Not everyone had left. There were too many of them.Were the others like me? Not wholly committed. Or are they here like snakes in the grass?Caution seemed the wiser path right now. Door secured, Sondre looked around the infirmary. The shelves were orderly; sparkling vials sat in racks; ceramic pots were lined in rows. Several glass-doored cabinets had devices in them, and a basket of bandages sat where it usually did on a countertop.
He paused at the sight of the prone body of one of the strongest witches in Crenshaw. Scylla was still enough that he had to watch to see her chest rise and fall before he could look away. She had often been his opposition in matters before the Congress of Magic, but Sondre was man enough to admit that he was likely the one in the wrong on a lot of those matters. She didn’t deserve this.
Did anyone?he wondered. He’d taken lives.Was that right? Did warjustify it?He’d spent plenty of time asking that question in the dark hours when booze left him maudlin.
Did Aggie deserve it?That question was a bit more pointed. There was no way that Prospero’s rage was going to be easily dismissed, and if it had been someone he counted as family—if it were Maggie or Craig—would he feel any less vengeful? That wasn’t a question he felt adept to answer. Not now. He’d have to, though, because he was the witch who went to that world with Prospero. He was also the witch in line to replace Aggie as head of house.
Sondre shoved those thoughts away and focused on this minute, this place.
Several healers were scurrying around Scylla as Sondre looked on. To Scylla’s side was the witch he’d wronged more than once in his years in Crenshaw. Mae Jemison was motionless. Like Scylla, her chest rose and fell as she reclined, unconscious, mere feet away from the witch whose life she’d saved.
“Does the doctor need us to do anything for her?” Dan asked one of the healers.
Before anyone else could answer, Sondre spoke. “She’s exhausted, so her magic is simply healing her. Like a lake refilling after a drought.”
“Poetic,” Dan said, not unkindly.
“Mmm.” Sondre wasn’t sure what else to say, so a muffled noise was the best he could do. “Let her rest. She’s more than earned it.”
“And Lord Scylla hasn’t?” someone asked.
“Yes, of course, she has, but as long as she sleeps, our whole world is vulnerable to exposure.” Sondre folded his arms over his chest. “Ask her if she agrees with me when she wakes. I have a strong suspicion that she will—and that Mae will give me hell for suggesting she be allowed to recover naturally.”
One of the healers snorted. “It’ll be a strange day if you and Lord Scylla agree.”
“Lord Scylla’s priority is Crenshaw. So’s mine.” Sondre’s gaze swept theroom, noting who was there and who wasn’t. These were Mae’s people, so the witches on the cots were safe in their care. He knew that, but he still wanted to be sure of who they were.
Just in case.
He’d never imagined that Aggie would try to kill Scylla, either. He looked from eye to eye and said, “With the barrier down, we will both want the same thing, and Mae will likely need to tend more witches soon enough. Let her rest.”
Dan put a hand on a healer’s shoulder and stood silently as the man started to examine Scylla, scanning for more injuries in her body. Ripples of magic rolled over the room like a small thunderstorm in too small of a space as they examined her.
“Small tear in her lungs,” the healer muttered after several tense moments. “Deflating air sac. That’s still not mending. I stitched it again and vacuumed the blood.…”
Sondre looked away as blood bubbled up and spilled from Scylla’s lips. It seemed wrong to see her brought low, and even though he’d been a witch for more than half a century, seeing blood pushing out of her mouth and nostrils made him flinch.
He snatched a clean cloth and wiped it away. “She doesn’t need it on her face like that.”
Before anyone could reply, a thunking at the door had him spin and think about possible attacks. The healers and Dan all paused, looking to him for direction.
Sondre made a “back up” motion, so everyone but one healer and Monahan moved behind him. The healer looked at him, shook his head once, and went back to whatever he was doing with Scylla.
At that, Sondre nodded at the man and then turned his attention to the door. He felt in one of his pockets for spell-loaded stones. He had several. Healwayshad several, as well as assorted weapons hidden in pockets of his robes.
He wouldn’t say the military propaganda he’d once believed was true.There’s no honor in ending lives.He would own the truth, though, that some causes led to wars. The senseless genocide in World War II when Sondre had been a kid was cause for military action, but to draw weapons over an opinion? It was ludicrous.
Flashes of being on the wrong side of a gun threatened to rise up in Sondre. The time he spent in combat in Korea was long enough ago that it ought to be nothing more than foggy memories, and most days it was just that. There were exceptions, though. Seeing Scylla was turning out to be one of them.
“Open the damn door, or I’ll remove it,” a familiar cranky voice called.
And Sondre felt the rising tension settle back into his bones. The chief witch was a pain in the ass at the best of times, but he wasn’t a threat.
Unless he’s here to badger me for being a part of the now-obviously traitorous group of witches.…
Sondre wouldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. He’d been conspiring for the downfall of Crenshaw, participated in the planning to create panic and force the witches to move to the Barbarian Lands. He hadn’t done this latest thing, but he was not innocent, either.
“Sondre!” Walt called, the summons in time with what sounded like a booted foot against the door. “Get yourself out here. You’re not a healer. What do you expect to do? Stand around and guard them?”
