She marched forward past the leader. The thug spat vile words at her, but she didn’t care. Her dark-brown skirts rustled as she tromped across the scarlet grass and reached the dying man. She knelt down to aid him.
The easterner looked up in shock as she pulled out the fist-sized healer from her skirt’s pocket.
*
Ōbhin stared in surprise at the woman as she knelt on the other side of Carstin, her dark skirts rustling. She pulled something out of her pocket. A topaz the size of her fist and wrapped in gold wire. Ōbhin frowned at it. A healing jewelchine? Here?
“I don’t know if this will help,” the woman said. Her face was young, but she had a fierceness about her. She brought the topaz toward Carstin’s stump. Her hand brushed his wounded leg with a gentleness that belied the hard set to her eyes. “He might be rising to Elohm’s light soon.”
“Hey!”
Ust appeared. The bandit leader’s hand flew.
The woman gasped as he cuffed her across the jaw, snapping her head back. Anger surged through Ōbhin as the topaz fell from her hand. It spun through the air and hit dead Jimet’s helm with a brittle snap. A chip of orange spun off.
“My orders were to bring Dualayn alive,” Ust spat. “I don’t need yo—”
“You Truth-blinded idiot!” hissed the woman, her head snapping around, her jaw already beginning to swell.
“Truth-blinded?” Ust growled, black flashing across his face.
“Do you know what you just did? That was a topaz! Do you want your man to die?”
Ōbhin rose. His hand fell on his resonance blade, smearing Carstin’s blood across the emerald and its wiring. The pulse in Ust’s jaw throbbed. His jaw tightened. “I will keep an eye on her, Ust. She won’t cause problems.”
Ust’s nostrils flared. “Good. See that she does.” He whirled. “Hook, I want this camp looted fast.”
Ōbhin tightened his jaw and drew in a breath.
“Your belt, Tethyrian,” the woman hissed. “Now!”
*
Jaw throbbing, Avena pressed her hand over the bubbling wound on the dying bandit’s chest.
“For a tourniquet?” asked the Tethyrian as he pulled off his sword belt.
She nodded, glad he understood. “Father, I need your help!”
Ōbhin’s chainmail coat hung loose as the heavy leather slipped off his waist. He unclipped his scabbard and set it on the scarlet grass. His black-gloved hands worked fast. She frowned at the color. Was he a criminal? Of course, he’s a criminal. He’s with these Black-filled men.
Only the sons of the rich would wear pure black, reveling in their blasphemy against Elohm and his Seven Colours. She kept glancing at him, the shadows she’d seen in his eyes lessened as he wrapped the belt around his comrade’s leg and pulled tight.
A faint groan came from the man.
“Bring your surgical tools, Father!” she called again.
“Can you save him?” the Tethyrian asked, his accent a strange blend of foreign harshness with a hint of Onderian lilt.
“Doubtful,” she said. “This wound to his lung is bad. I fear it’s collapsed. I hear air sucking out of him. And he’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Another healing jewelchine?”
She shook her head. “We only brought the one.”
“Now, see here, good sir,” Dualayn said, “I am hardly at risk of flight if I am attending to your comrade’s life.”
“Let him,” said Ust. “Loot the camp. Let’s see what we got.”
“Are you just brigands robbing us?” Avena hissed at the foreigner.
“Not today,” he said. His jaw set. “We’re your . . . escorts. Our boss wants to speak to you.”
“He could have sent an invitation.”
The man shrugged. “I suspect it was refused.”
Avena swallowed. She glanced at the tent. Dualayn rushed out with his leather satchel, dyed orange, the hue of Compassion. A good color for a healer to have. Her shoulders squirmed as she glanced at the rough men around them. They were all Lothonians. A few were picking up their dead and carrying them off while trading coarse jokes.
Life was cheap for them, but for the foreigner . . .
“What will your boss do with us?” she asked, still pressing down on the dying man’s chest. His blood welled between her fingers. Anger pulsed through her still. She wanted to slap this boss.
“Talk. Maybe he’s after ransom.”
Greed. Selfishness lurked at the root of all men’s dark desires. Craving more wealth. To satisfy desires. To steal what belonged to others because you wanted it. All the woes men inflicted upon each other stemmed back to that one fact: putting yourself before others.
“Okay, child,” Dualayn said, “what do we have?”
“Collapsed lung, Father.” She looked up at the older man; there was concern in his eyes. He grunted as he lowered his rotund form to his knees.
“Not good,” he said. “And that leg . . .”
“Why are you helping?” the foreigner said.
Avena’s brow furrowed. “Do you think because you killed our bodyguard that we have to forsake Elohm’s teachings? No life is so dingy that it can’t be polished to a shine.”
The foreigner’s brow tightened. The scar on his cheek flexed. He pulled tighter on the belt, shoulders bowed by more than the weight of his chainmail. Despite the darkness, he possessed a nobility about him. Something almost crushed beneath an unseen weight.
Who are you? Avena wondered, her anger disrupted by this man’s actions. The bandits were weeds, but he was something else. Whether good or ill, she couldn’t tell.
“Okay, child, step aside,” Dualayn said, a glass tube held in one hand, a sharp scalpel in the other. “Let’s save this poor man’s life.”
Chapter Three
It was strange that Avena’s nervousness increased
