Chapter 20 #2
Nearby, a man’s breaths rattle and slow. I whirl away. I don’t want to see him take his last one. And I don’t want to watch the faces of the woman and children alongside his bed if he does. I clench my fists for a moment, the sounds of those suffering around me filling my ears.
The woman nearest to me moans, reclaiming my attention. Her head rolls, her undamaged hand reaching out toward nothing. I step forward and do the only thing I can think of: I take it.
“You’re somewhere safe now,” I whisper.
Her wild eyes fix on me, gleaming with pain and fear. I start to pull away, afraid of hurting or upsetting her, but her fingers twitch, gripping back.
So I squeeze.
“It’s going to be alright,” I say more confidently. The contact steadies me, and I can only imagine it’s the same for her. For a second, it feels like we’re the only people in the room.
Then healers come over, bringing her water and bandages. I step back to let them work.
I lift my eyes and they land on Alaris. He stands in the center of the tent, taller than everyone else, white shirt still smeared with red. Even as people rush around him, maids shout for supplies, and a child screams, he stays completely still, attention on the ground.
Then he closes his eyes.
A hum builds in the air, pressing against my skin. A green scent fills my nostrils and coats my throat. Under the cot in front of me, something stirs. Thin stems push through the packed dirt. Leaves unfurl. Buds swell and open into deep purple petals.
The screaming child quiets. Across the rows, the moaning drops to murmurs.
I look down the aisle. Under every cot, stalks climb and flowers blossom in the shadows. It is night-blooming lavender, growing fast in broad daylight. The scent reaches me, thick and sweet.
Alaris’s face is a mask of serenity. His lips part slightly. Then the buzzing energy dissipates, and his eyes open. They find mine.
While the room picks up into a new, less frantic rhythm, he walks straight toward me.
“That was…” Static still coats my skin. I’m used to divinials using their power for violence, or occasional flashy displays. But I can’t recall a time it’s made me feel as tongue-tied as his simple act of growing flowers.
“You don’t need to be here for this,” he says, his dark eyes serious.
I take a moment to blink away my wonder. “I want to. I’m here to help.”
“Today won’t be a happy day, Ly. Leave this to the staff.”
Now I scowl, the spell broken. “I am staff.”
“I mean the house staff.” His voice is firm. “Things are going to be chaotic for a while, and they know the emergency protocols. Go back to the aviary.”
The implication that I’m no help lands hard, because maybe it’s true.
I bite back the sting. He’s not wrong about my experience level, but it’s also obvious there aren’t enough hands to go around.
Patients lie unattended on beds, staff and healers scurrying from one to the next, trying to help the children and elderly and those with the worst wounds.
All around me, people are tying bandages and passing out supplies.
I saw how even holding the woman’s hand made a difference to her. I may not be able to grow bushels of magic lavender, but I can do something.
I look past Alaris and spot Karns coming our way, his elegant walk clipped to efficiency as he moves down the rows of cots, pointing and offering quick orders.
I step around Alaris and address Karns. “How can I help?”
Alaris crosses his arms, perhaps realizing I’m ignoring him. Which I’ve decided I am.
Karns pauses, his brown eyes bouncing from me to the glowering lord next to me. “We have no need for a hawk keeper’s skills here.”
I deflate. The last thing I should do is waste Karns’s time. Maybe I can go help Siro. A blue-robed healer comes up to Karns, standing on tiptoes to speak into his ear. I don’t hear her words, but I hear his answer.
“You’ll need to take the hand. We only have a few fresh jars of lobellum to go around.”
“I have lobellum,” I blurt.
Karns twists to me, a rare expression of surprise on his face. “You do?”
I nod. “And it’s fresh.”
“Fetch it. Now.”
I don’t look at Alaris as I turn on my heel, uninterested in whatever comment he has on the matter.
The castle halls have fallen eerily silent in comparison to the chaos outside. My legs burn as I take the stairs two at a time, racing toward my room. I dig for the bag stowed at the bottom of my wardrobe, retrieving the large jar tucked safely inside.
I unscrew the lid. The thick salve is clear and opalescent, with only a small fingerful missing from the end of summer party. I don’t know how well it will work against the effects of the wither, but I can’t imagine a better antidote to thanovarian death magic than Vernalia’s life-giving power.
I clutch the glass to my chest, slam the wardrobe shut, and run.
Back in the tent, the stench of sweat and blood almost gags me, but I push through it, running straight to Karns.
