The Iron Sword (The Fae War Chronicles Book 1) (28 page)

“Merrick, isn’t it?” said Finnead in a low, soothing voice as he opened his bag, his hands moving quickly but steadily as he pulled out several unmarked packets and a wood-handled knife.

“Yes, sir,” gasped out the young soldier—for that was what he was. A soldier in this war of light and shadow. He turned his head weakly toward me, staring at me with his glassy eyes until I shifted uncomfortably.

“My name is Tess,” I said, trying for the same soothing voice as Finnead and failing miserably. My words wobbled.

“You shine,” Merrick murmured breathily.

I blinked and forced myself not to look down at my hands. I knew I wasn’t shining from the
taebramh
. Merrick kept looking at me, and something in his face reminded me of a lost child. I leaned forward and brushed his hair from his forehead. He closed his eyes against the brush of my fingers, leaning his face into my hand. I saw Finnead pause for just a moment. Then he continued unpacking his bag industriously.

“What do you have to do?” I asked Finnead. Merrick’s breath hitched and he grimaced in pain. I took his hand and he closed his fingers around mine weakly.

“I thought that I’d gotten all the iron out of him,” Finnead said tightly. “He was shot with an arrow, and I got the head of it out, but those damn creatures aren’t only tipping their arrows, they’re putting barbs on them that break when the rest is pulled out.” He looked down at his tools. “I have to reopen the wound, and find the shard.”

“Can I help?” I said, swallowing against the sick feeling in my stomach.

“Help me unwrap the bandage,” Finnead said. He put his hand on Merrick’s shoulder for a brief moment and the younger man looked up at the Knight with such faith and trust in his eyes that it made my chest hurt. Then Finnead slowly lifted Merrick into a sitting position, leaving the wounded man gasping and closing his teeth fiercely on cries of pain. I found the edge of the cloth bandage and began to unwrap it from around his torso, moving as quickly and gently as possible. In the inner layers, the bandage had dried stiff with blood, dark as an ink-stain on the pale cloth. I wordlessly drew my smallest dagger and carefully cut through the last layers of cloth, revealing the sodden field-dressing on Merrick’s chest.

Finnead carefully lowered Merrick back onto the bed. I heard the other occupants of the room murmuring soft words of encouragement, covering his sounds of pain. I wondered whether it was for his benefit or their own.

“Take off the dressing,” Finnead said, his own voice a little rough now. He took the covering from the lamp and began heating the blade of the wood-handled knife over the dancing orange flame. I carefully peeled away the dressing, wincing when it caught the skin and breathing a small sigh of relief when the cloth finally came away, leaving the black wound on Merrick’s chest glistening in the open air. I gagged and turned away, thinking desperately that watching hospital dramas on television had not prepared me for the reality of this pain-soaked soldier.

Merrick’s breathing quickened. I looked and saw that his wide eyes followed every small movement of the blade as Finnead finished heating it over the candle-flame. I took his hand again, squeezing his fingers until he looked at me.

“Merrick,” I said in a quiet, low voice, “I’ll tell you a story, if you like.”

A small smile touched a corner of his blue-tinged lips. “I am not a child,” he rasped.

“I know.” I smiled a little in return, leaning closer despite the fetid smell of sweat and looming death. “In fact, you’re probably at least four times my age.”

His gray eyes narrowed as he searched my face. I raised my eyebrows, and smiled again as comprehension washed over his expression. “You are a mortal,” he whispered. “I have never met a mortal before.”

Finnead paused, the knife held over Merrick’s wound. I leaned closer, almost laying on the bed myself as I used my other hand to keep Merrick’s gaze fixed on me, shielding him as best I could from the sight of his terrible wound. “Look at me, now,” I said gently. “You can ask me any question you like.”

His hand tightened on mine painfully as he realized what was about to happen, but he didn’t fight my gentle grip. “Tell me…anything,” he gasped desperately.

Then the knife bit into his flesh and a strangled groan escaped him. I swallowed and kept my eyes locked on his. I started to talk about anything that came to mind—cars, and trains, and my brother Liam. I explained guns, and modern war in the mortal world, my voice low and steady, my face mere inches from Merrick’s as I struggled to keep his attention, to stave off the pain. When I glanced up I saw Finnead’s grim expression, the pallor of his skin as he leaned in closer over the wound.

“Isn’t there anything you can give him for the pain?” I asked desperately, raising my voice over Merrick’s hoarse cry of agony.

“Not over the iron,” said Finnead tersely, and I knew suddenly that he was in pain too—not just emotional pain from seeing one of his men so distraught, but
physical pain
. How much strength was this costing him?

