11. A Blade Named Marbhchìor
A Blade Named Marbhchìor
ISABEL
I sabel wakes to an awful sound, the grunting and desperate moaning of pain like something from a nightmare. Sapphira’s face is above her. She’s shaking Isabel as Isabel opens her eyes.
“What’s going on?” Isabel asks, shooting upright.
She looks up at Sapphira with wide, desperate eyes, trying to shake off the sleep and reorient herself.
Panicked, she darts her eyes to the bed, where Q?n Ts?ma thrashes about with jerking limbs that cut through the air.
The q?n’s blanket slides to the floor and puddles there.
Isabel stumbles to the side of the bed, slipping on the blanket just as the guards rush in, the healers right behind them.
“What’s going on?” the commander shouts, shoving to get to Isabel and the q?nsol.
“She’s having a seizure,” Isabel says as Sapphira takes up a defensive position between her and the commander, despite being unarmed.
Isabel turns away from them, trusting Sapphira has her back. “Hand me a tube, a funnel, and a suction!” she shouts. “Her airways are closing.”
Sweat is already beading on Isabel’s forehead as she climbs onto the tall bed, her mind still foggy with sleep and a headache pounding between her eyes. The short nap did nothing for her, and she only feels worse than before, her mouth dry and her magic still not replenished.
“What do you plan to do to her?” Domhen demands to know, reaching for Isabel’s arm.
Domhen has it in a tight grip when Sapphira rushes at the elven-fae guard standing behind the commander, disarming that elf first. Isabel watches in awe as the princess slides smoothly between the large bodies, ice blasting from her hands to lock around their legs like chains.
She swiftly disarms the guard of its sword and turns the stolen sword on the commander, pointing it at the elves’ back.
She has magic. Isabel is in awe, her heart pounding and hands sweaty. Sapphira has magic too.
Despite its size, the sword fits comfortably in Sapphira’s expert hands. The hilt is short, and the blade is pale blue-green, opaque like a stagnant stream, with deep, violet accents.
The room goes silent as Sapphira shouts, “You asked Isabel to save your q?nsol, and now look at you! Jumping at every shadow like frightened children and questioning her commands.” Her sword shifts in the direction of the q?n, sounds of distress rippling through the guards.
Isabel gasps. “Do you want her to live or not? ”
Sapphira’s eyes scan the room murderously, her blade coming back to Domhen, and her voice deep and thunderous.
“Step aside and let Isabel do her work. If you put a finger on her, I don’t care how many elven-fae I must cut down.
” Her magic sparks again, ice like daggers on her fingertips.
“You may be five hundred years old and have lived before my kingdom was conceived, but I will grind you to dust, reform your bones, and make you a statue to live inside my garden. Even if I have to draw my last breath to do it.”
All eyes follow Sapphira and the path of ice as she presses the blade to the commander’s back, the tip cutting into Domhen’s cloak.
Isabel’s heart is racing, palms damp with sweat.
Sapphira has never looked quite as alluring as she does now, eyes piercing and hard as stone.
Isabel’s mother and Kaelen are the only ones who have ever protected her so fiercely. It makes her breathless.
Sapphira’s muscles shift beneath the tight fabric around her arms, like a water beast moving and coiling just under the surface of a still lake.
All of those early mornings where Isabel has spied her out in front of the cottage, practicing her sword wielding and working herself into a sweat, weren’t for nothing.
Sapphira is more strong, and agile, than she looks.
Isabel lets out a breath as the commander's hand retreats from Sapphira’s arm. Domhen’s expression is cowed, teeth gritted as the elf snaps a retort. The commander knows the elves need me if they want their q?nsol to live. And Sapphira knows it now too.
But, Domhen then does something to shock Isabel. The elf bows its head and says to Sapphira, “Child of ice,” with a note of reverence tinging the words. Child of ice? She wonders. What does that mean?
Sapphira’s brows furrow for only a moment, her words hesitant as she says, “Isabel is the best healer I’ve ever seen. She will save Q?n Ts?ma if you let her.”
A shuttered expression passes over Domhen’s face before the elf says, “Do as you wish,” and stands aside.
Isabel glances around the room at all of the bowed heads, still a bit stunned by the events.
When Sapphira is safely at her side, standing protectively beside the giant bed, Isabel snaps back to her work.
She gains a second wind from the knowledge that Sapphira believes in her and her abilities.
She knows she can do it. She will save the Q?n.
