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“You’re not concentrating.”
True enough. Quinn had passed a restless night and wasn’t in any condition or mood to study the intricate diagrams spread out over Arwen’s workbench. She started over, tracing the pattern, considering the implications of each step.
Plotting the weave to screen the power cell was Scribes’ work, with Dorcas, Ezra, and Tai adding their expertise. Weavers from other guilds might contribute energy to the binding, but wouldn’t grasp the intricacies of the completed template. The success of the test on the stone, before the catastrophe that cost Willow so dearly, had convinced them it was possible. But this time the safeguards for the eight Weavers to create and seal the weave had to be foolproof. Nobody would come to harm again.
Nor would they trek to Stanstead. The binding would be executed here in the valley, but far from the Motherhouse complex. The call for volunteers had been posted that morning.
“I’m sorry, Arwen, I can’t focus.” Quinn tossed down the quill pen she used to keep her place in the diagram. “It looks stable, but...” She shrugged.
“I want this finished. The cell’s secure, by which I mean nobody like Kiril will find it. But if, for instance, Gauvain decided to try, the wards aren’t sufficient to fend him off.” Arwen’s voice reflected more determination than confidence.
Quinn smacked the paper in front of her. “I’ll fetch caff. Hopefully it will wake me up.”
As she walked next door to the dining hall, she ruminated on the forced change in her view of Bryar. Faced with incontrovertible facts, she grudgingly acknowledged that the Bryar she’d carried in her mind no longer existed. Although he still bore traces of the boy she grew up with, he had developed into a complicated, conflicted adult, with a man’s concerns and needs.
Needs she didn’t fulfill.
Theirs had never been a romantic attachment, but losing the connection they’d shared since childhood wounded her. The lonely sense of being unnecessary refused to go away.
Back at the workroom, she found the weaving diagrams rolled and tossed against the wall behind Arwen’s chair, and Bryar himself, perched on a stool looking rested and alert. He stopped mid-sentence and shot a wry smile her way. “Reporting for duty.”
She retrieved a third caff mug from the supply Arwen kept in a cupboard – the result of forgetting to return them, she suspected – and poured while Bryar picked up their interrupted conversation.
“He consulted a herbalist in Orlan. By all that lives and breathes, I’ve never seen anything like it. A monster in the flesh.”
“What are you talking about?” Quinn demanded. “Monsters?”
At Arwen’s nod, Bryar briefly recapped a tale of a giant lizard attacking Kiril in the hills.
“Did it harm you as well?” Arwen asked.
“I got a few scratches.”
“And they healed properly?”
“Yes, but it sank its teeth into Kiril. That’s what worried me, the saliva. What was that thing? Neither of us was prepared.”
“I’m not sure.” Arwen leaned back, cradling her caff mug. “This is merely conjecture.” She paused.
A room of secrets. Quinn glanced at Bryar as he nodded his understanding, his eyes fixed on Arwen.
“All right. The spells were woven into the hills long ago, well before my day or even Ezra’s. Given how the civilization of Borgonne evolved, we have reason to be grateful. Weavers have always been able to cross, although few knew it. But no one else. Kiril found that out, to his dismay, when he tried to abscond with the cell.”
Bryar chuckled. Quinn’s head jerked up; he hadn’t made any sounds that could be interpreted as happy in a long time.
“Here’s one possibility. The spell viewed the two of you as interlopers. With your protective weave, Bryar, you probably confused the energies in the hills, a Weaver and yet not a Weaver. The spell let you go through, but with your Weaver status masked, it might have attacked you as easily. As it happened, it found Kiril first.”
Bryar nodded. “Suppose the hills had blocked me?”
She shot him an exasperated look. “We’d arranged backup.”
Naturally. Arwen left nothing to chance.
“But why only a single attack?” Bryar asked. “Why didn’t another lizard attack us, or some other fantastical beast?”
“As to that,” Arwen said, “I wonder if the spell on the hills itself is degrading, much like Ezra’s weave. Or like certain Healers’ workings, which also decay and require renewal to maintain their potency. Or perhaps it was pure luck.”
“You said Kiril’s wound itched. Like a healing itch, just before a scab falls off?” Quinn shifted on her stool and sipped the rapidly cooling caff before continuing. “Is it possible the animal infected him?”