Merrick’s breathing suddenly quickened, becoming so shallow that I leaned my ear close to his mouth to make sure he was alive.

“Almost,” said Finnead.

“Hurry,” I said, tapping Merrick’s cheek with the tips of my fingers. “Merrick, you have to stay awake.” I looked up at Finnead. “He’s slipping.”

Finnead muttered a curse and threw aside the tong-like instrument he’d been using, plunging his fingers into the wound instead. I swallowed down the sour taste in my mouth. Merrick’s eyes rolled back in his head. Desperately I pressed my palm to the side of his face and drew out a tiny drop of the
taebramh
. Just enough of a spark to relight a fire, I thought.

Finnead made a grim, triumphant sound as he thrust suddenly with his fingers, his face paling as he pulled out the long, wicked shard of iron with his bare hands. Merrick lay pallid and still, and I was about to push the spark into his skin through my palm when Finnead, with his other hand, uncorked a vial and held it beneath Merrick’s nose. Merrick sucked in a rattling breath and coughed harshly, jerking away from the vial. I cleared my throat and grimaced: I could smell the sharp odor, worse than ammonia, even at my distance away from the vial.

“Dragon’s piss,” Finnead said in an oddly satisfied, grating voice. I saw that he was still holding the shard of iron in his bloody hands. “Does the trick…every time.”

With some color already returning to Merrick’s face, I held my hand out to Finnead. “Give that to me,” I said, looking at the shard.

He grinned oddly. “Can’t…it’s fused…” He turned his palm over and to my horror the iron shard didn’t fall from his skin.

“Let me get it off, then,” I said hastily, standing. He shook his head, cradling his hand to his chest and looking at it with a slight grimace.

“Bandage his chest,” he said. “In my bag…”

I walked hastily around the bed and found the packet with the bandage. Merrick was able to sit up shakily on his own, after I helped him at first.

“What’s wrong…with the Vaelanbrigh?” he asked, real concern coloring his voice.

“He’ll be fine,” I told him, even though I was a little concerned. I hadn’t known iron was
that
caustic to Sidhe flesh, and it amazed me that Merrick had survived having that shard
inside
him. “How long were you wounded?” I asked him.

His brow furrowed. “Three days…I think. In the first attack. I was with the patrol.”

I nodded and finished bandaging. My work didn’t look anywhere close to as neat as Allene’s original job, but it would do.

“Thank you,” said Merrick, laying back. He smiled at me a little wearily.

“Don’t mention it,” I said, turning quickly to Finnead. I knelt on the floor in front of him, holding out my hands. “Let me see.”

He grudgingly gave me his hand. The long shard of iron was fused to his palm just to the side of his thumb. I touched it experimentally, and despite his efforts to hide it, I saw him flinch. He handed me the knife wordlessly. After wiping the edge clean of Merrick’s blood, I steeled myself and set the flat of the blade against his palm, so the edge was against the iron. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the wall. I angled the edge down a bit—I didn’t want to miss anything—and applied steady pressure.

Dark blood welled from Finnead’s palm. He breathed in sharply and I heard a sound of sympathy from Merrick. But I kept pressing, testing with the edge of the knife until the shard of iron lifted slightly when I applied pressure upward. I cut quickly, prying up the bloody shard with my other hand and trying to ignore Finnead’s low sound of pain.

“There,” I said breathlessly, tossing the shard to the floor and pressing on the freely bleeding wound with both hands. “Done.” I peered down at the gash, thinking sickeningly that I had made it. “You might need stitches—I mean, if your healers use stitches—”

“No,” he said without looking at me.

“I’ll just wrap it then,” I said.

Finnead kept his head tipped back against the wall. I dug in his bag with one hand, trying not to get his blood all over everything and only marginally succeeding. I found another package of bandages, ripped it open with my teeth and wrapped the cloth firmly around his hand, ignoring the tingling feeling at the base of my spine as my bare skin touched his. I cut the bandage with my own dagger, and tucked the edge in as neatly as I could. “Is that…is that all right?” I asked, blushing at my sudden stammer.

Finnead raised his hand, looking at the bandage. “It will do,” he said.

I sat back on my heels, trying to push down the wave of unhappiness that rose up in me at his indifferent tone, his cool gaze. “I just cut a piece of iron out of your hand,” I said to him. “The least you could do is say thank you.”

He gazed at me for a moment, his face as smooth as marble. “Thank you,” he said finally.

I picked up the iron shard and savagely cut a piece from the extra bandage, wrapping the iron and stuffing it into my pocket. Finnead stood and watched me, observing my jerky movements with a slightly arched brow. I smiled briefly at Merrick, and then turned on my heel and strode from the room.

