Or maybe it’s my imagination and I’m overreacting. I’m doing a lot of that recently.
I dreamt of the Faceless Woman again last night and my nerves are jangled, my spirit bowed under the weight of the unseen eyes that seem to follow me wherever I go.
‘Can you feel them?’I ask Orthriel, as I trudge behind Astrophel, who’s leading us towards the city walls.
‘I’m not blessed with second-sight. Whether I feel something or not is immaterial. But you’re tired. That’s probably all this is. You’ve run yourself ragged. When we get to Galtair, you must rest.’
Astrophel stops short. ‘Did you see that?’
I peer over his shoulder into the distance, following his gaze. But the frozen hillside stretches still and desolate ahead of us.
‘I thought I saw a cragstalker.’
‘Aren’t they extinct?’ I cast my mind back to artefacts Izarius showed me during a lesson about Estelia’s lost species. I recall handling teeth and bones from the huge mountain-cats that once roamed the realm, before the Sickening killed off most of their prey.
Astrophel shrugs. ‘Likely just a frostfang.’
I start walking again, trying to ignore the creeping sensation of being tracked and the throb of my ankle as I crunch over newly-calloused frost, the thawing effects of the rainstorms already a distant memory. Galtair. Focus on getting to Galtair.
A sickening thud sounds behind me.
I spin round. Delphine. Sprawled on the ground. Blue blood seeping like an ink-spill over the jagged rock that’s split her head open. Her eyes are closed, and I can taste metal in the air.
Time stretches like honey drizzled from a spoon. Everything, and everyone, is eerily still.
Maris shoulders past me, sinks to the ground beside Delphine. Cradling her Guardian’s head in her lap, Maris shakes her gently. ‘She’s breathing, but her pulse… I need to get her to water.’ The hand Maris has pressed to the back of Delphine’s head is shaking almost as wildly as her voice.
Tansy kneels beside Maris, roots in her wicker basket. ‘Boughs, no blotmoss to staunch the bleeding.’ She braces an arm around Maris’ shoulders. ‘I need to stitch her head. Help me turn her.’
Tansy rolls up her sleeves, retrieves ether, needle and thread from her basket and works to close the wound. It doesn’t look all that deep, but Tansy’s stitches are not the small, precise ones I can trace on my own hand. These are jagged, of varying sizes.
Once she’s finished, Tansy rummages through her basket again, drawing out a small bottle of vinegar. She unstops the vial and waves it beneath Delphine’s nose. But it doesn’t revive her. She’s still breathing, but the movements of her chest are slight. Each breath strained and shallow.
‘Where’s the nearest spring?’ Maris’ eyes dart from face to face.
‘In Galtair,’Orthriel whispers to me, confirming what I already feared.
I swallow and point to the crest of the hill.
Maris’ face crumples, her shoulders shaking. It’s too far.
Helplessness sweeps over me like an icy breeze as Blayze empties the dregs of his waterskin over Delphine’s prone body. The liquid trickles over her face, but she doesn’t wake.
‘It’s not enough.’ Maris is openly weeping now.
Did I do this? Did I drive her too hard? Make her faint? I should have doled out the starstone tincture at first light, not delayed, hoping it could wait until after our stay in Galtair.
Briar edges through the circle we’ve formed around Delphine. She nuzzles Tansy’s side, staring up at her in a wordless exchange. The Sickening may have robbed Arcelia’s creatures of human speech once more, a blessing temporarily regranted to them by the Elemagi’s Blood Bond, but there can be no doubt that the sylvanmares, at least, have retained their ability to understand the Mystic Tongue, even if they can no longer use it.
‘Are you sure?’ Tansy asks, stroking Briar’s neck. Her expression is tight, drawn with concern.
Briar noses into Tansy’s side again, harder this time, nods once. Then she draws back, paws the ground, rears on her hind legs, and launches herself forwards. We start back as the tip of her branched horn smacks the frosted earth, piercing the hillside, sending vibrations shuddering up my legs.
Water gurgles up through the fissure.
I’m taken back to nights reading the bestiary under cover of darkness, its accounts of sylvanmares creating springs from barren ground – just one of their curative powers, alongside their life-restoring, moss-green blood.
Maris and Tansy drag Delphine into the geyser, immersing her torso. The effect is almost instantaneous. Delphine comes to with a sharp intake of breath. I make the sign of the Star. She’s alive. But she’s still very pale, barely conscious, muttering merwords I can’t understand.
