Chapter 37
Ian heard Robin moan in pain. He pushed through the doorway of the small cottage just in time to see her head hit the folded blanket pillow behind her.
“What are you trying to do?” he asked, rushing to her side.
He forgot he was carrying a bowl of soup and nearly spilled it all over her.
Turning back toward the door, he placed the soup safely on a table in the middle of the room.
Then he gave his attention to the injured woman who had apparently been trying to sit up. “Lyra said you should not be moving.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” Robin said. “Just because I was somewhat conscious for her administrations last night does not mean I actually heard her, much less remember anything she said.” Her voice sounded thick and slow, and not nearly as chastising as she’d intended.
“You would think that not moving after being seriously injured is common knowledge,” Ian replied. He reached down to gently touch her bandaged shoulder. What he was checking for he did not know, but he had to touch her.
“I’ve been injured enough times to know when it is serious.” Robin’s eyes flicked to Ian’s hand on her shoulder. “How is it looking?”
“The bandages are still there,” Ian replied, lifting his hand self-consciously. “So that is probably good.”
Robin nodded at him, reaching her left hand up to touch the bandages herself.
“How much pain are you in, really?” His voice was startlingly soft after his earlier gruffness.
Robin attempted to shrug her good shoulder. “I have . . . felt worse.” The catch in her voice halfway through said differently.
“That is not what I asked,” Ian said. He felt helpless, seeing her in pain. He wanted to reach out, to touch her and comfort her; but touching her was likely to cause her further pain, so he held back.
Before Robin could respond, the cottage door opened behind him. He turned to see Lyra carrying a shallow bowl of steaming water. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a simple braid, her calm presence filling the small room. She set the hot bowl of water on the table near the soup.
“I was waiting for you to wake so I could reapply the poultice,” Lyra said. She spoke to Robin, but she was looking at Ian—a look that clearly communicated he was in her way.
Ian stepped back to give her room at Robin’s side, but he did not leave the small cottage. He could not.
Lyra began unwrapping the bandages at Robin’s shoulder with gentle, precise movements. At the sight of the wound, Ian schooled his face so Robin would not see his reaction.
In the hours since they had arrived back at Lockwood, its appearance had gotten much worse. The angry red of her skin had deepened into a purplish-black bruise that seemed to pulse with residual chaos magic, spreading out in thin vein-like tendrils from the circular site of the wound.
“It always looks worse before it looks better,” Lyra said, as if she could read Ian’s thoughts even with her back turned to him.
She set the soiled bandage aside and turned to the table behind her, where she dipped a fresh cloth into the bowl of steaming water.
Her hands were seemingly unaffected by the heat as she squeezed out the excess.
The earthy scent of lotus flower filled the room, along with a sharper note like pine or fir.
Ian watched, feeling helplessly far away, as Lyra pressed the cloth to Robin’s shoulder.
Robin clenched her jaw but made no sound.
“The chaos spell is trying to spread, but her body is fighting it,” Lyra said.
“I am right here,” Robin spat out. “You can speak directly to me.”
“I know,” Lyra replied unapologetically. “But he was the one who needed the explanation.”
“You have treated many wounds for me over the seasons,” Robin said. “But this is the first time I have received a magical attack.”
Lyra tilted her head as she looked up at Robin, as if thinking through her words.
Robin studied the older woman’s face in return. “Though I doubt this is the first time you have treated a wound caused by chaos magic.” Her words were both a question and a statement.
Lyra nodded in a definitive single gesture, then turned her gaze back to Robin’s shoulder.
Ian did not know the woman’s history, but he assumed the small exchange referred to her life on Istroya. He did not want to imagine what kind of chaos magic Gareth’s secret taskers had inflicted upon the enslaved Majis there.
Robin continued watching the healer, then looked over the woman’s shoulder at Ian. Her brow was tight with unspoken thoughts. “When the Chendas soldiers exploded back into the keep,” she finally said, “they were wielding chaos magic. All of them.”
Confused, Ian realized he had not spoken with Lane or Jette about what had happened inside the monastery.
After they had arrived at the Majis village, he had stayed by Robin’s side while Lyra placed the initial bandages, and then he had fallen asleep in a corner of the cottage until the morning light woke him. “What do you mean by ‘all’?” he asked.
“I mean all of them,” Robin repeated. “All of Gareth’s soldiers started to create and throw purple orbs at us. That is how I was hit.”
Ian heard what she was saying but did not want to believe it. “Gareth’s soldiers are just quotidian men,” he said. “They cannot wield magic. Most of them cannot even wield a sword well enough to fight.”
“Magic is not as simple as quotidian or Majis,” Lyra said. “Harmony and chaos are something that a person creates in the world around them. One does not need to have an internal source of the magic in order to wield it—a fact discovered by Gareth’s ancestors many generations ago.”
“The glass beads,” Ian said, following the logic of her words. “Gareth has been creating the beads of chaos magic.”
“To hand out like magical toys to his soldiers,” Robin said. “And either they have all been keeping it a secret, or Gareth only just started to share it out.”
Lyra set the wet cloth down and took a jar out of her pocket. Using her fingers, she spread a thick layer of the paste from the jar onto Robin’s wound.
“Either way,” Ian said, “we are now fighting an actual army of chaos magic users.” Ian leaned back against the wall of the cabin, feeling every last ounce of hope he carried leave his body.
Not that he had much left. “Ironic that we have spent years preparing to fight an army of terrifying magic users. Only to learn that such an army does not exist because the magic is a form of beautiful chaos and the users have been held captive for one thousand seasons.”
“Only to learn that there is indeed an army of chaos magic users that we still have to fight,” Robin said. “Nothing has really changed.”
“Except that the innocent captives will be blamed for the bloodshed,” Ian said, “and we never found a way to properly defend ourselves against chaos magic. And . . .” He shook his head, holding back his next words.
This fight had always been something they could never win.
Ian had always known that. But he had always had the audacity to hope.
“You should stay in bed for a few more days,” the healer said, speaking over Ian’s thoughts as she began to gather her supplies. “But even after that, it will be another sevennight or two before you can use that shoulder and arm again.”
“Silverreign is six days away!” Robin replied. “We do not know when the ships will land, but I do not have two sevennights.” She threw out her hands as if to emphasize her point. But it only proved Lyra right, as Robin winced in pain from the movement.
Lyra said nothing, raising her eyebrow at Robin.
Then, she turned back to the table, tucking the clay pot of poultice and spare bandages into the large pockets of her skirt.
“I’ll return later this evening to reapply the treatment.
Until then, you stay in this bed.” Then, to Ian: “Please make sure she does not do anything foolish.”
Ian bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I will try.” The words came out more defeated than he had intended. He had doubts that he could prevent Robin from doing anything, even if he wanted to.