Chapter Sixteen #2
“You’re not coming with me.”
“But—”
“No, Bria.”
The silence that ensues is the worst silence I’ve ever felt in my life, heavy with disappointment, taut with anger. My mother
stares at me, horrified.
I love my home. I want to stay. Rebuild and help the Three Corners become a proper village, just like Da and Grandda always
dreamed.
But the thought of parting ways with Titus fills me with such despair that bile rises in my throat and my face flushes hot.
Finally my mother whispers, “You’re going to leave me. I just got you back, and you’re going to leave.”
“Mama, I swore an oath,” I plead. “I didn’t know you were alive, or that our inn was still standing.”
Titus says, “I release you from your vow.”
“You can’t do that! A blood oath is binding for life!”
Ma launches to her feet. “You swore a blood oath? To a stranger?”
“He saved me! I was badly injured. Weak and starving. My family dead, my home gone.” Tears stream down my face. “I just wanted
to survive. I wanted to get strong again so I could go back and bury my sister. Without Titus I would have died. And he’s
been a good liege, Ma. He’s taken care of me.”
Ma sweeps up her bowl from the table and throws it into the fireplace. It crashes against the sooty stone, spilling stew that
burns instantly, filling the dining room with the scent of charred meat.
She doubles over in pain.
I rise from the table and rush to her. “Ma?”
She’s gasping, clutching her side. “Burns,” she says between breaths. “And a cracked rib that hasn’t healed right.”
“You’ve been working too much to heal,” I accuse.
“I’ve had to do everything alone,” she says pointedly.
A year ago, this kind of comment following her display of temper would have made me stomp away in a huff. But she has suffered
as much grief and loss as I have, so I settle for rolling my eyes. “Let’s get you to the bed,” I say, supporting her on the
way. “Rest while Titus and I clean up and do the evening chores.”
Ma lowers herself to the cot gingerly, mindful of her injured side. I unfold the quilt and drape it over her, tucking it in
around her chin. Exactly as she used to do for Anja and me when we were little.
“Dama Angarsold,” Titus says gently. He seems to have taken my mother’s temper in stride. “I have some small training in the
healing arts. Perhaps I could help?”
My hands on the quilt freeze. Does he mean to reveal himself? Or is he merely suggesting that he has the same knowledge of
wound care and herbs as any common village healer?
“What could you do that I haven’t done for myself?” Ma asks wearily.
“Yes, Bria told me you are a chamanja, so I assume you are also skilled in the healing arts. What have you tried so far?”
His tone is carefully unbothered. As though he knows he’s on shaky ground yet is determined to persist.
Ma stares up at me with a slight frown. I know this look. Why are my children so taxing? It makes me smile. Titus doesn’t know it yet, but Ma is failing to dislike him.
She says, “A salve of meadowflox for the burns, willow-bark tea for the pain. Been breathing steam from boiled aspen bark
for my throat and lungs.”
“That’s all good,” Titus says. “Exactly what I would have done. Do you have honey available?”
“Our hives burned. I have some pots stored in the cellar, but I’ve been saving them for guests.”
Titus nods. “A honey poultice might help your burns, especially if any are bleeding.”
“I did put a little in my tea the other day to soothe my throat,” Ma confesses.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Titus says, rising from his chair. “May I take a look?”
My mother stares at me, the question in her eyes.
“He was being modest,” I assure her. “He’s an accomplished healer.”
“Well, all right then,” she says.
I step away from the cot, and Titus kneels before her. He points to the hem of her shirt. “May I?” he asks.
“You may.”
Gently, he lifts the hem to expose her side, and I suck in my breath.
The bruise is massive, puffed up and sickly yellow at the edges, dark purple near to black at the center. Just below it, near
her hip bone, is a nasty burn, the skin melted into a cauliflower lump with bits of exposed rawness.
“Ma!” I exclaim. “That’s not just a rib!”
“Eh,” she says. “It’ll be fine. Just needs time.”
Titus looks up at me, and I see it in his eyes: It will not be fine. Not without his intervention.
“Dama Angarsold,” he says, “I need to address this right away. Can you close your eyes for me, please?”
“Close my eyes? Why? What are you going to do that’s so awful you don’t want me to see—”
“Ma, he’s worthy of your trust,” I say.
She breathes deep through her nose. Looks back and forth between Titus and me. Finally she closes her eyes.
Titus takes her hand and lifts her knuckles to his forehead. I’m not sure what this does for him. Maybe it helps him see the
damage better? Connects him with his patient?
“Oh,” Ma breathes. “Oh, my.”
Titus’s grip on my mother’s hand tightens. His eyes squeeze tighter. Sweat breaks out at his temples.
“Oh, sweet holy moons, what are you doing? It’s like my skin is—”
“Hush, Ma. Let him work.”
It seems to take forever. I throw more wood on the fire. I light the candle sconced in the wall. I dip up an extra serving
of stew for Titus; when he’s done, he’ll need it.
At last Titus releases Ma’s hand. He rises to his feet but sways unsteadily. I move to his side and help him back into the
dining chair. I shove the bowl of stew in front of him and order him to eat, which he does—slowly and wearily, but with determination.
Ma stares up at the ceiling.
I lift the hem of her shirt and peek at her wounds.
The contusion is just as purple as before, but the swelling has subsided.
The burn is still there too, but the flesh is a much healthier pink.
I’m not sure what Titus did exactly, but Ma is breathing easier, and she seems to be sinking into the mattress of her cot instead of hovering stiff as a board.
“Bria,” Ma whispers, still blinking up at the ceiling. “He has a royal Gift. Your Titus is that Titus.”
“You’ve heard of him?”
She makes a sound that’s either a snort or a laugh. “I’m an innkeeper; I’ve heard everything. He’s Princess Serith’s boy.
Disappeared last year, not long after his betrothal announcement.”
“Well, he reappeared.”
“You picked yourself quite a liege lord.”
“No one picked anything. It just happened.”
From the table, Titus pipes in with, “Dama, I’m still very new to healing, and I didn’t want to overtax either of us. You’re
not bleeding inside anymore, but your body still has work to do. You should get as much rest as possible for the next two
weeks.”
“Boy, I have an inn to run and—”
“At least the next two weeks,” he says firmly. “Or you’ll undo all the work I’ve done. Think of it as a royal command, if it helps.”
“I’m a Grimsvolder. I’m not beholden to you.”
“Please, dama.”
She glares. “Yes, my lord.”
He sighs. “Bria calls me ‘my lord’ when she’s trying to irritate me.”
“I call him that a lot,” I add.
My mother’s gaze on me turns thoughtful. She presses her lips into a line and harrumphs, as though reaching a conclusion.
She says, “Bria, I need you to call the chickens back to their coop and feed them.”
I hesitate.
“Now.” Ma is getting rid of me to speak with Titus alone.