Ferran's Map (22 page)

Ferran placed her gently on his cot, forcing
her to sit up, then placed a blanket at her side. “Hold on for just
a minute as I move the boat.” Then he left, quickly cast off, and
navigated his houseboat along the banks of The Bath. He found a
likely grove of trees where he could hide his houseboat and dropped
anchor in the marshy shallows.

Ferran tied up the boat and returned to
Lori's side. She kept swooning, and was on the verge of passing
out, but every time her head tilted back, he patted her cheek,
keeping her awake. She understood the necessity of her staying
awake until he assessed the damage. Her body was going into shock,
and her limbs were growing cold and clumsy. . Even in her injured
state, her head was spinning with remedies and treatments to ease
her pain and heal her wound. She tried to bundle it all in order,
but the ideas kept slipping away from her grasp.
Stop the pain
first… no, staunch the blood, then stitches… no, draw the knife
out… disinfect… boil water…we don’t have herbs…we have to sterilize
a needle….

Ferran grabbed a bottle of whiskey from one
of his many cabinets and uncorked it, taking a quick swig before
pressing the bottle into her hand.

Lori refused to grab the neck of the bottle,
and fumbled for a moment, looking up at him. “I hate that stuff,”
she said. “It smells disgusting.”

“Don’t whine,” he replied. He forced the
bottle to her lips, making her drink some whiskey. She choked as
the fiery liquid hit the back of her throat, and her muscles
tensed. Then as warmth arrived in her empty stomach, her body
immediately relaxed. The pain eased, though the wound still
throbbed fiercely. She took another swig and pushed the bottle away
with a groan. The bitter taste was still in her mouth.

Ferran corked the bottle and placed it next
to the cot. Then he stripped off his white shirt, which was stained
by her blood, to reveal his perfectly defined torso. Lori stared,
mesmerized by the sight. His abdomen was chiseled, like an elegant
statue. His upper body was a flat board of solid muscle. At 6'4",
his athletic physique lacked the usual cushion of fat carried by
men his age. He stood straight and narrow, tight as a longbow. A
red phoenix tattoo spread across his chest; its wide, unfurling
wings graced his pectorals, and several curling tail-feathers
wrapped down his right side.

Lori drank in the wondrous sight, completely
unabashed. It was more potent than the whiskey.

Ferran noticed her blatant stare and shook
his head, a wry grin coming over his lips. He flexed his shoulders.
Lori’s mouth opened slightly in distraction.

He laughed at her expression. “One stab to
the back and all your inhibitions fall, hmmm?” he teased. “We
should have done this sooner.”

“You’re flaunting,” she accused, continuing
to stare.

“Look as long as you want,” he replied.
“It’s not the first time I’ve caught you.” He winked slyly, then
took her shoulders in his big hands and pushed her gently over,
onto her stomach.

She gasped again, pain stabbing through her,
shattering the moment. Tears filled her eyes as he wrapped his
shirt around the knife’s blade and pressed hard against the wound.
He handled her body with experienced confidence, telling her
silently that he had treated such wounds before. Another wave of
nauseating pain rolled down her back.

“You’re a terrible medic,” she gasped.
“You’re too rough!”

“And you’re a whiny patient,” he said idly.
“Don’t complain. You did this to yourself, you know.”

“You’re heartless.”

“And you should have stayed out of the
way!”

His patience slipped, and she saw his anger.
She had seen such a response in many people—worried husbands,
scolding wives and frightened parents, all reprimanding a wounded
patient. Ferran was well-contained, but he must be furious with
her. The realization filled her with a strange satisfaction. She
couldn’t remember the last time anyone had fussed over her so
much.

“Reckless,” Ferran said.

“I am not!” Lori exclaimed, then cringed.
The pain grew as the muscles along her back cramped and shuddered.
As she closed her eyes and focused on breathing for a moment, she
felt the whiskey bottle being pressed to her lips again and
gratefully swallowed another sip.

“Do you need a stick to bite down on?”
Ferran asked. He didn’t give her time to answer, but handed her a
long, twisted cinnamon stick from a box he kept next to the
stove.

Lori put it between her teeth, focusing on
the harsh, spicy flavor. It cleared her mind slightly—just enough
to realize what Ferran was intending to do.
No!
she thought
suddenly.
Wait!

