Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar (32 page)

Anya had no response. They walked as quickly as they could and still watch the ground. At one point they found a bit of red string stuck to a low branch, about waist level. There was no way to know if it was Justine's, but it kept them following the stream. As the sun touched the treetops, the temperature dropped, shadows lengthened, and Anya felt fear building.

“So, when you left, when you walked away from being a mercenary, what did you do?”

“I got lost.” Tim stood still and looked around. “We should stop soon, we may spend the night out here.”

“I haven't heard the town bells.”

“You won't. I'm sure we're going the right way.”

“I thought you said FarSeeing wasn't a Gift of yours.”

“It's not. But sometimes I just know things. I have ever since I was a kid. I think that's what made me good at fighting in the first place.”

Three forest tracks converged near the bottom of the hill. Gold light dappled the paths and a rabbit flashed its white at them as it dove into the safety of the underbrush. Tim pointed out shallow hoofprints. “These look fresh. Probably made today, at least.” He gestured at her to stay close to him. “Did you think about what is stopping you?”

Anya bit her lip. “Fear, I guess.”

“Of course. But what are you afraid of?”

Anya let the question hang in the air for a bit. She was so absorbed in trying to read the faint tracks that her next words surprised her. “Healers are people in stories and songs—not me. I'm just Anya.”

“You don't know how good you are.”

Anya smiled. Tim was always saying she was good, and complaining at her for failing, all in the same conversation. “But still I can't do half of what you do. How will I ever take over for you?”

“When you have to, you will.”

An owl screeched. It was close to dusk, but still early—owls shouldn't be hunting yet. And the sound was—desperate. Anya looked at Tim.

He was standing completely still. “I think we'll know something pretty soon. Follow.” Tim took off to the right, toward the sound. The owl screeched again, sounding at once angry and frightened. They ran.

Two hundred yards farther along, Anya heard the sounds of fighting. Tim gestured to her to stay back, and he kept going, running low, tugging his sword from its scabbard as he went. He disappeared down the edge of a ridge.

Anya's breath tangled in her lungs as she worked her way quickly and silently to the fir trees at the ridge's edge. A shadow passed over her head. She looked up. The bird was impossibly big, twelve feet or more wingtip to wingtip, and it was diving down, silent and deadly. The owl arrowed directly at a man Tim was fighting. The man flinched, stepping back to avoid the wings and talons directed at his face. Tim ran his sword through the attacker, whirling to hold off a second man.

Anya's fingers clenched the dirk's hilt, fear and confusion anchoring her feet. Her eyes swept the scene, trying to make sense of the movement. A wagon sat in the middle of the path, twisting dangerously as two horses danced and kicked with their back legs. The spooked horses were unable to run; leather hobbles bound their front legs. A small figure lay in the wagon, covered by a blanket. Justine?

A dead man lay near the wagon. Another man, no two men, rolled on the ground. One of them was covered with twigs and mud and colored like the forest. It was so hard to see him, Anya had to focus hard to keep him in sight even though he was moving. He must be a Hawkbrother scout. Then the owl was his bondbird!

The scout slashed a knife across the throat of the man he struggled against. Now free, the Hawkbrother stood quickly, running toward Tim.

Anya wanted to move, but couldn't tell where to run. Her eyes found Tim. There was a new slash across his shoulder, and blood ran down his bicep and dripped from his elbow. Still, she had never seen him move with such speed and sureness. Tim circled, using the long knife that was in his boot, keeping his attacker from the sword that now lay gleaming dully on the ground. His challenger came in low, and Tim blocked with his damaged arm, pushing the man off as Tim himself fell. New blood bloomed where the man's knife had gouged his thigh.

A flash of silver light caught the last rays of the sun and the Hawkbrother's knife thudded into the neck of Tim's challenger, who crumpled. Tim waved thanks. He tried to stand and made it to one knee, his right leg dragging. He reached for the sword, holding it out in front of him as blood dripped from his arm and from the edge of the sword as well. No one else moved.

