“Sweet Gods, brother, I nearly took off your head!” Brant cursed.
Brodyn made no apology, rushing forward to murmur something low in his brother’s ear.
“What?” Lail demanded. “Who is it?”
Whatever Brodyn had said, it made Brant’s face fall. He blinked a moment, then nodded to his brother. “Let them in.”
Brodyn retreated quickly into the damp and I heard his deep voice call for the gates to open.
Our cousin swept his dark eyes over us, deciding something.
“Come, Lailoken, Languoreth,” Brant said. “We will need your help. You must come right away.”
CHAPTER 4
* * *
At first it seemed as though the rain must have turned to waves and we were now lost in an ocean. How else could I explain the swarm of bodies that washed through our gates, tumbling into the courtyard like piles of rotting fish? Rotting, for that was the smell that assaulted our noses, causing Brant, Brodyn, and the rest of my father’s men to clamp their wet wool to their faces even as they ran to help the wounded through the yawning timber doors. Men, women, children, victims of the Angles. How far they had traveled, I could not say, but they looked half-starved, their travel-worn clothing stuck like paste to rain-drenched limbs.
They rushed toward the hall with hollow eyes and jerking movements, like corpses brought back from the dead. They rushed toward the hall until the courtyard became a waking nightmare, with wounds that glistened dark and slick like eels in the pelting storm.
I heard someone cry out, “Merciful Gods!”
And then Crowan and our man Herrick ran from the kitchens, blinking against the streams of rain coming from the sky. “Quickly! Get them into the stables; get them into the warm!” Crowan shouted.
Brant nodded at Lail. Did he want to take command? Lailoken reached out a hand as if to steady himself before gesturing to Herrick.
“Herrick. Help Macon bed clean straw in the barn. We’ll treat the wounded there. Any remaining will take refuge in the hall.”
How could my twin be so clearheaded when my vision was coming in flashes?
The weeping split of a stomach wound. The pearly white gleam of leg bone bursting through skin. Hair glossy, clumped with blood, staining faces crimson in the rain. Everywhere the putrid smell of wound rot and the stink of wet bandages.
I felt my eyes water from the stench and my stomach spasm in revolt. I don’t know how long I would have stood there, paralyzed by the horror before me, if I hadn’t felt the sharp sting of fingernails rake my arm. My gaze fell to the ground, where a boy my age had stumbled, his hand outstretched.
“Please,” he said. “Please . . .”
Wintry mud seeped into my trousers as I dropped down beside him.
“Where . . . where are you hurt?”
My eyes found the wound on his chest before he could answer. His face was white with pain. Biting my lip, I reached a trembling hand to tease back the soggy fabric of his bandage and gasped.
The boy’s eyes widened as he watched me, and he shifted with fear. “It’s soured, hasn’t it?”
I had seen infection before, but never like this. It stank of death.
“My sister told me it wasn’t so bad,” the boy said. “But it hurts—it hurts so much.” Drained of what little strength he had, he sank back onto the puddled earth.
“Where is your sister now?” I asked.
“They took her.” His voice was a whisper in the rain.
What would Angle men want with a girl my age? I swallowed. The question sickened me. The boy lifted his head and I noticed his eyes were blue like my brother’s. They held mine as if I were an anchor.
“Come. We must get you to the barn.” I tried to lift him, but my feet slipped helplessly in the mud. Sweet Gods, his body was a boulder. I braced my hands under the pits of his arms and tried again to raise him, but he screamed in pain.
“Stop, please, stop! I can’t. It hurts.”
“It’s all right”—my voice came in a rush—“it’s going to be all right.” I looked frantically round the courtyard. “Please, somebody . . .”
“My lady.” Herrick caught sight of me across the yard and raced to scoop the boy into his arms. “I’ll take ’im.”
The boy cried out over Herrick’s shoulder, his chest heaving now, his eyes wild, hysterical.
“You’ll be all right,” I called after him, but my voice was thick with panic. “I promise, you’ll be all right.”
My head was spinning and I blinked, commanding myself to think. Mother’s healing hut. There would be bandages, salves, and ointments. There was no time to waste.
I dodged through the chaos of the courtyard as fast as I could, past the stables and the rampart and into the woods. Lail’s soggy woolen trousers clung to my legs. My lungs burned. I forced my feet to pound faster, down the narrow forest trail that skirted the pasture. Here the towering trees sheltered the path from rain, and my feet could gain purchase on the soggy ground. At last I came to the thatched hut that stood abandoned in the forest of gnarled oaks. Chest heaving, I yanked the wooden latch. The door swung open.
There was no welcoming fire in the hearth. No shaft of light to illuminate the dim and forgotten room. Everything was just as my mother had left it. Poplar twigs hung from the ceiling alongside thick bundles of hyssop, sage, and lavender that filled the air with a moldy, verdant smell. Ceramic pots filled with bloodroot, velvet dock, elderberry, and crushed meadowsweet blossom lined the sturdy set of wooden shelves beside the glass vials that held Mother’s herbal elixirs. Her mortar and pestle sat on the table, a cluster of sunny, half-ground pods resting in its hollow.
The rain on the roof whispered, hush, hush. I balled my hands into fists and forced myself over the threshold. Moving past the sturdy oak table, I searched blindly in the twilight room for the basket that held clean strips of linen. When the wicker met my fingers, I let out a sigh of relief. Snatching the basket, I moved to the shelves. That was where I foundered. Here was the elder, but that was for coughs and winter sickness. I knew the blue jar contained nettle, but the brown one . . .
Frustration swelled, and I battled the urge to scream.
Think, think. The scores of bottles and jars stood silent, taunting me. My mother had known each herb and root by heart. I was no healer.
Curses! Why had I not paid better attention? The boy was going to die and it was my stupid fault.
Oh, Mother, please help me. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying with every ounce of my will. Let her appear once more. I would even give her back, let her return, if only this once she could appear and help me, help me treat these people, save this boy.
For a heartbeat, I waited. The only sounds were the wash of rain and the rattle of wind through leafless trees. Biting back tears, I clutched the basket to my chest. Never had I felt so alone.
And then a soft creak came from the doorway. I spun, nearly startled from my skin, to see a hooded figure in a blue cloak standing on the threshold.
A woman. My breath caught in my throat.
She looked as though she’d been standing there for some time, watching me.
She must have heard my gasp, because she reached a slender hand to shift the hood from her face. Her hair was dark, wet from rain. But she was far younger than my mother had been. Hers was the face of a stranger.