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I DON’T NEED TO GO far to find people who require aid. There are so many, I fear my meagre supply of medicines and ointments will be used up before I can help half of them.
I focus on one patient at a time. I can’t think of the total number, just as I cannot allow my mind to dwell on their injuries—the bones shattered by fallen timbers, the eyes scratched by cinders, the gashes from glass blown from windows, the burns ... Oh, my God, the burns.
No, Varna. It is not about your horror or repulsion. It’s not about the nausea rolling up your throat, or the smoke burning your eyes and clogging your nose. It is not about the sharp bits of debris that tear at your clothes and etch your arms with scratches. It’s about the people who live here, who are buried in the rubble, who slump like discarded bags of grain against the walls of what used to be their homes.
It is not about you. Only what you can do.
I do whatever I can. Sometimes that’s providing a potion for pain, or splinting a limb, or cleaning and bandaging a wound. Sometimes it is simply holding the hand of someone so close to death their breath is the merest wisp of air.
When I find a covered well, I cry tears of joy. I unseal jugs I dug from the rubble of the tavern and pour the contents out of most of them so I can refill them with water, saving a few jugs of liquor to clean wounds or dim the pain of the wounded.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here. Time is suspended like the embers still dancing through the air. Smoke turns day to night—it could be noon, or twilight. It does not matter. This is not a normal day, marked by clocks or the sun. This is an endless day in hell, searching for the damned, offering them aid.
Many cannot be helped. They are already gone—killed in the first blast of flame. I step over bodies, closing my mind to any thought of who they were. Soon they will be mourned. For now, I must think only of the living.
Sounds dim and voices fade away. I curse, knowing I can’t work fast enough to help them all. After more time passes, the only noise is the crash of falling timbers and clatter of collapsing stone. Then I hear it—one more voice. Hoarse as a crow, but insistent. Fighting to survive.
It comes from a building whose walls still stand, although the roof has given away. Crawling over half-burnt timbers and wooden chairs that disintegrate at my touch, I batt at charred paper swirling around my head like moths. So much paper— this must have been a library. It does not matter. I can’t stop to examine anything. I must follow the anguished cries of someone trapped in this wreck of a room.
My boot catches in a pile of fallen beams. I tug, yanking my foot free. No matter. I will come back for the boot later.
Heat sears the sole of my foot as I step onto a metal grate that holds the memory of flames. Pain shoots up my leg, but I move forward. The cries grow louder. I am close.
I stumble over a broken ceiling beam, now lying on the floor.
Lying across the legs of a woman.
I kneel beside her and take her hand. My heart’s squeezed as if someone has grabbed it in their fist. I cannot move that beam. I can’t free her.
The woman’s face is covered in ash, lending her the appearance of a wraith. Shining through the ghostly mask, her light brown eyes burn with pain.
She manages a weak smile. “Are you my angel?”
“No, but I’m here to help you, any way I can.”
A blistered burn encircles her neck, and I realize her necklace must have melted into her flesh. I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I prayed for an angel.” Her voice is as ghostly as her face. “For an angel to come and carry me to heaven.”
“Well, I’m no angel, and I’m not here to escort you to the afterlife. I am here to save you.” I dig through my rucksack for burn ointment and the last bottle of Sten Rask’s mysterious potion.
The woman halts my rummaging by laying her hand over mine.
“Do not waste your time, or your supplies. There’s no use, you see.” She pulls my hand closer and presses it into the folds of material rumpled about her waist. “Everything is broken. Everything inside is broken.”
Warmth seeps through my splayed fingers as blood oozes all around my hand. I pull it back to my side, my eyes still focused on the liquid pooling in the folds of material. Where her lower ribs should be there’s only a strange indentation, filled with a mangle of fabric, blood, and bone.
“It really is an angel I need now,” the woman says. “Unless you are a sorcerer, or have such powers, you cannot help me, try as you might.”
I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath.
“If you will sit with me ... ”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”
I slide next to her, careful not the jostle her shattered body, and pull a piece of bandage and my water flask from my rucksack. Finding the special potion bottle, I give her drops of the liquid, alternating with sips of water. When she ceases trembling, I dampen the bandage and wipe the ash from her face.
“Feels good.” She drops her head upon my shoulder.
We sit like that for some time. I tell her stories—funny tales I remember from childhood, then Gerda’s story of a sojourn in the snow, complete with sorcerers, an enchanted mirror, and a talking reindeer.
The woman mutters something.
I lean in close to hear her.
“A tear. She saved the Snow Queen with a tear?”
“Yes,” I say, wishing my own tears held such power. But all they do is blur my vision.
Which is why I don’t see him at first, standing at the door to this roofless room.
Erik steps forward with great deliberation. “Come out now, Varna.”
I shake my head. “I must stay. She asked me to sit with her. I can’t do anything else, you see, except sit with her.”
