Sora's Quest (41 page)

The man, who was obviously simple-minded, nodded solemnly and took the reins. At the same time, Burn stepped up to the side of the horse and pulled Sora from Crash's arms.

Crash was reluctant to let go. He dismounted from the horse, leaping to the ground. Then Cameron led the beast toward the stalls.

The Healer walked towards the house, opening the front door. "He was brought to me a few years ago, knocked silly from a fall off a horse," she said over her shoulder. "Cameron survived the wound, but was never quite right after that. His family asked me to look after him. We've since become quite comfortable."

She let her patients enter first. "Burn, take the girl down those stairs and through the first door on the right. You can place her on the wooden table." Her eyes slid to Dorian's body, which was still slung over the mercenary's shoulder, cold and limp. "You can place him in the next room."

Burn nodded and stepped into the house, Crash following closely.

Inside, the cabin was warm and bright; hand-woven rugs on the floor and paintings on the walls. Vases filled with wildflowers, lanterns strung on chains, a broad fireplace and ornate furniture. Obviously the Healer did quite well for herself—he wasn't surprised. Healing was a rare art and took countless years to master. Apprenticeships were hard to come by, so skilled Healers were few and far between. She probably had visitors from all over the countryside at her door, perhaps even those who lived in the foothills and mountains.

The house was cluttered; most available surfaces were covered with trinkets and candles. "Gifts from my patients," she commented, following Crash's gaze. At the end of the front room was a short step down. They entered onto the stone floor of a large kitchen, filled with copper and brass pans that hung from assorted shelves. A massive stove. Lots of floor room.

The Healer paused here, opening her cupboards and collecting a series of glass vials filled with unidentifiable liquids. Crash was a poisons expert, but these were much the opposite—naturally brewed anesthetics, disinfectants and medication.

Then she led him back to the staircase where Burn had descended. At its base, it emptied into another hallway, this one below-ground and branched off into several rooms. They passed through an oak door, already ajar. Crash could hear the Wulven shuffling beyond it, laying Sora out on the wooden table.

The small room was well-lit by perhaps a dozen lanterns. The walls were lined with drawers and shelves. Countless jars were packed full of herbs, roots, teas, cotton swabs, antidotes, rolls of gauze. Many of the jars were unlabeled. Several clumps of plants hung from the ceiling, drying. The assassin only recognized a few.

Burn laid Sora out on the examining table and stepped back, his face pale and drawn. Crash stared at her body as well. She was completely still,; he couldn't even tell if she was breathing. He wondered if she was already dead. She seemed smaller than he remembered, miniscule on the large table.

The Healer began removing Sora's shirt, then paused. She looked up at them. "I think the patient would appreciate some privacy. When I'm done, you can come back in and take her upstairs." She looked pointedly at the assassin. "Out. Both of you."

Crash and Burn filed out of the room silently, each at a loss for words. They sat on a bench in the hallway. Every couple of seconds they glanced at the silent door. Eventually, the Wulven got up and started pacing. Crash watched him, his body exhausted yet filled with a nervous, twitching energy.

Finally he sat back and closed his eyes, trying to rest, though he knew it would be impossible. Every time he sat back, he saw flashes of the battle, the wraith's dark, foreboding hood, the stench of magic and blood. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but there was nothing else to think about. There were no fond memories to summon, no better times.

He drew his dagger instead, intending to clean it, but he could only stare at the blade. It was long and ornately curved, decorated with fragile filigree toward the hilt. The pummel was twisted into the form of a snake, jaw open, fangs gleaming.

He had killed countless times with this knife. The only thing he had kept from his homeland. He hesitated now, watching the light glint from its surface. Unexpectedly, he remembered that night in Sora's manor, slinking along the rafters of the ballroom, waiting for a distraction great enough to finish the job. Goddess, he had killed her father! A man who had been far from innocent, but few men truly were. He didn't judge his kills—didn't weigh their acts like a tipping scale, considering their good deeds against the bad. No, he hadn't even known the man—hadn't cared about the daughter, who tripped and fell at her own Blooming.

He had only thought about the coin, about Volcrian's hatred, about how long he could run before he was caught.

And now she would die.

What did you expect?
He had been raised as an agent of destruction.
It is what we are,
his mentor had taught.
The unseen tempest. The impartial earthquake.
Death did not judge, and neither did he.

Yet somehow, Sora was different.
I should be the one who is dead.

His lip curled, staring at the knife in disgust. He shoved it back into his belt, a silent vow twisting in his gut.
It's over,
he thought.
I'm out.

Eventually Burn's steps came to a halt. He sat down again, the bench creaking slightly under his weight. After a moment, he said very quietly, "We will need to give Dorian a proper burial."

Crash's eyes opened, their green light rekindled. He hadn't thought of the thief. The cold body in the next room might as well have been a piece of wood. Was that what Burn had been pacing about—funeral rites? "Time means nothing to the dead," he grunted. "Dorian can wait."

Burn frowned calmly. "Perhaps. But I can't."

"Then bury him yourself."

The mercenary was silent for a long moment. "I suppose you
would
say that," he muttered darkly. "I'm not fooled, assassin. You may think you are removed from us—that you have come to terms with your own mortality—but I still had to drag Sora out of your arms."

Crash didn't know what to say to that.

Burn sighed softly. "After Sora is awake, then we will worry about Dorian."