She couldn’t help but critique his method,
worrying about every small detail. She wondered if Ferran would
cause more damage by pulling out the knife, if he would treat the
wound correctly or slapdash some pirate-salve onto it. But she
couldn’t speak without releasing the stick from her teeth, and she
was in too much pain to do that. So she had to trust him; she had
to let the man work.

He set his hand firmly on the knife, then
carefully drew it out. His hands were rougher than she would have
liked—clearly, he didn’t have the delicate touch of a schooled
medic. But he worked confidently and quietly, keeping pressure on
the wound. Slowly he withdrew the knife. It made a soft, sucking
sound as it left her flesh. Next, he placed the blade beside her so
she could see it: about six inches long, short and elegant, suited
to a footman. Judging from the line of dark blood, the blade had
sunk halfway into her flesh before jamming against her inner wall
of rib and muscle.

Ferran threw his blood-soaked shirt aside,
grabbed another shirt from a cabinet and pressed down again on the
wound. “My last tunic,” he said, noticing her glance. “You owe
me.”

She would have laughed at that, but she
could barely draw her next breath. Her body’s natural defenses took
over, and she felt her head slowly drifting out of her body.

Ferran grabbed the hem of Lori's shirt and
ripped it open, baring her back. Lori felt a cold breeze against
her skin, almost soothing. He took a sip from the bottle of
whiskey, then splashed a large amount of whiskey onto the wound.
Lori chomped down on the cinnamon stick. He held her firmly pinned
down, his strong arm across her shoulders. She groaned and forced
herself to relax, submitting to the torment, pressing her face
against the rough material of the cot.

He waited until the pain eased and her body
relaxed. Then he lifted her cold hand and settled it against her
bundled shirt.

“Can you hold your hand down?” he said.
“More pressure on the wound.”

Lori summoned her willpower and, with
massive effort, did so. Her arm shook; her limbs felt heavy and
useless.

Ferran lit the small pot-bellied stove
inside the cabin. As the coals heated, he drew a knife from his
belt, rinsed it off in a bucket of water and held the blade inside
the stove’s iron furnace.

As Lori watched, she frowned, then dropped
the cinnamon stick from her mouth.

“You’re not…” she gasped. “You’re not going
to….?”

“We need to stop the bleeding, and I have no
skill with a needle.” He glanced at her. His face was drawn and
tense, but when he met her eyes, his gaze softened. “You’ll have a
handsome scar,” he teased gently. “Consider yourself branded.
Hundreds of cows endure this every day.”

Lori grinned weakly. “You’re going to brand
me?” she wheezed. “Like a cow of the great Ebonaire estate?”

Ferran laughed, a short, ironic sound. “I’m
disowned,” he reminded her. “You’ll be a poor cow belonging to a
red-blooded scoundrel. But I’ll treat you well. We’ll roam the
greenest pastures, and you’ll never be slaughtered or eaten.”

Lori groaned against the cot, fighting
another wave of pain. “My body feels like raw meat,” she
mumbled.

“Oh, come now, stop exaggerating,” he
chided.

“You’re enjoying this, you sadistic
bastard.”

“Maybe,” he shot her a puckish grin. “But
I’ll make it up to you.”

“Nothing can possibly make up for this,” she
moaned.

Ferran’s smile turned thoughtful. His voice
lowered. “I can think of a few things,” he murmured.

She barely caught his words, and couldn’t
think of a response anyway. Her strength was draining through the
cot into the boards of the houseboat. She closed her eyes and
focused on keeping pressure on the wound.

A minute or so later, she sensed him
returning to her side. He put the cinnamon stick back in her mouth.
Her arm fell limply over the edge of the bunk. She couldn’t prepare
herself—she was too exhausted. She tried to focus on the taste of
cinnamon, the pounding rain outside, the gentle creak of timbers as
Silas’ houseboat guided them into the river.

Ferran lifted the bloody shirt off the
wound. He sat across her legs, holding her body down to the best of
his ability. “Usually this is a two-man job,” he explained. “Try
not to move.”

Lori bit down on the stick and braced
herself.

Burning hot metal pressed into her
flesh.

