Chapter 12 #2
What was left of it. A dozen marker sticks were placed around the edges of the desolate field, breaking it into quadrants.
Although, enough time had passed that, if not for the markers, there wouldn’t be any distinguishing features to indicate separations at all.
A barren patch of hard-packed dirt suggested the placement of multiple structures, but only one long shack and the skeleton of another remained.
Lowe leapt clear of the shrubs, landing with enviable grace on the clearing’s level ground and springing over. He knelt in front of her, his hands deftly running over her scalp, her chest, checking front and back as he assessed her damage from stem to stern.
“I’ll live,” she said, wincing as he peeled the stained fabric from her right side.
“By the grace of Carram’s breath,” he muttered, naming the aspect of the wind. “Let’s get you inside and see if they’ve left any med kits around.”
“I can walk,” Calya said, taking his hand and hauling herself upright.
“Sure you can.” He stooped, one arm hooking under her legs, the other steadying her back as he lifted her off the ground. “But we’re not risking you trying and managing to break your leg.”
“Lowe!”
The corner of his mouth lifted with the hint of a smirk. “Don’t fight me, sweetheart.”
She hmphed, though more for her pride than anything else. Lowe was refreshingly solid, and now that she’d been off them for a moment, her feet added themselves to the tally of aches and pains. “So you’d prefer me docile instead?”
She liked the way his chest shook with a laugh. “We both know you don’t have it in you.” Much softer, murmured almost like an afterthought, he added, “But, no.”
The site looked as if it had been abandoned some time ago.
The remaining buildings, temporary construction that must’ve been deemed not worth the trouble of salvaging, were beginning to fall apart.
The shack’s sod-and-pole roof had developed holes, but it was mostly dry inside.
A few rudimentary desks and chairs were left behind, though all the chairs were broken.
Lowe set Calya down on the sturdiest of the remaining tables, then went off to rifle through drawers.
“Guess they haven’t used this place in a while,” she said, giving the building a critical look.
“See how the ground all around here is still bare? No weeds, nothing, even though there’s all that open space,” Lowe said as he picked through the remains of a medical kit.
“Enchantments still in the ground?”
“Maybe. For the size of this place, there must’ve been more equipment. People. They saved most of it instead of abandoning it like this thing.” He nodded at the shack.
Finding an old roll of bandages and cleaning lint, Lowe came back to where Calya rested. There was nothing but the water in the skin he carried for cleaning her wounds, but only the one on her side was somewhat deep. Nothing a mender back in town couldn’t right… once Calya managed to hobble back.
She didn’t fuss as he tended to her, quietly grateful to just sit and try not to flinch as he worked on her side.
“Thank you,” she said softly, looking down rather than meeting his eyes. “I’m not sure I’d have known how best to do this myself.”
“Always,” he murmured. “You never have to ask.”
There was a sincerity in his voice, in the way he spoke, that evoked a sense of yearning in her.
It made her want to fall into him and the inherent promise in those words with a reckless abandon that should’ve unnerved her.
They were feelings too much like sentiment, yet the part of her that was usually repelled by such things stayed quiet.
Lowe mashed a few herbs he’d taken from a pocket on his shoulder harness with some of the water, the pommel of his knife serving as a crude pestle. “Tell me something about yourself.”
Calya shook her head, chasing away the inexplicable feelings that had jumped on her moment of weakness. She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not a child. I don’t need to be distracted from the pain.”
“Humor me,” he said. “A piece of Calya Helm beyond the thorns.”
“Ah, a secret, then. One of my little-known facts.” She leaned toward him. “I admit, I’m not exactly what you would call outdoorsy.”
Lowe snorted. “I’d’ve never guessed.”
“Tell me something of you, then,” she said. “Your origins. You’re Valley-born?”
He shook his head. “The Fahr Squall, a long time ago. My family managed the pollination of particular stands of trees in the taiga for generations.”
“You have family in the Valley?”
Another shake of his head. “The Eyllic Empire would’ve taken a tacit interest in us, since the Emperor tracks all mages as potential threats.
But a diviner? Remaining in the Fahr Squall all but guarantees conscription.
I’ve been in the Valley over twenty years.
