Chapter 23 Tiana
Iwoke with a slow, aching struggle.
I’d been in a drug-induced sleep for more than fifteen hours, and it hurt to move.
The compartment below the cart where I’d been stored like sacks of grain allowed just enough room to roll over and stretch out, but there were no pads or blankets.
Days of bouncing against the hard wood had battered me in places even a Healer wouldn’t think could bruise.
Thankfully, we had left behind the frigid mountain air, which had been replaced with autumnal notes of warm sun and only hints of coolness on the breeze.
The sickly-sweet drug they gave me kept me knocked out for all but an hour or two each day.
My head swam during waking moments, still clouded by the powerful liquid.
In a strange way, I was thankful for the drugs.
They kept me from the uncontrollable fear I felt on that first night of my captivity.
I couldn’t imagine being lucid and making such a long journey trapped in the bottom of a rolling coffin.
I lay on my back, searching for a crack in the boards wide enough to see through.
If I craned my neck just right, I caught the bottom of a boot or robe.
I had better luck when rolling onto my right side.
The slats of the side wall were not as tightly fitted as those of the top, granting a slim view of the passing landscape.
Gone was the smell of pine and steep slopes.
Now, all I could taste were fields of grass and wildflowers, all I could see were flashes of lush green meadows and fields of gold.
One of the first things a new Healer was taught was to never Heal one’s own wounds.
The magical theory behind that sacred rule claimed that the Light of a person could not be “folded onto itself.”
Doing so would create a magical collision that would injure the Healer rather than repair what ailed them.
Five days in a bouncing wooden box convinced me to test that theory. I wanted to ease the pain of my bruises, not actually Heal anything. I hoped such a distinction mattered to magic.
I placed a palm over my arm and closed my eyes. Light sputtered at my call, inhibited by the sleeping draught. I pushed harder, and it brightened enough for me to send a trickle into my aching muscles.
“Oh, Holy Spirits,” I cried.
The bolt of searing heat that shot up my shoulder was magic’s reprimand for breaking the rules. Tears welled in my eyes until the drug forced me back into a fitful sleep.
There would be no Healing.
I woke sometime later. The shock of my failed Healing had somehow cleared my head, giving me time to think—something I wasn’t entirely sure was a blessing.
I’d replayed my capture a hundred times, blaming myself for walking alone at night or not fighting harder .
. . or a million other things I could’ve done.
My throat clenched as terror took hold, and I relived the feel of rough, angry hands grasping and stuffing me into the cart’s bed.
Then my mind drifted to my escape in the mountains.
Fear mingled with desperation—and a sliver of hope—as I ran through the woods, stumbling to find protection in the wilderness.
I saw the Ranger—Donny, yes, that was his name.
His face was fuzzy in my mind, but I could still see his smile so clearly.
He’d coaxed me from my hiding place and taken me to the safety of his station. He’d been so kind.
His chivalry had been his undoing.
When sounds of furniture crashing jarred me awake, Donny lay bleeding across the room, arrows protruding from his chest, and a look of pain and sadness marring his gentle face.
He’d died for me.
He’d died for nothing.
The bastards who’d killed him recaptured me and continued their journey as if nothing had ever happened.
Hopelessness and guilt flowed through me, and tears fell.
Then I felt guilty for feeling guilty.
That made me laugh.
My father had raised a proud, strong, self-sufficient woman who didn’t need to feel sorry for herself. When he’d died, it had been my strength that had kept his practice running, my resourcefulness that had convinced the guilds to grant me a building in the center of town for an infirmary.
What was I thinking?
Sure, I’d been kidnapped, drugged, and hauled to another country in a wooden box, but I could find a solution. I had to find a solution.
Think, Ti, think!
I gathered my resolve and wiped my eyes. I would figure a way out of this mess.
Then he popped into my head.
I pressed my hands to my face, rubbing my eyes to focus, but Keelan’s brilliant blue eyes still stared back at me. In my mind, he smiled, and I shivered. I saw him walking across the parade grounds of the Guard Complex in his crisp blue uniform, so tall, so strong, so . . . perfect.
C’mon, Ti. Stop that. He’s not here to save you. You’re gonna have to do that yourself.
But there he was again, stumbling through my infirmary door with goofy Ridley under his arm. Ridley’s visits to my infirmary over the most trivial injuries were comical. His pretending to be in excruciating pain was even more so.
A woman knows when she’s being flirted with.
