Chapter 6
SIX
SORSCHA LED HER TO A CREEK, ICE-COLD AND SHALLOW.
IT MADE for a difficult washing process, as it barely reached Thia’s knees.
She crouched to scoop handfuls of the frigid liquid, tossing it over herself as best she could.
Sorscha stood guard on the shore and waited with fresh clothes when she emerged.
A dress, Thia realized, as the woman handed over the fabric, cream-colored and thin.
But that was only the first layer; next was a similar garment in deep brown, though sturdier and somewhat scratchy.
Thia pulled them over her head one at a time, the fabric clinging a little too tightly over her large hips and a little too loosely over her small chest and narrow shoulders.
It was also several inches too long. But she was grateful for the cleanliness and the boots that she exchanged for her ruined slippers.
With the creek breaking the canopy of foliage, Thia could just make out a few stars glinting down.
Hours must have passed while she was unconscious.
She wondered if they were of the same constellations she was so accustomed to gazing up at in Kansas, or if this was some strange new galaxy.
With the roll of navy clouds, it was impossible to tell.
“Are you coming, love?” Sorscha asked from just inside the tree line. She had a torch in hand, casting her face in an orange glow.
Thia cleared her throat, dislodging a painful lump.
“Sorry.” She scrambled to catch up, following Sorscha back to the hut.
But when they reached it, the woman didn’t slow.
Instead, she led them around and into a clearing.
Dozens of similar shelters lined its edges, a bonfire crackling in the center.
Surrounding the fire, people perched on stones and logs in clusters, laughing and talking with what appeared to be hunks of meat in hand.
It was hard to tell at a glance, but Thia estimated their number to be over fifty at least.
“What is this place?” she asked Sorscha, as they picked through the crowd. The huts were too shoddy to be permanent, and the blindfold she’d been given after Dess had found her warned of secrecy. “Dess called it ‘Haven.’”
“It is that,” Sorscha replied.
“For who?”
Sorscha glanced over at her with a somber expression. “Those whom the Tyrant has displaced.”
“The Tyrant?”
Sorscha frowned. “You must have traveled far to be so unaware of our perilous circumstances.”
Thia shrugged awkwardly. “I’m from Kansas. I’m told it’s in another realm.”
Sorscha’s brows rose. “Another realm?” She paused. “Told? By whom?”
Thia opened her mouth to answer when Dessfar nearly barreled into her. “Hiya!” he exclaimed, holding out some charred meat on a stick. “Venison?”
She took it. “Thanks.” She was hungry enough that she didn’t care whether it was seasoned or burnt; she took a large bite, the texture tough, the gamey taste more pungent than what she was used to. But it wasn’t bad, all things considered.
“The Tyrant is the ruler of these lands,” Sorscha clarified, returning to Thia’s previous question. “He calls himself the Mage King, though many of us do not recognize him as such.”
Thia stilled. The Mage King—the man Callista had told her to seek out. The only person in the realm who could send her home. She studied her venison, hoping Sorscha wouldn’t see the look on her face. She was rescued by a voice in the crowd, calling the older woman’s name.
Sorscha waved at someone Thia couldn’t see. “Will you be alright here, love?”
Thia wasn’t thrilled at the thought of being left alone among strangers, but Dessfar tucked his arm through hers. “I’ll take care of her.”
Sorscha nodded once and departed, leaving the boy to guide Thia over to an empty log near the edge of the trees. “Sit,” he said, before the tips of his ears reddened. “If you want.”
Her hamstrings ached after sprinting more in one afternoon than she probably had in her whole life. She slumped onto the log, polishing off the last of her venison.
Dess watched her. “You look familiar.”
Thia raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”
“Do you think we’ve met before?”
“I don’t see how. I’m from…another realm.” It didn’t get less weird, no matter how many times she said it.
“I heard you telling Sorscha. I suppose you’ve never been here before.”
“Nope. One of those faces I guess. Where are you from?”
Dess glanced at her, then away, shifting his feet against the grass.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Thia said hastily. Perhaps it was an unfair question. Sorscha said everyone here was displaced.
“No, it’s alright,” Dess replied. “It’s just…I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where you’re from?”
He shook his head, tufts of straw-colored hair waving. “He stole my memories.”
“Who?” Then her mind processed the rest of what he’d said. “What do you mean stole?”
Dess gripped the log a bit tighter. “The Tyrant. He—cursed me. To forget.”
