Seraph closed her eyes and tried to relax, but the more she tried not to think, the more she thought.
Tier got up, but she didn’t look to see what he was doing. He was back in a moment and began playing his lute. He picked one of her favorite songs, an evening song that had lulled their children to sleep when they were teething or sick. The husky, soft tones slid over her and soothed the tension from her neck and shoulders. She let his voice coax her away from the blood and danger and back into their home and evenings when, with the work of the day done, she and Tier would sit on the back porch. Gura’s wire coat tickled Seraph’s bare feet as the setting sun colored the mountains red.
As she relaxed something stirred at the tips of her fingers, a whisper at first. She coaxed it with a breath of interest just like she’d have puffed at a reluctant spark when she was trying to light a fire the solsenti way.
“He’s stopped breathing.”
Toarsen’s voice, thick with grief.
But when she would have paid attention to him, Tier’s song brought her back to her little spark of… healing. See, she coaxed, directing it to the flesh under her fingers. I have something for you to do.
Fire shot up her shoulders so unexpectedly that she jerked and gasped, but someone’s hands locked on her wrists and held her hands against Kissel. She opened her eyes and knew the damage Ielian’s knife had done, though it was buried under her hands and beneath Kissel’s skin.
The power of the Lark eased through Seraph’s hands and into Kissel’s body, repairing the gross damage to the tissues first, then moving on to smaller things. His heart had stopped, but her power hit it and it could not resist her and began beating.
There isn’t enough blood, Mother. He won’t live without more blood.
“Who said that?” asked Jes.
“Said what?” Lehr whispered. “Keep your voice down, Jes, you’ll distract her.”
Mehalla? Seraph asked, uncertain whether that soft voice had been real or imaginary. There was no answer.
Whoever it had been, she had been right. Kissel needed blood the Lark could not supply him with.
But Seraph wasn’t a Lark, or at least, not only a Lark. Leaving her right hand, the hand with the Lark’s ring to cover the closed hole in Kissel’s chest, she brought her left hand, covered with Kissel’s blood, to her lips and touched it with her tongue.
She called her magic to hand. Find this, she told it, showing it Kissel’s blood. Her magic took the dried blood from the bandages, from her hands, from Kissel’s bloody clothes. She touched her tongue again. Make it like this. The dried, dead blood became clean and alive again. Put it here. The part of her that was Lark found the collapsing blood vessels and showed the magic where it needed to be.
Seraph took a shuddering breath. “Let go,” she told Lehr, who held her wrists in a bruising grip. “He doesn’t need me anymore.”
Lehr released her, and she pulled her hands away. Kissel’s chest looked as though the wound was weeks old. She was a little disappointed that there was a mark at all, but remembering Brewydd’s insistence that Tier’s knees heal the last bit on their own, she thought that perhaps it was just as well.
Kissel opened his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll be up and fighting today,” Kissel told Seraph. “But maybe tomorrow.” He tried to sit up, but didn’t quite make it. Toarsen caught his head before it hit the ground. “Then again,” Kissel said weakly, “maybe next week or the week after that.”
“You’ll do,” said Tier, breaking off his singing.
“Thank you,” whispered Toarsen, and there were tears in his eyes.
“I told you I wouldn’t lose anyone else to that bastard,” she said coolly.
“Where’d all the blood go?” asked Rinnie.
Seraph patted Kissel’s bare shoulder. “Back where it belongs,” she said. “Let’s try Gura.”
Gura was at once both easier to heal and more difficult: easier because she knew how to call upon the ring now, more difficult because she was tiring, and there was more damage. Ielian had broken Gura’s ribs and completely severed a muscle in his shoulder.
She was deep into the final connections that the Lark knew would allow the dog to control his leg as well as he had before it was injured when someone spoke to her.
“Seraph?”
It took her a moment to pull far enough out of the healing to know that it was Tier.
“Seraph, Hinnum has come back.” Tier’s voice was soft but urgent. “Can you help him?”
Seraph looked up and saw Hennea on her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks, holding a limp black and white bird in her hands. “Seraph?” she said.
Seraph stumbled to her feet and Tier put his arm around her until she steadied. She knelt beside Hennea and put her hands on the magpie.
She felt the Lark’s power wash over the bird, but like oil repels water, the healing washed over him without touching him. She tried again.
This time she noticed the differences between him and Kissel. Age and magic entwined his body and kept her from healing him. She saw that it would be difficult to heal a solsenti mage because of the alteration that magic, without the filter of the Raven’s Order, worked on a mage’s body. She understood how it was that a strong solsenti mage would live for many years beyond a normal life span as magic reinforced aging flesh, ligaments, and bone.
“He is too old, and magic too deep in him to allow for healing,” Seraph said, stricken. “I can do nothing.”
Hennea smoothed his feathers and crooned to him. Bright eyes dulled, and Seraph could feel the exact moment his heart ceased beating.
Darkness approached, and Seraph looked up in alarm, but it was only her son. The Guardian crouched behind Hennea and wrapped his arms around her as she wept.
“Jes couldn’t be here,” he told her. “But I can.”
The magpie’s shape fell away and in Hennea’s lap was a child who looked to be no more than four years old.
“Ah my poor Hinnum,” Hennea whispered. “How cruel was this? Such a price you paid for magic, my friend.” She looked at Seraph. “When he was three centuries old he stopped aging and began to get younger. It was good, until he began getting too young. When I last saw him he looked as though he was Rinnie’s age—he found it humiliating.” She looked at the toddler in her arms. “He would have hated this.”
“He was a great wizard and the world is lessened by his death,” said Seraph.
“He was the greatest mage who ever lived,” Hennea’s voice was thick with grief. “I was the Raven, and I never dreamed what power an illusionist could wield. He could work other magics, but illusion was the heart of him. He took the point for the spell to sacrifice Colossae because I no longer had the power to do so. Fifty Ravens would not equal his power.”
“When this is over,” said Tier, “you’ll tell me his story, and I’ll sing it so that his fame will never die. He died protecting my children, he died trying to defeat the Shadowed. Such a man deserves to be remembered.”
“I remember him,” Hennea murmured. “I remember him.”
“He’ll be coming soon,” said Lehr.
“If he did this to Hinnum,” said Hennea, “then we have no chance.”
“He could kill us without our ever seeing him,” said Phoran. “He stopped the breath in my body. If Rinnie hadn’t startled him, I’d be dead.”
“He hasn’t gotten what he wants yet,” said Tier.
“The gems?” Seraph shook her head. “Without Hinnum to guard the library, all he needs is to read through the books. He’ll discover what he needs.”