Dog.
Less than a day later, Finn and I were working side by side in the smithy.
We weren’t speaking, but that was fine by me—I’d perfected ignoring him during our adolescent squabbles, so acting as if he didn’t exist came naturally.
Unlike at home, Finn couldn’t delegate the hardest tasks to me.
I secretly relished seeing him struggle with the assignments Red handed out, hoping his toil might make him realize just how much he relied on my skill.
The shift was tiresome, but my day was far from over. After nightfall, when the soldiers and knights retired to their dwellings, I’d a magical rendezvous planned.
As I headed to the bonfire with the rest of the men, Red clapped me on the back. “How are you such a great craftsman,” he said before placing a hand on Finn’s shoulder, “and your brother so average?”
Red cackled, though the frown on Finn’s face told me he found no humor in that remark. Every time Red praised my work, I savored the recognition while Finn seethed with resentment. Our relationship was already cracking, and my rising status in the smithy threatened to shatter it entirely.
When we arrived at the soldiers’ camp, Finn took a seat on the far side of the bonfire while I recouped with Bash and Fletcher. I sensed Finn’s gaze on me, likely envious of my newfound friendships.
“You should invite your brother to sit with us,” Bash said, his concern over our fractured relationship obvious.
I snorted, knowing Finn would rather sit among the kindling.
“Have you asked him how he’s coping with the news of your missing sister?” Bash continued, placing a comforting hand on my knee.
Guilt burned in my chest as he attempted to reassure me over nothing more than lies and misunderstandings, prompting me to slip my leg from his grip—I didn’t deserve his kind touch.
Bash sighed. “When my father disappeared, the support of my siblings got me through the darkest days.”
He couldn’t comprehend how siblings could be so cold to one another, but Finn and I had competed our entire lives—with him always having the upper hand.
This was the first time we were equals. Living as a man had finally allowed me to crawl out of my brother’s shadow and bask in the light, eclipsing him.
As the daylight disappeared, so did the men, withdrawing to their sleeping quarters. I never thought I’d envy someone resting on straw sacks, but I did. My heavy lids struggled to stay open, as if the sandman himself was sprinkling dust into my eyes.
“Smith,” Bash called, snapping me awake.
He tilted his head toward the woods, where Fletcher disappeared among the trees. I slapped my cheeks, forcing myself awake despite my exhaustion.
The earthy scent of the forest was a welcome change from the smell of burning coal. I trudged through the dead of night, with Bash and Fletcher following close behind, cackling at each other’s vulgar jokes.
Before long, I spotted Fitzroy leaning against a tree trunk, waiting.
“What hour do you call this?” he demanded, tapping his leather boot impatiently on the track.
“Witching hour,” I teased.
Fitzroy didn’t laugh; he simply marched through the trees, directing us toward the Anchor.
The journey through Cambas was quiet—the bushes rustled in the biting breeze, like their leaves were whispering secrets to one another. In the near distance, the sound of snapping twigs ground us to an abrupt halt.
“May the gods smite me now,” Fletcher muttered, puffing trails of smoke. “The Black Shuck.”
“Where?” I asked, desperate to see my furry companion. I feared her leg had turned gangrenous after the goblin attack, and no spell could save her now.
“There,” Fletcher whispered, pointing toward two amber lights.
I straightened, then crouched, peering between branches and trunks for Dog. Moonlight filtered through the frosty canopy, illuminating patches of the forest floor where two beads of orange flickered.
“How can you be certain?” Fitzroy asked, his gaze locked on the mounds of black fur crawling closer.
Fletcher clutched his cap, as if preparing to bolt. “I’ve seen the wanted posters,” he mumbled, inching backward.
“Ought we flee?” Fitzroy uttered.
“Yes,” Fletcher replied, darting toward the Anchor.
Bash and Fitzroy chased after him, but I was rooted to the spot—hypnotized.
“Smith, what are you doing?” Bash called over his shoulder.
I hesitated, creeping forward. What if there was more than one Black Shuck in Lyonesse—and this one wasn’t my companion?
Bash appeared beside me, his voice cautious as he murmured, “Do you wish to die?”
I shook my head, and then I heard it—a familiar, guttural growl. It was her. I hurried toward Dog, spotting her tufts of fur bathed in moonlight. I crouched and opened my arms. Dog approached slowly before collapsing into my embrace.
“Hund!” Dog, I cried as she feebly licked my face.
“Thou missen thee.” I missed you, I mumbled into the scruff of her neck.
As she panted, Dog bopped her snout against my hand. It felt rough and dry like the scales on a pine cone. Dread coiled in my gut—she was sick.
“Schew me.” Show me, I commanded.
