His eyelids fluttered and closed. Soon his breathing was peaceful. Her own time in Death Valley was plaguing her too, Zens appearing in her dreams to mock and taunt her as he threw her around the room using the power of his mind. And now, Tomaaz, her son, could be facing that same horror. She pulled a calling stone from her pocket and rubbed the flat side of the oval crystal. Nothing happened—no flicker; no image of Tomaaz’s face. He hadn’t contacted them for a week, now. She grimaced and stowed the crystal.
Rocking this boy reminded her of her twins when they’d been littlings. Tomaaz had always rescued injured insects and woodland creatures. Ezaara, on the other hand, had helped her with the healing arts since she’d been old enough to pick herbs.
A while later, Marlies carried the boy back to bed and tucked his covers around him. If she was lucky, he’d sleep through the rest of the night.
Marlies padded into the bedroom to Hans’ soft snores, his dark curls outlined on the pillow in the candlelight. He’d flown patrol tonight and was exhausted. She was just climbing back into their bed, when Liesar, her dragon, mind-melded. “Marlies! A wounded rider’s in Zaarusha’s den.”
“Tell Zaarusha I’m on my way.” Marlies threw a warm jerkin on and raced through the infirmary next door, snatching her supplies, then out to Liesar’s den.
Marlies picked up the dragon’s enormous saddle. “What’s wrong with the rider?”
“He’s unconscious and there’s a lot of blood,” the silver dragon replied. “Marlies …” Liesar turned her turquoise eyes to her, lowering her head. “It’s Tomaaz—Maazini’s not sure if he’ll survive.”
Dropping the saddle, Marlies swung onto Liesar’s bare back, her heart smacking her ribs like a battering ram.
§
“Ezaara!”
Ezaara woke, sitting bolt upright in bed. Strange, she thought she’d heard two voices in her head—not just Zaarusha’s, but also Maazini’s. She must’ve been dreaming again. Nightmares of Tomaaz and Roberto had been bothering her since they’d left for Death Valley six weeks ago. She snuggled back under the covers.
“Ezaara!” This time it was Maazini and Zaarusha.
She yanked back the covers, shivering in the chilly air. “What is it?” she mind-melded with both dragons at once.
Zaarusha answered. “Your brother’s injured, here in my den.”
Gods, no. Ezaara shoved her feet into her boots and her jerkin on over her nightdress, then snatched up her healer’s pouch and ran from her cavern to Zaarusha’s den next door.
Torchlight illuminated a horrifying scene. Her brother lay unconscious on the stone, blood seeping from his side. She knelt down and placed her fingers at his throat. He was still breathing. Heart, still beating. Around his hip, his blood-soaked breeches were in tatters. She pulled the fabric back.
Her hand flew to her mouth. Tomaaz’s right hip was a gaping hole of torn and bloody flesh. His hip joint was shattered. Fragments of splintered bone gleamed in the torchlight among congealed blood and pus.
By the First Egg, no. Ezaara turned away, dry retching. “Zaarusha, call my mother!”
Zaarusha bent over Ezaara, nudging her with her snout. “The master healer and Liesar are on their way. Are you all right?” Behind Zaarusha, Maazini was slumped on the snow.
“I’m fine. Please organize someone to take care of Maazini.” Ezaara turned back to her brother. Feeling his scalp, she found a gash where he’d whacked his head on the stone floor. There were also grazes on his arm, right thigh and side.
Liesar landed with a whump. Ma leapt to the ground and sprinted over.
Ezaara gestured to Tomaaz’s hip. “This is the worst, Ma. He has a gash on his head, but—”
“We’ll have to move him off this cold floor.” Ma’s face was creased with worry. “You take his shoulders while I support his injured hip and legs.”
Tomaaz was a deadweight, leaving a bloody trail behind them. Despite Zaarusha’s efforts to calm her, Ezaara’s heart pounded, mind racing. As they lifted Tomaaz onto her bed, he came to, shrieking in pain. Ezaara’s stomach wrenched.
Ma’s forehead was slick with sweat as she barked instructions. “Make some woozy weed to knock him out again. Fetch powdered slippery elm bark, bone-knit, and piaua juice. Fast!”
Ezaara grabbed the items from her supplies and brewed the woozy weed tea, feeding sips to Tomaaz until his eyes rolled back in his head and he slept.
Grunting, Ma extracted splinters of bone from Tomaaz’s hip wound with her surgical knife, her hands a bloody mess. “Grab that bowl,” her mother snapped. “Three measures of slippery elm to two of bone-knit and a few drops of piaua.”
Ezaara’s hands shook as she measured the powdered bone-knit, spilling some.
Ma grabbed Ezaara’s wrist, Tomaaz’s blood trickling down Ezaara’s arm. “It’s all right, Ezaara, we can do this.” Her voice was steady, but anxiety puckered her brow.
Do what? Help him die without pain? Amputate his leg? Keep him alive so he could never walk or run again? Ezaara nodded, not trusting her voice, and mixed the powder and liquid to form a thick paste.
“Add a little more bone-knit.” Ma placed a few shards of Tomaaz’s shattered bone into a dish, arranging them in some order. “Piaua juice restores life, but the slippery elm and bone knit helps glue the bone back together, giving the restorative juice something to work with. The more pieces of bone we can stick together, the better.” Ma dropped two last bits of Tomaaz’s bone into the dish. “Ezaara, fasten his limbs to the bed so he doesn’t thrash.”
Eyes pricking, Ezaara bound Tomaaz’s arms and legs. She checked his heartbeat, then mixed the ingredients in her bowl. The substance changed in texture, taking on a pale bone color. When the paste formed a thick clump, Ma scooped the substance out of the bowl and pushed it into the cracks in Tomaaz’s hip. “Bring
