“Will she be okay?” A slight trembling in his voice betrays Sym, baring his emotions.
“The head priestess said she will likely sleep for a day or two. Her injuries were severe, but they believe we got here in time. She’ll make it, though the scars will be unpleasant reminders of what happened.”
“Are you sure she’ll even scar?” Sym raises his shirt, revealing pink but healthy skin. Her healing fire seems to have mended beyond just a mere stitching of the wounds; it almost erased the damage entirely. “If she wakes enough to tend to herself, she might end up without any marks at all.”
A twinge of jealousy tugs at my heart, and I hurry to stuff that evil emotion back down. Why should I be jealous? I’ve lived a privileged life, one with few wants. I should be grateful for the powers I have, not envious of hers. I tuck her blankets in tighter and stand, stretching my aching joints. “Well, I suppose I should take this moment to bathe. I’m filthy, and she won’t wake before I return.”
A flash of amusement crosses Hugh’s face, and he grins. “Should we accompany you to the town bathhouse, Mistress? I’d hate for another assassin to ruin your day.”
My own lips twitch in humor, and I allow myself a brief laugh at my own expense. “I think I’ll be okay, Hugh. Stay here with Sym and our guest. Make sure she’s comfortable, and if she wakes before I’m back, see to it that she’s taken care of.”
Hugh nods, and I head off to find the bathhouse. The local women there help me find towels and soap, but I refuse any further servitude. These are women with their own lives, neither born into service nor chosen it as their profession, and it would be rude to accept them taking time from their own families and chores to tend to me.
My bath goes without incident, and I feel much better after. I tie my damp hair into a loose bun at the nape of my neck as I head back to the temple. A few locals stop me to thank me for eliminating the threat in the woods, though I don’t think I really did. Some of the panthers got away, and it’s likely they will return in force once they’ve had a chance to regroup. I may well have only delayed their next attack.
In fact, by not slaughtering them before they escaped, I might have made their next attack all the worse. Revenge is a powerful motivator.
My troubled thoughts are interrupted by screams. I turn a corner and come face-to-face with the temple lit up with flames as the people inside cry out in fear. I break into a run, my feet pounding on the cobblestone street as I rush to give aid.
I burst through the front door of the temple to find Hugh and Sym each holding one of the mystery woman’s thrashing arms. Streams of flame pour from her hands, and her mouth is frozen in an endless, agonizing scream. All around, priests and priestesses rush to move the other injured out of the path of the flames, and Corvin stands poised with a blade over the girl’s heart, ready to end the carnage the only way his warrior mind knows how.
Chapter 6
Sable
Fire and death.
It’s all I’ve ever known, and right now it consumes me.
Fire from my body. Death all around me.
Screams rip from my throat at I try to understand what is happening. I wake in strange surroundings, wolves all around me, the stench of blood and death filling my nostrils. Pain sears through me as I try to sit up, and I respond the only way I know how.
I try to burn it all down.
Strong hands grip me from either side, and try as I might, I can’t break free.
A shout breaks through my awareness, a feminine voice laced with fear.
“Corvin, no!”
Corvin? What’s a Corvin?
I don’t have time to ask as a woman barrels through, knocking down the man who’s aiming a blade at me.
She saved me.
My would-be murderer pauses, and his face twists in rage. He tosses his sword aside and storms off, walking straight through my flames as though they were nothing. His skin bubbles and blisters, though, so I know the fire is real.
The woman gestures to the two men holding my arms, and they release me.
Once I realize that I’m not going to be murdered, I start to calm down. The fires streaming from my hands slow to a trickle, and eventually they stop. I look at my fingers, healthy and free of burns, and it takes a moment to recall that I control the flames. I have always controlled them, for as long as I can remember, and never once has any fire dared burn me.
When I look back up, I’m met with dark eyes filled with concern. My rescuer perches on the side of my cot, her round hip pressed into mine. She reaches out and takes my chin in her delicate fingers, stroking my cheek with her thumb.
“It’s okay. You’re safe.”
I look around at the dimming fires that the wolves struggle to tamp out. Safe, it appears, is relative.