Dog whined, reluctant, but obeyed. She turned to reveal her hind leg, and I gagged at the stench of her festering wound; a film of green pus coated her red-hot sores, while larvae writhed within small holes in her flesh. Dog craned her neck to gnaw at the fur near the injury, visibly agitated.
“Fitzroy!” I called.
Fitzroy edged closer as Bash knelt, hands open in silent assurance that he meant no harm.
“She needs help,” I cried, stroking Dog’s head.
“Is that the beast that killed the villagers in the Wetlands?” Bash asked, his widening eyes betraying his unease.
Dog growled.
“Don’t call her that,” I snapped, defending her. “Someone I trusted overheard me speaking in Yfelle. She threatened to expose me as a—” I hesitated, almost saying witch. “Wizard.”
I looked deep into Dog’s amber eyes. “I owe her my life.” My heart ached as Dog bowed her head dutifully.
“That’s why you were heading to the Walled City?” Bash pressed.
“Yes,” I replied, and he nodded slowly as he added another piece to my story.
“Did she kill your sister to protect you, too?” Bash whispered.
“No,” I said, offended by the suggestion. “Dog would never hurt Niamh.”
Dog barked as if agreeing.
Bash placed a compassionate hand on my shoulder. “It’s cruel how quickly lifelong friends can turn into enemies when they suspect magic resides in your palms.”
I nodded, grateful for his understanding, while his touch lingered—gentle and reassuring. He offered me a slight smile that lit up his kind eyes, bright enough for our gazes to meet in the low light of eventide.
The crunch of leaves tore me from Bash. Nearby, Fitzroy was approaching, while Fletcher kept his distance, leaning against the trunk of a tree and watching on.
Fitzroy cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Carpenter,” he said—his voice lower than usual.
After a slight hesitation, Bash stood, withdrawing his hand and his warmth, leaving my shoulder cold.
Fitzroy swiftly took his place, covering his nose and mouth to try to shield himself from the malodorous stench.
“Is this the creature that killed Avice?” he asked, sneering at the odor.
I nodded.
“I owe her my life, too,” Fitzroy remarked, though it was unclear if he was being sincere or jesting.
He held his hands over Dog’s injured leg, inhaling deeply through his nose before turning to me. “Would you like to cast the spell?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never practiced sorcery before.”
Fitzroy tutted, exasperated. “We’re trying to create an army of wizards to defend ourselves, and you’re too scared to perform a simple healing incantation?”
“I’m nervous that I’ll hurt her more,” I said, my fingers combing gently through Dog’s fur.
“You are smart—for a villager,” Fitzroy reassured me in his characteristically condescending manner. “I think you’ll manage to bewitch the dog’s leg.”
I shot him a glare, aware of his deliberate emphasis on the word “witch.”
Then, with a soft chuckle, Fitzroy took my hands in his.
They were softer than I’d imagined—no callouses, just smooth and supple.
Something stirred inside me—a tingle danced along the nape of my neck.
I shook off the sensation, certain it was the chill that made me shiver.
Fitzroy didn’t evoke that kind of reaction in me. I wouldn’t let him.
He placed his palms firmly on the backs of my hands and guided them over her wound.
“Focus on the fear you have for her life,” Fitzroy instructed, his gaze steady on Dog’s injured leg. “Embrace that longing for her to be better. Think about how much she means to you.”
I closed my eyes and ruminated in my feelings for my furry companion.
Fitzroy cleared his throat, signaling it was time. “Now, repeat after me—don’t forget to focus on your sentiment.”
I nodded slightly, letting him know I was ready.
“Closen hire wund, hiersum tou hattan. Halen hire flasc, hedan tou crafa.” Close her wound, obey my command. Repair her flesh, heed my demand, Fitzroy chanted.
I repeated the incantation word for word, my voice trembling with desperation for Dog to be healed.
A tear slipped down my cheek as the thought of losing her overwhelmed me. As if in response to my internal plea, Dog stretched her legs.
“Is she better?” Bash asked, his voice breaking the silence.
I didn’t need to answer. Dog leapt to her feet, placing her paws on my shoulders and licking my face. I laughed as her slobbery tongue tickled my skin.
Fitzroy grabbed my wrist and twisted it gently until my palm faced the stars.
“Remember to cover your hands after casting spells—at least until the stains fade,” he advised, tracing a finger along the purple mark blooming on my skin.
The nighttime chill tickled me once more.
“I’ll give you gloves when we’re back at the encampment,” he added.
I nodded, unease creeping in as I realized the physical manifestation of my magic made me more vulnerable.
Fitzroy sighed in relief. “Come on—if we don’t hurry, we’ll see sunrise before the Anchor.”