Chapter Two
The Wastes
Consciousness came like a slap.
Iris jerked, not physically, no, she was better trained then that. But suddenly awake and aware, waiting for another blow. The price of failure, of the Bonded’s disapproval.
But there was only silence within her mind…an endless emptiness.
With mental fingers, she reached…into…nothing. Startled, she caught her breath, gasped, as terror swept through her.
The Bond was…gone.
Iris thrashed, reaching out with her actual hands, seeking the restraints that she’d known all her life. Pain sliced through her. She struggled to open her eyes, breath stuttering in her chest as every hurt made itself known.
“Be still,” came a harsh female voice from her left, enough like the Bonded to make Iris pause. The sound echoed off a wall. A small chamber, then. Instinct said to roll, to move, to get distance from the threat, but even tensing her muscles brought agony.
“Easy,” a clear male voice said. Bodies shifted in the space around her.
Iris grimaced against the pain, pushing the fear away, trying to lift a hand to her eyes, to pry them open. She was easily stopped by warm fingers around her wrist, a grip that she was too weak to resist.
“Let us,” the female voice commanded. Iris stilled in obedience, to be rewarded with cool water dripped on her eyes, just enough to ease the gumminess of her lids. A cloth followed, soft and gentle, wiping her eyes and drying the trails down her cheeks.
Iris blinked, breathing hard, vision clearing. A stone ceiling, dry cool air, two targets hovering over her. A blanket covered her, rough on her bare skin. She planned for attack, even as she searched within for the Bonded’s command.
Silence.
There had never been silence before.
Pain she could ignore, but silence? Iris froze, trying to make sense of it. The lack, the absence. The fear was building. This was unknown and terrifying…
“We had given you something for the pain but allowed it to wear off enough that we can speak with you,” The male was talking, sounding strong and calm. “Do you remember what happened?”
Iris licked her lips; her throat was dry and rough. She managed a slight shake of her head, the barest indication of no.
“Ah,” the male said. “You fell a great distance and are badly injured.” He hesitated, then went on. “You are in the Wastes, in a lodge of the Marcusi.”
Iris tried not to react but her eyes went wide enough that the man nodded. “Yes. No friend to the Wyverns, or so they would have it. We know of you as well, Bondmaiden, but not your name.”
Iris shifted slightly and the pain welled up again, swamping her senses.
“Stop moving,” the female commanded. “I’ve spent hours stitching you up, setting bones and pouring my elixirs down your throat. You’re gonna hurt, girl, with deep bruising, not to mention blood loss.” She was brisk and to the point. “Your healing will be slow and hard.”
Iris frowned, trying to think, to focus.
The woman put a cup to her lips. “A few sips, no more.”
“I am the Liam of the Marcusi,” the male said as Iris sipped from the cup. He was kneeling on the dirt floor next to her pallet. There was just enough light to see his face, worn and tired. “This is Jillia, Elder Healer.”
As a name, Jillia sounded young and light-hearted, but the woman was wizened and wrinkled, with skin like old, browned leather. No light-heart here, she looked like she’d swallowed something sour.
“It is the way of our people to offer mercy to one injured as badly as you.” The Liam said. “So we offer choice. Do you want to walk this path? Or request mercy at our hands?”
Iris frowned, staring at the man, confused. Choice? What was that? She knew the word, but… And want? That is not…she is not supposed to want. She is supposed to be told. She is supposed to obey.
What was she supposed to do now?
The Liam held her gaze, calm and quiet. “The decision is yours.”
She struggled to find words, an answer, reaching within for something to tell her how to feel, how to respond, what to do…but all was silent. Empty.
She looked at the man, feeling lost. “I don’t know,” she rasped.
“Which to choose?” he asked.
“How,” she breathed in shame. “I don’t know how.”
The Liam nodded slowly, exchanging a glance with Jillia. But he didn’t mock, didn’t scoff. “Not choosing is a choice in itself.”
“And that’s enough of this,” Jillia announced. “I’ve a sleep posset here, and you’ll drink that down and be done with this talk.”
“For now,” The Liam nodded in agreement. “The elements preserved you, and we will do so as well.”
Iris sighed and closed her eyes. She drank what was put to her lips eagerly.
She didn’t feel safe. Her inner self kept reaching for something that was always there and was now not there, and it hurt her heart.
