‘No disrespect, Priestess,’ her patient meekly said, ‘but the bandages, they’re-’
‘Soaked in charbalm,’ she finished, wrapping them around his head. ‘I apparently have to keep a lot on hand when I’m dealing with heathens who can’t even control their oh-so-impressive fire. You know he gets the shakes after he casts that fire? Loses bladder control, sometimes, too. He’s probably pissing himself right now.’
Don’t piss yourself, don’t piss yourself, don’t piss yourself.
The boy should have been more worried about passing out, he knew. His body felt drained; the heat that coursed through him was all but spent; he’d already reduced two men to slow, smouldering pyres. His hands felt dull and senseless, the electricity that ran through them having been expended on dislodging a chain.
And still they kept coming. The sailors put up an admirable defence, even in the face of the new, pale-skinned invaders. But they couldn’t hold out for ever. Neither could he, and he knew it. Nothing was left of him but spit.
He narrowed his eyes as he spotted two of the pale creatures rushing towards the companionway.
He inhaled sharply, chanted a brief, breathless verse and blew. The ice raced from his lips across the deck between the two and formed a patch of frost in the doorway. His foot came down, hard, frigid spikes rising up to cage the passage off. The creatures turned black scowls upon his red-glowing eyes.
‘No one,’ he said through dry lips, ‘gets in.’
‘I cured that,’ Asper said to the charred man, ‘with a tea I learned after four years of study. I can cure the shakes, heal their little cuts and scratches and make sure they don’t all die of dysentery. That’s what I do. I’m the priestess of the feather-arsed HEALER, for His sake!’ She coughed. ‘Forgive the blasphemy.’
‘Of course, Priestess, but-’
‘But do they appreciate it? Of course not!’ She snarled and jerked the bandage tight. ‘The stupid little barbarians think that killing is the only thing in life. There’re other things in life. . like life. And who tends to that?’
Her patient said something, she wasn’t sure what.
‘Exactly! I’m the Gods-damned shepherd! I keep them alive! They should be following me! The only person on this whole stupid ship with more godly authority is-’
‘Pray, does there exist some turmoil amongst the good people in my employ?’
She froze, breathless, and turned.
The Lord Emissary spoke with no fury, no sadness, no genuine curiosity at the sight before him. He raised his voice no higher than he would were he consoling a wailing infant. His conviction was that of a mewling kitten.
Yet his voice carried throughout the mess, quelling hostilities and fear with a single, echoing question. Eyes formerly enraged and terrified went wide with a mixture of awe and admiration as a white shadow entered the mess on footsteps no louder than a whisper.
‘Lord Emissary.’ Asper turned to face him, her voice quavering slightly.
From under a white cowl, a long, gentle face surveyed the scene. A smile creased well-weathered features, eyes glistening brightly in the dim light as Miron Evenhands shook his head, chuckling lightly. One hand was tucked into the cloth sash about his narrow waist while the other stroked a silver pendant carved in the shape of a bird, half-hidden by the white folds of his robe.
‘And what evil plagues my humble companions?’ he asked gently.
‘N-nothing,’ she said, suddenly remembering to bow.
‘Instances of “nothing” rarely beget so strong a scent of anger in the air.’
‘It. . it was simply a. . disagreement of sorts.’ She cleared her throat. ‘With. . with myself.’
‘Good for the soul and mind, always.’ The incline of Miron’s head was slow and benevolent. ‘I find it better to voice concerns before violence comes into play, even if it is with oneself. Many wars and conflicts could be avoided that way.’ He turned to Asper pointedly. ‘Could they not?’
Her eyes went wide as a child’s caught with a finger in a pie — or perhaps a child caught with a finger in burned flesh.
‘Absolutely, Lord Emissary.’
Miron’s smile flashed for only an instant before there was the sound of something crashing above. He glanced up, showing as much concern as he could muster.
‘We are. . attacked?’
‘My com-’ She stopped herself, then sighed. ‘Those other people are handling it, Lord Emissary. Please, do not fret.’
‘For them? No,’ Miron said, shaking his head. ‘They have their own Gods to watch over them and weapons to defend themselves.’ He looked with concern at her. ‘For you, though-’
‘Lord Emissary,’ she said softly, ‘would you permit me the severe embarrassment of knowing how much you overheard?’
‘Oh, for the sake of discussion, let us say all of it.’
His voice was carried on a smile, gentle as the hand he laid on her shoulder. She started at first, having not even heard his approach, but relaxed immediately. It was impossible to remain tense in his presence, impossible to feel ill at ease when the lingering scent of incense that perpetually cloaked him filled her nostrils. She found herself returning the smile, her frustrations sliding from her shoulders as his hand did.
‘Goodness,’ the priest remarked, padding towards the bandaged man. ‘What happened here?’
Her shoulders slumped with renewed burden. ‘Adventure happened,’ she grunted, momentarily unaware of the fact that such a tone was inappropriate in the presence of such a man. ‘That is, Lord Emissary, he was wounded. .’ she paused, balancing the next word on her tongue, ‘by Dreadaeleon. Inadvertently. Supposedly inadvertently.’
‘A hazard with wizards, I’m informed. Still, this may have done more good than ill.’
‘Forgive me, Lord Emissary, but I find it difficult to see the good in a man being torched.’
‘There is yet joy in simply staying alive, Priestess.’ He looked down at the man’s bandages and frowned. ‘Or there would be, had you left him a hole through which to breathe.’
She began to stutter an apology, but found no words before Miron gently parted the bandages about the man’s charred lips.
‘There we are.’ He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘After your capable treatment, sir, I must insist that you retire to whatever quarters you’re permitted. Kindly don’t scratch at your wrappings, either; the charbalm will need time to settle into the skin.’
On muttered thanks and hasty feet, the man scurried into the depths of the ship’s hold, sparing a grunt of acknowledgement for Asper as he left. Though she knew it to be a sin, she couldn’t help but resent such a gesture.
He would have thanked me proper if I had killed for him, she thought irritably, if only out of fear that I might have killed him. He’d be at my feet and mewling for my mercy if I were a warrior.
‘Tea?’
She turned with a start. Miron sat delicately upon one of the mess benches, pouring brown liquid from a clay pot into a cup: tea that had been left cold when the Cragsmen arrived.
Unperturbed by the temperature, the priest sipped at it delicately, smacking his lips as though it were the finest wine. It was only after she noted his eyes upon her, expectant, that she coughed out a hasty response.
‘N-no, thank you, Lord Emissary.’ She was suddenly aware of how meek her voice sounded compared to his and drew herself up. ‘I mean to say, is this really the proper time for tea? We are under attack.’
So much blood.
The air was thick with it. It clotted his nostrils, travelled down his throat and lingered in his chest like perfume. Much of it was his. He smiled at that. But there was another stench, greater even than the rank aroma of carnage.