Crash refused to answer, knowing for the first time that he couldn't trust his own voice. Silence was better than betraying oneself. Didn't the mercenary understand? He cared about the girl—maybe, partially, why not—but it was only because she was still alive. If she had been killed in the fight, would he have fussed over her empty body?

No, of course not. What did it even mean—to be buried? That was only a comfort to those who mourned, who grieved. No help to the ghost, no second chance for the soul.

But a tinge of guilt entered his thoughts. He had caused the thief's death, too.

He turned his face away from Burn and stared at the wall. His thoughts left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Sora is just a girl,
he thought angrily.
She will either live or die, just like anyone else.
How long was this going to take? If the Healer didn't come out soon, then he might just knock on the door and let himself in. There was nothing sacred about a healing space. He had a right to know the truth.

As he fought with himself on whether to move or not, the door opened.

The Healer was wiping her hands on a cloth, and Crash could see blood on it. His stomach did a tiny flip, though he had seen plenty of blood before. He didn't linger on the reaction.

She turned to look at them; she appeared older now, weary. "We will have to wait it out," she said. He thought he might have heard a tremor in her voice, a slight weakness. "There's nothing more I can do. But she's young; she has a good chance at recovering. There is no infection, so that's a good sign; it's mostly blood loss. Burn, can you take her upstairs to the first bedroom on the left?"

"Of course," the Wulven said, and went into the room immediately. Crash was too relieved to follow, though he didn't admit it to himself. A moment later Burn came out with Sora in his arms, covered in a long white sleeping gown.

The assassin stood up to go with them, but the Healer—looking far too much like Sora—gave him a firm glare. She motioned for him to come with her into the room. Crash had half a mind to ignore her, but a twinge in his side told him not to. His wounds were minor, but having a Healer nearby was a rare opportunity. So he followed her and sat down on the wooden table.

The woman shut the door and turned to him. "Take off your shirt. I'm assuming your shoulder bothers you?"

Crash didn't hesitate. He lifted his shirt to reveal the stab wound on his right shoulder, where the Panthera had landed a blow. The woman took a bottle of clear liquid and dabbed a cloth into it. She wrung it out and clamped it over the wound without warning—for good reason, too, as it burned like hell.

The gash began to foam. In amazement, he saw dirt and other toxins begin to bubble out, purged from his body. His face paled in pain, but he didn't make a sound. She did this a few more times to other small scratches, her eyes traveling over his scar, then she took out a needle and a thin length of white thread.

"This is a special kind of silk—I grow it myself. It's made from silkworms and plant fibers. It will dissolve on its own in about three weeks," she said, mindlessly threading the needle. Crash nodded, looking down at her eerily familiar face, watching her deft hands. Sora had thinner fingers, he observed.

Then she knelt toward his shoulder, ready to pierce the flesh. She glanced up at him. "This might...tickle just a bit."

Crash nodded wryly, appreciating her humor. Then the needle pierced his skin, once again without warning. He hardly felt it. He watched her hands at work, weaving in and out of the wound, sewing it together inch by precious inch. She was careful and thorough, taking her time, her face drawn with concentration.

After twenty minutes, the Healer finished. Crash flexed his shoulder, feeling the gash strain against the stitches. He was mildly surprised. She was better than he had originally thought—far better than he had seen before, and he had visited quite a few Healers. Some could hardly mix cold medicine, working out of horse stalls or other unsavory places. No, this woman was quite experienced.

Crash looked back at her. Her blue eyes gazed at him steadily, a small smile on her lips. Then she spoke abruptly. "So does that tattoo on your arm mean anything," she asked, "or is it just a decoration?"

Crash raised an eyebrow. He glanced down at the green snake wrapped around his forearm, coiling up his wrist, twin fangs dripping poison. Usually he had his shirt on, so it was covered. "My namesake," he murmured.

"Viper?"

"Yes."

"Ah. I thought so." The woman grinned. "An assassin indeed."

Crash's eyes flashed, immediately suspicious. But the Healer only laughed, deep and throaty. She sounded so unlike Sora that he began to relax.

"It's obvious," she answered the unspoken question. "Your kind always have those silly tattoos."

He was absolutely shocked. He had been impressed by the woman's knowledge of the Cat's Eye, but now he was speechless. Not many came close enough to an assassin to learn such things. What else did she know? And could he trust her?

"Now tell me, Viper—or Crash, as you seem to prefer," she said, and handed him back his shirt. Then she turned and stared him in the eye, her expression far from friendly. "How do you know my daughter?"

Sora was floating in a black space.

Every now and then, the murmur of voices brushed the edge of her hearing, but they were mere echoes, small stars in the milky backdrop of her mind. Peace flowed through her. For the first time in weeks, she felt completely safe.

Then the darkness lightened to a shade of gray and finally to a soft white. She began to lose that fragile peace, fraying at the seams like delicate lace. Her mind stirred, rippling. Disgruntled, Sora finally accepted that she was waking up. With a small groan, she welcomed back her senses with reluctant arms.

She opened her eyes and looked above her. At first she thought she was still dreaming. A white, flat surface drifted overhead, too low and flat to be clouds. A ceiling. Her heart jolted, remembering the Catlins, her frantic race through the swamp. Had she finally been captured? Where were her companions? She listened, half expecting a vicious beast to tower above her bed.