Erik moves a little closer. “You have done enough. More than enough. For her, for all of them. Your friend is already gone. Now you need to come with me.”
I glance down at the woman by my side. She is dead. I have seen enough death to know.
“I just want to sit here a little while longer.”
“No, Varna. This building is not sound. It could collapse any minute. Stand up, grab your bag, and walk toward me.” Erik holds out his hand.
I lean over and kiss the woman’s forehead and close her eyes. Sliding away from her limp body, I crawl to a spot where one post still stands, broken at waist-height. It’s just tall enough for me to pull myself to my feet.
As soon as my burnt foot hits the ground, I cry out and stumble, falling forward on my hands and knees.
Fingers reach under my armpits, and strong hands lift me, then swing me up to cradle me in well-muscled arms. Erik has come to find me. To rescue me. I bury my face in his shirt, which smells of smoke and sweat.
“What have you done, Varna?” He clutches me tighter as he picks his way through the rubble. “Your foot is burnt so badly. Where is your boot?”
“Lost,” I mumble into the folds of his shirt. A breeze stirs my tangled hair “Where are you taking me?”
He doesn’t break his stride. “Somewhere safe.”
“There might be more people. I need to help them.” My voice sounds odd, like sandpaper rasping over wood.
“You have helped already. More than enough. More than anyone should ever be asked to help.” Erik adjusts his arms so I can rest my head on his shoulder.
“Never enough. It is never enough.”
“It will have to do,” he replies. “Now, just so you know, we are not going back to the camp. I’ve already sent the others away. I told them I would come back for you. Your sister and Thyra argued with me, of course.”
Safe in his arms, I allow myself a little chuckle.
“Yes, you can laugh, although it was not funny at the time.”
Erik carries me for some time. I drift in and out of consciousness, until a thought flashes through my mind. He said he told the others. “Where are they? The others?”
“They are safe. We’ll meet up with them tomorrow. I told them to wait for us.”
“You were so sure you would find me?”
“Not sure, simply determined to take the village apart, stone by crumbled stone, if necessary. Fortunately,” he adds, “there were people who told me you were alive. Told me all about you, as a matter of fact—what you did, what they thought of you.”
“Hope it wasn’t too bad.” We pause before the doorway to what looks like a shepherd’s hut. My injured foot, swinging, brushes the door frame and a squeak escapes my parched lips.
“Sorry.” Erik ducks his head to enter. “No, it was not bad. It was ... illuminating.”
The hut is a round structure, like a squat stone tower. There are no windows, but one section of the thatched roof has been left unfinished, creating an opening. Erik must have carried me some distance from the village, because there’s no smoke blurring the dark sky. It’s night again, which means an entire day passed amid that devastation.
Erik deposits me on a pile of quilts covering a narrow cot, careful to prop up my foot with an extra blanket. “Do you have anything in your supplies we can use?” He removes my remaining boot.
“Yes, bring me the bag. There’s some ointment I can rub into the burn.”
“That I can, you mean.” Erik hands me my rucksack and waits while I locate the ointment.
I struggle to sit up. “I can manage.”
Erik pushes me back. “Lie still. I may not be a healer, but I can handle this. First, a little wash up wouldn’t hurt.” He pulls his water flask and a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket. Soaking the cloth, he kneels at the bottom of the bed and wipes the dirt from my foot.
“Does hurt,” I say, between gritted teeth.
“Do you need something to bite down on?” He rubs the burn ointment into my damaged flesh.
“Your hand?”
Erik’s laugh is only a low rumble, but I hear it, all the same.
“Done.” He sits back on his heels. “Now, what about the pain? Do you have something for that in your bag?”
“There’s nothing left.”
“Pity.” Eris stands and dusts off his breeches. He digs around in my bag, finds another clean bit of bandage, and pours some water over it.
“What’s that for?” I push myself up on my elbows.
“I thought you might feel better with some of that grime removed.” He sits on the edge of the cot and pushes me down again. “Relax.”
I frown, but close my eyes and allow him to scrub the ash and sweat from my face. It does feel better.
As he wipes my neck, I open my eyes and look up into his face.
Odd. He studies you with such intensity, Varna. Like he’s trying to figure something out—uncover some secret that eludes him.
“I must look rough. It feels like every inch of my skin is covered in scratches.”
He smooths my hair away from my face, tucking several tangled strands behind my ears.
“I need a comb. Do you have one of those stashed in that bottomless sack as well?”
“I do, but draw the line at you combing my hair.”
“Why?” Erik sits back, balling up the dirty cloth and tossing it onto the dirt floor.
“It seems a little outside your experience.”
“Nonsense. I have two younger sisters. I’ve combed and brushed their hair plenty of times.” He turns so I can’t read his face. “My mother, you see, was always busy with the store.”
“It’s in the side pocket.”
