Flamecaster (23 page)

So the wolf healer is supposed to be the kind one, Jenna thought, still staring at the wall. The one she might confide in, after holding out stubbornly all this time. They played their roles flawlessly, bad lieutenant and good healer. Then they both went out the door to conspire together.

Perhaps the boy was chosen for his looks. He was tall and well built, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and large hands, like a young predator coming of age. He wore the same brown clothing as the other healer, but he filled it differently.

He had a long, solemn face, his coppery skin framing deep blue-green eyes that spoke of a mongrel ancestry. His hair was an odd muddy brown, though, which didn't fit
with his reddish eyebrows and the bit of stubble on his face.

He was a mage. An aura of power framed him, a diffusion of light more brilliant than Karn's. That and the silver collar told her that he served the monster king. The gifted were never turned to healing, not in Arden. He's probably just another blackbird, someone with a talent for ferreting secrets out of the weak and gullible.

When she glimpsed him out of the corner of her eye, she saw wolves: gray wolves with razored teeth and brilliant eyes, loping across the blue-shadowed snow. His feral scent reminded Jenna of the witch wind that blew down from the Spirit Mountains during the cold moon.

That must mean he's a killer, she thought. He's ruthless. That's all.

She heard the door open, then two sets of footsteps crossing the room.

“Roll over, Jenna,” Karn said brusquely, “so I can unlock your hands.”

That surprised her enough that she rolled onto her back to look up at him. He reached across and unlocked the manacles from her wrists, allowing them to clang back against the wall. He stood staring down at her for a long moment, as if he wanted to say something, then left again, closing the door behind him.

Meanwhile, the wolf pulled up a stool next to her bed and set a bag on the floor by his feet, making himself at
home. “Lieutenant Karn is going to bring some hot water and soap so I can clean out your wound.”

She saw no point in objecting, knowing it would do no good.

“Is it all right if I call you Jenna?” he asked.

“If I can call you Wolf,” she said.

He scowled, gritting his teeth. “Could you
please
call me Adam?”

“All right,” she said. “I will try and think of you as a wolf called Adam.”

“So, Jenna,” Adam Wolf said, like he just had to try it out. “What exactly happened to you?”

“Why do you care?”

He seemed stuck for a moment. “You're a person,” he said finally.

“Well, this person wants you to go away.”

“I can't do that,” he said. He paused, and when she didn't have a comeback, leaned forward again. “Tell me about the dagger. It seems to be magecraft. Where did you get it?”

“Tell me about your collar,” she said, pretending to look up at the ceiling, but watching him out of the corner of her eye. “That's magecraft, too. Does the king have a leash for you as well?”

“It wasn't my idea,” the healer muttered, scowling.

“So we have a bond, you and I, both being leashed by the king, and now I'll reveal all my secrets. Is that the idea?”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening as anger rose from him like mist. The wolf was like a tapestry—the surface he presented was calm, tightly woven, but underlain by dark threads of violence. “I don't need to know all your secrets,” he said. “Just the ones that will help me do my job.”

“For a healer,” she said, still pushing, “you have a very dark soul.”

He flinched back, as if he'd been caught in a lie, and rubbed the back of his neck. “One of my teachers once told me that healers stand astride the line between life and death. Maybe that's why.” He paused, and when she didn't respond, said, “Why are you the king's prisoner?”

“They seem to think I blew up some stuff. And set fire to some stuff. And maybe gave away some secrets.” She didn't mean to admit to anything unless she was forced to.

“Why did you stab yourself with your own dagger?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Adam's lips twitched, and he almost smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It looked good on him. “Why is it so important to them to keep you alive?”

“They don't want me to die before they torture me into naming some names. Then they'll execute me. Which is why healing me is a waste . . . of everyone's time.” She stole a look at him. From the stubborn look on his face, she knew he wasn't going to cooperate.

“Thank you for answering my questions,” he said politely. “Now. I'm going to examine you. Don't worry,”
he said, when she shrank back. “This won't hurt. It's not . . . complicated.” His eyes met hers, catching and holding. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached out and took both her hands, his fingers blazing hot against her frozen skin, his thumbs planted on the pulse points of her wrists.