She screamed. The sound tore from her throat
like the cry of a banshee. She forgot the room, the cot, the rain
outside and Ferran’s voice as he tried to talk her through it. Her
ears rang, and her vision blurred. Every muscle in her body
clenched in pain; if Ferran hadn’t been holding her down, she would
have shot straight off the cot.

He pressed the searing hot blade against the
bloody puncture wound for a few seconds, then withdrew it. He
waited a moment, inspecting his work to ensure he hadn’t damaged
unnecessary tissue, then repeated the procedure.

To Lori, each touch of the hot blade felt
like hours. Her muscles bunched and twisted like a fish hurled onto
a riverbank. Ferran waited as each fit of pain passed, cautious not
to accidentally reopen the wound with the knife.

Finally Lori's senses dimmed, her vision
went black, and she stopped feeling anything at all.

CHAPTER 12

Crash led Sora, Burn and Caprion through a
network of alleys to the eastern wall of the city, which separated
The City of Crowns from miles and miles of foothills. They traveled
inland, away from the King’s river and The Bath toward the distant
peaks of The Scepter. Eventually, they reached the rear wall of the
city. It stood tall and foreboding before them, perhaps fifty feet
high, impassible on foot. Sora didn’t see any soldiers in this
particular area. They were probably guarding the wall closer to the
Wind Temple.

Luckily, they had Caprion’s aid. The Harpy
lifted them easily over the wall using his magic, and settled them
gently on the other side—except for Crash, whom he dropped
indecorously to the ground. The assassin managed to land on his
feet, then turned and glared at Caprion.

They followed the wall until they caught a
glimpse of the east gate, which led directly to the courtyards of
the Wind Temple. Sora was once again dismayed. It looked like a
small battalion of peasants were besieging the east gate of the
temple. She saw ox-drawn wagons, tents, campfires and latrines. She
could smell the taint of the plague on the wind.

Countless peasants had taken up vigil on the
eastern hills outside the temple gates. Sora wondered why they were
waiting. The priestesses couldn’t cure the plague—but the lower
classes were superstitious. Perhaps they came to find solace in
prayer, hoping they could be healed by the grace of the Goddess
alone. She wondered how Lori and Ferran had fared at the Healers'
seminary, and imagined her mother running into a similar scenario.
Surely the peasants had gone to the Healers' seminary first, then
found their way here to the temple.

“Too many soldiers, too many people,” Burn
said slowly. His ears sank in disappointment.

“We can’t enter with so many soldiers on
watch,” Caprion agreed.

Crash remained silent, studying the
temple.

“Perhaps if we climbed the hill, we would
get a better view of the temple grounds,” Sora suggested. “We might
find a way to skirt around the soldiers.” She waited for everyone’s
agreement, but no one spoke. Instead, they turned warily to the
rolling hills.

Nobody had thought of a better plan, so they
started walking up the long stretch of grass. The foothills were
surprisingly steep, almost vertical; the lowest was almost a
hundred feet high. Sparse patches of woodland grew in the trenches
between the hills, fed by trickling streams of water from further
up the mountain. No peasants camped this high up, where the wind
easily blew away tents and fires.

It was an arduous climb. Sora kept her eyes
fastened on the hill’s crest, where a series of white windmills of
varying sizes stood. Once they reached the peak of the first hill,
Sora immediately left Burn’s side and walked among the unusual
structures. Some were tall, practically the size of lighthouses,
with old gray wood protruding through chipped white paint and
wooden arms so long, they almost touched the ground. Smaller
windmills stood only twice the size of a man, and appeared far less
weathered.

Sora surmised that the larger windmills had
been used for grinding wheat, though they must have fallen into
disuse a long time ago. The newer ones were more decorative, with
blades fashioned from brightly painted wood or tin sheets.

“It’s quite ingenious, really,” Burn called
to her above a gust of fierce wind. He trailed not far behind.
Crash and Caprion remained on the face of the hill, observing the
city. “The windmills are tapped into underground wells. Using the
force of the wind and a pulley system, they propel fresh water down
to the city.”

Sora nodded, now impressed. “So it all works
naturally, like a snow runoff.”

Burn grinned. “King Royce drew out the plans
in his youth, and had the whole system established by the time he
was thirty. A right genius, that one.”