Anya finally leaped into motion, running down the small hill toward the rocking wagon. She was only halfway there when the wagon tipped and rolled over, knocking one of the fractious horses off its feet. The other one planted a solid kick on the wagon's side. Anya scrambled to the front of the wagon, banged her knee, and used the dirk to saw the leather traces loose from the tongue. Hooves sliced the air, one quite near her head. She backed up, talking softly to the frightened animals, trying to calm them enough to see if Justine was under the wagon.

Abruptly, both horses stilled, their attention focused on the Hawkbrother walking carefully toward them. He bent and expertly cut the hobbles. Now free, the big animals stood placidly.

All of the chaos had disappeared from the scene, and the path and forest became silent and still. The owl glided in, landing on a branch at the edge of the clearing, watching with the same quiet that had settled on the rest of the forest.

The Hawkbrother looked directly at Anya, paused, and then simply said, “Well met. I'm Nightsinger.”

“Thank you.” she replied, then offered, “I'm Anya, and that is Tim.”

He grinned. “I know who Tim is. You must be his student.”

How could the man grin at a time like this? Nightsinger helped her turn the crumpled and staved wagon over. It
was
Justine under the wagon, legs twisted sideways, both arms splayed wide as if she had tried to break her fall. Blonde hair spilled out from the blanket, dark with blood. Nightsinger ran toward Tim, gesturing that she should stay and tend to the girl.

“Justine!” Anya called out, kneeling by the still form, placing one hand on Justine's chest. She had a heartbeat, but her skin was chalky, her scalp bleeding. As Anya felt along the top of her head, one part felt mushy, as if the business end of a horse's hoof or a board had knocked into her. Anya looked around frantically for Tim.

He was still thirty feet away, and Nightsinger had rolled him onto his back. The new wound on the back of his thigh was bleeding extremely fast, staining the earth around it. She had to go to him! She leaped up and ran to his side. Pain swirled like a live thing in his bright, wet eyes, and he clenched the knife tightly.

“Let me . . .” She began.

“Justine.” Tim croaked. “Justine first.”

“But . . . but you might die!”

“I'm tougher than I want to be—this won't finish me.” Tim's teeth ground into his lip, sweat stood out on his forehead, and Anya could hear noises dying in his throat as he refused to cry out. How could he survive this?

Defiantly, she placed her hands on his thigh near the worst of his wounds.

He raised the knife, made as if to slash at her with it. “Justine first.”

Anya felt like she was being severed in two. The little girl clearly needed her, but Tim was the real Healer, not her. Not yet. If she helped Tim, he could help Justine . . . but Justine could die without immediate attention. It was beyond her to save one, and they both needed her. What if Tim died? She felt anchored in place—the way she had been when she was watching the fight, unable to choose a direction because all of the choices needed doing. But Nightsinger was with Tim, and Justine was a child. Turning away from Tim was like spiraling through a physical wall. Her legs shook as she walked away from him.

Anya forced herself to look only at Justine, to hear and taste and sense only things surrounding the little girl.

Justine's head wound was threatening by itself; enough to explain why the girl was out stone cold. Her legs were bound together, badly chafed, the skin deeply raw around the ropes. Anya thought they could be broken. Her arms and torso looked unmarked, except her left hand was gashed and bleeding. Anya cut the ropes around Justine's legs and straightened them.

Now, how could she ground herself? She had always worked in homes or in the main room at Tim's—and always with Tim coaching her. Here, there was no comfortable place to stand rooted to. Justine was in an awkward spot, and Anya didn't think it safe to move her. She chose a kneeling pose and probed for Earth energy, the way Tim had taught her.

It was there, a breath, a stream, and available. She pulled it up into her, setting shielding to keep her focus, to close out the woods and the path and the wounded Healer behind her. Her body gained life, her mind focus, and she began to see things more clearly as she prepared to transfer the energy filling her to the wounded girl.

She needed Tim. It felt like so much, like more than she had ever felt. Tim should do this—she wasn't up to it.

The energy poured away, lost like water over a cliff, and she put her head down and hid her face in her hands. She shivered; cold and frustrated.

