Page 67 of Blood Weaver
“Help! We need help!” one of them called out.
Startled, the innkeeper jogged from around the front desk and met them in the foyer. “What’s going on? Is he okay?”
“We were up in the mountains and he fell from one of the lower cliffs!” one of his companions panted. “He injured his leg, but it could have been a lot worse.”
The innkeeper ushered them to a sitting area and told the men to lay their injured friend down on one of the tables. As perplexed guests started to filter out of their rooms due to the commotion, the innkeeper looked around and called out, “Is anyone a healer?”
With a groan, I realized my plan would have to wait. When no one else responded, I yelled out, “I am!” and jogged down the stairs toward the injured man.
“Who are you?” one of his companions asked.
I made sure the cloth still obscured my face and pitched my voice deeper. “I’m a healer … that’s all you need to know.” I stood beside the man and tried to clear my mind.
The man tossed and grimaced in pain. Sweat beaded on his temples and upper lip. “Help me … please,” he begged.
“I will. Just tell me where it hurts.” I pressed my hands over his arms, chest, and abdomen, searching for broken bones.
“No,” he exclaimed. “My leg! It’s my leg!”
“Okay.” I lifted his pant leg and exposed the skin of his left shin. “I don’t see anything,” I muttered.
“No,here!” he pointed to his thigh.
“Does someone have a knife?” I called out. One of his companions swiftly produced a knife and handed it to me. After carefully slicing his pant leg to expose his thigh, the injury became evident when I saw his femur sticking out of his skin.
Everyone in the vicinity grimaced and gagged at the sight, but I’d dealt with far worse injuries and was able to maintain my composure.
I ignored the squeamish spectators and focused on the injured man. “Okay, I need to push your femur back in. It’s going to hurt like hell, and I don’t have any sedatives with me to ease the pain. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” the man grunted. “I don’t care. Just do it.”
“Very well.” I glanced around the room. “Does anyone have alcohol?” A server from the dining area called out that he did and rushed over with a jug of wine. After washing my hands with it, I splashed a bit of alcohol on the man’s wound. He screamed so loud, you would have thought someone was murdering him. When no one was looking, I made a slight cut on the tip of my finger. “I need two logs of wood and some rope,” I called out. In minutes, the items were placed in front of me. After sanitizing them with alcohol, I went to work.
Using a sizable amount of force, I pushed the man’s femur back in place, ignoring his bloodcurdling screams. Once it was properly fitted, and without others seeing, I sliced my finger and rubbed my bloody finger over the wound so it would heal faster.A few drops of my blood wouldn’t completely heal him, but it would speed up the process. Placing the rope beneath his leg, I nestled the logs on his left thigh to use as a splint.
After asking one of his companions to hold the logs still, I slowly bent the man’s knee, then lifted his thigh slightly and gingerly wrapped the rope around his leg with the splints in place. Once it was secure, I lowered his leg.
The innkeeper handed me a cloth to wipe my hands, and I peered into the man’s feverish face. “You need to see a healer as soon as you’re able. They’ll do a more thorough job than I did with better supplies. But don’t delay, or you’ll be left with a limp for the rest of your life.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” one of his companions exclaimed. “Please, tell us who you are.”
“Are you … are you the renowned healer of the Central Plains named Leila?” someone else asked.
Murmurs filtered all around the inn. To some, the name was unfamiliar. But a knowing spark came into others’ eyes as recognition hit. The collective focus was unyielding, and in that moment, the clandestine serenity of my disguise was shattered. I was a spectacle, and with each murmur and speculative whisper, the cloak of anonymity was ripped away stitch by stitch.
“No,” I retorted quickly, my voice steady, a lie woven with the finesse of necessity. “I’m just a healer passing through. My name is of no significance.”
But doubt lingered in the air, thick and palpable. Each gaze seemed to pierce the cloth that veiled my identity. My hands, stained with the evidence of healing, betrayed a narrative far more complex than the simplicity of a transient healer. There was recognition in their eyes, a silent acknowledgment that transcended the barrier of the cloth that concealed my face.
“We won’t tell anyone, Miss Leila,” one of the men murmured as the crowd continued to stare at me.
I smiled beneath my face covering. “Thank you.” I stood. “I must go.” Though my voice was resolute, an underlying tremor betrayed my rising anxiety. The room had become a stifling confinement.
With unspoken urgency driving each stride, I left the inn and turned toward the pleasure house. The night’s chilly air was a liberating embrace, the silent whispers of the moonlight a soothing balm to the intrusive scrutiny of watchful eyes. The cobbled streets were largely empty, and many of the shops and storefronts were closed for the day. By the time I reached the other side of town, it was late.
Admittedly, my disguise was severely lacking. Even I was hard pressed to believe I looked like a man. My hair and the lower part of my face was covered, but not showing my face would only arouse suspicion, not dampen it.
With no other plan in place, I crept toward the bright lights and open doors of the Rose Petal and blended into a group of men as they entered, keeping my attention fixed on the sumptuously carpeted floor beneath my steps. Music and laughter filled the air, a stark contrast to the clawing anxiety I felt. The interior was as opulent as always, the rich colors and extravagant décor showcasing the house's wealth and the kind of clientele it attracted.