She tried to pull free, but his grip was too strong. She gritted her teeth, steeling herself against whatever magery he would use against her.

At first, she felt only a gentle tendril of . . . something. Like a shaft of sunlight leaking through a canopy of cloud, warming her a bit. Then the channels opened between them, and images flooded through from both sides. Brilliant, heartbreaking, the unvarnished truth. Colliding and entangling and mingling so that it was hard to tell whose was whose, what was real and what was conjury.

She saw wolves again, like gray spirits haunting the twisting streets of a mountain town. Little Maggi, tossed aside like a broken toy. A small, fierce woman with copper skin and green eyes, pacing, smacking her fist into her palm. Riley's eyes, locked with hers, his blood steaming when it hit the snow. A solemn-faced, red-haired boy holding hands with a weeping little girl while grim-faced blue-jacketed guards marched by, carrying flower-decked biers. The deeps of the mine, the scent of damp stone, and darkness as impenetrable as a shroud. A dagger with
a dragon hilt, its blade smeared with blood. A fair-haired man lying on slushy cobblestones. The red-haired boy knelt next to him, clutching a pendant carved in the shape of a serpent. Her own father's blood soaking into the tavern floor. The perfect whoosh as the mudback warehouse went up in flames, the bedrock shaking as the munitions inside blew.

A lone wolf with savage, wounded eyes, keeping to the shadows. Scales and claws that glittered in the sun.

She stole a look at the healer. Adam Wolf sat as if mesmerized, lips slightly parted, memories and dreams swimming in the ocean of his eyes, his face changing as each one burrowed into his heart.

He sees it, too, she thought, amazed. He sees me. That had never happened before.

Shared grief and loss, unquenchable rage and vengeance. Familiar. Connecting the two of them in a hundred ways. There was no going back—she'd given too much away. She was vulnerable to him now, but it didn't seem like a bad thing, because he was vulnerable to her.

The wolf was the one who broke it off. He jerked his hands back and stared at her with the most peculiar expression on his face, like he was looking into a mirror and seeing himself reflected back. “What the hell?” he whispered, his voice thick and unfamiliar.

“You tell me, Wolf,” she said, blotting tears from her eyes with her sleeve. “What the bloody hell?” She sank
back into the bedclothes, trembling. “How . . . was that . . . not complicated?”

Just like that, she was done sparring with the healer. In a world full of villains, she didn't have to know exactly who and what he was in order to know that he was not the enemy.

Adam wet his lips and flexed his shoulders, as if to relieve the tension there. Stole a look at the door as if planning his escape. “What . . . what did you do to me? What does it mean?”

“It means that we are done lying to each other,” she said. “There's no point. All right?”

She looked into his eyes, but saw no agreement there, only a new wariness, as if he'd never expected to be ambushed by his patient. And then the shutters closed.

He's scared he's revealed too much.

Didn't you see what I saw? Didn't you? If you know the truth, you have to honor it.

She wanted to shake him, but the conversation was wearing her out. The edges of her consciousness were crumbling away, like the fragile pages of an old manuscript, like wolves breaking away from the pack.

The door banged open and in came Karn with a basin and rags, a fistful of linen strips, and a pot of steaming water. “Am I interrupting something?” he said, looking at the two of them with their heads together. He clunked the supplies down next to the bed.

The wolf blinked at him, as if breaking out of a dream. He gently rocked the pot of water, so it sloshed. “Did you really boil this for ten minutes?”

“Isn't that what you said?” Karn gave them both a pointed look, then went and sat against the wall by the door, so he could watch what went down from a distance.

With Karn in the room, the healer left off questioning her and got down to business. He pulled the pot of water closer, tipping some of the contents into the basin.

“Jenna, I'm going to clean out your wound a bit and see what's going on. Then we'll decide what to do.”

“We?”

That brought forth smile number two. Almost. “Are you able to sit up? If I help?”