In the other room, I found Ramel, Emery, Donovan and other Fae I didn’t know still bent over the map, deep in conversation. Ramel looked up and the conversation stilled as they noticed me. Their gazes stayed riveted on my hands. I looked down and realized that blue-black blood covered my hands—Finnead’s, gleaming wet; and Merrick’s, from when I had wrapped the bandage around his chest. I quickly shoved my hands behind my back, clearing my throat.

“How is he?” Emery asked softly.

“He’ll probably live,” Finnead said, his catlike steps silent as he slipped around me, his own hands scrubbed clean and his healing-bag packed once again. The others made no comment about his wrapped hand, and I got the nasty feeling that Finnead and the healers were all too used to iron-burned skin and bandaged hands. He didn’t even look at me as he took his chair by the map again. I stood awkwardly, feeling distinctly out of place. Ramel caught my eye. He raised his eyebrows, and I shrugged. He said something in a low voice to Finnead and then stood, buckling on his sword.

“I have to talk to you,” I said to him quickly as he neared.

“I know,” he said in a nearly inaudible voice. Louder, he said, “Come on then, Tess, I’ll give you a proper tour of the place.”

After tossing me a rag and waiting for me to scrub my hands clean as best I could, he led me out of the room, into the entry-room and out of the barracks altogether. I took in a breath of the fresh air gratefully, letting it wash away the lingering scent of the infirmary. Outside, dusk sat like a canopy of gray silk above the tree-branches of the nearby forest.

“It’s past sunset already?” I asked in surprise. It had been just after midday when Vell and I had arrived at the barracks, and I couldn’t understand where the time had gone.

“You were in the infirmary with Finnead for a good while,” Ramel said. He seemed distracted, his words lacking their usual humor and his eyes shifting restlessly, devoid of their usual flirtatious spark.

“What’s wrong?” I asked quietly.

We walked around the back of the barracks. Pairs and small groups of Fae walked past purposefully, giving us no more than a second glance. I liked the anonymity: unlike at Court, the Sidhe were focused on the serious task at hand, and they cared little about a strange-looking young woman in their midst, as long as she was accompanied by someone well known.

Ramel stopped. We stood in a small clearing, a good distance from the barracks. I wondered if it was safe to stray so far from the stronghold, but I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax.

“You have to believe me, Tess,” Ramel started, his voice heavy. He stood with his back to me, and I had to strain to catch his words. “I didn’t know.”

I frowned. “Didn’t know what, Ramel?”

He raked his fingers through his hair, the line of his mouth hard and unhappy. “I didn’t know you were the same girl. It’s hard to recognize mortals after a few years. You change…
so
quickly.” He shook his head. “But I should have known anyway.”

“So we did know each other,” I said softly. I knew we should have been talking about the attack on the patrol, my escape from Darkhill, my discovery of my power—but the subject of my past, my very first years of life that lived in the hazy reaches of my memory, drew me like a moth to flame.

“Back in those days—I know it wasn’t long ago, even in mortal time, but there was still much less darkness in these lands,” he said, gazing out into the woods. “I was younger, and foolish enough to trust one of the White Queen’s ladies.” He smiled crookedly. “You see, I thought I was in love with her, and…” He shrugged. “Love makes a man do stupid things.”

“Are you talking about the blue rose garden?” I asked softly. “Because yes, it was a shock to me too, to realize that I
did
know you from someplace else, that it wasn’t just simple déjà vu.” I shook my head. “But I can’t see why that’s such a stupid thing.”

“You were young,” Ramel said. “Such a very pretty mortal child. I came to think of you as my younger sister, really.”

I winced a little, thinking of our kiss. “I guess you got over that,” I said, my voice light and teasing.

“I should have realized,” he said, his voice hard.

“What happened?” I asked softly. “Please, just tell me.” All the anger that I had felt at Ramel for keeping the knowledge of the blue rose garden—and my abilities—from me evaporated, replaced by a sickly anticipation.

“Do you know what a changeling is, Tess?” Ramel asked suddenly, half-turning so I could see the glint of his eyes in the fading light.

“In fairy tales,” I said, feeling sick, “that’s when the fairies steal away a human child, and replace it with a fairy child.”

He nodded.

“I’m not…but I’m not Fae,” I burst out.

Ramel smiled mirthlessly. “No,” he said flatly, “you’re not.” He turned to me with that humorless smile still on his lips. “Changelings were against the Code—
are
against the Code. Even before the Code they were a matter that was never directly addressed, a nasty little habit of certain members of the Court that was overlooked for propriety’s sake.” He shook his head. “But I should have known that something was afoot when Evaine asked me to take you.”