“Yes,” said Branwyn, realizing the child had mistaken her confusion for reluctance. “That…good idea. Thank you.”
She grabbed the doorway and pulled herself in. Beneath the mostly intact roof, the world was mercifully dark, and while the floorboards were bare and hard, at least they weren’t wet. She focused on a corner out of sight of doors or windows and staggered in that direction, holding onto the wall for balance.
“I’m going to go now,” said the child once Branwyn had managed to lower herself to the floor. “Mam will be worrying.”
“That’s wise,” Branwyn said, rasping out the words. Now that she was sitting again, she had enough strength to explain more. “You should stay away. Whoever did this…” Her voice, which had been sliding away toward a whisper, gave out. She gulped and tried again. “Might want to hurt people who help me. And their families. I’ll be all right. I heal fast.”
“You’d better,” said the child. “That must’ve been some fight.”
They didn’t bother saying goodbye or reacting to Branwyn’s warning. Or maybe they did: Branwyn thought she only closed her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again, she was alone in the abandoned house. There was still some light outside, but between her vision and the shadows around the building, she couldn’t tell how much or how long she’d been unconscious.
She still hurt, which was no surprise at all.
Slowly, she grasped what remained of her skirt and ripped off a wide piece of silk, then pulled the remains up to bare her right leg. The knee was monstrously swollen and livid purple. Touching it, even gently, nearly made her scream, and she battled to keep from vomiting, which would only increase her pain.
Probably broken, Branwyn said to herself when she could manage words again. She bit her lip, squinted with her good eye to compensate for her bad one, and began to wrap the silk around the joint as tightly as she could bear.
Zelen would have done it better, she thought, for many reasons. She tried not to wish him there. As she’d told the child, it was too dangerous. The reforging meant that his skills as a healer, while useful, weren’t vital, and the comfort of his presence wasn’t worth risking his neck. Branwyn had spent most of her life alone. Another few nights wouldn’t kill her.
It didn’t occur to her to wonder if she’d fought him, or worse, until it occurred to her to wonder why that hadn’t occurred to her. She froze then, and her vision went blurry.
No, don’t panic, she told herself, speaking the way Yathana had done more than once in Branwyn’s youth. Thinking of the sword made her throat close up, but she clung to the silent words anyhow.Follow the lines of your thoughts. Why didn’t you assume he was your enemy? Because you’re fond of him?
Yes, but it was more than that, and there was a point there, one more important than reassuring herself that Zelen likely still lived. Branwyn started wrapping her knee again, giving her body a task so that her mind could work.
That must have been some fight, the child had said.
Zelen was good in a fight, but he would have used a weapon. Branwyn could find no cuts or scratches: all of her wounds were from impact. She’d assumed, probably rightly, that she’d transformed.
There was no chance at all that Zelen could have caused that much damage to her metal form. No human could have managed it. Blows could bruise, and monsters had done more, but Branwyn had been kicked by a horse when she’d been metal, and it had done no more than leave a vast black-and-blue spot across her side for a few days.
If she hadn’t transformed, her opponent hadn’t fought with steel. Large men with blunt instruments might have managed her injuries, but in that case she would have changed. Even if she’d been out of her mind, Yathana would have done it for her: the power was actually the soulsword’s.
Branwyn’s wounds suggested that shehadchanged, that she’d been metal for a time and still been hurt almost too badly to move.
And that, in turn, suggested a foe far more fearsome than any she’d known Heliodar to contain.
She’d spoken of possibilities to Mezannith after the ball. Now the worst one of all struck her as quite likely.
* * *
Murder or not, life went on in certain ways. The clinic was one. Zelen knew that Gedomir wouldn’t have understood or approved. He hoped the Rognozis would have done both, and believed that the lady would at any rate.
They were dead. Nothing worse could happen to them. Others still lived, and it was important to make sure that they could keep doing so, especially while Zelen tried to find another path to follow toward Branwyn. He poulticed a woman’s burned arm, cleaned and sewed a large gash on a man’s cheek, and sent another woman to Letar’s temple, as the rattle in her chest was beyond his power. It might well be beyond the Mourners’, too, for disease was a tricky matter, but she was strong and otherwise healthy, which gave her a decent chance.
It was good to have that sort of work to do. Burns and cuts were straightforward. Illness was different, but even there he had a rough idea of its shape. There were no hidden agendas, no swift turns to yank his footing away when he’d assumed it was smooth.
Altien asked no questions. The work unrolled under Zelen’s hands, putting a small amount of order back into the world. After he’d given a child spiced tea for a cold, he felt enough like himself to have a meal, or at least bread and cheese with a glass of wine.
Three bites in, he heard the outer door open. Altien was seeing to another patient, so Zelen put down the bread and cheese and poked his head around the corner of his office.
Tanya stood in front of the door, sling and cast considerably more grimy than they had been but still intact. Her good hand plucked restlessly at her skirt.
“Hello,” Zelen said gently. “How’s the arm?”
“All right. Um.” She peered around the outer room, which was empty, and then behind her at the door.
“We can talk in my office, if it would help,” said Zelen. That was all the invitation Tanya needed to dart inside.