The potion was soothing to her throat and soon a cloud of forgetfulness rose in her mind.
Her awareness, her pain, her fear, all went fuzzy and distant.
She was content that it would be so. There was nothing to force her to do otherwise. No restriction, no constraint, no confinement.
No…Bond.
The Liam waited in the outer hall as Jillia saw to her patient. He reached within his tunic and pulled out the glass vial that he had taken from Vren’s body. The contents were reddish-brown and crusty. Like the old, dried blood it was.
He tucked the vial away as Jillia emerged from the room.
“Well, that went well,” Jillia growled as she passed him. “Didn’t even share her name. No trust there.”
“Rightfully so, don’t you think?” the Liam responded as he followed her down the tunnel. “Skies know what she’s been told.”
“I still say this is a waste of our resources,” Jillia groused. “We’ve no reason to spend precious food and water on the likes of that one.”
“The elements preserved her,” the Liam said mildly. “So we will.”
“Humpf.”
There was no good response to that, so the Liam stayed silent.
Jillia led the way, through the winding tunnels, to another chamber. One of the wider ones, because of the space needed. While the healer went to a table for supplies, the Liam knelt beside another pallet. “Dust?” he called softly.
There was no response from the lovely woman lying there, covered in blankets, still and silent, her chest moving with the barest of breaths.
“Fewer broken bones,” Jillia said, her harsh voice softened with care. “And no, I am not going to rouse her, not for your questions, not for—”
“Peace,” the Liam said. “I would not ask you to. My questions can wait.” He pulled the vial from his tunic. Bright red blood sloshed within.
“Now, how is that,” Jillia breathed. “That the wastes restore her, strips her of magic, yet allows for blood memories.”
“Who can say,” the Liam tucked the vial away. “Except that blood is life. And as she lives, perhaps the blood flows.”
“You think she can speak of the Warborn?” Jillia asked.
“Vren told us that he was given the memories by Queen Kara. If Dust was with him, if the magic works for her,” the Liam shrugged. “That is my hope.” He turned to survey the rest of the room. “What of the others?”
Scattered about, on heaps of bedding or straw, were all the creatures that they had found lying around Dust’s human form. Muzzled and hobbled, they all lay in a stupor.
The Marcusi and the Vore of Athelbryght had forged connections over the years, brought together when one of the Chosen had married into the Blood of Xy.
The Liams had always understood that the vore were magical constructs, created through blood magic.
But it was one thing to know and another to see for oneself.
The bear was understandable, as was the wolf. A feline of a type that the Liam didn’t recognize; an owl, not that vore could fly. He assumed it had something to do with vision. He didn’t understand the flat-tail, but those creatures with their dams of wood and mud were persistent and determined.
But the one that seemed like a deer, but so much larger, with horns that were flat and wide and reminded him of the old pictures of ehats, that had been a shock.
It had taken six of the strongest to bring it within the lodge, and its antlers had scraped the walls as it was carried.
But none of them could be left in the Wastes as they were, easy prey for the taking.
Now they all lay sprawled, unmoving and unknowing, just barely breathing, the same as Dust. It was…disturbing. Unsettling. The Liam gazed around the room, then looked at Jillia. “Are they well?”
Jillia glared. “As well as can be expected, given that any injuries would be outside my skill.” She paused. “Have you noticed?” she asked. “They breathe in unison with Dust.”
He hadn’t noticed, but he did now. “Skies help us if one wakes before she does.”
“I’ve no fear of that.” Jillia grimaced. “They breathe, but do not eat or drink or shit or pee, and I’ve noticed that their throats move when I give water to Dust. They seem suspended, somehow. No injuries that I can see or feel. Not that I would know how to care for them if they were hurt.”
Her worry was reflected in her tone and eyes. The Liam nudged her with his shoulder. “Always good to stretch yourself against the challenges the elements send us.”
That earned him a glare and a poke in the ribs from his old tentmate, one of the few that remained.
“Why don’t you go off and be the Liam and leave me to do my tasks.” Jillia growled. “Or do you plan to supervise?” The glitter in her eyes made it clear what would happen if he tried.
Healers. The Liam lifted his hands in mock surrender.
Worry returned to Jillia’s face. “Our people do not thrive, Oskander.”
The shock of his old name made him pause.
“And that is my challenge,” he said, bowing his head to her truth. Then he straightened and smiled. “Send word if there is a change.”