in Meylnara’s keep.”

“I know, but I will not let them harm you.” I hope you protect my sister better than you protected my father. Ashel had said that, the day after they’d all watched Sashal’s life drain from his throat.

The crowd roars. She issues orders. The Dagger pelts off the stage into the audience, searching for a faceless assassin. Silk sifts against her skin as she steps toward the prince, but his suffering halts her advance, and she stands paralyzed while Elekia wraps her arms round his head and mother and son weep together, the man who was husband, father, and king held tight between them. Vic’s head is stuffed with helpless, hapless awareness that she can do nothing to remedy the pain of this family she has come to love as dearly as her own. Suffused with rage and impotence, she stands apart as Ashel mourns.

Groaning, Vic sank onto the bed, the heels of her hands pressed into her eyes. Water splattered, and a moment later a damp cloth cooled her forehead. Beth bared her knife.

“No.” Vic pushed the blade back into its sheath. “It’s not the Woern—just a bad memory. One of my failures.”

The lines eased out of Bethniel’s forehead. “My sister never fails—that’s why she’s called Victory.”

“I wish that were true. Ashel’s fingers, your father, Wineyll, you being stuck here with me . . .”

“None of those were your fault.”

“They feel like it.” Her throat tightened. “Three hundred and thirty-seven, Beth. The dead at Olmlablaire—those are all mine.”

Bethniel’s arms sprang tight around her. “I love you, sister.”

Vic returned the embrace, her face pressed into Beth’s curls, her mind reaching across time to Ashel, wishing she could comfort him, relieve him of the worry he must be feeling. She couldn’t image how she’d bear the impotence of being able to do absolutely nothing to save him, if their places were reversed. The only hope for all of them was for her to kill Meylnara and figure out how to use the Device to return to their own time.