Thorn (31 page)

“Who knocks?” The voice is sharp, hard.

“Thorn,” I say. “I need help.”

The door opens, a flood of lamplight brightening the hallway. Artemian holds his sword at the ready, and I am reminded of the night I first met Red Hawk, but then he lowers it and steps back.

“Come in, lady.”

Laurel and I step into the room. I do not wait for him to close the door before I speak, “Violet—one of the hostlers from our stable—she didn’t come home tonight. We think something’s happened. The men have been out looking for her for hours, and haven’t returned yet.”

Artemian nods. “Where was she going?”

“To the smith,” Laurel says, and describes the location, and the different roads Violet might have taken to get there. “Her brothers are searching them all, but they haven’t come back yet.”

“Not good,” he says succinctly. “We’ll look for her.”

Artemian insists on escorting us back to the stables. We describe what Violet looks like, what she was wearing when she left, Artemian nodding and asking the occasional terse question. At the stable, Laurel checks the common room while I run up to our rooms to make sure neither Violet nor the boys have returned, but there is no one there. Artemian leaves at once, telling us he will send us a message within an hour.

Laurel and I return to the common room. It is late now. I think of the night Falada and I met Red Hawk, and I think that it is almost as late as that night. I pick out two more pieces of tack to mend, a saddle whose stitching is coming out for Laurel to repair, and an old horse blanket with an unraveling hem for me. We work silently, every stitch we sew a half-breathed prayer.

Laurel drops her work and runs to the door before I even register the sound of boots in the hallway.

“Rowan? What is it? Have you found her?”

“No,” he calls back, and then, “she isn’t here.” It isn’t a question, though from his voice I know he had half-hoped for it.

“No,” Laurel says, sagging against the doorpost. I pour a cup of water and hand it to Rowan as he reaches us.

“We met some other men. Friends of yours,” he nods to me. “They’ve been going through the taverns and inns, and have helped us search the alleys. One of them told me to come back and tell you how things were. We’re still looking. I’m going back out to keep on.”

He downs the water and turns to the door.

“You bring her back, you hear?” Laurel’s voice is hard. “Don’t any of you come back without her.”

“We’ll find her,” Rowan promises. He strides down the hall, his shoulders bowed with exhaustion but his pace still fast, still hurried by hope and fear.

***

They return near dawn. We hear the tread of boots first, and then Oak’s voice calling to us as we burst from the common room. Behind him trail his brothers as well as hostlers from the first stable.

“Quickly,” he cries. “We need a place to lay her down!”

Laurel and I run back into the common room, drag the table and bench to the side, shove away the stray stools. I pull out one of the boys’ sleeping mats, and then the men are there, Oak kneeling to lay Violet down. Beside me, Laurel makes a faint sound, as of a small animal crying, and stumbles into me. I stagger under her weight, crashing against the table as I wrap my arms around her, and then Ash is there, his face pale, taking Laurel from me and carrying her out of the room to lay her down in the hall where the other hostlers wait.

“Your friends are sending a healer,” Oak says, his voice trembling. He has not stood up, has not moved from Violet’s side. I clench my teeth and kneel next to him, forcing myself to look.

They have wrapped Violet in a dark cloak so that only her face, one hand, and her bare feet are visible. Her face is swollen past recognition, dark with blood and bruises, her lips split and bleeding. Her hand, settled on top of the cloak, is swollen as well, bruised, her fingers not quite jointed right, and there are marks near her wrist that I know to be bruises from a tight hold, or perhaps ropes. Blood has clotted on her feet, but I cannot tell if she is wounded there or if the blood has only run and dried there from another wound.

I cannot breathe, cannot find the air to fill my lungs. I turn my face away and see Rowan standing beside Oak, and behind him, returned from the hall, Ash, their faces white, their eyes dead with shock and horror.

“She must be washed.” It takes me a moment to recognize the voice that spoke as my own. Oak turns towards me, waiting. I stumble on, “The healer will need to look at her wounds. We should wash her.”

