Chapter 12: A Rescue

Chapter 12: A Rescue

Ber, Day 37 of Rhexia

Winking Moons

Year 602

Blue Pietersite may also be called ‘tempest stone’ and is said to repel negativity

and remove spiritual blockages. It it also very healing to the psyche, attracting light and life.

—Precious Stones of Heladrith

It was mid-afternoon. His alchemy class now over, Bricot had returned to his room to work on his residency project. He unbuttoned his light sweater and tossed it over the back of the desk chair. These teaching rooms in Craestor didn’t seem to let in much light, and student and teacher alike complained of growing constantly chilled over stretches of time.

Relieved that his own small room faced east, he strode over to his window and looked down onto the green, seeking warm sunlight.

Two figures stood in the center of the lawn, holding—what were those? Broomsticks?

Bricot squinted. Quarter staves.

The second-story tower room was only about twenty gerds high, so he wasn’t peering down at the tops of heads; he should be able to tell who—

Ishka. And with that long auburn hair—the second figure could only be Farax.

Bricot watched them.

Tall, toned Ishka was speaking to her, using his hands to explain something animatedly. Farax was nodding.

They backed away from each other and stood that way for a moment, then Ishka broke and advanced on her.

Bricot could feel the adrenaline surge from his vantage point in the garret room. Farax practically glowed with the energy of it.

Ishka brought one end of his quarterstaff sharply downward, targeting Farax’s forehead.

She raised her own straight up to parry this horizontally with both hands, catching the attack before it could reach her. Then she let go of one end and allowed her right hand to sweep the long piece of timber downward, taking a swipe at Ishka’s belly.

He backed up, avoiding the blow easily. Then he grounded himself and, using the butt of his quarterstaff, stabbed out with it, attempting to catch her in the chest.

He almost did, but then Farax used both hands to parry vertically, barring the thrust and shoving it to one side. With Ishka’s arms flung the other way, she saw an opening and advanced, kneeing him—in the groin!

No, it only looked like the groin. She had taken him on the inner thigh.

He laughed, backing away, and held up one finger, as if to acknowledge the point went to her. Farax smiled triumphantly at him.

He seemed to be much stronger, but she was clearly the cleverer fighter. She watched him carefully, trying to predict his next move.

They held their places for a moment, catching their breath.

This time, she broke to advance upon him. She took a broad sweep at his shins and he was forced to jump to avoid it. As he landed, she swung again, viciously fast and obviously hoping to capitalize on his offset rhythm.

With a comically panicked look on his face, Ishka leapt forward into a shoulder roll, tucking around his quarterstaff and keeping it close to his body. He stood up easily and faced her, then the two got used to their new positions with respect to one another. He nodded his compliment to her.

It was Ishka’s turn. He tried the same blunt thrust, this time to Farax’s left shoulder.

She, of course, moved to parry it vertically, but this turned out to be a mistake.

Quicker than lightning, Ishka followed through, stepping closer to her and wrapping his forearm around Farax’s timber. Then he wrenched hard, lifting both staves high into the air.

Dumbfounded, she laughed incredulously at him, then mockingly gave him a round of applause.

Ishka stood there holding both staves proudly, but Bricot folded his lips as he watched them. Was that all Ishka wanted from her? A lively sparring partner?

Ishka tossed Farax’s staff back to her casually, and she caught it one-handed. Then the two figures on the green squared off, ready to spar again.

Bricot decided this was a stupid place to work on his translations today. Quitting the distraction, Bricot gathered up his things again and left in search of a better spot.

A few moments later, he had settled himself at a table in the library with his work spread out in front of him.

His hands had been cramping lately. Ruqa was a finicky language to try and transcribe, and there was much to think about—he needed to write a clean copy in the common tongue, and then there was the notebook full of observations he kept which grew a little each day. He’d met once or twice with the student workers Colin had assigned to copy the thing over. None of them actually seemed interested in the material, which had shocked him. If he’d been their age—well!

Bricot sat back, rubbing his sore hands.

He loved the library. It was clean, and quiet, and had that smell; he supposed it was the books, but it might have been the dust. Or the sunlight. It seemed to awaken his senses, sharpen him. Everything in the world became more interesting when one was in the library.

