Page 47 of Sightwitch
The minutes slid past, and without my hourglass to drip-drip, I had no concept of how many. I lost myself in the focus, and I swear by the Sleeper that I did not rush.
Yes, I wanted to save my Sisters, but the Rook had been right: I could not leave another human to die.
The bird watched from a nearby shelf as I washed water across the man’s wound. The oil—an almost tar-like substance—cleaned right off to reveal skin somehow even paler than the man’s face. Next, I rubbed in a Waterwitch healer cream to ward off corruption and followed with an Earthwitch salve to seal the wound and heal the skin.
Such a massive man, all thick shoulders and wiry muscle, required almost the entire tubs of cream and salve.
And finally, because I did not think it would hurt, I squeezed a few droplets of something called Cure-All directly atop the gash.
Already, the man’s breath came more evenly. Already, the sheen of sweat had left his face, replaced by something that couldalmostbe called warmth.
As I returned the Cure-All to its pocket, I felt something else inside. Paper, waxed and folded. I slid it out—
“You’re certain this isn’t Hell?”
I snapped up my gaze, heart skittering, and met the man’s hooded, glassy eyes.
“You’re … alive,” I offered eloquently. Then I looked away once more.
He was close; I didn’t like it.
“Thanks to you.” With a grunt, he pushed himself upright.
Which brought him even closer.
“Are there any Airwitched smelling herbs?” He patted his chest—not where the cut was this time. “My lungs feel … weak.”
“No,” I answered, leaning away and towing the healer kit with me. “Also, you stink. Whatever you’re covered in, it’s disgusting.”
He nodded. “Stinky, but at least healing! Aside from my lungs, I feel better than I have since … since I woke up inside a glacier with no clue how or why.” A smile quirked on his lips.
It was much less scary than his previous grins.
“What’s your name?” he asked, eyebrows bouncing. He really did look a thousand times better than he had only minutes before.
That Cure-All must be special stuff.
“Ryber Fortiza,” I answered before I could think better of it.
“Ryberta Fortsa,” he murmured to himself. “Very Nubrevnan.”
“It is not!” I smacked the pouch shut for emphasis—or tried to, but the paper inside got caught. Forcing me to yank it out and try again. “Because that is not my name!”
He had the grace to flush.
“My name is Illryan,” I went on. “It’s RY. BER—no ‘ta’ on the end—and then FOR. TEE. ZAH. Not … whatever it is you just said.”
“Ry-ber,” he repeated, smiling once more. “For-tee-zah. Understood.”
“Hmph,” was all I replied as I finished fastening the pouch and stood. The room listed; my stomach growled.
There was nothing to be done for hunger, though. Preserving books and inventions was one thing. Food was quite another.
“Careful now,” the young man said, reaching for me.
I recoiled. “I’m fine.”
He winced, hand withdrawing. “Sorry. No touching. I should know better by now.” He tried for one of his smiles, but this one was strained.
