Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Owain arrived back at the palace shortly before supper.
He had Chrys send word to the Edamish nobles that they would be meeting later that evening to discuss the state of the king’s army.
He was hoping he could sneak over and see Orla before the meeting.
Owain had missed her today, though he wouldn’t acknowledge those feelings to anyone.
Least of all himself. He simply thought that he wanted to check in.
She had seemed so on edge when he left her this morning, and he wanted to make sure she was okay.
He also wouldn’t mind picking up where they had left off in the gardens yesterday.
But when he knocked on her door, she wasn’t there.
After bathing and having his supper, Owain realized that for the first time in weeks, he had a little time on his hands, so he retrieved his drawing supplies from his chest. He hadn’t finished his drawing of Orla that he had started weeks ago and wanted to work on it.
If he couldn’t see her, the next best thing was to draw her.
He settled himself back on the balcony overlooking the gardens when his blood turned to ice.
A small bouquet of wildflowers lay discarded in a dark puddle that reflected the moonlight.
It was darker in the garden than usual. But Owain quickly realized that the dark puddle was blood.
His heart stopped at the realization, and time ceased to have meaning.
At once things moved faster than he could comprehend and more slowly than he ever thought imaginable.
The blood was coming from Orla, but she wasn’t alone. A cloaked figure was straddling her as she crawled away. Owain screamed as he saw the person drive their dagger into Orla’s back. In an instant, he was moving. Chair knocked back, drawing discarded, he ran for the door.
He had to get there. He felt frantic with a drive to get to her.
What if he was too late? What if she couldn’t defend herself?
Part of him knew that was foolish. She was a decorated war hero and more than capable in a fight.
But from what he saw from his balcony, she had been caught unawares, and he knew she was likely unarmed.
Passing by curious onlookers, Owain raced out of the palace and towards the gardens.
Once outside, he screamed Orla’s name as he saw her stab her attacker over and over again before her hand went limp.
“Orla!” he screamed again, fear searing through him.
She had to be alive. Running to her side, Owain was shocked by how much blood had seeped into the ground beneath her.
Hers or the attackers, he couldn’t tell.
Shoving the attacker off her, Owain placed his fingers over the pulse in Orla’s neck.
Her heart was still beating, but it was faint and erratic.
As if she weighed less than nothing, he lifted Orla off the ground and cradled her to his chest. He kissed her head, noting how clammy her skin felt, as he ran back towards the palace.
If he thought he had made a spectacle running through the palace to get to her, it was nothing compared to the way he looked racing back to his room with a bloody and unconscious Orla in his arms. He rushed up the palace stairs towards his room, vaguely aware that Lords Calix and Patrin watched him carry Orla with tenderness that revealed his affections for her.
Nor did he note the way the two slunk into Lord Patrin’s rooms as he rushed past into his own.
Kicking the door open, Owain hurried from the parlor into the bed chamber, placing Orla down on his bed, not caring that she was covered in blood and dirt. He rarely healed anyone with injuries this severe, except for himself, but he had to try. He couldn’t let her die.
Forgetting about the fact that his whole plan in Imsil was for Orla to pay for her crimes against his kingdom, he set to work.
Her light blue dress was ripped and stained with blood.
There were cuts along her arms and a deep gash on her thigh that would need his attention.
He also sensed that several of her ribs were broken.
Turning her onto her stomach, he examined her back.
Three deep gashes ran along her back. The largest of them had definitely hit one of her lungs, her breathing making a wet rattling sound anytime she inhaled.
Owain focused on the fatal wounds first, placing his hands on her damaged skin before opening the gates of his power.
Lost in focus, he hadn’t realized Chrys had entered the room. “What happened?” he asked, looking from Owain to Orla, eyes wide with shock.
“I don’t… I don’t know. She was attacked. Out in the gardens.”
Chrys darted over to the balcony and looked at the gardens while Owain continued his ministrations.
It took longer than he would have liked, but slowly, the damage to her lungs and back started to heal.
The rattling breaths became more even as he worked.
He began working on the other back wounds.
These ones were shallower than the first and healed more quickly.
When he got to her ribs, exhaustion was beginning to overtake him.
It was rare for Owain to heal another person, and he had never been particularly good at it.
Healing Orla’s small cut in the forest had been easy, but here he was needing to mend organs and bones.
And that didn’t account for the blood loss, which he could do nothing about except pray to Jove, Amara, and any God that would listen that she could survive this.
Making his way to the cut on her thigh, he sobbed.
He hadn’t even realized that his face was wet with tears.
It had been so long since he had cried that the action felt foreign to him as if he were occupying the body of another.
She was so still, her body icy, instead of her usual warmth.
Though it taxed him, he used his other magic to warm the room.
The results being that he was too depleted to heal the slice on her forearm.
Chrys returned to his side, helping him bandage the bleeding wound. Next, he filled a basin of water, placing it on the bedside table.
“Get a healer,” Owain said, his voice rough with emotion. With one hand clutching Orla’s, Owain began to wash the blood away from Orla’s face. He kissed her bloody hand over and over again, willing her to be okay.