Chapter 6
Bassen veers from the paved road to the Wen, saying there’s a village around here somewhere—she can feel it. Torver hasn’t the energy to doubt her, but he still experiences mild surprise when she’s right.
The wagon crests a long, sloping hill to a settlement whose sign declares it Watenlath. One of the villages that dot the empty countryside, known only to those who live there. Or those who are fortunate enough to happen upon it—pulled there, as if by need.
Torver peers through the wooden slats at the collection of dry-stone dwellings.
They’re clustered like freckles at the foot of the hill beside a small tarn ringed by trees.
A small crowd of grey-headed villagers mill about between the houses; the place seems to be playing host to some minor festival or market.
A lone osprey watches the affair from the top of a tree, the charcoal band across its eyes making them appear all the beadier.
When the wagon jolts to a halt on the hilltop, Lavellin releases Torver’s hand.
He fights not to make some embarrassing sound at the resurgence of his pain, fresh and real once more.
Bassen turns from the driving seat, surveying him with a look of concern that she quickly buries under her practicality.
“Torver!” She announces his name like it’s a command. “We’ll go down there and see if there’s anyone with healing magic, yeah? There’s usually one or two stationed out in the villages.”
Torver nods grimly and glances at the battered Rath at his side.
Bassen lets out a low hum. “And if the healer seems trustworthy,” she adds reluctantly, “then we think about asking them to heal Lavellin too. Sound good?”
Bassen doesn’t wait for a response. She helps Torver to the ground like an elderly dog might be helped down stairs, instructing Lavellin to cover itself with the blankets on the wagon floor.
An order it begrudgingly obeys—but it makes a gasp of indignation when she roots around in her pack and procures a length of string that she throws in its direction.
“For your weird Rath ears.”
Lavellin exhales heavily before disappearing with the string underneath a thick blanket, arranging itself to look like a lumpy fabric consignment.
Arm once again braced over Bassen’s shoulder, Torver begins the long limp down to Watenlath. The ground is soft underfoot, but each step, padded by grass and spattered with the nodding heads of daisies, is agonising.
Luckily, it doesn’t take long before they’re spotted by concerned villagers. Two women with greying hair and a man with no hair at all wave at their visitors and walk slowly up the hill to meet them. Through a fog of pain, Torver is glad that they don’t know who Bassen is.
“We were gathering firewood and he fell into a badger sett!” Bassen hitches her voice to a panicked shrill. “Is there a healer here? I’ll pay anything! Anything for my brother!”
Torver grits his teeth as hands prod and rustle him. Gasps of horror at the sight of his bloody clothes and the wounds that pepper his ruined skin. He’s soon being carried by rough hands through the small crowd until an elderly woman shouts for him to be released.
Next thing, he’s being levitated above the stalls.
Above small figurines of carved wood, flagons of acorn wine, and fresh tarnfish decorated with wrought gill pins.
Torver tries to keep track of Bassen—this whole thing seems to have gotten away from her—but she’s hard to keep in sight, her white hair blending in with the crowd of grey heads.
Meanwhile, Torver’s being floated about shoulder-height, as if carried in the soft arms of the air. Except that it hurts without Lavellin’s touch. It hurts so badly and he’s only vaguely aware when voices call for someone called Carlyle.
Before Torver knows what’s happening, the leader of the throng is rapping on the door of a big grey cottage with fat, cracked knuckles. A young man with curly black hair opens up.
Bassen pushes through the crowd to get to him.
“Are you the healer?” She elbows her way through.
Carlyle looks at the expectant crowd and identifies his patient, convulsing in the air, dripping where the commotion has reopened his wounds.
“I certainly am! There’s no need to panic, my dear,” he announces in the accent of the Wen.
“I was sent here to administer to this retirement village and all who pass through it. I’m happy to help!
It’s nice to have something to do that isn’t arthritis and broken bones.
You’d be amazed how often these people fall over. ”
A light chuckle ripples through the crowd as the woman levitating Torver restores him to his feet. Carlyle tuts flirtatiously at a particularly ancient woman patting him on the arm and it is at that moment that Torver realises that everyone else who lives in this place is…old.
Except for one man, a blond man about Bassen’s age, stood back from the crowd and peering at her—and only her—with an inscrutable look on his face.
