The Gray Wolf Throne (16 page)

Clanwork, they must be, since they were magical.

“where did you get this?” he murmured. Gritting his teeth against the heat, Han tugged at the ring, finally managing to wrench it off her finger. “Sorry,” he said. Carefully, he tucked it into his purse next to Byrne’s. “i’ll give it back, i promise,” he said.

once again, he pressed his fingers against the wound, sending power in, a diagnostic he’d learned in Master Leontus’s healing class. There was an unnatural cold all around the shaft, and it was spreading. it was too soon for it to be infection. infection was hot anyway, right?

poison. Likely a clan brew. They were widely available from clan traders and in the markets.

Han swore, feeling cheated—like all his hard work had been for nothing.

it was well that rebecca had bled some, or she’d be dead already. if Merkle and his cronies had known she was wounded, they could have ridden away and left her to die without a worry.

Han knew one thing—there was nothing he could do for her here. He might be gifted, but he was no healer. He had to get her into more capable hands, and quickly. And that meant 130

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Marisa pines. He had to hope that willo was there. if she wasn’t, rebecca would die.

Likely, she’d die anyway.

Fetching an old woolen shirt from his saddlebag, he dropped it over her head, without bothering to put her arms into the sleeves. it was huge on her, reaching to her knees, but it would keep her warm, at least.

He thought of constructing a litter, but knew that would take too much time. They’d have to ride double. The trip would be hard on her, perhaps fatal, but he had no choice. The bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed it down.

He would not lose her. He refused. He prayed to the Maker.

Just let something work out for once. Let me save someone before this war
begins.

it occurred to him that maybe his prayers were like curses—

they simply drew the attention of vengeful gods.

Despite the urgency he felt, he took the time to put rebecca’s horse and one of the assassins’ mounts onto a lead line. The horses were clues—evidence of the crime that had been committed. He pushed away the thought that rebecca wouldn’t be able to tell what had happened because she’d be dead.

it was just as well rebecca was lightweight, or he wouldn’t have been able to mount ragger with her slung over his shoulder.

once seated, he managed to turn her so she sat astride, leaning back against him, head tucked under his chin, one of his arms curled about her body to keep her from sliding from the saddle.

The bow was in its boot at his knee, but it would do him no good riding double as they were. He’d be nearly helpless if they came under attack. He touched his amulet, reassuring himself.

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He hoped the heat of his body would help. Hoped willo was at Marisa pines and not visiting one of the other camps. Hoped they wouldn’t meet any more assassins along the way.

Hoped he would not have to hold rebecca Morley as she died.

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C H A p T e r T e n

The Price

of Healing

By now it was completely dark. The birds had quit their evensong and it would be hours before the moon rose behind a layer of cloud. it was unnaturally quiet, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting to see how it would all come out. The only sound was the crunch of ragger’s hooves on snow.

Han wanted to slam his heels into ragger’s sides and propel him into a gallop that would take him to Marisa pines Camp in a hurry.

There was such a tiny chance of success, all the odds stacked against them. if they went too slowly, rebecca would die. if they went too fast, and ragger broke a leg, rebecca would die. if they ran into more assassins, rebecca would die.

rebecca lay mostly quiet in his arms, moaning now and then when he jostled her, otherwise exhibiting no signs of awareness.

He sensed she was moving farther and farther away from him, 133

T H e G r Ay wo L F T H ro n e

retreating from the poison into some interior sanctuary from which she might not return.

Han struggled to remember Master Leontus’s lectures on healing, the recitations he’d drowsed through. i’ll never have need of that, Han had thought. i’m being trained to kill people, not heal them. He’d thought everyone he’d ever want to heal was already dead.

He’d been wrong.

Han concentrated. Bits and pieces came back to him. Leontus marching up and down the classroom, Adam’s apple bobbing wildly as he attempted to convince his skeptical audience of students to consider healing as a vocation.

Gifted healers work by taking on the il nesses and injuries of their
patients. This involves considerable pain, suf ering, and expenditure of power.

Healers search out discordance in the bodies of their clients. They create order out of chaos, protecting body and spirit from toxins.

It’s important that healers set boundaries during the healing process.

You are of no help to your patient if you yourself succumb.

Healers are teachers as wel as therapists. They teach their clients to
fight back.

Healers are braver than the most valorous warrior, because they make
themselves vulnerable. They open channels between them and those they
treat.

Leontus was a wire-haired zealot preaching to the unconverted, and students made fun of him each time he turned his back.

Han recalled only remnants of charms—both to help the patient and protect the healer. He spoke them aloud, hoping he could recapture them that way.

rebecca stiffened against him, then trembled as a seizure rolled 134

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through her body. once again, Han pressed his fingers against the wound, sending power in. The area around the wound had gone icy.

The poison was doing its work. Han knew she would not make it to Marisa pines.

ragger lurched forward, responding to the sudden grip of Han’s knees. Making soothing noises at the gelding, Han opened his coat, opened his shirt, ignoring the rapidly dropping temperature. Lifting rebecca’s shirt, he pulled her body tight against his bare chest, wrapping his coat around her to hold the heat in.

Gripping his amulet, he whispered the opening charm for healing. Then tentatively reached out for her with his mind.

That much, he remembered—how to get hold of the thoughts of others for a purpose.

He’d halfheartedly participated in the exercises in class. They’d paired off, and . . .

The channel opened, and he was through. She was cold, so cold, the poisoned wound like an open window that drew the heat and life of her body away.

Healers nudged the patient, convincing them to fight back.

Shivering, he burrowed deeper, cautiously making his way toward the spark of life that smoldered at her center.

Come on, Rebecca. Fight back. Don’t go down on the bricks for them.

