“There may be someone else you can treat, Scriber,” said Bryndine. I already knew what she was about to ask of me, but I could not let on that I had been eavesdropping. “The High Commander took a heavy blow to the head. He has been in and out of delirium since.”
When they did not know I was listening, the women had mentioned that Uran Ord had some complaint against them, and that they hoped to use me to get back in his good graces. I wondered what was more important to Bryndine: her cousin’s life, or his favor?
“A blow to the head?” I repeated, considering my options. If his complaint was a matter of fluids creating pressure in the skull, then a trephination might suffice, though I didn’t relish the notion of boring a hole in the High Commander’s skull. But if it was more than that, my skills would likely be insufficient. “There may be something I can do, but I was pinned in History, not Medicine. No doubt I can do more for him than an Army Scriber, but…” I shrugged my shoulders. I could not refuse to treat the King’s nephew, but I did not want that responsibility. If Uran Ord died under my care, it would go very badly for me, especially considering the other marks on my record.
“Whatever you can do will be appreciated, Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine said.
With little left to say, we lapsed into awkward silence. After a time, I crawled back to the rear of the wagon. I had no desire to speak to Bryndine further now that my questions had been answered, and I had noticed my chest sitting near where I had woken. I opened it and saw that someone had finished my packing; clothes, books, and writing supplies were all stowed neatly in the box.
I rummaged through and found my journal, a quill, and some ink. I had not yet recorded the previous night’s events, and I could practically hear Illias’ voice in my head, scolding me for putting it off. I had been unconscious, of course, but the Scriber’s instinct was ingrained too deeply in me to accept excuses. Though the shaking of the wagon made my hand rough and uneven, I began to write what I remembered of the attack.
* * *
The sun was low in the sky when the wagon came to a stop, and I was forced to put away my journal as dusk descended. By the time the long train of soldiers and villagers behind had gathered at the chosen site, it was full dark, and the First Company was busy erecting camp by lantern-light. Bryndine took the time to issue orders to her company before bringing me to see her cousin, and while she did that I stood stupidly in place, watching the soldiers set up camp with no inkling of what I might do to help.
The people of Waymark milled about among the men of the First Company, though scattered amid four hundred soldiers, fifty villagers were hard to pick out. Those I did see had nothing but smiles for me, and a few even greeted me with enthusiastic handshakes. I saw Penni making moon-eyes at the young soldiers, and was surprised when she rushed over to embrace me and kiss me on the cheek before running away giggling. I had thought the villagers would be resentful, considering I had called them all fools less than a day before; such warm treatment was wholly unexpected.
It was not until I spoke to Logan Underbridge that I understood. He shouted my name as he jogged towards me, his round cheeks still flushed red from the long march.
“Scriber Dennon! Glad to see you up, looked like you got hurt pretty bad.” He clubbed me on the shoulder enthusiastically with a meaty hand. “I was a fool last night and I don’t mind sayin’ it—if you hadn’t got us movin’, and seen them Burners, we’d all be dead and burned, and that’s a fact. Them Dragon-damned women would have seen us all killed!”
That was the answer, of course. The townsfolk were making a hero out of me so they didn’t have to admit Bryndine had saved them. I did not mind them hating her; though they did not know it, she had chosen to leave the village in danger for a full day without warning. But the women she commanded deserved credit for what they had done. I wanted no part in this mass denial.
“I did nothing praiseworthy, Logan. I was unconscious for most of it. Those women saved you, not me.”
“They didn’t!” he insisted. “It wasn’t them got us out, it was the First. The Bloody Bride and hers only made it that long on account of you seen the Burners comin’. They hardly knew what they were doin’ with those weapons.”
It was a laughable claim—I had seen Bryndine and her company fight. A girl was dying from her wounds as we spoke; wounds taken saving our lives. She might have been dead already. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to punch Logan in his jowly red-cheeked face. But before I could, Bryndine intervened, begging Logan’s pardon and escorting me away to see her cousin. It was for the best—I would only have hurt my hand, and looked a fool. I am not skilled at violence.
