10. Chapter 10
Leona’s babe had come screaming into the world with a final push and a good amount of swearing from her mother. It had been a textbook labour and delivery, and Isla had been pleased to present the new parents with the most perfect little girl, a thick cap of brown hair that matched her father’s.
Luke had backed into the kitchen as Leona had brought the babe to her breast, the conflict on his face as tears rolled freely down his cheeks cleaving Isla’s heart in two. Abruptly she had risen, rifling through her bag for the last of the cotton she used for binding wounds.
“Is she okay?” Luke asked in confusion, as Isla approached him.
“She’s perfect,” Isla assured him, gently turning Luke away from her and placing the cotton over his nose and mouth.
She tied it hastily at the base of his neck.
“It isn’t a perfect solution, so you should still be cautious.
Always keep it snug around your nose and your mouth.
But you can hold her. You can be with them.
” She nodded to where Leona sat, brow damp with sweat and gazing in wonder at the small fingers that gripped her thumb with astonishing strength.
Luke hadn’t needed to be told twice, crossing the room to his family in three long steps. Leona tore her tear-filled eyes from her daughter to meet Isla’s as she whispered, “Thank you.”
Thirty minutes later, Isla relished the feel of the cool earth between her fingers and under her nails as she dug through the forest floor on her hands and knees.
She surveyed the herbs she’d harvested — goldenroot for reducing fevers and staving off infection, silverleaf for making poultices to reduce inflammation, moonshade to aid with sleep, and of course, the willowbark to address the cough running rampant through the village.
She frowned at the sage she picked sparingly now.
Willowbark tea was most effective as a cough suppressant when mixed with the sage, which helped to soothe sore throats and reduce swelling, but the herbs were fast going dormant.
Sage was a hardy perennial that usually thrived well into the autumn when the air turned brisk.
But now it wilted, leaves dry and curling.
Setting aside her meagre harvest, Isla sighed and decided at last to acknowledge the looming presence lingering in the trees behind her.
"I know you’re lurking over there," she called casually over her shoulder, wiping her hands off on her apron.
The fae warrior stepped out of the shadows, arms folded across his chest. She turned to face him.
She hadn’t really noticed just how big he was before.
The fae were typically tall, and he was no exception.
Broad shouldered, dark haired and light eyed — it was a striking contrast. His skin wasn’t quite as dark as the majority of those who dwelled in Rowanmere, but he was deeply tanned from obvious time spent in the sun.
His eyes flashed now as he scanned her, nostrils flaring slightly.
"You're… injured?" he asked.
Isla frowned, confused. "What? No, I —" she followed his gaze, glancing down at her apron. "Oh, no. I just attended a birth."
He flinched, visibly recoiling and clearing his throat. Isla tilted her head slightly, watching with a small smile as the powerful fae warrior before her fought to keep his composure, felled by birthing fluids.
“So, do you have a name?" she asked.
“Vaelin.”
“Fancy,” she said. “I thought I told you to stop following me.”
“You did.”
“And yet, here you are."
A beat passed while he seemed to weigh something in his mind.
He shifted his weight slightly, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword.
The motion wasn’t threatening. His grip was relaxed, as though that’s simply where his hand rested most naturally.
While he mulled over whatever explanation he was preparing, she scanned him the way he had her.
He was covered head to toe in a thin layer of grime and dust, as though he’d been on the road for some time.
But what a fae warrior doing here in Rowanmere if not hastily picking up a new weapon from the forge before heading back to the border camps?
“You’re right,” he said finally. “I have been following you.”
“I know,” Isla said flatly. “Are you going to tell me why?”
The fae’s eyes flicked over her again, and she fought the urge to shift under his stare.
“Something’s happening. Not just here, but across the realms,” he said.
Isla blinked. “Could you be more vague?”
Vaelin held her gaze, unmoved. “The illness ravaging your town. It’s something you’ve never seen before, and it’s spreading faster than you’d like. You can’t treat it — not effectively, at least.”
Isla stilled, surpassing a shiver. “How do you know that?”
His expression remained as annoyingly blank as ever.
“Because the same illness has spread through Vaelora,” he said.
“The persistent cough worsens until the fever emerges. It seems to move faster among the fae than the humans. In its final stages, our magic seems to rebel, draining our strength as though it feeds off of us.”