This jar is the most precious thing I have, too precious even to sell for food on the river. But I hold it out to him.
“That doesn’t look like lobellum,” a healer nearby says, surely expecting the typical fresh green color.
“It’s different from the normal type,” I admit.
“But it works.” I don’t want to say I made it myself, or that I know it works because my own smooth skin is the evidence.
Not only is my lobell base longer lasting, but this jar was imbued by some high-ranking vernalian at court.
I can’t imagine an early-generation vernalian laying hands on the ointment in an average healer’s bag.
This is the closest thing to bringing a powerful vernalian into this tent.
“You’re familiar with its application?” Karns asks.
“Very.” I know exactly how much to use to heal blistered skin or burns that singed to the bone.
He eyes the jar and gestures to the woman with the damaged arm. “Demonstrate.”
The healer offers me thin, supple gloves, a paddle to scoop the lobellum, and some advice. “You have to start from the top to save as much of the arm as possible. You won’t save the hand if you can’t restore blood flow.”
I nod, uncap the jar, and dip the paddle in. The white, cracked skin looks like it will crumble if I touch it, but the alternative is there in another healer’s hands—a saw to take the limb.
As gently as I can, I spread the lobellum over the upper arm and elbow, gulping down terror as bits of flesh flake free.
I swallow my gag. “Can you help me reach all around?”
The healer lifts the woman’s arm. I spread more on the underside, then coat the lower arm and the wrist. Finally, I dab the ointment gently onto her hand. It soaks in, a sure sign it’s reaching damage beneath the skin. I add a little more where it absorbs too fast.
I watch, breath held, as the balm permeates the brittle tissue.
At first, nothing changes. Then the dull gray starts to lift.
The surface loses its powdery texture, growing smoother and more supple.
A faint flush returns, uneven at first, spreading from the elbow to the wrist, and finally the fingertips. The woman’s harsh panting slows.
The healer pushes forward to get a closer look. “That is not ordinary lobellum.”
Karns’s eyes are almost as round as his lenses. “Where did you get that?”
“A gift, from a previous employer,” I come up with. “Did it work?”
The healer examines the hand, prodding the skin gently. The woman whimpers. But he looks at Karns and nods. “Blood is flowing. It shouldn’t turn necrotic.”
“Lyra, advise the others on the use of this lobellum.” Karns directs his next order to the blue-robed group crowding near. “Candin and Hollis, accompany her and observe. Rata, spread the word: bring Lyra over for the most critical torso and head wounds. Go.”
I follow the healer who I think is Candin, the jar cradled in my hands.
The next few hours pass in a haze of motion. The salve vanishes under my fingertips as I show the healers how much of my lobellum to use to coax cracked and raw flesh into something less dire.
Eventually, the healers take over. They work quickly, stretching my lobellum with their own skill. I switch to following behind and binding the freshly treated wounds, ensuring no progress bought by the magic is lost to abrasive blankets or dirt.
I catch sight of Alaris across the infirmary, bracing a man upright while a healer wraps his chest. And later, just outside it, sending guards off in pairs to raise tents for housing. I turn my eyes away quickly and keep working.
The scent of blood clings to the air, thick and metallic.
My arms shake from exertion, my legs unsteady beneath me, but still, I press forward.
I lift. I carry. I fetch water. And I watch with relief as there are fewer and fewer pain-wracked faces.
Flesh begins to look more like flesh. Weeping stops.
Families around beds quiet, reconciling what they have with what they’ve lost.
Evening falls, and the staff lights fires to counter the chill. Most people have received treatment and are either resting in cots or huddled with their families. Which turns the problem to one of housing.
I wander the aisles one last time, checking on the patients. I straighten up as Karns approaches, trying to look attentive and ready for his instruction, despite my heavy eyelids.
He holds my jar out between us, a half an inch of ointment remaining in the bottom. I blink at it.
“But don’t you want to—”
“Take it, Lyra. We’ve used all we need to. What’s left is a matter of time. Bodies know how to heal.” He extends his hand, looking down his nose sternly at me until I fold and accept the glass.
“Okay. Thank you.”
He arches one brow. “It’s these people who owe you gratitude. This has been the difference for twenty lives today, and more to retain their ability to walk or use both hands.”
His tone is just as frank and clipped as ever, but his sharp assessment hits me deeper than any flowery compliment. He is stating the facts as he sees them. My contribution made a difference.
Karns bows his head to someone behind me.