Threading the Needle (19 page)

“Or what?”

“Or I'll hand you over to the Rats myself.”

Glenn's urge to leap forward and grab Cason by the throat rippled through his shoulders. Tim edged forward as well. Cutter remained quiet, but Allan knew he was coiled and ready.

But even if Allan unleashed them on Cason and Sorelle, the grate behind them was closed. They might kill these two, but then what? These Tunnelers could have killed them at any point since their capture on the roof.

“We're from the foothills west of the plains. We came here for supplies, like I said, and we did run into this Baron. We know of the Rats and the Wolves and the Temerites, but we didn't know about you Tunnelers.”

Cason's lip twitched at the name. “And the others with you? Why are they so important?”

“Besides the fact that they're part of our group?”

Cason didn't answer, eyes fixed on Allan.

“We need them.”

“Why?”

“Because resources are getting short, out there and here in Erenthrall. And two of them are Wielders.”

A shocked silence settled. Allan didn't need to turn to see Artras' disapproving frown.

Cason's fingers had tightened around the hilt of her sword. “Wielders?”

“It's how we've been getting supplies.”

Cason's lips pressed into a thin line. “You've been releasing the shards of the distortion.”

“There's not much left outside the distortion now.”

Cason said nothing for a long moment. But her sword remained sheathed.

“We'll have to save them.”

Unease crawled across Allan's shoulders. Something wasn't right. “Why?”

“Because we've barely held the Rats in check up until now. We can't allow them to have access to any of the shards.” Cason turned toward Sorelle. “Tell Ren. We'll have to plan an attack on the Rats' lair, or hope to catch them outside at some point. Tell him about the Wielders, so he knows it's urgent.”

Glenn stepped forward, hands fisted. “What about us?”

“You're a Dog. You fight with us.”

“No! We can't trust them—”

Cason cut Sorelle off with a look as Jaimes opened up the grate behind her. “Arm them! And watch them. They're your responsibility now.”

As she stepped out of the tunnel and stalked away, she shouted back at them, “The only thing keeping the Rats subdued is a lack of sufficient supplies. They've been searching for a Wielder for months now, taking down Temerites, Gorrani, my own people—whoever they can get their hands on—to find one. You've just made all of our lives a lot more difficult. And Erenthrall a hell of a lot more dangerous.”

M
O
RRELL PUSHED THE SWEATY HAIR
out of her eyes with one trembling, bloody hand, then returned to suturing the cut across Sara's upper arm. The woman moaned as she tugged the needle through for the last stitch, pulled the gut tight, tied it, then snipped the rest free. She cleaned the wound with a damp cloth, washing the blood away and checking her work, before packing the needle, cloth, and thin gut into her makeshift kit.

As she folded the leather satchel in half, Sara's good arm caught her and held her in place. Morrell halted, staring down into the woman's gray eyes. She recalled that this was Terrim's wife, the man who'd been killed on the return from Erenthrall. Her face looked haggard and haunted, and her fingers bit painfully into Morrell's flesh.

“Is it going to be all right?”

“It wasn't very deep. You might have a scar, but you'll be fine.”

“Good. Thank you.” She collapsed back onto the pallet in the meeting hall and began to cry, the tears leaking out of her eyes and coursing down her dirt-smeared face and into her scraggly hair.

Morrell glanced away, down the line of pallets, where the wounded had been brought after the end of the fighting on the ridge. Logan stood at the far side of the meeting hall, watching her. Janis knelt about halfway between them, cleaning up as best she could. It looked as if all of the wounded had been taken care of, although there were a few pallets that had been occupied that were now empty.

Logan caught her gaze and held it. Morrell dropped her eyes first and grabbed her rolled up satchel, noting that Sara had stopped sobbing and slipped into sleep. She checked the woman's arm again, then stood.

A wave of exhaustion washed over her and she nearly passed out, holding on by sheer force of will. Logan took an inadvertent step forward, one hand rising, but then he stopped himself. He turned and headed out of the meeting hall.

Morrell waited until the dizzy spell passed, then picked her way through the bodies toward Janis. As she went, those who she'd helped earlier and were still conscious thanked her. The attention made her uncomfortable, the expressions of gratitude a little too fervent.

Janis looked up as she approached. “Has everyone been seen to?”

“I think so. Sam and Karen?”

Janis shook her head grimly.