Isla’s expression hardened as a memory of the fae soldier who had announced the news of her parents’ untimely deaths rose in her mind’s eye.
He had worn a similar bored expression as he’d spoken the words that had shattered her world, as though inconvenienced by the need to complete his administrative duty.
The memory curdled in her stomach, stoking the flames of her resentment for the fae before her.
“Perhaps twisting the elements to suit your own benefits all these years has finally backfired,” she said, her words sharp.
Vaelin’s eyes flashed with anger and he seemed to grow in size. She took a reflexive step backward despite herself, strands of her hair pulling free of its knot as a sudden wind whipped through the trees.
“Have you ever seen someone torn apart by magic? Have you watched the earth drain the life from them where it should fuel them? Watched water force itself down their throat, drowning them in seconds? Watched as their inner flame ignited inward, burning them alive from within?” His knuckles turned white as his grip on the pommel of his weapon tightened at the last, clear lines of pain pulling at his face.
Isla paled. “I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “That was… I’m sorry.” The horrifying images flashed through her mind and she blinked rapidly, banishing them. No one deserved that. Not even the fae.
Vaelin snorted, shaking his head sharply as if to dislodge whatever memory it was that haunted him.
Cautiously, Isla continued, “What does any of this have to do with me?”
“Everything,” he clipped, his voice strangely raw. “Because it was you I saw in my dream.”
Isla blinked, huffing a humourless laugh. But his expression remained serious as he continued.
“There is a line of fae who once received prophetic dreams in sleep — we called them Dreamwalkers. Two weeks ago, I experienced such a dream. One that focused on the spread of this illness. You were there. I dreamed of the disease sweeping the continent, through Vaelora and into Terravern, of the cough and fever spreading like wildfire, and of you …” he paused, holding her gaze.
She couldn’t breathe. He shook his head, so subtle a movement she almost didn’t track it, as he continued, “You were the answer, somehow. You would be our salvation. I don’t know how, but I do know that you are the key. ”
A nervous laugh bubbled up and out of Isla and she reached for her mother’s ring, twisting in absentmindedly as she grappled for composure. “You have the wrong person," she said. "I’m just a healer.”
He frowned, as though her words annoyed him.
“I travelled here to find you, all the way from Vaelastris. Across Vaelora, through the mountains, bushwhacking through miles of Godforsaken forests —”
Isla’s brows knitted. She didn't know where Vaelastris was, but everyone knew about The Pass - a man-made mountain path that connected the realms of Dunovar, Vaelora, and Terravern. Assuming that he’d kept to the trails once he'd crossed into Terravern, she'd hardly characterize that as bushwhacking.
She cocked her head, noticing his rant was ongoing.
“—tripping over roots and rocks, all the while what little wind there was forcing dust into my eyes, all so I could track you down. And you think this has nothing to do with you. What?” he demanded sharply, presumably in response to her skeptical expression.
Isla shrugged. “I just thought the fae were supposed to be... hardier.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth.
“Why didn't you ride?” she asked.
“I did,” he said tightly, “but my horse came up lame in The Pass.”
“Oh.” It was all she could think to say.
He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, fatigue etched into his features. “I thought perhaps you might have discovered the cure for the illness, or had inherited some unique healing powers from an ancient bloodline.”
Isla snorted and he frowned.
"But," he continued, "I must admit that it seems you’re completely unremarkable.”
“Thanks,” Isla said flatly.
“You’re welcome,” he returned.
An awkward silence stretched between them and Isla stooped to retrieve her satchel, slinging it over her shoulder. “Well, this has been fun, but I have more patients to see.”
“Where are you going?” he demanded sharply.
She huffed, renewed annoyance tugging at her. "I have patients. A job. Responsibilities."
“This is bigger than your patients, than your village, your realm,” he demanded. “I told you, you are the key to all of it.”
“And I told you, this has nothing to do with me,” she retorted. “The fae have lots of healers. Find someone else.”
She turned to leave and he growled, falling into step behind her.
“So you’ll do nothing? Despite all you have heard, all you’ve seen, you’ll stay here,” he motioned arbitrarily at the trees that he seemed so opposed to, "and for what? What impact can you make here?” His voice was tinged with what sounded like… desperation?