Page 46 of Sightwitch
If there were rocks, jewels, drinks, and weapons in here, perhaps there were other things too.
In a single movement, I snatched up the page and fixed my hardest frown on the Rook. “You’re telling me there’s a healer kit somewhere in this place?”
Another purr, and this time, his wings lowered half an inch.
I gulped and glanced at the paper now clenched in my fist. I’d broken the hourglass with likely half of the quicksilver in the top. Surely no more than another half hour had passed since then.
Surely, surely I could save this man’s lifeandsave Tanzi’s too.
It was, if nothing else, my only option. The Rook would never let me leave otherwise.
So with a prayer to Sirmaya—a frantic plea, really, that she keep my Thread-family safe—I smacked the paper on a table and set off to find a healer kit.
5(?) hours left to find Tanzi—
I wish I had more time. The workshop begged to be explored, with its three floors and running water—notWaterwitched, but with actual pumps and a spigot.
It was an absolute marvel of inventions. Some magical, some mechanical. Some theoretical and scrawled upon paper. Some assembled and ready to be used.
No dust coated the surfaces, no cobwebs clustered in the corners, and no moths had left holes behind. It meant a preservation spell rested over this space, like the ones that protected the records in the Crypts.
It also meant this place was old.
Oldold. Judging by the spellings and grammar on each loose page, I would guess at least a thousand years old.
But there was no time to dawdle. No time to explore.
I found what I needed on the third floor. Not that I would have recognized it without the Rook to help.
A shrill caw as I stepped off the stairs, then he arrowed over to a rolled red leather pouch. It hung on a hook above a spigot (the fourth I’d seen thus far). A quick peek inside showed salves, creams, tinctures with familiar names, and even a handful of tinder with a strip of flint.
Another clever invention, for a small diagram sewn on an inside pocket showed how to start a fire by striking the flint against the pouch’s metal clasp.
Whoever had crafted this place, she—or they—had been a true genius.
I didn’t bother to roll up the kit before I rushed back down the spiraling flights of stairs and over to the Nubrevnan’s side.
He still lay flat on his stomach, his face crooked awkwardly to one side. Goddess, he was massive, and there would be no avoiding his blood while I flipped him over.
Yet hehadto be flipped over. It took three tries and a full, groaning shout to manage it. Once on his back, though—once I was mere inches away and able to see beneath the grime that coated his skin and uniform—it hit me: I knew this young man.
He was the officer from the Nubrevnan camp. The one I’d watched bellowing orders and building a watchtower.
Perhaps it was the black oil that coated him, or perhaps it was simply the lack of a glass lens and distance to distort him, but either way, he looked different this close. For one, he was younger than I’d thought from afar. My age or near to it.
Plus, the bones that made up his gangly limbs were surprisingly slender, surprisingly soft. Elegant, even, like the marble statues stowed away in the Convent cellar.
Although marble didn’t bleed, this man most assuredly did. One of the shadow wyrms had slashed him from right shoulder to left hip, and though the clothing had sliced neatly, the skin had not. The edges were frayed and puckered, as if burned.
Or as if frozen.
He was lucky, actually, for the wyrm’s intense cold had cauterized most of the wound. Only the topmost quarter hung open and oozed.
I gulped, then turned briefly away. While I’d gone through the same healing classes as every other Serving Sister, I’d never been adept at them—and I’d never grown comfortable with the sight of blood.
On top of that, I’d nevereverworked on a man before.
I huffed an exhale. “Firmly gripped upon it,” I whispered. Then l turned to the healer kit and got to work.
