Page 94 of Echoes of the Raven
No result.
My eyes rove in all directions, concern mounting.
I have no healing skills, none that would help her at this point, anyway. If it were a small wound, I could bandage it, and it would help, but for this… she needs a real healer, a fae one even. But where?
Attempting to quiet my mind, I take a deep breath, mentally retracing the roads we have traveled, trying to pinpoint our exact location. I know this land like the back of my hand. For nearly twenty years, I wandered these parts aimlessly, harboring anger toward life and shunning company, until I eventually journeyed to Castellina and discovered the truth about Simón Plumanegra’s identity.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out we are close to Badajos, a small town only a mile east of where we stand. Wasting no time, I tear my sleeves off, tie them together, wrap them around Valeria’s middle, and pick her up. She is solid, fit as any sword fighter and tree climber—all the things a proper lady should not be. Yet, she feels light in my arms, small, and it takes little effort to put her back on the horse and leap behind her.
With a jerk of the reins, I urge the animal forward. I go as fast as I dare, afraid that too much jostling will intensify her bleeding. It seems an eternity before we ride into town. It is late, the streets quiet, but I remember an inn with a tavern that stays open day and night.
There will be people at the inn, and they will be able to direct me to a healer. I will accept no other possibility. When I arrive, I carry Valeria in my arms, bursting through the thick wooden door. The chatter quietsas I step inside. Several sets of eyes turn my way, immediately filling with distrust.
“She is injured,” I announce. “I need a healer. Now!”
No one moves. They just continue staring. I walk further into the inn, weaving through the tavern’s tables, pushing all the way to the back counter, where a burly man with a dark mustache stares at me with the same disdain I am used to.
“She is human,” I say, hoping this will make a difference. “She needs help, or she will die.”
The innkeeper lowers his eyes and examines Valeria closely.
“She’s probably wearing one of those glamours,” he says.
I want to reach out across the bar and strangle him, but not yet.
“I’m not trying to hide anything,” I say. “If I were, I would be wearing a glamour myself. Please, she is dying. We will pay for your services and for the healer. A fae one.” I suspect only magic can save her at this point.
I knew it would come to this, so I am prepared with gold from her rucksack. Before he comes up with another excuse, I slap five gold coins on the bar top.
“Five now. Five more later,” I say.
His eyes grow wide. I doubt he has ever seen one gold coin, much less five. The thought of ten seems to be scrambling his brain.
“No?” I ask. “I guess we will take our coin elsewhere?” I make as if to take the gold back.
He beats me to it. “No, no. We can help.” He picks up the coins and slips them into his pocket. “Go upstairs,” he instructs. “First room on the right is clean. Take her there, and I’ll send for the healer. He’s one of your folk. They say he’s good. Only reason we keep him ‘round.” He laughs at this.
I remind myself that I am going to strangle himlater, not now. Instead, I nod and rush Valeria upstairs.
The room is small with a narrow bed, a chair, a dresser, and a table. The furniture is rough-hewn, but the space is clean as the innkeeper said. I leave the door open to allow light from the hall to spill in, then set her down on the bed and check her pulse. It is weaker still.
I throw our rucksacks and swords on the floor. Cursing repeatedly under my breath, I remove her boots, unsure of what else to do to make her comfortable. In the dim light, her cheeks look hollow and her eyes sunken. Kneeling at the side of the bed, I watch her and wonder at the edge of fear in my heart.
If she dies, the veil will remain closed.It is the only reason for my worry.
“Oh, dear, she looks frightful,” a heavyset woman comes in, carrying a tray with a water bowl, rags, and a lit candle. She places the tray on the small table by the bed and proceeds to soak one of the rags.
“Are you the healer?” I ask, confused. She is not fae.
“No, just that fool’s wife,” she responds as she begins wiping Valeria’s face.
I infer she means the innkeeper.
“She’s so cold,” she says. “Worse than I thought. My daughter is making some tea, but now I doubt she’ll be able to drink it.” She looks up at me. “What happened?”
“Knife wound,” I say.
She folds back Valeria’s tunic and, with practiced hands, cleans the wound, removing all the blood and revealing the extent of the damage. Carefully, she palpates Valeria’s stomach, a trickle of blood oozes from the wound.
