But we have no choice. No choice. We leave him, he dies. We take him, there’s a chance. Slim, yah, but a chance nonetheless.
We run sort of sideways, sort of front ways, Buff on one side, me on the other, my brother airborne between us. In front of us is carnage.
Bodies are strewn every which way, but by the looks of it, we’ve won the night. Several weaponless guards are staggering and stumbling away from the gates, holding bloody arms or putting pressure on blood-spouting stomach wounds. Skye’s waving to us to hurry the chill up, or the scorch up, or however they say it in fire country.
We run, hobble, stumble across the flat area outside the castle walls, reaching the White District a minute later. We duck behind a tall, snow-covered wall to catch our breaths and assess our injuries.
Although I’m sure everyone contributed to the fight, it’s clear that Hightower, despite being stuck with more arrows than a shooting range target, did more than his fair share. He’s down on one knee, panting heavily and loudly, soaked in blood that’s surely equal parts his own and his enemies’. Abe’s standing over him, a broken arrow sticking from his leg. “Can you walk, Tower? Can you?”
He grunts and pushes to his feet. I think every single one of us just stares. He’s a sight to behold, what with half a dozen arrows sticking from him and more slash and cut wounds than the rest of us combined, he looks like the magnificent warrior that he is. The hero that he is.
“Is yer brother alright?” Skye says, looking right at me.
“He’s not good,” I say. “We need to get help fast. Hightower’ll need it too.”
“Circ too,” she says, motioning to where Siena and Feve are holding Circ up, his arms draped over their shoulders, hobbling on one leg.
“My people say the cold helps heal,” Feve says.
“And what do you know about it?” I say sharply.
“I know of healing,” is all Feve replies. He leaves Circ to Siena and bends to grab a handful of snow. “Pack this in your brother’s wound,” he says. “It might help with the bleeding.”
I don’t know if I can trust him, but I’ll try anything that might help Wes, so I only watch as Buff grabs the snow and pats it on Wes’s stomach.
“We gotta get to the Red District,” I say. “There are healers there who know how to be discrete.”
“We can’t,” Skye says. “This ain’t our country. We hafta git back to the desert.”
“Trust me,” I say. “Healers first. Desert after. We’ll go together.”
Wilde steps forward, a wicked gash running from her ear to her chin. “He’s right, Skye. We all need help.”
Skye’s fierce brown eyes are uncertain for a moment, but then she nods, says, “Move out!”
Before we charge through the White District, I look back, wondering if, at any moment, a horde of guards will pour from the gate, descending upon us like a swarm of demons.
Instead, I see only one man, high atop the wall. He holds a child in his arms.
With a slow, drawn out motion, he slides his thumb across his throat.
And it’s hard to see, because it’s dark and snowflakes are falling, but I know…
I know.
It’s King Goff and he’s—he’s got—
He’s got Jolie.
And I don’t know if his death decree is meant for me or for her.
~~~
We run, walk, limp, hobble, and carry each other to the Red District.
It took every last bit of my self-control not to run back to the palace, to demand that Goff hand over my sister, to fight him and the rest of his guards, all of whom will be awake and called into action.
But if he hasn’t hurt Jolie yet, it’s unlikely he’ll hurt her now. He told me himself that he needs her, that she’s some special trade item, whatever that means. And Wes is in trouble now, so he has to be my top priority. But even as Buff and I struggle along, carrying him, watching him fight in and out of consciousness, babbling like our drug-plugged mother, Jolie’s all over my thoughts. She’s calling to me, asking me why—WHY?—why did you leave me behind when you were so close to finding me? I thought you loved me?
It’s all I can do to whisper, “I’m sorry,” and push onwards.
Although it’s the middle of the night when we reach the Red District, there’re lights on everywhere, music playing, men laughing. A man crashes through a swinging door, landing face first in a pile of snow. “And stay out, you drunk!” a gruff voice calls after him.
A door to our left creaks open and there’s Lola, looking as provocative as ever, something thin and silky tied up top and around her waist. “By the Mountain Heart,” she murmurs when she’s sees us leaving bloody footprints in the snow. She slinks back inside, slamming the door behind her.
Skye glances at me and I shrug. Just another normal night in this place.
“Turn here,” I say as we approach a cross road.
Around the bend we stop at the second building on the right. There’s no sign, no placard, not even something spray-painted on the wall to describe what’s here. You either know it, or you don’t. Thankfully, after Wes demanded that I never come home again looking like I’d been through a war, I found this place. They’ve stitched and bandaged me (and Buff too) up more times than I can count even with both shoes off and my toes warming in front of the fire.
“Here,” I say.
“Here?” Skye says.
I nod. She shrugs and pushes the metal door open, holding it for me and Buff.
We carry Wes inside.
It smells like ’quiddy and burnt ice powder inside, but it’s not an underground drug and booze house. The alcohol’s for sterilizing wounds and the burnt ice powder is a natural anesthetic, although I wouldn’t recommend using it for that purpose very often. As my mother has shown time and time again, it’s more addictive than a woman’s smile.
Maddy, the rough-edged woman who runs the joint, is sitting at the desk when we barge in. “Good Heart!” she exclaims. “Dazz?”
“Mads,” I say with a nod. “Wes needs urgent medical care. So do some of the others.” I wave a hand back at the ragtag group behind me. Her eyes widen. “All of us need treatment for one injury or another.”
“We’re all full up,” she says, frowning, her eyes jumping between Skye and Feve, who are standing next to me.
“Mads,” I say, not even attempting to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Please.”
“I don’t even know where these—these strange people come from,” she says, her eyes narrowing on Feve’s markings, which curl out from beneath his skins and around his neck.
“Fire country,” I say. “They come from fire country, and they need your help. I need your help.”
Every line in her face crinkles. “You got silver?” she asks.
“Nay,” I say, and I see her frown deepen. “I mean, not on us. But you know I’m good for it.”
“Ain’t got no silver, ain’t get no service,” she says crossing her arms.
My arms are burning from carrying Wes and all I want to do is collapse right here on her floor, refuse to move, force her to help us, but then Abe hobbles up next to me and says, “I got plenny of silver and yer icin’ gonna help us or so help me Mountain Heart, I will make the rest of yer days a livin’ chill, Woman!”
Well, Mads pretty much jumps into gear after that, yelling for all her healers to come to the front immediately and stop helping the drunks with bruised knees and even more bruised egos. At least ten women come out, all wearing less-than-clean aprons—which I expect at one time were as white as snow, but which are now a yellowish-reddish-brown—about one per each one of us, although those of us with minor injuries refuse treatment until Wes and Hightower and Circ and Abe are taken care of.
They usher us beyond the desk, through a door, and into a large room, full of beds. As it turns out, the place isn’t even close to “full up”, as Maddy said, and nearly every bed is empty. There are only two fellas being treated, each with similar looking head wounds that look suspiciously like what you might expect a gash from a shattered bottle over the head to look like. The way they’re glaring at each other, I suspect they hit each other at about exactly the same time. Well, Maddy tells them to get the chill out, and they do, pushing and shoving each other the whole way.