“I want Dal to check out both of you,” Arwen told Bryar. “You and Kiril. You were wrong not to tell him about the attack.” At Bryar’s silence she added, “I understand, circumstances dictated otherwise. But see to it now. You’re getting the stitches out anyway, aren’t you? My sources say Kiril’s still here, so take him along. It may or may not be important, but we mustn’t risk leaving it to chance. By the way, is the protective weave completely gone?”
“Almost. A few remnants. I’ll be happy to be rid of them.”
“If Dal can’t do it, check with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bryar stood. “Is there anything else?”
Arwen sighed. “A great deal, but this comes first. There’ll be time later for a proper debriefing. And Quinn has work to do, if she chooses to wake up this morning.”
Bryar grinned, hauled Quinn to her feet, and wrapped her in a bear hug. “You damn near saved my life in the hills,” he said quietly. When she was silent, he murmured, “You’re a part of me, Quinn. Always will be.” Then he released her and was gone.
Arwen retrieved the diagrams and spread them out. “As I predicted,” she said, “that girl is his salvation. I never expected him to appear this stable so soon, though I fear the worst is yet to come.”
Quinn stared at the closed door, shaken and determined not to show it. She tightened the screens defending her mind, hoping to avoid one of Arwen’s inquisitions. “Let’s see the diagrams.” She set the caff mug on the tray and readied herself to work.
~~
AS THE SUN PUSHED TOWARD its zenith, Bryar perched on a stool in the small consultation room, recounting the tale of the lizard’s attack. Dal listened, arms folded over his chest, simmering with annoyance. Kiril, lounging against a wall, occasionally threw in a comment.
“And you didn’t think you should mention this?” Dal threw at him when he finished. “Even domestic animals can leave hidden infections. To entrust your health to a village healer was folly. You may not have known that.” Dal pointed to Kiril before turning to Bryar. “But you assuredly did. Let me see.”
Since it delayed offering his maimed fingers to Dal’s attention, Bryar hauled his tunic over his head willingly enough. Kiril pushed up his sleeves.
“All of them.”
At Dal’s glare, Kiril sighed, but stripped off his garment. Despite the underlay of muscle, he was too thin. But then Kiril had always been slender.
After giving Bryar a cursory once-over, Dal waved him away and signaled for Kiril to replace him on the stool. He studied the marks of old bruises and scrapes peppering Kiril’s skin, then rested the wounded arm on a small stand. The attack had been vicious, and although the skin had mended, the site of the lizard’s bite still appeared red and inflamed. Not gently, Dal prodded it. Kiril’s body tensed. Bryar picked up on the other man’s unease when Dal placed a hand on the scars and grew still.
“Is this one of your famous Healings?” Kiril’s voice conveyed a little less cockiness than usual.
Bryar shook his head. He spoke quietly. “No, not a Healing. He’s probing the wound under the skin.” He reflected that Dal had in fact earned Kiril’s trust a long time ago, taking on the treatment of his broken leg and burns following the crash that marooned him here and coincidentally delivered the nightmare of the power cell into their land.
Both men watched and waited.
Dal opened his eyes and crossed the room to the supply cabinet, where he retrieved a short knife and a basin. He busied himself with a rag and alcohol, cleaning the blade. “This won’t hurt too much. Not as much as the original, anyway.”
“There’s something in there?” Kiril’s voice was factual, but a tinge of panic had crossed his face, so quickly suppressed Bryar would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking for it.
“Infection. Minor, I hope, but if it isn’t tended to, you risk it becoming systemic. You don’t want that. Take a breath.” With one hand holding Kiril’s arm against the table, Dal sliced into the site of the punctures. Blood flowed from the gash, and a greenish ooze that emitted a faint, putrid odor. Kiril stared at the wound. Frowning, Dal caught the fluids in the basin. “I’ll do tests on this. We’ll let it bleed for a minute to clean it out.” He placed the knife in a mug of alcohol and pulled more supplies from the cabinet. Then he pressed on Kiril’s arm in a way that brought the bleeding to a stop and applied a few drops from a vial to the open wound. Kiril winced. As Dal set two stitches to close the incision, Bryar noted that he had paled. So, Kiril had a weak spot. He feared illness, didn’t like blood or needles. Bryar supposed he had been too traumatized himself to notice, in the hills.