My family were living in the mountains near the border with Rhell, last I heard. ”
He spoke of the separation easily enough, as if it didn’t bother him. As if the Eyllic emperor’s obsession with others’ magic hadn’t forever altered the course of Lowe’s life.
Freedom or servitude—hardly a choice at all. A cruel twist for one whose gift was reading possibilities.
“Do you miss them?” she asked.
His hands stilled, and Calya wondered if she’d overstepped.
Broken some unspoken rule between them, asking something so personal when she’d hardly given him an equal-value answer.
They’d shared in each other’s bodies by mutual, unsentimental accord.
But now she asked for a piece of heart, and she found she cared more than she should for his answer.
“It’s easier this way,” he replied after a moment.
“Divining… it’s hard enough for me to read the wind.
It gives, but not unconditionally. Not without cost. And the more you push about an outcome—you remember how I mentioned bias?
You risk not reading the wind anymore but your own head.
Your own wants and worries, and that leads you astray.
But that’s a… difficult… concept even for a diviner to grasp, much less someone who only wants the benefits.
It can be hard to break from the wind, once you’ve had a glimpse of what it can do.
It’s hard to be content with only that.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” she said.
He looked at her, and though he didn’t speak, Calya could feel the turmoil stuck behind his clenched teeth. The hesitation struggling against a long-held wariness. Burdens and grief her gruff ranger hid behind an aloof stare.
She said nothing, either. But when she placed her palm against his cheek, he leaned into her touch, eyes closing.
“When we were still young, my little sister asked for my wind. I was in my teens then, and old enough to know better, but she kept nagging me. I was young and stupid. I caved.”
“Was she hurt?”
Lowe shook his head against her palm. “No, it was something good. Helped her win a silly bet against her friend, I think. I don’t really remember the start anymore, just how it went after.
Pain would’ve been better. It might’ve taught her something.
Been a warning for all of us. But no, a little win, it felt good.
Got her fixated. It hooked my whole family.
That’s the thing about the wind—it feels so good to be right.
To hold that power. Even if it’s for some small, stupid thing, it makes you feel invincible. ”
Calya’s fingers tensed at the anger that leached into his voice. Lowe’s hand came up to cover hers, holding it against his cheek as he met her eyes.
“They kept asking. For little things, of course. Predict the weather, best spot for work, which path would be fastest. People started noticing. Eyllic mage corps heard whispers, so we moved. I started saying no, but they’d ask for new things instead.
They were my family. Always small things, but it was never enough, and I started to fuck those up, too.
Couldn’t trust the wind anymore.” The bitterest smile in the world crossed his face. “You asked if I miss them, but I…”
“Leaving was the right choice,” Calya murmured. “I’m sorry you had to do it.”
His body shook with his exhale. “Long time ago.”
She leaned back on her hands, playfulness coming back into her tone as she said, “Of course, my advice is somewhat suspect, it coming from one without a heart.”
Lowe snorted, the somberness that had overtaken him receding. He scraped up a bit of the paste he’d made, which was now an icy blue color. “Breathe out when I apply this and try to relax.”
Calya watched him, her mind a tangle of thoughts she might say in response to what he’d shared. A shadow of sadness remained in his gray eyes. His pain was still so real, and that, she could respect.
She pointed her chin at the paste. “Is it going to hurt?”
“To quote the mender who taught me this, ‘you might feel some discomfort.’”
Calya hissed through clenched teeth as the paste touched her skin. It burned, though she couldn’t decide if it was hot or cold. She gripped Lowe’s shoulder, her breaths shaky though she tried to make them as measured as she could.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “Tougher than you— No, definitely as tough as you look.”
The burning sensation lessened, taking the deep ache along with it and leaving a numbness in its wake.
“Surprised?” Calya panted.
“I’ll admit, I don’t know what to make of you,” he replied, wrapping a bandage around her abdomen.
She eyed him warily. “Meaning what?”
“Oh, you are ambitious and reckless, that’s not up for debate.” His lips quirked with a small smile. “Hard to trust a woman who goes through your shit while you sleep. Who’s borderline obsessed with her work. For a company that doesn’t deserve how much she wants it. But…”
“But?”
“I don’t understand you.” His hands stayed at her waist, gripping her gently. “But I want to.”