Thia stared at him. “How do you know he did that if you have no memories?”
Dess gave her a look that was half-amused, half-irritated. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
Thia ducked her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “Sorry.”
Dess tapped her boot with his own. “Don’t be.
All I know is that I was a small boy when they found me—they being the people of Haven.
They were of greater number then. They could do more to retaliate against the Tyrant’s cruelty.
They broke into his prison and freed everyone they found there.
Myself included. My only memory of that time is of the king’s cloaked form watching me through the bars.
My head was on fire, and he said, ‘He knows nothing now. Keep him alive for leverage.’ And then he left, and Haven rescued me the very next day. ”
“So you have no idea who you are?”
He shrugged. “Pagdan—Haven’s leader—gave me the name Dessfar when I arrived.”
“You must be someone important, if the king thought he could use you for leverage.”
Dess’s lashes lowered bashfully. “Pagdan thinks as much.” A horn rang out across the clearing, interrupting Thia’s curiosity. “They’ll be putting out the fire now. Can I show you back to Sorscha’s?”
“Please.”
He stood, holding out an arm. She took it, and they walked back to the hut, Thia running a thumb lightly over the shard of glass at her neck. When Dess said goodnight, she stretched out in the same bed, noting its fresh linens, and examined the straw ceiling.
Find the Mage King.
He stole my memories.
She rolled over, knowing if she gave it too much thought she’d crumble. Instead, she shut her eyes, willing herself to wake in her own bed, her grammy’s voice summoning her for a morning latte.
Instead, she was awakened by a scream.
It was pitch-dark in the hut, but voices rang out in the room across from hers.
“Put her here—”
“What happened?”
“Stabbed—”
“Hold her down—”
A voice Thia recognized. “Oh, Ren, my foolish child.” Sorscha.
A gruffer voice. “If only Bana wasn’t dead.”
“The girl,” Sorscha said abruptly. “The girl is a healer.”
Thia kicked off the blanket and crossed the hut in two bounds, pushing through the door that led to the second room.
The screams belonged to a young woman with short black hair and the same bronze-brown skin as Sorscha.
A large scar bisected the left half of her face from forehead to cheek, and Thia was amazed that whatever had given it to her hadn’t taken the eye as well.
That was apparently where her good luck ended, because the woman was stretched out across a bed, stomach bleeding profusely from a wound just below her ribs.
Clearly out of her mind, her eyes rolled back in her head, and spittle frothed on her lips.
Four men stood around her, one on each limb, holding her to the bed.
“Thia,” Sorscha said, relief in the sag of her shoulders. “Can you help?”
She had no idea, but at the very least she could try.
She strode forward, hands falling to the woman’s wound.
She gingerly peeled back the loose white fabric of her shirt and inspected the damage.
It was about an inch deep, maybe less, and had missed her vital organs.
Stabbed, someone had said. But Thia’s main concern wasn’t blood loss; it was the strange discoloration surrounding the opening, spreading across her intact skin like a blue bruise.
And the froth on her lips.
And the fact that she had stopped twitching and was now convulsing.
Okay, so there were more concerns than one.
“Turn her on her side. Now,” Thia barked, when no one moved.
They did, just in time for the young woman to vomit.
The mess spilled onto the bed instead of down her throat, and Thia gave herself one short, metaphorical pat on the back before she tore a shirt off the stack atop the dresser to her left and pressed it against the wound.
“Sorscha,” she said firmly, “just like my hands. Wine and thread.” Sorscha nodded and left quickly.
Thia turned to the men. “She’s been poisoned. I think the blade was coated.”
The man to her left grimaced. “Aye. She was fighting the king’s men. They do that sometimes.”
“I can’t help her if I don’t know what kind of poison.”
The man ran a hand over his beard. “No one knows, lass. They brew it in the bowels of the Lightning Tower.”
Thia swore. A second time, too, when she realized that the injured woman had stopped vomiting and was no longer breathing.
She felt her pulse. Shit shit shit. “Stand back. You,” she pointed to the man who had spoken, “hold this here.” He took over the wound compress, and she went to the young woman’s head, rolling her flat and tipping her chin.
Then she pinched her nose and pressed their mouths together, forcing breath in.
And another. She pushed down on the woman’s chest counting to thirty, wincing as the pressure tugged her wounded palms.
She ignored the pain. Another press.
Repeat.