Page 26 of Between Fear and Favor

Looking down at the paper, I tugged my lip between my teeth. My mother always said it was good to have more than one plan. But relying on a smuggler, one whose name I didn’t even know, didn’t feel like one I ought to count on. My prior experiences of trusting men didn’t give me much confidence. Still, I thanked him, and watched as he disappeared into the trickle of people flowing slowly toward the palace.

If I left, where would I go? There was nowhere safe for me. Not here in Vesta, and certainly not in Nythyr. The idea of returning to Folterra made my stomach twist into knots—no matter what the kingdom could do for me now. I shoved the parchment into my pocket and hoped I wouldn’t need to use it. Having nowhere to go was better than being dead. Breathing deeply, I tried to push the fear from my mind. Before, I would have prayed to Rhia for peace or Aonara for guidance. Perhaps I would have even asked Ciarden for calm. Now, though, I relied on myself alone. And I found myself to be entirely lacking.

“Nor, quick!” A healer’s voice called from inside the tent, and I didn’t tarry. Kimya stood near the other entrance, holding open the flaps for two men who carried a simple wooden litter. Atop the hastily fashioned stretcher laid a man who, at first glance, appeared to be dead already. But his head lolled to face me, and his mouth formed the words “please” and “help” before his eyes rolled back in his head.

His legs were missing.

Rushing toward him, I did my best to steady my nerves and put on a kind smile. Tender words and a friendly face were all I was good for, and anyone wounded like this needed them the most. When the two soldiers slid him onto a cot, Kimya shooed them off, leaving the dying man to me.

Normally, anyone this close to death was granted mercy on the field; the novices who’d proved their loyalty to the crown issued the final blessing before ending such suffering. It was different in this tent. I was used to seeing death pulled from desperate bodies with agonizing slowness, but as I put one hand on the small dagger in my pocket, I was prepared to use it. Taking in his injuries, I didn’t understand why a healer from the main tent didn’t just close his amputation wounds, giving him a chance to fight the eternal night. But then I glimpsed the creeping poison. Black crawled up his veins, worse than I’d ever seen before, wriggling beneath his skin. I blinked as a shiver rolled down my spine.

I grabbed Kimya’s arm before she could leave, murmuring into her mind. “He should not have been brought here. It was only cruel.”

“The queen is not in the healer’s tent; she’s sleeping for the first time in days,” she explained, whispering. “They say the king left the battlefield to force her to rest. I suspect that evil bitch will use Queen Emmeline’s absence to her advantage, and this is only the start.”

Cethina, the Nythyrian princess capable of mutilating her gifts from Ciarden in such a way, had joined the siege a few weeks prior. Her cruel divinity was nearly impossible to fight against. Only the queen, touched by both Ciarden with his command of the shadows and Aonara with her divine fire to burn it out, had been able to root out the slithering darkness. The healers could hold it at bay, but without the queen to banish it, a painful death awaited any afflicted by the divine blight. If I had to guess, the corruption would make its way to his heart in less than an hour. Without the queen, all that was left for him was the final blessing and endless pain until his dying breath.

The man jerked to consciousness again, crying out in pain. I gave him a dose of draíbea, now more important than ever, and he gripped my wrist tightly. When his hand finally loosened its grasp, I attempted the final blessing.

“With Rhia’s mercy and Hanwen’s justice, may Aonara,” I began, speaking aloud at first. When he started screaming, I switched to speaking in his mind. “May Aonara lead you into Ciarden’s?—”

He squeezed my wrist so hard I yelped.

“Help me,” he pleaded. “I-I don’t want to die.”

This wasn’t the first soldier who I’d had to comfort as they fought against their bodies’ descent into death. It didn’t get any easier. I did my best each time, but I always felt a sense of guilt. Honesty usually only made things worse. I hoped he’d fall unconscious soon, avoiding the worst of the pain before I granted him mercy.

“You’re going to be just fine. Relax,” I soothed. After rubbing my wrist, I put my hand back on his brow, pushing the hair from his glistening forehead. Drenched with sweat, the man began to shake.

“You’re not helping me!” he shouted, reaching a flailing hand toward my arm, and I pulled back just in time before he could grab me. Instead, I placed my hand on his leg over the blackened skin. He could not reach me so easily, and I wondered if he could even feel my touch over the pain.

I sang aloud, quiet and slow. I didn’t like to sing in their minds immediately because it could be startling, but I’d found my voice seemed especially soothing to those who were the most combative. Most of the songs I knew were meant to be sung during ceremonies within the Myriad temples, and I couldn’t bring myself to sing any of them. The dissonance of my feelings was plain to the ear. I chose children’s songs instead, and I hoped they might sweep the soldiers into pleasant memories of the past.

“Not. This,” he gritted out, but he was noticeably calmer. After a moment, I began singing in the old language instead, and his body relaxed. I barely knew what any of the words meant, but the lyrics were ingrained in my mind from the songs my mother sang to me when I was a child. After the attack by my father—Declan—we’d fled to Vesta. When my injuries were fresh, and I’d cry out in my sleep, my mother would lull me with one of a few songs. I never asked her why or how she knew them. But I memorized the words all the same. They were all about animals and nature. My mother had told me this one was about life and death. Snakes shed their skin and winter comes and spring renews. It felt fitting.