Bricot was working through a particularly difficult passage and trying to decide which verb best fit the original translation when he heard a noisy clatter in the hall.

He wrote it off at first. He was so focused on the work that any extraneous noise seemed far away, but then he heard one of the great doors to the green slam, and someone’s breathless, panicked cries.

Alarmed, he looked up.

“Somebody, please! Please, help!”

Bricot stood, making his way around the table and toward the hall, leaving the Facerum forgotten on the south library table.

It was Bela. She looked very distressed, and had bent down to rest her arms on the tops of her thighs, attempting to take deep breaths. She looked up and saw him, gasping, “Master Bricot! Please! It’s Ger!”

“What’s happened?” he asked, the blood suddenly icy in his veins.

Bela shook her head and took a gulping breath. “We were coming back from Craestor proper, the group of us,” she gasped, “and Diarmad kicked a shade wasps’ nest. Several of us got stung—it hurts like all damnation—but a couple of the students can’t walk, and Ger’s all puffed up and can’t breathe!”

Bricot needed his healing kit.

“Where are Master Farax and Master Ola?” Bela asked breathlessly. “Or Grandmaster Slager?”

“Let me get my things,” he said. “Farax and Ishka are on the back lawn. If Ger’s swelling, he’ll need to be treated right away or he could die.”

Bela’s eyes were wide and haunted.

“Go find the other masters,” he told her. He placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and asked, “Where are they now? Which direction?”

Bela pointed out the front door. “South. Down the lane, toward the archery range.”

And Bricot ran, calling, “Go get more help!” over his shoulder at her.

He dashed up the south tower stairs to his room, where he threw open the little chest that housed his healing kit. Then he tucked his supplies under one arm and sprinted down the stairs and out the huge double doors, headed toward town.

It didn’t even occur to him to consider how ridiculous he must look flying down the lane in this way. All he could think about was his student’s throat closing in reaction to the poisonous stings. He practically flew down the road.

A cluster of students had formed by a clump of sundrench flowers. Some were standing nearby, nursing stings and keeping an eye on their colleagues. Others were sprawled in the grass, crying or otherwise incapacitated.

Ger looked like a corpse. One of his eyes was a bright, angry red and had swollen completely shut. His neck was frighteningly distorted, resembling a group of puffy rings all stacked atop one another. The young man was lying on the ground and had jutted his chin toward the sky in an attempt to draw breath and relieve some of the pressure on his throat.

As Bricot brew closer, he could hear Ger wheezing. It was a terrifying sound.

Though there were other students around him, Bricot grew entirely single minded and focused only on the young man. He would tend those most in danger first and then move on.

He dropped to his knees beside Ger and spilled out the contents of his kit. With trembling fingers, he rifled through the bandages, bottles, salves, and pieces of cloth until he found a little vial of Reduce Inflammation. He uncorked it and, using one hand to stabilize Ger’s head, began to pour the liquid down the young man’s throat. It pooled in the corners of his mouth and dribbled out though, and Bricot was unable to tell if any of it was actually being ingested.

As an afterthought, Bricot emptied some Reduce Inflammation out onto his fingers and slathered the liquid all over the Ger’s pale, clammy skin, dotting it topically on the swollen eye. No change was observed.

Next he tried Dispel Poison and applied it in the same way, and finished by putting a few dropperfuls of Minor Healing sublingually.

Again, no change.

Ger had begun to turn blue. His unaffected eye stared at Bricot, terrified, and a strangled moaning noise issued from his throat.

Bricot turned to look over his shoulder, expecting to see some of the other Craestor staff approaching, but there was no one.

He looked back at the boy and made a decision. Bricot grasped Ger about the shoulders and tucked an arm under the crook of his legs. He took a deep breath and lifted.

The road from Craestor to the University had never seemed so long.

Bricot was daunted by it. He moved more slowly than he would have liked with his substantial burden. Some of the other students affected by the stings were limping along behind him, he noticed—all of them progressed like some sort of staggering undead army.

Bricot’s nerves were firing powerfully, and his breath came in short gasps.

Ger appeared to be unresponsive.