Stick with me. Don’t give in. Don’t let them win.

it was as if he’d wandered into a cold cave without a map, bumping into memories and emotions in the dark. images slid through his mind, from a different life—much of which made no sense to him. A vast expanse of water—an ocean he’d never seen.

A pair of red dancing shoes. opulent palace interiors. An emerald 135

T H e G r Ay wo L F T H ro n e

necklace in the shape of a serpent. A view of Fellsmarch at night through a wall of glass, the wizard lamps pricking out the streets below.

And people: Amon Byrne in a fancy dress uniform, standing at rigid attention in an entryway. Averill Lightfoot Demonai, his face softened by an affection meant for someone else.

Lord Demonai? Rebecca knows Lord Demonai?

Wel , she is of clan blood.

An elegant blond-haired lady cradling a newborn baby, singing a lullaby in a high, clear voice. Micah Bayar, clad in black and white, extending his hands, the black eyes glittering with lust and triumph.

no. Han turned away from that one to see himself, in the upstairs room at the Turtle, holding the music box he’d given rebecca. And now, there he was, very close, leaning down for a kiss, his eyes blue flecked with gold. it was a peculiar inside-out feeling to experience this from the other side.

Han swam in a sea of emotions—bone-deep guilt. A longing for home. An aching sense of loss that was not his own. Anger and betrayal and fear.

now she
was
fighting back, fiercely, with what little strength she had left. But she was fighting
him
. She saw his presence as a threat, not a help. Maybe she didn’t want him finding out her secrets.

“Hey, now, save your strength,” he whispered. “i won’t intrude where i’m not wanted.”

So he turned his attention to the wound. Maybe there was a way he could detoxify the poison, or drive it out of her body. But he just didn’t know enough.

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well. if he couldn’t rid her of the poison, maybe he could keep it at bay, keep it from killing her before they reached Marisa pines. And so he dug in, throwing up barricades between the poison and the life force in her.

Minutes passed, and the poison halted its spread. it stayed, quarantined in the flesh surrounding the wound.

it was not without a cost. rebecca might be protected from the poison, but now he himself was vulnerable to it, despite his much larger body size. Soon he was reeling in the saddle, head pounding, chilled and nauseous. ragger snorted and danced, wary of the muddled stranger on his back. if they’d come upon more assassins, there was no way Han could have mounted a defense.

He was a stranger in enemy territory, and instinct told him to hide his serpent amulet from view. He poked it under his shirt, out of sight, so it rested against his skin. He pulled out the lone hunter piece Dancer had made, and displayed it on the outside.

But he slid his hand under his shirt and kept hold of the flash that had once belonged to the Demon king.

Time passed. The shadows of the trees shortened, then lengthened again. The snow came, falling softly all around them, shrouding the hard edges of the world. Somehow, he drank the rest of his water. The last drops burned like flames down his throat. Hot was cold and cold was hot—an apparent side effect of the poison.

He kept one hand fastened on the serpent amulet, the other pressed rebecca close. His amulet flamed and cooled in his hand.

power flowed from the amulet, through Han, into rebecca.

where Han had been hot, and rebecca cold, now it was reversed.

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She blazed against the frozen skin of his chest. ragger chose his own way now, the reins slack over the pommel of the saddle.

Han heard a familiar voice in his head, persistent, unrelenting, badgering him.

Alister. What are you doing? Stop! Let the girl go. You’l ruin everything. You’re kil ing yourself. After al the time I’ve invested in you, you
are not al owed to destroy yourself.

Shut up, Crow, Han thought. i know what i’m doing.

other voices joined in. This one sounded like Corporal Byrne.
Stay alive, Rai. Stay alive. Stay alive until I come. Don’t give up.

rai?

Han was seeing things now, so maybe he was hearing things too. The landscape flickered and crawled in his peripheral vision.

wolves. Gray wolves flanked them to either side, weaving through curtains of snow. The wolves turned into fine blueblood ladies, their skirts sliding over the snow. Then back to wolves. He tried to ignore them, to pretend they weren’t there. But it seemed almost like they were helping, keeping them moving in the right direction. An escort of sorts, through the blinding snow.

He made a plan, practiced what he would say like a small child might. if he practiced it enough, engraved it into his mind, he still might remember even if he was out of his head. Any delay might be fatal to rebecca.

Find Wil o Watersong. We need Wil o. The girl is poisoned.

He stared down at the snow, thinking that it would refresh his burning throat, but he couldn’t figure out how to get to it.

He became oddly conscious of his breathing, focused on it, convinced that if he didn’t remember to breathe, he would simply stop.

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Breathe.

He tilted his head back, and snowflakes sizzled on his tongue like sparks. The forest around him rippled and quaked, the colors running down like paint on a canvas. or fireworks. He remembered something about fireworks and rooftops and hope.

Leaves glittered in the sunlight.

Sunlight. The sun was up. The snow had stopped. or was it just another hallucination?

Breathe.

with an odd clarity, he noticed that the fresh snow on the trail had been churned by many horses. plumes of steam rose around him, and the stink of sulfur and wood smoke intruded into his clouded mind. He just couldn’t remember why it was important.

Looking down, he saw with some surprise that there was a girl in his arms, dark head drooping against his shoulder, cheeks flushed with the cold, lips slightly parted in sleep. He squinted at her. what was her name again?

He brushed her cheek with a trembling forefinger. Her face was black and blue where someone had hurt her, but she was alive. He released a long breath of relief as tears ran down his face.

He must have slept and dreamed she was dead.

He was so focused on solving this puzzle that he was surprised when ragger came to an abrupt halt. He looked up to see a small child standing in the middle of the trail in deerskin leggings and tunic. He blinked, and then there were two, no four.