My stomach sinks to my feet. I expected a soldier or a leader—someone they couldn’t bear to live without. Not a young woman, and never one this ill.
Empathy prods at my chest, compassion for a woman who should sleep soundly in her bed right now.
Luc leads me closer. “You will heal her.”
I wrap my fingers around the leather satchel tied to the belt at my waist and make myself meet his hard gaze. “I will.”
When he finally releases me, it takes all my fortitude to not rub at the spot where he held on to me. Instead, I armor myself with the meek facade I have adopted since Luc kidnapped me and kneel next to the bed. As I open the satchel, I listen to the woman’s breathing. It’s labored but not forced, nor is it hanging between the edge of this world and the next.
I pull back the bodice of her nightdress to observe the cloth covering her chest. I remove it and inhale at the sight of the angry wound below her right shoulder. By the redness and swelling, it looks like someone struck her with a poisoned arrow.
My anbellem weed should draw out the poison, and my swallow flower petals will lessen her fever.
Hope stirs in my chest as I prepare the mixture of herbs grown only in Kyanite soil. My blue kyanite stone fails to amplify my magic, but my education in medicinal herbs will not forsake me. It is the only thing I can truly control—my mind, my ability to learn.
Thankfully, I learned to grow the herbs—that way, I’ll never run out of my supplies. And thankfully, Kyanites use potent herbs to supplement using magic. Otherwise, they would spend all their energy and not be able to help many people. Even the best Kyanite healers require rest between curing patients. Their weaknesses provided me with these herbs.
Knowing Luc will expect it, I chant words in the healing dialect of my people. Every utterance burns my tongue and prickles my skin. Children can cast better magic than me.
Moonlight trickles through the slats in the tent opening as I pull back the wool blanket covering the woman’s chest and apply the poultice. Luc stands over me in stony silence, his presence a threatening storm cloud.
After applying a thick layer, I move to the washing stand. Luc doesn’t budge, nor does he remove his attention from the woman. I wash my hands and allow my determination to dampen my fears.
They will not send me away.
I’ll prove myself valuable.
After all, they cannot heal the way a Kyanite can. They don’t have our herbs or training. Even without the ability to cast magic, I’m more efficient than their healers.
I return to the woman, take a small glass jar from my satchel, and pull the lid off. With one hand, I lift her head, and with the other, I allow a few drops to slip between her parted lips. Without looking at Luc, I bring a chair close and sit. Time will determine her Fate ... and Olah, of course.
If he wills it, the woman shall live, and I shall live too.
ChapterThree
1 DAY EARLIER
Forty-nine tankards filled to the brim. That’s precisely how many I served to the men waiting impatiently in Luther’s Alehouse. With every pass across the sticky floor, my arms ache a little more. I ignore it and try to keep a smile pasted to my face. It’s what they expect, a friendly face, a welcoming face.
That’s what Luther, the owner of the alehouse, always says.Smile at them, Sol, or they will not stay for more than one ale.
Katya, a woman from the Malachite tribe, scurries next to me, working a little faster, a little better. She keeps her pale blonde hair pinned at the nape of her neck, and she wears a surcoat tight enough to enhance all her attributes. It shows off her slim waist. Her wide hips. Her large bosom. If I had breasts like hers, I wouldn’t need to scrape for every coin I get. She simply waltzes around the room and receives more gold than I do.
Or maybe it’s the ocean in her eyes. If mine were blue, like hers, instead of brown, these men would bend to my will the way they bend to hers. If allowed, they’d probably throw gold at her feet.
Not that I need men to bend to my will. I just need their coin.
I’m a mere shadow compared to her. I’m shorter, have black hair, and my skin is nearly as pale as the plaster on the walls.
“What can I do ye for?” Katya asks the newest patron to enter the alehouse. The man sits alone in a corner.
Candlelight skims his features as he shakes his head. “Ale only.”
Inwardly, I smile at his refusal. Few men deny Katya when she offers more than liquor. The hem of her elaborate surcoat trails the ground as she returns to where I stand near the front of the room. She probably spent two month’s wages buying the ridiculous garment. Men don’t care about her clothes. They care what she barely conceals beneath them.
“Take ale to the man in the corner,” she says. “He obviously doesn’t know a beautiful woman when he sees one.”
I take the tankard from her. “All right. But I’m not offering him more.”
