Threading the Needle (30 page)

“I'm getting tired of being chased, getting captured, and going hungry.” Artras tugged Cutter toward the building.

The door creaked as they stepped into the interior. Like most of Erenthrall, it was covered with a thick layer of grit, but most of the furniture remained where it had been abandoned. Artras and Cutter ascended the stairs, dust and silt sifting down from above as the steps shifted. Cutter was sweating with effort by the time they made it to the third floor, Allan urging them toward one of the front rooms.

Gaven looked up as they entered, pointing to a rough space already cleared for them in the corner farthest from the windows overlooking the street. Artras settled Cutter against one wall and wiped the sweat from his face with her sleeve, frowning at how pale he appeared. But she said nothing.

Allan set the trunk down with a thunk in the center of the room and flipped it open. He scanned the contents, pulling out a wicked-looking hunting knife. He opened the satchel as well, then tossed it to Gaven as he stood. “See what else is useful here. I'm going to move the wagon.”

“Where's Glenn?” Artras asked.

“Scouting the area around this building and the far side of the street.”

She moved toward Gaven. “Anything for Cutter? Bandages? Salve? Medicine?”

Gaven pulled out a rolled length of white cloth, then a small leather pouch. It held needles and thread for stitches. “There are a bunch of small vials and paper pouches as well.”

“Let me see.”

He handed a few of them over and Artras squinted at the writing on the pouches, hard to read in the dim light. “Feverfew, for headaches. Rosemary—not sure what that's for.”

“If we had some hare or pheasant . . .”

“Yarrow!”

“What's that good for?” At Artras' disapproving look, Gaven shrugged. “Logan handles the healing in the Hollow. I take care of the hogs.”

“Yarrow helps wounds clot and cleans them as well. And this valerian root should help with the pain.”

“What about the vials?”

“I don't know what's in them. They aren't labeled.” She worked the small cork out of the top of one with a brown tint to it and sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “It smells like some kind of tea.”

Gaven had begun rummaging through the trunk. “The satchel is obviously a medicinal kit. And this looks like it's full of everyday things, like flint, a small lantern.” He set these on the floor next to him, then pulled out an urn the size of his hand. He broke the wax on the stopper and sniffed, mimicking Artras. “Oil for the lantern.”

“Any water? Food?”

“Nothing.”

“We'll have to make do.” She moved back to Cutter, checking the torn scraps of cloth she'd used earlier. They were soaked through with blood. She gently began removing them, Cutter cringing as she tugged the cloth away from the wound, then began applying what she could
of the herbs. She could have used some water to flush the dried blood away, but there was obviously nothing in the apartment that could help.

She began to bind Cutter's arm again with the new bandages, fretting about infection as she wound the cloth around the hole in his arm. But her thoughts drifted to the square. The Wolves, the sudden surge of ley prickling along her skin, Kara being attacked, and the White Cloaks. Or rather, the Kormanley.

Cutter hissed, his free hand clamping down on Artras, halting her. “It's a little tight.”

Artras stared at him, uncomprehending, then realized he meant the bandage. “Sorry.” Cutter released her hand and she carefully loosened it. Her fingers were shaking and tears burned at the corners of her eyes. She fought them back but knew her cheeks were flushed with the effort, her lips pressed tight to keep them from trembling.

Cutter placed his hand over hers again, and she glanced back up. “She'll be fine. They all will.”

She didn't trust her voice. To distract herself, she continued unrolling the bandage, but she could no longer see what she was doing; she was shaking too hard. “I don't know what's wrong.”

Cutter squeezed her hand. “It's all right. It's a delayed reaction from the attack in the square. Gaven, take her. I can finish the bandage.”

Gaven drew her up and held her as her last wall gave out. She pressed herself into him as she sobbed, seeking the support as a wave of weakness coursed through her from head to toe. The choked sobs lasted for no more than a few minutes, but they left her drained and hollow. As they faded—her breathing returning to normal, her face aching as if bruised—she pulled back from the Hollower, gripping his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“It's nothing. Just . . .”