Strange—as each brew he’d administered to the young man was extremely potent and generally effective. The master alchemist could not think of a stupider way to die—a wasp sting? It made him angry. He used the energy to fuel his stilted movement homeward.

As the four stocky towers and connecting corridors of the university came into view, Bricot caught sight of the combat master Raen Ishka sprinting down the lane toward him.

“He’s suffocating,” Bricot panted at him.

Huffing in effort, the blond man nodded and reached toward Bricot to take the limp form of Ger onto his own back, then started for the school at a dead run as if his burden weighed only as much as a dried leaf.

Bricot sank to his knees for a moment, breathing hard. Had it been enough? Were they in time?

He soon climbed to his feet, and the university grounds came into view. From a great distance, he saw Farax and a few of the other masters receiving the panicked students. She had taken the arm of a young female student who appeared to have been stung on the ankle. The girl was grimacing in pain.

When he finally reached the green, Bricot saw that the four healers Craestor kept on staff had been summoned. It was customary for those in the healing trade to wear brown exclusively, and they hovered around the students in their dark robes like a collection of helpful tan ghosts.

Bricot counted. Eleven students had been hurt in total. Where was Ger?

There. By one of the garden beds. Unbelievably, they’d left him alone to fend for himself.

The student was a sickly shade of pale purple. What was Ishka thinking?

Oh, Divines, Bricot thought. This boy is going to die right in front of me. What do I do?

Desperately, he noticed that this particular bed of herbs housed sprays of greater trillium. Good for inflammation, yes? he thought incoherently. Worth a try?

Hands trembling, Bricot picked a few handfuls of the stuff, bruising some of the pieces in his haste. Attempting to crush and agitate the leaves, he pinched them apart, rolled them frantically between his palms, and spat on the mixture.

He moved to spread the paste on Ger’s swollen neck, but was then struck with a sudden idea. With a flash of inspiration, Bricot held the greater trillium mixture up to his face. He felt silly, but knew he must try. He had to.

“Calumn,” Bricot prayed awkwardly. “Please. I honor you. Please save him. Please, please save him. Health. Healing. Breath. Life.” It was a hasty imbuement and terribly worded, but it would have to do.
Out of his periphery, he noticed several students staring strangely at him. He didn’t care. He invoked all of the Healing Deities and Calumn and even Eena, his voice having gone strangely tight and high.

He rubbed the damp, fragrant trillium over the boy’s throat and bowed his head.

And waited. Four seconds. Five. Ten.

All was silent.

And then, so quietly Bricot could barely hear, Ger took in a shallow, wheezing breath and then let it out in one steady stream.

Bricot could have wept, he was so relieved. He continued to ply the barely conscious student with potions, not sparing any costly philters and elixirs he might have in his healing kit.

A little while later, Grandmaster Colin joined the motley group of students and masters on the green to survey the damage. The kitchens had brought fresh water and cold mint tea and were passing out mugs to everyone.

Bricot and the other masters gathered in pathetic groups on the grass.

He couldn’t get the bizarre images of Ger’s puffed throat and blue-tinged face out of his head. He’d been taken inside now and was being carefully observed.

What had finally turned the tide? Was it really the prayer to Calumn? he wondered. Or was it simply the effects of the greater trillium?

He might never know. And he would have to make his peace with that.

Colin leaned toward Ishka, clapping him on the back. “You saved that student you know, friend,” he said. “That was a feat of strength and bravery. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened. Thank you.”

Ishka looked up in surprise at the chancellor and nearly protested. Then his eyes flicked over to Farax and back. He nodded. “I did what anyone would do,” he said huskily. “I’m just glad he’s alive.”

Surprised and stung, Bricot watched Ishka. The man had unthinkingly abandoned Ger. When the master combatant met his gaze, it was with embarrassed guilt, and—was that a challenge of some sort?

The two men looked away from each other.

Diarmad, who was the culprit behind the whole incident, had joined the others on the green by now. The student appeared to be joking and laughing, completely unconcerned with the panic his carelessness had caused. His fellow students stood awkwardly around him, their attention unconsciously drawn by his flippant and boisterous manner but their scruples keeping them from actively participating in conversation with him.

