When the fight at last started, it happened so fast she nearly missed it, despite having been waiting for it. Leverre drew his sword and cut Gamet down in one flashing sweep that sprayed blood across Solène’s face and her pristine cream clothes. In a panic, she searched the group for the man she decided would be first. He was already moving, reacting far faster than Solène. With a roar born from the desire to survive that frightened even her, she drew on the Fount, careful to avoid tapping her own reservoir, and directed it all at him.
Where there had been a young man dressed head to toe in the Order’s cream cloth, there was now nothing but an empty saddle. She squinted, wondering what had happened. What she had done?
She realised the saddle and the horse’s back were drenched in a thick layer of sticky blood and viscera, and it was all she could do not to be sick.
One of the others stared, mouth agape, at where their comrade had just been. To her surprise, they were dressed in red now—it took her a moment to work out why. Then she pushed the thought from her head as quickly as it had entered.
A flashing sword cut through the air, so close to her face that she could feel the breeze of its passage. Some deep-rooted instinct for survival had caused her to flinch, but her attacker closed the distance and she knew she would not be able to dodge a second time. Without thinking, she extended her hand and roared again, a hoarse, bestial sound that was alien to her. Her attacker momentarily became a smudge of cream and red in the air, then he too was gone, coating everything around him in a misting of blood.
She felt a violent tug on her, but there was no one touching her. It felt as though something had grabbed her soul and was trying to pull it from her body. Looking around frantically, she saw the woman, hand outstretched, her face a picture of concentration. Solène felt the tug again, then more distress than she had ever known. She lashed out again, not in hate or rage, but in anguish. It was a terrible thing she was doing, but she felt compelled to continue. She fed the pain of her soul into her focus and in an instant the young woman was nothing more than a red stain.
Feeling cold and dizzy, Solène realised she hadn’t been able to separate herself from the Fount during the third attack. Though she was reeling, only she and Leverre remained in the saddle. Three bodies lay in the road; there was nothing left of the others but blood. There was a look of grim satisfaction on his face but she felt awful.
How could there not have been a better way? How could she have been capable of what she did? Had it always lurked within her, waiting for a chance to come out? What if she couldn’t stop it the next time she felt danger? She had not chosen to turn Arnoul into a pig, she had done it instinctively. Might this be what she did the next time she acted on instinct? She retched, bringing up nothing but bitter bile. She looked up, shamed by both what she had done, and for being sick. Leverre nodded to her with a thin smile.
“Well done.”
She burst into tears.
“It’s always like this the first time,” Leverre said. “Just let it out. You’ll feel better after.”
She did her best to smile and hold it in despite his advice. She had never been one to show weakness to others, but the confused rage of emotion inside of her threatened to overcome her well-trained resolve. Her body shuddered with every contained sob. Cold spread through her body and every limb felt heavy.
“We should get moving,” he said. “There’s nothing to be gained by staying here any longer. It’d be just my luck for the king’s Highway Rangers to show up now.”
She wanted to ask what to do about the bodies, but it was all she could do to nod and follow him. The air stank of the metallic tang of blood, and she had to admit she would be glad to be as far from the place as possible.
They reached a small river crossed by a bridge that was barely large enough to warrant the name. It was not far from where they had fought, but Solène could go no farther without some rest. She knew if she hadn’t managed to separate herself from the Fount that one time, she wouldn’t even have made it this far.
“I have to stop,” she said.
“We can rest a short while,” Leverre said. “We should clean up too. We can’t go into Trelain looking as we do.”
She looked down at her robes, now a dark rusty red for the most part, crusted with the dried blood of those she killed. Wearing them made her skin crawl and she suddenly couldn’t wait to be rid of them. Sliding off her horse, Solène went to the water’s edge and started scrubbing the blood from her still-shaking hands. She thought she might fall into the water from sheer exhaustion, and wondered what Leverre would say if she asked to rest for a while. Her head swam with fatigue now that the excitement of the fight had faded. She knew the magic she had used had taken a heavy toll on her. It was only right that it did. Killing should never come easily, she thought. Looking for him, she saw that Leverre had yet to dismount.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Nothing.” He swung his leg over the horse’s back and grimaced in pain. He let out a loud groan as he lowered himself to the ground. His hand went to his side as he walked to the water.
“Were you wounded?”
“A cut, nothing more,” he said. “I’ve had far wor—” He tumbled to the shingle riverbank with a rattle of loose stones.
Solène rushed to his side and used a wet corner of her robe to wipe the dried blood from his face. His skin was pale—almost deathly so. “Felix,” she said, sprinkling a handful of water on his cheek.
His eyelids flickered, then lifted slowly.
“Thank the gods,” she said. “Let me take a look at your cut.”
She took the dagger from his belt to cut his bloody tunic, exposing that part of his belly. She saw a dark, narrow slit, a handspan long, oozing dark blood at a prodigious rate.
“Did this just start now?” she said. “When you got down from the horse?”
He shook his head grimly.
“I haven’t taken any healing instruction. What do I do?”
He spluttered out a laugh. “Neither have I. The Prince Bishop didn’t recruit me for my bedside manner.”
“I have to stop this bleeding. I have to fix this or you’re going to die.”
“I think it was too late for that the minute the blade came out. There’s only so much magic can do.”
“I can do more magic than most,” she said.
“Try, then,” he said. “After that fight we just had, I’d be surprised if you could set light to dry grass.”
She had no idea where to start. She was so tired she could barely hold a thought. How could she hope to shape the Fount? Crafting magic on someone needed so much focus, plus an absolute certainty of what you wanted to achieve. It was why healing was the most specialised school of magic at the Priory. It was easy to cast a forceful blow, or, as she had just discovered, do far more than that when the intent was destruction. Healing was all finesse, and Solène had no idea how to wield her talent as anything other than a club.
“You must know something. Tell me. Anything.”
He murmured something, but she couldn’t quite make it out.
“What?”
“A letter,” he said, the words coming between laboured breaths. “I left a letter at the Priory saying I had to stop them from killing Gill. Said it was a matter of personal honour, that he’d saved my life. You don’t need to take any blame for it.”
Tears streamed down her face. She pressed her fingers down on either side of the wound and reached out for the Fount. It seemed distant, and the farther she stretched, the more it receded, always staying in view, but just beyond her grasp. Trying made her dizziness worse. She squeezed her eyes tight, concentrating for all she was worth. She went through all the exercises dal Drezony had taught her, but none had any effect. She looked within, to her own reservoir. It was depleted—dangerously so—but she had to try.