Erik brandishes the pewter comb. “Here, let me help you sit up for a minute.” He settles onto the bed behind my back, allowing me to lean against his right side. Using his left hand, he carefully pulls the comb through my hair, working out the tangles.
“Bravo. Not a single hard tug,” I say, when he finishes and drops the comb back into my rucksack.
“I have hidden talents.”
“Apparently.” I run my fingers through my smooth hair.
He hands his water flask to me. “You need something to clear the smoke from your throat.”
I take a long swallow before speaking again. “So it was Rask, no question about it. But he does not have the mirror, just his scepter.”
“No, he has both, or so I hear.” Erik pockets the flask, then slides to the edge of the cot to allow me to lie down again. “I met a barkeep who’s had dealings with the Usurper’s troops. He occasionally sold them some brandy.”
“Anything for some coin.” I stare up at the opening in the roof. The moon is almost full. Only a sliver of darkness shadows one edge of the pale disc.
“Money is money and people have to survive. Anyway, he said the emperor does not have the mirror yet. Apparently Rask has hidden it at some old castle not far from here. It’s located somewhere on the other side of the hills, closer to the sea.”
“So just the scepter caused these latest fires?” I shiver. If Sten Rask can use the scepter to create such devastation, what can he do with the mirror?
“Not exactly. The soldiers bragged to the barkeep, claiming the emperor’s sorcerer used the mirror to infuse more power into some magical staff. I assume they meant the scepter. They said everyone would soon see how useless it was to fight against their forces.”
“What do you think?”
“About what?” Erik stares down at me.
“Do you believe our country can stand against the Usurper, especially now? With Rask in control of the mirror, and this demonstration of its terrible power ... ”
“I don’t know if we can, but we must try.” Erik presses his hand against my cheek. “You should get some sleep. You have pushed your body beyond all limits today.”
He stares at me in the strangest way.
“You as well. Look how your fingers shake.”
Erik jerks back his hand as if he’s touched fire. He jumps to his feet and crosses to a stool on the other side of the room. “I will keep watch.” He pulls his coat tight and buttons it.
“No, you were awake most of last night. You can’t continue to do this, Erik. You will ruin your health.”
“Says the girl who crawled around a burnt-out village to save a few lost souls.”
I glance over at him. He is perched on the stool like a bear balancing on a rock far too small for its bulk. “So, what do we do now?”
“If we can locate the mirror, and destroy it somehow, we have a chance. We need to track down Rask at this castle of his and send a message to Sephia, as we discussed. We must stick to the plan and hope for the best.”
I can’t see his face clearly in the dim light, but his voice sounds oddly hoarse. “You look so uncomfortable. Lie down with me if you want. I mean, we are friends, and you can’t sit on that stool all night.”
Erik mutters some obscenity, then clears his throat. “No, I think I am better off here.”
“Suit yourself. I just wanted to offer.” I look away.
My foot throbs. I focus on other things to dull the pain, but it’s the dying woman’s words that haunt my thoughts. Unless you are a sorcerer, or have such powers.
It was power Rask promised me. Not just beauty, but power. The kind of power capable of confronting, perhaps even defeating, the evil I have seen today.
I glance at Erik again. His head has dropped to his chest. He must be exhausted after keeping watch last night, enduring the trauma of the fire, and searching for me amid the rubble.
Searching for me, and finding me, and carrying me to safety.
I stare at that red-gold head, now turned to gray by dust and the shadows.
He is a difficult young man, always trying to take control. Obstinate. Always arguing.
Brave. Loyal. Willing to sacrifice his life for others.
Stubborn, brash, and quick to anger. Someone who speaks the truth, even when it is not kind.
A boy who stares into pieces of wood and gives life to the amazing objects he sees there. Who loves beauty more than anything. Who combs his little sisters’ hair.
I turn my head and stare up at the cold, uncaring moon.
A rush of emotion swamps my heart. It is love, I admit, although not the kind I’ve always expected. Love for the person he is, for a dear friend.
But not a love that includes desire. I sink back against the hard mattress, wondering why I do not feel more for Erik than friendship. Is my heart so shriveled I cannot feel romantic love, not even for a young man so worthy?
Yet I am grateful, in a way, that I do not. Because I know Erik worships beauty, and I am not beautiful. I cannot be what he desires, either.
I can protect him, though, as well as my sister and our other friends. I can prevent them from walking into danger.
They don’t have to go after a treacherous sorcerer, Varna. You know who can find Rask. Only send a thought. Call to him with your mind, tell him you are coming, and he will guide you to his castle.
More people need not die. Perhaps if you fulfill your promise, you can reason with Rask and convince him to stop using the mirror as a weapon. And if that doesn’t work, you can still do good. You know he keeps it near him. Go to him and find it there. You can destroy the mirror, even if it requires sacrificing one more life.
Only one more. Only yours.
