Chapter Fourteen #3
The condor shudders with a dying breath. She’s as big as a carriage. One wing splays awkwardly, stretching across the road away from her broken body. A breeze ruffles her belly, revealing shimmery amethyst on the underside of her black feathers.
Titus drops to a knee beside her. She snaps at him with her giant curved beak, but he avoids her easily.
“He wants to help you,” I say to the condor, and she quiets.
I have my doubts. Titus has just demonstrated his shape-shifting Gift. Another royal Gift! Is his magical well truly so deep that he can heal a dying creature too?
Titus’s eyes are closed, and he places a hand on her chest. She twitches but makes no effort to attack.
“Maybe eat something first?” I say, not that anyone could eat on a battlefield like this. “The cost to you must be . . .”
“No time,” he says. “An arrow tore up her belly. Tell her to be still.”
I do, and the great bird becomes motionless. No wonder these gloves were hidden away. I have the power to command monsters
now. Would they be as effective on any creature? A human? The Suratian woman refused to answer my questions when I had them
on. Maybe I’ll try it on Apple and Black—
The condor keens, high and loud, digging her talons against the dirt. I know exactly what the bird is feeling—a magical burn
that hurts ecstatically.
“Keep her still!” Titus warns. “I must heal her wing now.”
“Everything is going to be fine, beautiful girl,” I assure the condor. “Please don’t move.”
She gives a tiny, baby chirp, completely at odds with her size and fearsomeness, as Titus grasps her broken wing.
“This will hurt,” he says. “I must set the bones before I can heal them. I suppose I could move them with magic—healing is all about moving things around—but I don’t know that I have enough strength left.”
“Maybe this is a bad idea . . . ,” I begin, but Titus cuts me off.
“She helped us. We owe her.”
“I don’t disagree. But I’m not willing to lose you to Gift-starvation.”
He frowns. “Warn her about the pain.”
I sigh, feeling guilty for my gladness. It’s irresponsible of both of us, to let him use so much magic. But after everything
I’ve just witnessed, surrounded by such gruesome death, it gives me comfort to know Titus is willing to risk himself for a
mere bird. To the condor, I say, “This is going to hurt, sweet girl. Be brave and keep still. Then you can fly back to your
nest as strong as ever.”
The air shifts, becomes wavy like heat rising from granite on a sunny summer day. And then it’s done. The condor squawks and
scrambles to her feet; Titus recoils just in time to miss her talons. She takes a few experimental hops, then rises into the
sky on massive, healthy wings. The condor circles above us twice, then flaps her way toward the highest Spires.
Titus falls over onto his side.
“Titus!” I yell, rushing toward him.
“I’m fine,” he says, though his voice is barely audible. “Need a moment. And maybe a piece of jerky.”
Apple and Blackwind are nowhere to be seen, but one of the assassins’ horses remains, casually gnawing a clump of grass on the side of the road.
Two saddlebags are intact. I yank them from their saddle hooks and spill the contents.
I don’t find any jerky, but several carrots tumble out. I grab one and offer it to him.
“Even better,” he says, and starts munching, still lying on his side.
I stare at him a moment, not sure how to help him further.
“I said I’m fine,” he assures me. “While I’m eating, you could see if the Deathsworn have anything worth scavenging. We could
use a tent. And a saddle for Apple.”
“Our horses?”
“Blackwind will wander back when he feels safe. Apple will probably follow.”
I’m glad to have something to do, even if it means touching dead bodies—again. I guess I’m a grave robber now. What would
my mother say?
Eviscerated bodies are disgusting. They smell disgusting. One in particular, I can’t bring myself to touch. I do my best to
search everyone while averting my gaze from blood and offal and jutting bone.
We did this, Titus and me. With the aid of the condors. I find I can’t distinguish between the rending of talon and claw;
it’s all equally monstrous.
I don’t find a tent, but I scrounge up a few Suratian coppers, half a loaf of bread, a small bag of oats, and wonderfully,
the remaining horse’s saddle and saddle blanket for Apple. No more riding bareback.
By the time I’m done, I’ve never wanted a bath so badly in my whole life. I know deep down that I could scrub for days and
never feel clean, but it would be a start.
Titus is on his feet now, though a bit wobbly. “Should we burn the bodies?” he asks, surveying our small, already stinking battlefield. He has that bereft look again, like he’s too full of regrets for someone his age.
He hates killing, I realize. I do too; I suppose any decent human would, but he’s a healer, by designation of the gods themselves, and every life he takes must chip away at his soul. No wonder he was compelled to
help the condor.
“We can burn them if it will make you feel better,” I say. “But we could also leave them as a gift for our carrion friends
who helped us. They are very good at cleaning up messes.”
He brightens. “Yes, good idea. Now let’s find our horses.”