Bricot stood and was preparing to head back inside to salvage what was left of his day when he heard something come out of Diarmad’s mouth that he did not like.

“...not my fault the idiot’s allergic to shade wasps. How was I to know?”

Bricot stopped short, then turned on his heel and moved to approach Diarmad. A slow flame of anger had burst into life within him, and he grabbed the student by one bicep, clenching hard and taking him by surprise. “You caused an impressive amount of trouble and pain today,” he said quietly through his teeth, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Someone nearly died because of you. This should absolutely secure your compassion. And shame, frankly.”

Diarmad looked a little nervous to be thus confronted by one of his masters, but managed to paste a smirk on his infuriating little face anyway. “I got stung, too,” he said grudgingly. “Don’t see me falling all over myself, fainting like a girl.”

Still within earshot of the scene, Farax’s eyebrows shot up at this and she stood up defensively.

Clueless, Diarmad continued. “My bloodline can obviously handle something trivial like a bee sting,” he flung at his master. “Not so for others, I guess,” and he tossed a glance at his comrades, fishing for a laugh.

Bricot couldn’t help it. He punched the lad hard across the jaw.

* * *

Evin still couldn’t quite believe that this was happening. She hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that her sister was gone and she was about to leave Liminey, possibly forever. She also wasn’t quite sure she trusted her new traveling companions.

But what choice do I really have? she thought. The Wheel and Well, while it stood, was the only potions shop in Liminey, and I’m only qualified for that type of work.

Evin supposed she could have taken a job as a server at a tavern or a maid at a boarding house, but she would have needed to start at the bottom of the earning tier for that, and she decided she’d rather continue on in her own trade.

Even if that meant leaving home and starting all over again.

Her ribs were still sore from the accident, and Craix confirmed after palpating her that she had cracked two of them and bruised a few more. But her cuts, bruises and abrasions were healing nicely. She only had a small purplish scar where her top lip had split. She had developed the strange habit of running her tongue over the groove again and again, somehow both mesmerized and disgusted by the raised texture and coppery taste.

Tadyath had told her to be packed, ready, and outside the boarding house by eight bells, so she’d risen early. The group would meet, breakfasting on the go and leaving for the north immediately.

It hadn’t taken her long to pack. She had a few basic potions she’d put in her traveling bag, an eborel affair with internal loops that would keep the delicate vials from bumping against one another and cracking—a gift from Wynn.

She’d left certain things that were too bulky to bring along, or that she thought the landlady could utilize for future tenants, like her bedclothes and some shelving. All of her clothes fit easily in her pack. As she was going through her things, she’d found a book lying next to her bed that she did not remember acquiring.

Evin stooped to pick it up. The cover was tooled of leather—unusual. An expensive book, then, and she wondered if Tadyath, Craix or Himes had left it there accidentally. The etched title read, “Arcane Herbs and Their Uses, Vol. 1.” Curious!

She opened the cover and thumbed through the first few pages, stopping short when she caught site of an inscription. In a neat hand that she recognized at once, the sharp lettering declared,

“For Evin, with all the love and luck I have to spare. May this volume serve you well in the years to come. Someone gave me a copy when I was roughly your age, and I have certainly made good use of it. Safe journey, and may the Divines protect you. Stacia, Owner, Wheel and Well of Liminey, Urda, Melia, Year 602.”

Evin’s gaze seemed to blur as she studied the dear words, and then she brought the little leather-bound book to her chest, hugging it close. What a precious gift, she thought. She would protect it forever.

Outside, Tadyath and the others stood waiting for her, sturdily attired and loaded down with provisions. Craix put a piece of dried meat in her hand and clapped her on the shoulder.

“Good morning, little one,” said Tadyath. “Are you ready?”

“No,” Evin said nervously. “But let’s go anyway. I might change my mind if we linger here.”

Himes grinned. “I think I’m starting to like this one,” he remarked to the others. “She’s got a way about her. Spunky.”

Evin shrugged noncommittally.

She’d tried not to allow her feelings to lead her in this endeavor, instead focusing on what was actually passing and what she knew to be true. As the four of them set off, she began to gnaw on the piece of beef, trying not to notice how her doubts and fears were subsequently gnawing at her spirit.