Though he still wore the evidence of his pain on his face, the man’s breathing had slowed, and I hoped between my singing and the draíbea, he felt significantly less agitated. His eyes were closed, and his mouth had grown slack. Wiping my palm on my pants, I returned it to his forehead, pulling the blade out with my free hand. I grew nervous, hoping that perhaps he would slip into a deep sleep and never wake up. The idea of taking his life, even as an act of mercy, disturbed me. Perhaps if I wasn’t so torn about the words of the final blessing, I would feel differently. I’d been taught this absolution was just as important as sparing the pain, so I squared my shoulders.

“With Rhia’s mercy and—” I barely got the words out before the man started thrashing once more. It wasn’t the first time I wondered why the gods called for this, because it seemed to upset people just as much as it soothed them. To drag someone from a peaceful respite into the searing knowledge they were facing death was cruel. Reaching up, he grabbed me by the shoulder, and I winced in pain.

“You said—” He coughed, spittle spraying out as he squeezed my shoulder tightly. “Said I’d be fine. Final blessing… don’t meanfine.”

I tried to pull away from him. I’d handled this poorly. I shouldn’t have worded things the way I did, but my task was to provide calm and warmth. My task was to ensure they had made peace within their own minds before passing on to the eternal lands. Was my failure because I didn’t trust the gods to keep their promise?

“Give him the blessing,” a low voice spoke behind me. I wondered at first if it was a figment of my imagination. I hadn’t heard its deep rasp in some time, and I couldn’t understand why I was hearing it now. But when a hand reached out and grasped the man’s wrist, it confirmed what I’d heard. The warm copper hue of his skin had grown cooler since I met him, the winter sun neglectful these past few months. Dewalt pulled the soldier’s hand away and leaned over him. I worried for a moment that he was going to be too rough, the expression he wore fierce.

“Better not to risk it, Osmond. Right?” Dewalt asked, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. I couldn’t see the soldier’s face, but he stopped writhing, murmuring quietly about the pain instead. Dewalt’s hair was down, onyx strands which didn’t quite reach his shoulder hanging loose. I watched as a lock fell from where he’d tucked it behind his ear.

When he cleared his throat, I jumped, placing my hand on the man’s leg once more. I hesitated, staring at the dark brown of dried blood beneath my fingernails and missing the days when it had been dirt after a long day in the garden. My hands had encouraged life and growth, and now they only placated death. The soldier didn’t jerk away as I recited the final blessing in his mind. His leather armor had jostled when he’d struggled, and beneath it, his shirt had moved. A thin strip of skin on his abdomen was visible—pitch black. He had little time left, and the pain would only become more agonizing as it crept toward his heart.

“Go on, Honor,” Dewalt said, and my stomach tightened as I glanced up at him. He tilted his head toward the tent flaps to send me on my way before dragging his eyes to the man’s cursed flesh. I watched as he pulled a dagger from his bandolier. I didn’t have a chance to speak before Dewalt positioned his body to block me from the sight. His muscles flexed as he moved quickly, stabbing the man in the heart.

My mouth went dry. In the beginning, I probably would have vomited. I’d grown far too accustomed to death in recent weeks, but it usually wasn’t so quick and clean. I’d been ready to do it myself, though dreading it, but relief crashed through me as he removed the responsibility. Dewalt stood straight, the tops of his shoulders at my eye level. And then he stepped backward, directly onto my foot.

I stifled a yelp as he whipped around, a hand reaching out to steady me.

“You stayed. I told you to go.” His eyes narrowed as he took in my expression. Though I thought it to be suspicion gracing his features—something I was used to from him—he quickly wiped it away. No less serious, the mask of indifference he’d been wearing slipped back down. Dark purple underlined his eyes, and their usual twinkle of mischief had dulled. I frowned, suspecting it was because of me. Without the weight of his long tresses, his hair seemed fuller, slight waves hitting the top of his collar. I imagined running my fingers through it again, having memorized the exact texture of his hair as I’d held his head in my lap, praying he would wake. Biting the inside of my cheek, I stopped those thoughts with haste. I couldn’t dwell on that again.

“I am not afraid of death,” I said, forcing myself to be cool toward him. I’d had enough of trying to be kind, trying to make up for what happened. If he wanted to resent me forever, there was nothing I could do about it. And how could I blame him? When he stared at me, stone-faced, my decision to remain detached was only made easier. Smiles and polite effusiveness came naturally to me but with Dewalt, I struggled. It was like he knew exactly what to say to irritate me, and I wondered if I had the same effect on him. With him being in the king and queen’s inner circle, I should have been on my best behavior around him. And yet, I clenched my fists, preparing to verbally spar with him as I had once done. But he only glared at me. Perhaps because he’d come so close to death himself? It was not as if he had faced it with fear.

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