But before Torver can parse the situation, before he can even catch his breath, Carlyle is upon him. The healer crouches down and examines him, touching his wounds in the places that they sting. Torver winces, baring his teeth like a dog.
“I’ll be so grateful if you can help him!” Bassen insists. “He’s been eaten alive!”
Carlyle’s eyes widen at her words, clocking her accent.
“Beast below, you’re from the Wen too?” He exclaims. “You should have said! I’m from…”
He trails off, like something’s hit him.
A memory, gossip, the hearsay that invariably spreads around the four corners of the ancient city. The young woman with the white hair. The girl who mances death, and loves to do it. She’ll die if she doesn’t kill you.
Carlyle’s mouth shuts. His skin pales with the fading of his smile.
He turns to Torver and grips him hastily.
It’s agony and the air temperature rises around them for a moment.
Then Torver makes a horrendous moaning noise.
His eyes roll in his head as he feels his skin melting back into place, everything closing up, while he fights the intolerable instinct to writhe.
When it’s over, he lies there. Eyes wide, panting. The sudden absence of pain is like bliss washing over him.
Above, Carlyle’s showmanship has faltered.
His voice is shaky and simpering when he says to Bassen, “He’s fully healed. Was that okay? Is that—to your liking? I can do more if—”
The man’s smooth cheeks stain pink as he looks into Bassen’s bloodthirsty eyes.
“Of course, thank you so much!” Bassen’s voice is still pitched high. “You saved him—that’s so impressive!”
This elicits a small cheer from the crowd, but Carlyle’s eyes dart around. He takes a step back.
Torver stands up. He runs his hands up and down himself.
Nothing hurts at all and his mind is clear again. But instead of marvelling, he thinks of the fugitive at the top of the hill. The Rath who, while numb, is injured far worse than he was. What are the chances they could get Carlyle to heal it too?
“Thank you,” he tells the young healer. “I feel so much better now—you’re amazing!”
But the moment is lost when the man retreats closer to the safety of his home, eyes fixed on Bassen, like she’s a bear and not a shorter-than-average woman with bloodshot eyes.
“You should probably head back—shouldn’t you? You’re from the Wen. You’ll want to set off straight away if you want to get back before dark?”
The fear in his voice is unmistakable. It’s clear they can’t risk introducing him to Lavellin, even if it did save his life. If he’s scared of Bassen, he’ll definitely be scared of a Rath, and as a salaried healer, he’s likely to be well under the Citadel’s thumb.
Torver bites back his disappointment. They should leave.
“You and your brother, you should really get going. Don’t let me keep you!” Carlyle stammers.
He opens his front door and stands nervously aside its jamb.
Torver wants to make it right, wants to explain that Bassen is good and he doesn’t need to be scared. But Bassen wisely pulls him away with a grip that doesn’t burn like it would have moments prior.
She digs around in the pocket of her dress and pulls out two shining yan coins.
“I really can’t thank you enough—Carlyle, was it?” She tries to hand the coins to him, but he shirks away, stuttering.
“Ah…” Bassen’s smile drops. She glances at the crowd. “You’ve had a long day. We’ll leave you to it. Thank you again.”
Carlyle simpers his goodbyes, disappearing into his house. The door slam echoes over the tarn.
The crowd seems oblivious to what has happened and Bassen presses her coins into the hands of a woman with glassy eyes instead.
They say their goodbyes and walk toward the hill they came from. But Bassen goes slowly, as though through tall grass. Like something is keeping her.
Out of the nest of buildings at the side of tarn, they pass the man with golden hair hanging to his shoulders. The only other young person that they’ve seen in the village, aside from the healer.
Torver feels Bassen stiffen at his side, an expression on her face he’s never seen before. Her cheeks flush.
The man’s mouth curves upward slightly and his hand rises softly to his face, raking his fingers along the light-brown stubble there.
“Has he been staring at you this whole time?” Torver frowns, adjusting his blood-crusted sleeve.
Bassen stares back at the man. Frozen in place.
Torver presses his palm between the blades of her shoulders. He silently wonders why she seems so thrown, as if this is the first person who’s ever stared at her. Men can be such creeps, he thinks. If only this one knew what she could do. Then he’d be just as scared as that healer.
Instead, the man’s eyes rake over her and she seems to wilt under them. The day has knocked her as off-balance as it has him, it seems.
Torver threads his freshly healed arm through hers.