Ts?ma has stopped shaking and lies still on the bed. Her chest is barely fluttering, and her skin is cold and clammy. Isabel needs to stop her patient from losing any more oxygen. She snaps orders at the healer, and both Mishe and the aide rush to bring her what she needs.
She mumbles a steady stream of thoughts under her breath, both to calm herself and to work through her problem-solving, which she does better when she speaks the steps aloud.
The q?n is propped up so Isabel can make a short incision and drain the fluid in her lungs.
She uses her magic to heal the wound, pain like needles stabbing through her arm as she uses more magic.
Laying the girl back down, she presses an ear to her chest, her hand hovering above her to check the signs. What she finds is distressing.
“No, no,” she whispers, bolting back upright on her knees and looking down at the ashen, near-lifeless small body beneath her. “Her heart is failing.”
Tears fall down Isabel’s cheeks as she pulls at the weak threads of her magic. She’s already exhausted and hasn’t had time to replenish her energy. If she pushes much harder, she’s the one who will die.
Isabel rolls back her sleeves and lets her magic flow to both of her hands, focusing it all in one place to strengthen the power. She places it on the q?nsol’s chest and imagines a phantom hand reaching into the girl’s chest, then begins pumping the heart herself.
When the q?nsol gasps, her eyes flying open, Isabel nearly collapses in relief, a sob bubbling up in her chest. “I thought you were gone,” she croaks.
Sitting up straight and wiping her eyes, Isabel calls weakly, “Clean her up and remove this equipment. We need this place to be clean and sterile.” Then she sits there, momentarily confused, her vision swimming and thoughts a blur.
She must sway, because Sapphira asks, “Are you okay?”
Isabel nods, shaking herself into focus.
“I’m good,” she mumbles back. She turns to the commander, who looks stricken, his own face pale with fright.
“The medicine I gave shouldn’t cause shock or asphyxiation.
It should have worked. I did everything right.
” Her voice cracks, and she hates how weak she sounds.
I didn’t make a mistake, did I? she wonders. She never makes a mistake.
Isabel looks at Misehe, her voice hard. “Tell me again why you think the q?nsol has elven flu.”
“W-well,” the healer says. “She has all of the symptoms. She was in perfect health fourteen tides ago and suddenly dropped. Passed out where she stood. And it only got worse.”
“Does elven flu usually come on this quickly?”
The commander looks offended. “What’s with all of the questions?” Domhen snaps. “We have told you what is wrong. Are you saying you don’t know how to save her? In which case, forget it. I should strike you down here.”
Sapphira tenses as the commander raises its blade to Isabel, but Isabel doesn’t flinch. She raises her chin.
“You will not keep threatening me, Commander. That is the last time you do so. What I’m saying is I don’t think your q?ns has elven flu. Has anything changed in her routine? New food, new artifacts brought into the kingdom? Anything?”
Domhan shakes its head. “Not really. We had some guests—”
“Who?” Isabel demands to know.
The commander glares at her, unimpressed. “Royalty from an allied nation. The red elves stayed here for a week and left some gifts.”
“What kind of gifts?” Sapphira asks, pushing forward.
Looking offended, another guard steps forward too. “You aren’t suggesting our allies are responsible for this, right? Outrageous!”
“It might not have been purposeful,” Isabel says, her voice rising over the others. “It may be an allergen or disease brought accidentally.”
“It was only the customary clothes and weapons,” Domhen says.
Isabel hums. Something could have been contracted from the clothes, but she doesn’t know enough about elves, let alone red elves. “I’ll have to check for rashes,” she says. “If it’s the clothing, I’ll need a whole other set of treatments.”
“I already checked her,” Misehe says. “There were no such markings or discoloration.”
“It could have been overlooked or developed afterward. Either way, I must look.”
The guards turn away as their q?nsol is stripped down to her undergarments again, but this time, they do not leave the room.
Isabel grows more frustrated as she checks the eleven ruler’s skin and finds nothing.
It doesn’t help that elven skin is so different from what she is used to, so the signs could look different.
Deciding to try a final time with her magic, she moves her hands over the figure, searching for any oddity despite her energy being tapped. She gasps when she feels it, a tiny ping so small that she nearly misses it. A wound the size of a pinprick.
There’s a small dimple along the back of the q?nsol’s knee. Isabel can’t see it because of the queen’s pitch-black skin, but she feels it. The skin is raised and has a small indent in it.