The first few moments of the trip were deceptively commonplace. The group traipsed past the temple of the Divines and the place where the Wheel and Well had used to be—Evin did not allow herself to look at it—and the Upset Owl, which perhaps for the first time ever, she did not enter in passing.

There was perhaps a bell of village to move through before they reached the place where the dusty lane tapered off and led into the woods. The trees bent toward each other in a natural canopy over the path, and Evin took a deep breath as they entered the north forest.

It was a beautiful Melian day, absolutely perfect for walking.

The traveler’s shoes made pleasant sounds on the surface of the packed, mulchy earth. The dark smell of forest dirt was soothing to the senses, and atmospheric sunlight filtered down through the verdant leaves. A slight, revivifying breeze stirred Evin’s hair and cooled the back of her neck.

They passed Evin’s favorite spot for harvesting mushrooms. And there—that was where Wynn had fallen out of a tree and broken her leg when she was a child.

No one spoke, opting instead to preserve a companionable silence.

Evin could barely conceive of spending the next four days with the same group of people and no reprieve. She wondered if it was even possible—that was, without any stupid fights or emotional breakdowns. She’d certainly never tried that—and she definitely hadn’t tried it without any social lubrication. This might turn out to be a very interesting trip, she considered.

The group reached an old, mossy footbridge and the quiet, padding footfalls morphed into crisp clops.

When they had passed it, Evin became suddenly short of breath.

She stopped for a moment, placing a hand over her chest—why was her heart beating so fast? And she felt sick. Nauseous, and dizzy.

“What’s wrong?” Craix asked, concerned.

“I don’t know,” Evin replied. “I feel… strange. I feel like I shouldn’t be here.”

Tadyath left his position near the front and approached her. Evin looked up at him through worried eyes.

“I feel—wrong. This feels wrong.”

His gentle brown hands took her by the chin, examining her grey eyes. He took her pulse at the wrist, then placed a palm on her upper back. “Breathe,” he said, a command.

She tried. She felt shaky and a little ill.

“Have you ever been this far from home, little one?” he asked.

Evin glanced back at the footbridge, then back at Tadyath and slowly shook her head.

He sighed, regarding her with consternation, then looked over at his companions. He stooped and took a long moment to rummage in his pack, allowing the strap to slip down over one shoulder for easy access. In no time, he had pulled out a bottle of Calm and bade her drink it. She did so.

“Emotions can be very powerful,” he explained to her. “And this may happen several times during this trip. Everyone experiences uncertainty and fear, but unchecked, it becomes a poison. Negativity can affect our bodies and make us ill. Always give yourself time to feel what you feel. But then you must keep moving.”

As Evin tasted the herbal familiarity of the Calm Draught, she forced herself to breathe deeply.

Himes nodded at her encouragingly, and they all waited there with her for a time. When the potion had taken effect and Evin’s heart had resumed its normal pace, they continued.

There was so much about the north forest that Evin had never considered before; all manner of creatures made this area their home. She saw chipmunks and squirrels in abundance, and even came across a little black snake sunning itself just off the path. She wondered idly what they would be eating during the journey, and expected that the three of them would be well practiced in culinary acquisition. Especially Craix—though she couldn’t tell exactly where this supposition in particular had originated.

Soon enough, she began to hear the gentle rushing of the river running through the trees. Surely they’d keep to the left bank now—she knew it would lead them straight up into the bay if they followed it. Evin hadn’t thought of this bit before, but she guessed that they’d go from Liminey North to Craestor on the ferry.

She became so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the next four bells slip by, and started when Tadyath spoke.

“It’s time to make camp for the evening,” he said. “What do we fancy for dinner?”

Himes hiked a thumb in the position of the burbling river. “I’m a good hand at fishing,” he offered proudly. “But I could use some help.”

“Take Little One with you. I bet she’d enjoy it.”

Evin glanced from Tadyath to Himes and back. When had she become Little One?

Craix told everyone she was going to set traps and scout the area and that she would be back shortly.

They all dropped their belongings at the base of a large tree in the clearing and then split up. As Himes and Evin tramped through the woods toward the river, she could see Tadyath beginning to pick up pieces of tinder and firewood over her shoulder.