A croak rose from far behind her. Tim's voice. “I can see you do this. Start over.” A softening of his tone. “Surrender, Anya. Let go.”

She looked back. Nightsinger sat quietly next to Tim. The Hawkbrother nodded at her. “Can you help Tim?” she pleaded.

“Only a little. You must help him by doing your work.”

Tears stung the corner of her eyes. She touched the earth, tapping the stream of energy again. It was weak and she reached, and reached, and barely gathered a warm trickle. It wasn't enough. She was going to fail.

She let go, started over, ignoring her first touch of darkness. Whether real or not, she heard Tim's voice in her head, saying, “Surrender. Surrender.” She touched and reached, and this time the line of power felt focused, less diffuse. She filled herself with each breath, establishing the stream into her as a river, seeing it as light she could channel through her palms. It was more than she could take, and still less than Justine needed. She wanted to scream. Necessity pushed at her until something inside crumpled away, something thin but important. Loss swept into trust, and Anya realized how afraid she had been to . . . trust . . . herself. Power, earth energy, filled the places where fear had been. Now, she was part of it, and it was part of her, and the outcome no longer mattered, just the work.

She placed her hands on Justine's head, directing the energy into the prone form. It was warmth flowing down her arms and through the center of her palms into Justine, overwhelming the cold of her wounds, acting on them like sun on ice, melting pain. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Anya could feel it, almost see it, and it was exquisite, like spring colors and stored sunshine flowing into Justine from the earth. It used Anya, like a vessel and a map, seeking direction and amplification in her focus.

Warmth spread through Anya into the girl's head, burning away pain and harm, healing her broken skull. Warmth began to flow down Justine's shoulders, and Anya felt almost as if the two of them were one being. Then suddenly it was too much, her back was freezing. Anya shuddered, the connection lost. Now it was only her own empty hands on Justine's head. Every muscle in her arms quivered and shook.

Anya's body demanded rest, sleep. She fought for strength to see to Justine. The girl was breathing better, more regularly. Her skin wasn't quite the right color, but it was somehow less white. Anya probed Justine's head gently, and it felt normal. Justine's legs were bleeding where the bonds had been, and still swollen and bruised. So she hadn't finished. But it would be enough. Justine's youth would heal the rest quickly. Anya sighed, and then in a tiny flash of energy, she remembered Tim.

Nightsinger sat immobile by Tim, hands on her teacher's thigh wound. Tim's head was turned away from her, but Nightsinger looked directly at her and said, “You did well, little one. Let go.” She wanted to go to Tim, but blackness caught her, and she barely felt the ground slap the side of her head as she surrendered to it.

 

Anya woke to the sounds of many people. She was bundled in a blanket by the side of the path. Her mouth was fiercely dry. She licked her lips and tried to sit up, but her head was so dizzy and painful she simply fell back again.

She heard the rustle of clothes, and a cup of water appeared in front of her eyes. An arm propped her up, and another held the cup to her lips. She sipped greedily. When the cup was empty, Nightsinger rocked back on his heels and let her sit on her own. Surprisingly, she found she had the strength, if barely. She watched him refill the cup from a water bag he slung over his shoulder, all of her focus on the precious water, on quenching the desert inside of her.

Nightsinger grinned at her as she got partway through a third cup of water, and finally looked up at him. His long hair was down, a signal to her that they were safe. “Now, take it easy, little one. You'll be sick. Let the water in slowly. You used a lot of energy.”

Memories flooded back over her. “Justine?”

“Is fine. I had to splint her legs until one of our Healers got here, and sew her up in a place or two. Nothing I don't know how to do. But you saved her life. I'm Healer-trained, but have no Gift like yours. I could not have done what you did. She even woke up this morning and asked for you.”

“This morning? How long have I been asleep? How's Tim?”

“You've slept almost two days.”

“And Tim?”

“Ahhh, Tim. He's gone back to the vale—to our home—for a while. A brother of mine came to get him. Tim lived with us once before, that's where he learned his healing skill—the things he taught you.”