Uran Ord’s tent had already been erected by that time, a massive canvas structure that dominated the camp around it. Tent is almost too small a word to describe it—it was closer to a personal pavilion, probably large enough to fit the entire population of Waymark, if not comfortably. From a spire on the top, the banner of the Ord family—twin towers, gold on dark grey—flew proudly above the smaller brown flag of the King’s Army. I was not surprised by the ostentatious structure, impractical as it was. Uran Ord was the eldest son of Baron Uldon Ord of Highpass, and his family’s taste for opulence was no secret.
A cleanly shaven brown-haired man of perhaps forty years stopped us as we approached the entryway to Ord’s tent. He wore a Lieutenant’s red cord on his shoulder.
“Lady Bryndine, the High Commander is being attended by our medics. No one is to enter.” His expression was sour, and he pointedly avoided referring to Bryndine by rank.
“This man is a Scriber, Lieutenant Ralsten, and better trained than any in my cousin’s ranks. Are you willing to take responsibility for the High Commander’s death when this man might have saved him?”
I shifted uneasily—this was the second time Bryndine had mentioned my training. She had to know who I was; of course she did. Even if Tenille hadn’t told her of me, she had lived in Three Rivers most of her life, within walking distance of the Old Garden where the accident had happened. It had been foolish to hope that she did not know me. I resolved to confront her when I had finished with the High Commander, though the idea of broaching the subject myself went against every instinct I had.
Lieutenant Ralsten scowled at Bryndine, but pulled the entry flap open. “He may enter. You will return to your company and await the High Commander’s judgement.”
Whatever she had done to anger her cousin, it must have been serious. She saluted and left, making no attempt to defend herself. Curious, I watched her go, until Ralsten cleared his throat to regain my attention and ushered me into the large tent.
The light inside was dim, emanating from a few oil lanterns set around the Commander’s cot, and the smell of sweat and vomit wafted through the air. Two Army Scribers hovered over the cot where Uran Ord lay, speaking in low, worried tones. They turned as I drew closer, and I gripped my collar, tilting my pin at them so it caught the light.
“Thank the Mother and the Father, they found someone,” one of them—a tall bald man—whispered with relief. They stepped aside, allowing me a full view of the patient.
As soon as I saw him, I knew that there was little I could do.
His face was bruised and misshapen where he had been struck; the upper left side of his forehead dimpled inwards grotesquely beneath his thick black hair. Beside him was a bucket he had clearly been sick in more than once; the odor rising from it was foul. He was conscious, but his blue eyes were glassy and unfocused, and he seemed unaware of his surroundings. A spasm ran through him as I watched, his right arm and leg twitching violently for a moment before falling still.
“We need to drain the blood from the skull,” the other Scriber, a heavyset man with dark hair, informed me. “But neither of us has the training.” He gestured helplessly.
“You
needed
to do it half a day ago. From the look of him, I’m surprised he is not already dead.” Uran Ord would undoubtedly be an invalid for the rest of his life even if he survived; the pressure on his brain had likely already done irreversible damage. But one could not simply refuse to treat the High Commander of the King’s Army.
I knelt beside the cot. “Go to Captain Bryndine’s wagon and get the trephining drill from my chest. I’ll also need a sharp knife, and make sure they’re both sterilized by alcohol and fire.” I closed my eyes, trying to think what else I might need. It had been a long time since I had even practiced the procedure. “Something to cut his hair with. Bandages too, this will be messy. And light, I will need more light.”
The two men scrambled to obey, clearly glad to have passed on the responsibility for the High Commander’s life. Warfare trained Scribers knew combat better than anything; these two had a medic’s training, which qualified them for quick patch-up work in the field, likely even amputating limbs. But in the area of head and brain injuries, the Academy was only just beginning to make strides—few had the experience to confidently treat such ailments. I was no expert myself, having only practiced on false skulls at the Academy.
Even if I had been able to make the attempt earlier, it would likely not have been enough. From his apparent symptoms I suspected there was bleeding within the brain itself, not just the tissue surrounding it, and the severity of the wound suggested a serious skull fracture, which meant many small fragments would likely need removal. If either of those things was true, the surgery required was far beyond my abilities.