Spirits, a rock could’ve seen Ridley coming.
It was flattering and sweet, and he was cute, but Keelan was something else altogether.
He filled a room simply by walking through the doorway, and not just from his massive frame and equally massive muscles.
He had a presence that drew every eye, an air of command that made people want to follow him.
I couldn’t explain it, but his magic lay not in any Gift but in his warmth and often awkward charm.
And then he’d smile, and the world would tilt.
He didn’t mean for it to. He wasn’t even trying to flirt or impress. Perhaps that made it more endearing.
What was it about Keelan that caused my heart to flutter and my head to swoon?
He was so serious most of the time, almost to the point of being morose. Then, out of nowhere, he’d crack a joke or say something sweet . . . or just smile. He captured me more with that smile than anything the masked men could ever do.
I gave up attempting to concentrate and opened my eyes to peer through the crack at the passing fields.
In different circumstances, with different company, this would’ve been a wonderful adventure.
I’d always wanted to travel; though, the bottom of a cabbage cart had never been my preferred mode of transportation.
The cart slowed.
I could make out a house off the road, surrounded by farmland. A few cows and a large wiry dog wandered in a fenced field nearby.
It reminded me of home.
The cart pulled to a halt, and an old man in rough clothes hobbled out of the house, wandering in and out of my sliver of a view.
The man in the bull mask hopped down to meet him.
I couldn’t hear what was said, but the farmer motioned around behind the house.
A moment later, the cart was moving again.
We pulled into a large barn I couldn’t see from the road.
A chill streaked down my spine as wooden doors squealed in their grooves and slammed shut.
A few moments passed before the cover to my prison was lifted, and dim light flowed across my face.
The figure with the snarling wildcat mask helped me out and steadied me when I wobbled.
“It’ll take me a minute to clear my head and get my legs under me. First Class isn’t what it used to be.” I’d decided to try to charm the beasts since nothing else had worked.
The man didn’t speak, but his eyes grinned at my quip.
I glanced around the unremarkable building and found it similar to ones in my corner of the world.
All barns were the same, it seemed. A few stalls for horses and a large pen for smaller animals were lined with old blankets nailed to the walls in preparation for winter’s arrival.
The opposite side was filled with bales of hay, stacked neatly to the bottom of a landing that wrapped around the structure, forming an upper level.
The smell of sweet feed, the musk of animals, and the tang of dung thickened the barn’s air.
Before I had time to look for exits, the bull approached. He held a sharp-looking knife before him. I tried to stagger back, but the wildcat held me firmly.
Panic flooded my body.
“Stop squirming,” the bull rasped as he sliced through the ropes binding my hands.
I rubbed life into the angry marks that scored my wrists. It felt good to be free of my bonds, but I doubted that would last.
The wildcat led me to a set of rickety stairs and motioned for me to climb.
Several thick pallets lay on the floor beside a wooden table and chairs, while brass lanterns with glass faces cast a warm glow on the small nook.
My stomach grumbled at the smell of seasoned meat that wafted from the table.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten a proper meal.
I startled when a frail voice spoke from a darkened corner.
“Please sit, Mistress. I’ll take care of those wounds.”
The gaunt form of an ancient woman shuffled into the light. Her back was bent, and she wore the brown robe of the Children but no mask. Several strands of colorless hair fell into her milky eyes. She swatted them back in annoyance.
“I usually keep this mess in a bun, but we didn’t expect ya till the morning. Sorry for lookin’ such a mess, Mistress.” She offered a rusty curtsey.
I stared, baffled.
The woman reminded me of a kindly old grandmother—but she wore the robes of my captors. My mind told me to be wary, but my heart had run out of fear.
I tilted my head. “Why do you keep calling me Mistress?”
The wildcat stepped between us and glared down at the old woman. He shook his head once and stepped back to the railing to observe.
“Sorry, Mistress. That’s not for me to answer. Come, let me look at ya. Ya must be starvin’. I scraped together some chicken and veg. Sorry, there’s nothin’ more tonight.”
I sat where the old woman motioned and scanned the table. My stomach wasn’t shy and made its thoughts known again.
The woman shuffled around and kneeled beside me, wincing as her aged knees reached the floor. She shook her head. “Used to run for days. Now kneelin’ feels like a trip over a mountain. Don’t get old, Mistress, whatever ya do.”
I gave her a tight smile but said nothing.
I wanted to like the woman, but how could I like anyone who helped keep me captive?