Page 96 of Echoes of the Raven
“A touch of magic is a scar on the soul.”
Nightmend Proverb
Irise to my feet, letting go of Valeria’s cold hand. “What is this? I asked for a fae healer. Not this.”
The dwarf rumbles, tugging at his thick, braided beard.
The innkeeper appears at the threshold. “And I brought you one. Now, pay up.”
I step forward, ready to do the strangling my hands have been itching for, but his wife bars my way.
“The girl’s the priority. You can square your accounts later.” Over her shoulder, she throws her husband a nasty glare. He huffs, but there is no question as to who runs this household. She turns to me, and with the same stern expression, adds, “And you, you should know better than to look down on Thoran. Haven’t your kin been mistreated enough? Must you also mistreat others the way they have done unto you? Is that all you’ve learned during your time stranded here?”
Her tone makes me bristle. I do not let people talk to me this way, even if their words ring true. Yet, I swallow my displeasure because Valeriaisthe priority.
I am still remiss about the healer, however. Nightmend dwarfs have crude healing methods that are as likely to kill the patient as to make them better. But what am I to do? Valeria will die if nothing is done.
Since that fateful day, Loreleia took The Eldrystone from me, the powers that rule the realms have been against me. Why would today be any different? It should not surprise me that I am left at the mercy of complete strangers. Unable to do anything else, I take several steps back and incline my head.
Francisca grunts in approval. “Thoran, would you kindly help the girl? I did what I could, which wasn’t much. She’s in a weakened state.”
With a grunt and a sidelong glance at me, the dwarf approaches the bed and regards Valeria with his small beady eyes. His skin is weathered as if he has spent countless hours out of doors. He is stout, with a protruding belly and bowed legs that march unevenly over the wooden floor.
His people form a small population in Tirnanog, so small that he is the first of his kind I have ever encountered in Castella. In fact, I thought none of them had been stranded here. Clearly, I was wrong.
They inhabit a region known as the Shadowed Glen, which is nestled deep within the heart of a mountain range named The Shadow Peaks. Their land is shrouded in perpetual twilight, thanks to the mountains themselves and the dense woods that stretch across the landscape. Holes carved into the mountainsides serve as their homes, while the lush, wild forest provides ingredients for their remedies, and only the gods know what else. The scant few who have ever visited this land say the air is tinged with magic and whispers of ancient energies that echo through the towering peaks. Nightmends rarely venture out, and those who do peddle their healing skills to the desperate… like me.
Stretching out his hands, Thoran lets them hover over Valeria’s body, his stubby fingers wiggling.
There is no evidence of magic, no color or disturbance in the air to indicate that any power is emanating from him. Yet, Valeria winces and a weak sound breaks through her blue-tinged lips.
Thoran grunts, his mouth turning upside down as he speaks in a deep voice. “The blade cut deep, but all that is vital is well. Lots of crimson wasted, easily replenished by food and drink and rest. What is left to do is close the wound, and for that there must be payment.” His small eyes swivel in my direction, twin mud pits of distrust and resentment.
“We have gold,” I tell him. “I have already said we will pay.” I dig a hand in my pocket but freeze when Thoran speaks again.
“Not that kind ofpayment,” he says the last word as if it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
“What kind then? No price is too steep to save her.”
“We shall see.”
He gestures toward the table, prompting Francisca to swiftly remove the tray, which she places on the dresser. Thoran then reaches into the satchel slung across his barrel chest and retrieves what appears to be a leather scroll, thick and musty. Setting it on the table, he proceeds to unroll it. A myriad of unsightly tools is stored in individual pockets, looking as if they would serve better in torture than in healing.
Quickly, he pulls out what looks like a fishing hook and line and threads the two together. Next, he pulls out several bottles filled with murky liquids that might have been siphoned from a dirty pond. A deep frown cuts across his forehead as he cranes his neck to peer up at me.
“Remove your shirt and lie on the floor,” he instructs.
I look around confused. “What?”
“Well, there ain’t no other bed, is there? So the floor it is.”
“But why do I—”
He cuts me off. “Your girl has little to no time. You want to waste it sitting here, interrogating my every move?”
Grinding my teeth against every fiber of my body, I do as he says and remove my shirt. When I lie on the floor, I welcome the cold on my back. It is the only thing that feels real in this entire situation.
“Align your middle with your girl’s,” the dwarf says.