“What?”

“You're usually so tense and in control. Nothing ever appears to affect you. This is a little unexpected.”

Artras' eyes narrowed. “I've seen blood before. Plenty of it. And not just in the slaughterhouses.”

“Of course, of course. I didn't think the blood set you off at all.”

She turned to look at Cutter, who shrugged and finished tying off his bandage with one hand, his teeth holding the cloth taut. He spat it out.
“Don't look at me. I've seen the hardiest men cry over the death of a calf at birth.”

“It wasn't the blood.”

Neither man said anything, simply stared at her.

She huffed and retrieved the healer's bag, then scrounged until she found a pair of scissors. She knelt at Cutter's side, trimming the bandage and rolling up what remained again, thrusting it into the sack with everything else she'd removed. Her movements were clipped. Then she stalked to one of the windows overlooking the street below and drew in a deep breath, letting it out with a shuddering sigh.

“It wasn't the blood.” Except that, in a sense, it was. That and Allan mentioning the Kormanley. She crossed her arms over her chest, watching the street, but saw another square in her mind's eye, hearing the screams. “I was there in Pickett's Garden during the Purge, when the Dogs arrived and began killing everyone, claiming the Kormanley were there. They were targeting anyone who moved, overturning carts, setting tents on fire with the owners and their patrons huddled inside in fear. I saw them slaughter children as they tried to flee, stabbing them in the back.”

In a shard of glass that remained in the window, she saw Gaven and Cutter exchange a confused glance. Then she remembered: they were both from the Hollow. They hadn't been in the city during the Purge, didn't know of the bloodbath that was Pickett's Garden, or any of the other hundred atrocities the citizens had suffered through then. Only those who had been in the city at that time would remember, would understand.

She straightened her shoulders, stiffened her back. “They killed hundreds, and carted off a dozen or more to the Amber Tower, saying they were Kormanley. And perhaps some of them were. I survived Pickett's Garden because, as I tried to flee, one of the carts landed on top of me, pinning my legs and covering me with bolts of silk. I was a Wielder, but I knew that wouldn't protect me from the Dogs. So I pretended to be dead. And all of it happened because of the Kormanley.” On the street below, her attention fixed on a figure—Glenn—dodging between the debris, running hard toward their building.

“And now they're back,” she finished under her breath.

Someone came pounding up the stairs outside and burst into the
room. Cutter jerked up into a seated position, and Gaven stepped back toward Artras as if to protect her.

“They're coming.” Allan ran across the room toward the window next to Artras'. “Everyone, get back from the windows and stay down.”

Gaven grabbed the trunk and pulled back to Cutter's position as Glenn charged up the stairs below and entered the room. As soon as he saw all of them were there, he halted, then crept across the room to join Artras.

“Where's the wagon?”

“Around back. The Wolf is tied and gagged, still unconscious. Which way are they coming from?”

“The main street we came down. They're moving slow. It looks like they have the wagons from the square.”

“What about Kara and the others?”

“I couldn't see. They're too far away. But they should pass beneath us.”

Everyone fell silent, waiting. The world collapsed down to Artras' breath and the steady beat of her heart thudding in her ears.

She jerked when the first of the White Cloak guards appeared—three scouts, sprinting out ahead of the main force. They crawled over the debris, arrows nocked, searching the surrounding heaps of stone and still-standing buildings for any sign of movement. Artras drew back from the window slightly, hands dropping to her sides, her palms itching for the feel of a knife or dagger. But she'd left it next to Cutter, had set it aside while she worked on his wound.

Outside, the scouts moved on past their building, followed by a larger group of twenty guards and a few of the White Cloaks. They moved slowly, allowing the wagons behind them time to pick their way through the rubble, some of them carrying torches. Artras leaned forward so she could scan the beds of the wagons, drawing a sharp breath of relief when she saw Dylan lying flat in one, surrounded by stacked supplies, one of the White Cloaks and another guard seated with him. Kara and the others trudged behind the wagon, penned in by another set of guards and the wagon behind them. The third wagon, the rest of the guards, and the last two White Cloaks brought up the rear.