A young page came into the tent carrying two more oil lanterns, and I directed him in their placement around the cot. Shortly after that, the medics returned with the tools I had asked for. At my direction, they sat Ord up in bed and cut his hair as closely as they were able with a pair of barber’s shears, cleaning the stray hairs away with a wet cloth and wrapping a bandage around his brow to catch the heavy blood flow that always came with a cut to the head. He remained docile throughout, staring ahead with clouded eyes, though several times he cried out to someone who was not there, and the spasms passing along the right side of his body were frequent and unpredictable.
“Do not let him move,” I instructed as I gingerly set the knife against his bare scalp. Taking a shaky breath, I pushed the blade down, starting the incision.
Ord let out a tiny whimper as I sliced into his scalp. His blood flowed copiously out over my hands, staining the bandage above his eyes a deep crimson. But he did not struggle—he was too far gone. For all I knew he was reacting to some vision only he could see rather than the knife cutting into his head. Even a fully successful surgery would not return his mind to him, I suspected, but even so I forged ahead. It was the only thing I could do: he was the King’s nephew. If he died while I was in the tent, the consequences would not be pleasant for me.
I peeled back the skin of his scalp along the incision, revealing the skull. The fracture where he had been struck was immediately obvious; the bone was cracked and depressed inwards, pressing in on the brain. Had I been more skilled, I would have attempted to lift the shards out of the depression, but I did not trust myself to do such delicate work. If I could make the trephination without complications, there was a chance it would relieve the pressure long enough to get Uran to the Academy for further surgery; anything beyond that was outside the limits of my ability.
Trembling hands forced me to stop, and my stomach heaved, but I mastered my nerves and took the trephining drill in my hand. There was resistance as I began to turn the drill, and I wasn’t sure I had the strength to penetrate the bone, but then the teeth engaged and slowly began to bore through.
By the time I penetrated the skull and the layer of soft tissue beneath, my arm ached badly, and sweat beaded on my brow. Blood spurted around the drill bit, spattering my shirt and gushing over my hands, thicker and faster than I was ready for. Pressure was certainly being released; for a terrifying moment I thought that it would not stop. But as I held my breath, the flow slowed to a manageable level.
I had done it. My held breath burst from my lungs in a triumphant laugh. I shook my sore arm to loosen the tense muscles as I looked to the two Army Scribers with a satisfied smile.
“It’s done,” I told them. “He just may survive this.”
When I looked back, the High Commander was no longer breathing.
“No.” I put two fingers against his neck; there was no heartbeat. Desperately, I pounded a fist against his chest once, then again, but it did no good. In the brief moment I had looked away, Ord had slipped quietly into oblivion.
“No, no, no! It was done!” I lashed out with my foot and caught the bucket sitting near the cot. The foul smell within the tent grew fouler as vomit spilled across the ground.
“He is with the Father now.” The bald medic put a hand on my shoulder. “You did all you could.”
I wrenched myself away from him. “It doesn’t matter.” I rubbed my temple, forgetting that my fingertips were stained with the High Commander’s blood. “They’ll say I killed the King’s nephew.”
Their faces both went white at that—it hadn’t occurred to them that we might be blamed for Ord’s death.
“No, they can’t… We didn’t—” the heavier man stammered. “We only held him! It was you that did it!”
“Your concern is touching,” I replied sarcastically. “But don’t worry yourself. It will be me they blame. I make for an easy scapegoat.”
“They needn’t blame anyone.” The voice came from behind the medics—from the High Commander’s cot. Both of the other men turned towards the sound, blocking my view. My heart beat wildly in my chest as I shoved between them to look upon the cot where the dead man lay.
Uran Ord looked back at me, his blue eyes clear and alive.
Chapter Seven
The Brothers of the Sky and the Sisters of the Earth, collectively known as the Children, are the preachers of the Mother and the Father. Their traditions are taken from the Book of the Divide, one of the few texts to survive even through the Forgetting, presumably dating back to a time before the cataclysm destroyed ancient Elovia.