“What do you need?” Oak asks.

I swallow hard. Must it be me? “Water—and strips of cloth.” Oak and Ash are gone at once, half running to fetch water, find cloth that can be used, grateful to have something to do. But Rowan still stands, swaying, staring at his sister.

“Rowan,” I call, “Rowan.” He looks up slowly. “Laurel needs you. When she wakes up, she’ll need you. Go stay with her. Go on. She’s in the hall.” He leaves, his shoulder knocking against the doorframe.

Ash brings me the cloth, and Oak the water, and I send them out to calm Laurel. Her sobs echo into the room, and the horses in their stalls snort and whinny to each other in concern. I do not want to touch Violet, do not want to hurt her, or wake her, or see what else has been done to her. I dip the cloth into the water and work slowly, wiping away the blood from her face, then her hand and feet, not wanting to push back the cloak. I cannot see clearly and I have to pause often to rub my sleeve across my face. I wonder where the healer is, why he is taking so long. I grit my teeth and move the cloak back to reveal the rest of her arm, and after wiping this clean, I move on. When I am done, the water is dark red. I pull the cloak back over Violet, my teeth chattering, and stand up. The room sways around me, darkness chasing the edge of my vision. I back up until I hit the table behind me. I breathe slowly, staring straight ahead, but it will not matter where I look, I will still see her.

“Here!” Ash cries from the hall.

“The healer is here,” Oak calls in to me, and then a man hurries into the room, Oak and his brothers and Laurel beside him. “Thorn was washing her—she hasn’t woken yet.”

“I see,” the healer says.

“Oh Violet,” Laurel gasps, leaning into Ash. He holds her as gently as if she were his mother.

The healer sets down his bag of supplies. “Go out all of you, except the girl who washed her.” Oak hesitates, and the man looks up at him sharply. “Go on. I’ll take care of your sister.”

“I’m staying here,” Laurel says.

The healer looks at her, then shakes his head. “No. Stay outside till I call you in.”

Laurel opens her mouth to argue but Oak touches her shoulder. “Do what he says. He’ll help her.” Laurel closes her jaw with a click, turns, and stumbles from the room, the others following in her wake.

“What did you do then?” the healer asks, peeling back her cloak.

I avert my eyes, though I have already seen everything. “I washed her. That’s all. I tried not to move her.”

He nods and continues his inspection. I sit down on a nearby stool. I look down at my hands, but there is blood dried beneath my fingernails and in the ridges of my palm. I look up quickly, then away to the lamp, my chest aching.

“She’s cold,” the healer observes as he rummages in his bag. “Was she left out all night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Get her some blankets. I’m going to stitch up her cuts. That’s about all I can do. You’ll need to keep her warm, feed her broth, and give her some time to heal.”

“Her fingers are broken.”

“And a few of her ribs,” he agrees. “I’ll do what I can.”

I go to the door. “She needs blankets.” Oak barrels down the hall to the staircase, followed by Ash. They pound up to our rooms, returning within moments with all the blankets we have, piling them into my hands. I wait for them to step back before I turn back into the common room, using my body to shield their view. I fold the blankets over Violet, keeping only that portion folded back where the healer works. Then I sit down opposite him, one hand resting gently against Violet’s arm, and watch him. It is easier now that she is covered, now that the healer is doing something for her. He works systematically, lifting the blanket to check each part of her before moving on.

He bandages her hand and then tells me, “I’m going to roll her on her side to check her back. It will hurt her, and she might wake. I want you to stay in front of her and help her to balance. I don’t want her to roll onto her stomach.” He slides his hands beneath her and lifts. I join him, helping to turn her as gently as I can. She moans once, a long, low sound that fades to nothing. The healer works quickly, wiping her back clean and inspecting her carefully.

“She’ll be fine. Roll her back.” I ease her down, grateful that I did not have to look, grateful that there was nothing requiring the healer’s stitching.