It took more than twenty minutes for the entire group to drift past. Even after the last of the guards faded from view, Artras remained
hidden behind the edge of the window, afraid there might be scouts keeping watch. But eventually Glenn stirred, motioning toward Allan. They pulled back from the windows toward Cutter and Gaven, crouching down. Artras joined them, after a swift glance outside to see the White Cloaks' wagons nothing but a vague shimmer of torchlight in the distance.

“Are they alive?” Gaven asked Glenn.

“They're alive. All of them. I'm not certain why.”

“What do you mean?”

“Keeping prisoners is difficult. Moving prisoners is worse. I'd have killed those I didn't need and left the bodies behind.”

Artras' eyes narrowed. “You truly were a Dog.”

“It's practical.”

“And it also answers your question.” Allan tapped his knuckles against the floor in thought. “They don't know which ones in the group are Wielders, aside from Kara and Dylan. You heard them talking about testing them once they reached the Needle. Any idea how they'll do that, Artras?”

“They must have a Prime.”

“Why?”

“Everyone is tested in school when they reach the age of fourteen by a Prime. He or she simply touches your head. If a child has talent, he knows. I'm not sure how.”

“I wasn't raised in the city,” Allan said, “but I've heard of the testing.”

Cutter lifted his injured arm. “Obviously, they decided that those of us with bows weren't Wielders.”

“They probably made the same assumption about everyone with weapons. Kara and Carter carried at most a knife, not even a dagger. I don't know about Dylan.”

“He had a knife, but nothing like what I usually carry.” Artras gestured toward the hilt of her own dagger.

“Why do you carry that? It's not something I would expect.”

“I grew up in East End and Shadow. No one goes around without a weapon of some kind there. Not if you want to survive.”

Allan waved a hand to bring them back on track. “All that matters is that, for now, it appears everyone is safe until they get tested.”

“I wouldn't count on that. They were willing to kill Jack and Cutter
based on a guess that they weren't Wielders. If circumstances change between here and this Needle, I don't think any of the others are safe except Kara and Dylan.”

“Which raises another question: What is this Needle they spoke of? And where is it?” Artras glanced among all four of them. “No one has any idea?”

“We'll have to follow them, find out where it is in the city.”

“Who? Cutter and Glenn are both hurt. Gaven and I don't know the first thing about tracking. Allan, you're the only one fit enough for that.”

“Then I'll do it myself.”

“Like hell. You'll take me with you.” Glenn motioned with his bloodied arm, trying unsuccessfully to hide his wince of pain. “This is nothing. The Wolf barely tore the flesh.”

“Fools.” Artras reached out and snatched his arm, jerking it close. Glenn yelped, but Artras had already yanked the bloodied sleeve back, exposing the mangled flesh beneath.

She glanced up as Glenn, Gaven, and Allan sucked in horrified breaths. “This is more than ‘barely torn.' Allan, we need water. This has to be cleaned before I can do anything. He's left it exposed too long. Gaven, start a fire and find more cloth for bandages.”

Allan slid out the door. Gaven started a small fire not far from where Cutter lay. He also found the remains of a bed in one of the other rooms, and they hauled the metal frame and disintegrating stuffed mattress into the corner, setting Cutter up on it. The tracker promptly fell asleep. Glenn sat next to the bed, leaning against the wall, muttering to himself. Artras checked him for fever, but his forehead was cool and his skin wasn't flushed.

An hour later, Allan returned bearing three skins and a stoppered urn filled with water. Artras didn't ask where he'd found the containers or the water, taking the clay jug, pulling its cork with her teeth, and immediately dousing Glenn's arm. He roared in pain, thrashing until his free hand closed down on the edge of Cutter's bed, jerking the tracker awake. Artras ignored his cursing. The Wolf's teeth had punctured Glenn's forearm in two distinct ridges, one on top and the other below. But he'd thrashed back and forth once he'd taken hold. Glenn's skin was shredded, a few flaps hanging loose.

“It's going to require stitches.”