Dal deftly wrapped a bandage around Kiril’s arm. “Come back daily until we clear you. I won’t always be here, but someone will. Anything else?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Kiril stood. “Meet you for lunch?” he asked Bryar.
Bryar almost declined. Then he suffered a twinge of guilt. He owed the guy. “Sure.”
Kiril gone, Dal turned to him. His scratches merited only a cursory survey. “I’m not worried, but get to the healing rooms if you experience redness, severe itching, or even just a sense something’s not right. Now your fingers.”
Tai had bandaged them, at his insistence. “So you won’t have to see them,” he’d told her.
“So they’ll stay clean until Dal gives the okay,” she’d contradicted, and kissed the bandages. She never cringed.
Dal untied the neat wrapping and studied each finger, probing for sensitivity or any hint of infection. “Are you getting any phantom pain or other feeling?”
“The other day. I felt it... as if my finger was there, and it itched. I was desperate to scratch, and I couldn’t.”
“We’ll hope that will die out. Nerves take time to heal. Talk to me or another Healer if you need a weave to screen it. After I remove the stitches, I’ll want half an hour for a depth Healing. Fortunately, the cuts were clean, and the repair work could have been more skilled, but it’s not bad. Hold on. This may be uncomfortable.”
Dal snipped and pulled at threads, and Bryar tried not to look at the ruins of his fingers. He had always taken care of them, maintaining their strength and limberness so they danced over the strings of the chitarre, the holes of a flute, on command. They gave pleasure or formed fists. And now they were gone.
Gone. His mind still refused to accept the stark reality.
“So, you and Tai,” Dal said as he worked.
“What about us?”
“Nothing. Tai’s a fascinating person. When she first came here, it took me a while to sort out if she was a boy.”
“Yeah.” Bryar wasn’t ready to discuss Tai.
Dal looked up. “Talk to her. It’ll be easier than talking to anyone else, I suspect. Has Arwen given you a grilling yet?”
Bryar scoffed. “No, just the surface. She’s more concerned with securing the cell.”
“You’re not to volunteer for the circle. I trust you understand that.” Dal made a final snip, tugged gently to free the thread, and straightened.
Bryar frowned. He hadn’t planned to put himself forward, but he couldn’t turn away now. He wanted to be present for the denouement.
Dal gripped his right biceps and shook. “It’s for medical reasons. We don’t know what happened to Ezra’s shield. You say there are still traces, so I conclude there may be long-term effects. You’d put yourself and the others in the circle in jeopardy.”
“Surely they’ll let me be there, at least.”
“I expect so. Speak to Arwen. Now, come with me.” Dal lead him to a cot in one of the healing rooms. “Lie down, relax. Your body has suffered far too much trauma. While I’m at it, perhaps I can remove the remains of Ezra’s weave.”
“Dal...”
“Hmm?” Dal’s back was turned as he readied himself for the Healing, working herbs into his palms.
Bryar glanced around to be sure they were alone. “Are you going to...” He took a breath. “I’m kind of messed up... I mean, after the fight and-”
“Killing a worthless individual?” Dal smiled grimly at Bryar’s obvious shock. “I don’t believe Kiril’s version, either, but it shows a positive quality in him he keeps well hidden. And remember, the Mage would have killed you. We’ll need a few sessions to free you, but yes, I’ll start now.”
Bryar allowed his limbs to go slack as he wondered if Dal knew how little sleep he’d had the night before, or why. The memory of Tai hovered over the lingering image of the quivering knife, there in Gauvain’s study. Dal lightly brushed his left hand, and he gave himself over to the healing energy seeping into him.
He woke up to find Tai nudging his shoulder, telling him that Kiril was waiting to join them for lunch.
Stepping into the sunlight, he felt more clear-headed than he had since the application of Ezra’s weave. Tai walked close beside him. The bandages were gone, leaving the stumps visible for all to see.
And that reminded him to track down Mari and tell her about his hand. Her less than perfect father – but Mari wouldn’t care, any more than Tai or Quinn or Willow. They formed his true clan, with or without fingers.