She nodded.

Gripping her hands again, he gently pulled her upright, turning her so her feet dangled over the edge of the bed. She clutched her bedclothes under her chin, like they were a fort she could hide in. Her head began spinning, and black spots danced before her eyes. She swayed, and he instantly gripped both her shoulders, preventing her from tumbling off the bed.

The healer leaned down so they were nearly nose to nose. The blue-green eyes were framed with long lashes. “Do you want to lie back down?”

“I'll be fine,” Jenna gasped. “Just—just give me a minute.”

“Then, here. Head between your knees.” Gently, he pushed her head down toward the floor. “Breathe.” One hand remained between her shoulder blades. She was acutely conscious of the weight of it, the warmth of it, and the pressure of his knees braced against hers.

Eventually, her head cleared enough that she could nod for him to go on.

“Just let me know if you need a break. Once I get this uncovered, you can lie back if you want to.”

“Karn!” the healer barked, making her jump. She hadn't realized he'd been speaking so softly. “Jenna's going to need something clean to change into.”

“Such as?”

“Bring a loose-fitting man's shirt,” the healer said. “Smallclothes. And new bed linens.”

It amused Jenna to think of Karn hunting for small-clothes.

The lieutenant went to the door, conversed with the blackbirds outside, and returned to his seat.

“You're still shivering,” Adam said. “That's why dungeons are not a good place to treat patients,” he said loudly, again for Karn's benefit. “Here. Wrap up in this.” He draped the scratchy blanket around her shoulders and she snuggled into it gratefully.

“Now,” he said. “Let's have a look.” Gently he eased her bedclothes down across her hips and spread a clean sheet over top. Then, quickly, he unwound the bandage that
held the dressing in place, pitching it onto the floor. The dressing was stuck to the wound, but he pulled it free so quickly that Jenna had no time to tense up. Maybe it would have been fine anyway—the area around the wound was totally numb, cold, and lifeless.

Next came the wound packing, nasty and foul-smelling, followed by a gout of drainage that the healer sopped up with more rags. That, she felt. That hurt like a stubbed toe. She tried not to show it, but the tears came anyway. He took both her hands now and released his witchery into her. Just as when Karn had tried to interrogate her at the Lady of Grace, it did nothing.

Adam noticed. He leaned close, again speaking softly, so that Karn couldn't hear. “Are you blocking me, Jenna? If so, please don't. I promise, I'm only trying to help you with the pain.”

“I'm not a mage. I'm not doing anything. It just doesn't work on me.”

“It doesn't really feel like you're blocking me,” he said slowly, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “More like . . . I'm pouring water through a sieve.” He rummaged in his carry bag, found a cloth sack, and shook a fuzzy, gray-green leaf onto his palm. “Hold this under your tongue,” he said. “See if it helps.”

The leaf was faintly bitter to the taste, but the healer was right—it did help. She felt her body relaxing, floating. The pain was still there, but it was like it belonged to somebody
else. That way, it was at least tolerable.

Meanwhile, he gathered up the sheet full of nasty rags and set them aside.

“That was the worst part,” he said. “You can lie back now.” He washed his hands and dried them on a clean rag, helped her settle into place in bed, and covered her top half with the blanket. He dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it out, and worked some soap into it. Then rolled her bedclothes back so he could get at the wound again.

His touch was gentle, his movements sure. Though he wasn't any older than she was, Jenna could tell that he'd done this many times before. The way he went about it made an awkward situation bearable.

He washed the wound out with water, several times, then gently probed it with his fingers. It was strangely unsettling to feel the pressure of his fingers under numb skin. He slid a hand under his tunic to grip his jinxpiece and muttered charms. Nothing seemed to happen.

Finally, shaking his head, he sat back. He used his forearm to swipe sweat from his face, since his hands were once again covered in blood. “Here's the news,” he said. “Healing magic doesn't seem to work on you, meaning I can't repair the damage through wizardry. Unfortunately, you are not resistant to the magic in the blade. It will kill you, if left alone. I'm guessing it won't be pleasant.”