“She’s still cold,” the healer says. “I want you to sleep next to her, under the same blanket. Don’t touch her much or you’ll hurt her, just try to keep her warm. If you have to go out, warm stones by a fire and wrap them in the blankets.”

He stands up, resting his hands on his waist and stretching out his back. “I’ve seen worse, but not much. The cold isn’t good for her. You’ll have to be careful.”

“Healer?” Oak asks tentatively from the doorway.

“Aye. I was telling the girl here what to do,” the healer takes his bag and joins the hostlers in the hall. I can hear them speaking, but the words are far away, garbled. I lie down next to Violet, lifting the blankets and edging as close to her as I dare. I tuck them around the two of us and stare up at the ceiling. There is light now from the doorway, and I think it must be full day, but I cannot quite imagine that the sun was rising while I sat here with Violet. I listen to her breath: it is so faint and slow that I begin to worry, between breaths, that she will stop.

Boots enter the room. I tilt my head to see Laurel, and behind her Oak, Ash and Rowan.

“Lie down,” I say to Laurel. She slides under the blankets on the other side of Violet. The men glance at each other uncertainly.

“Go rest,” Laurel tells them. “We’ll call you when she wakes up.” They nod, but it is still a time before they turn away and trudge out into the hall. They do not go up to their rooms; instead, they lie down in the hall and wait silently for their sister to wake.

Violet does not wake. By noon, her skin burns, her breath rasping in her throat. She moans when Laurel wipes her forehead with a damp cloth, but eyelids remain still. We take shifts sitting with her so that we can each see to our work. By the time I reach the barn, Corbé has already taken the geese out. I clean quickly, throwing myself into my work that I might return that much sooner to the common room. I leave only to help Corbé drive the geese back in. Joa and the other hostlers come and go, helping with the horses in our stable so that Laurel and the boys may sit by her side.

Laurel and I take turns feeding Violet, spooning a thin broth Joa had sent down from the kitchen. We prop her head up gently, afraid to move her, emptying a single spoon at a time in her mouth and praying she will swallow. We cannot tell, at the end, whether she has drunk any at all, or whether it has all run back out the corners of her mouth.

The healer returns at sunset, sending the men into the hall while he checks Violet. Laurel and I remain, watching. It is the first time that Laurel sees the full extent of the damage done to Violet, and when I glance at her, I think she has aged ten years. She sits with her jaw clenched, lips pressed together, her eyes dry.

“The fever’s bad, and these cuts don’t look good,” the healer says, pointing to the stitches he had put in the night before. “Make an infusion of these herbs.” He hands Laurel a pouch. “Give it to her every few hours, mixed with the broth.”

“Is there anything else?” Laurel asks.

“Rub ash into her cuts to prevent rot. Beyond that, there’s nothing we can do.”

At night, Laurel and I lie silently beside Violet. The men have gone up to their room at Laurel’s urging.

“I can’t sleep,” Laurel says.

“I know.”

“I don’t even know what to pray for.”

I press my eyes shut and a vision of the common room flashes before me: our hands all busy with small repairs, Laurel laughing at some joke of Rowan’s, and Violet, her head bent over her work, the lamplight shining against her sable hair, a slight frown creasing her brow as she tugs her needle through the tough leather. I don’t know what to pray for either.

“Will you sing one of your songs?” Laurel asks. “That you sing when you work?”

I open my eyes to look towards her, past Violet’s unmoving form.

“I don’t know any in Menay.”

“I know. Sing them in your language. Violet always liked the sound of them.” And so I sing quietly into the night, picking an old love ballad from home, sing until my voice is hoarse and I can hear Laurel’s deep, even breathing, just past Violet’s harsh, rasping breaths.

***

The following afternoon, Oak and Ash go to the palace to petition for justice. They return in the evening, coming to sit beside Violet, silent and grim-faced.

“Well, what did you expect?” Laurel asks, her voice hard.