Morrell sucked in a steadying breath, held it, then let it out slowly. “What's wrong with Logan? What did I do wrong?”

Janis struggled to her feet. “Nothing, Morrell. It's just . . .”

“What?”

“Everyone's heard about what you did to heal Claye, even though we said nothing. It's all rumor. They think you're not just a healer, but a Healer. A true Healer.”

“But I didn't do anything. Not here. All I did was bind some wounds, stitch people up.”

“I know that. Logan knows it, too, although he's too hurt at the moment to admit it.”

“Hurt?”

Janis tousled Morrell's hair. “Let's go clean you up.”

They made their way out of the meeting hall, Morrell setting her healing tools to one side before leaving. Outside, some of those at the cave had returned and activity had picked up near the barns, the shepherds herding the sheep out toward the meadows, others slopping the pigs. Paul, Sophia, and Bryce were deep in conversation with a few others near the church. The dead that had been set down outside the meeting hall had been taken away somewhere. Morrell wondered where, and how many had died.

Janis guided her away from the activity, toward the creek. “You weren't there to see it, but nearly every person who Logan tried to help asked about you, where you were, why you weren't there to help them. A few even had the temerity to ask if he could fetch you to have you work on them instead. He's been the healer in the Hollow for years.”

“But I didn't ask them to ask for me! And I don't even know what I did with Claye.”

“It doesn't matter. Logan's pride is bruised, and it will take him a while to get over it.”

They picked their way down the bank to the creek's edge. As she splashed the water over her arms, scrubbing at the blood and dirt and grime, she thought about Logan, about the intensity of the faces of the wounded as they gazed up at her when she first knelt down. It had troubled her at the time, but she thought it was normal. They hadn't ever dealt with anything like this before. Mostly, they were fixing cuts and scrapes from farming accidents or maybe burns from the forge. Those came in ones or twos. Five years ago, some kind of disease had spread through the Hollow—people vomiting, a red spidery rash spreading across the neck and onto the chest. That had laid up nearly a dozen people. Morrell hadn't been helping Logan back then, but she knew everyone was relieved when the sickness didn't spread to the entire community.

But now they had the refugees from Erenthrall here. Over twice as many people to care for.

“Maybe I shouldn't help Logan anymore.” Her stomach gave a strange little tug.

“Lean down and let me wash your hair.” Morrell complied, shuddering as her old nursemaid poured cold water over her head before continuing. “You can't quit, especially now. It won't help Logan and it won't help the Hollow. They need you.”

“But—”

“Logan isn't angry with you, Morrell. And even if he is, he'll get over it.” She pulled Morrell upright again, water trickling down Morrell's neck and beneath her shirt. Her clothes were a mess, but having her hands and hair clean made her feel infinitely better. Janis grabbed her shoulders, turned her and held her gaze, eyebrows lifted. “Give him time? Before you do anything rash?”

“I still don't know how they found out about Claye.” Except she did. There were no secrets in the Hollow. Not with so few people.

Shouts suddenly arose from the direction of the cottages, men barking orders, at least one woman crying out in a shrill tone.

“What now?” They scrambled up the bank again, Morrell reaching the top before Janis was even halfway up. The older nursemaid motioned her on. “Go. I'll catch up.”

Morrell dashed through the screen of trees and out into the Hollow to see three men hauling someone else toward the meeting hall. Logan raced from his cottage followed by two others. Bryce, Sophia, and Paul were running from the church. One of the men stumbled and dropped the man's legs, and the man screamed in agony. Morrell saw his leg was twisted, bent at an odd angle, and his breeches were soaked in blood. Then Logan and the others blocked her view, Logan's harsh voice ordering them to carry the man inside the meeting hall and set him down. The group vanished.

Morrell halted at the door to the hall, steadying herself. But then Logan bellowed, “Morrell! Where are you?”

“Here!”

She dove through the door, shoving through those circling Logan where he knelt at the man's side. She gasped as she recognized Harper, then her gaze fell to his leg.

The bone jutted out of his thigh through a long gash, blood gushing too fast for those trying to stanch the wound to keep up. Logan was cursing beneath his breath. He tossed the blanket he'd been using aside. It landed with a sickening wet slap on the floor as someone handed him another. He used it to press the heel of his hand hard into Harper's inner thigh, cutting off the artery there. “A belt. Someone get me a gods-damned belt!”

Morrell grabbed one from one of the gawkers and knelt down next to Harper, reaching to wrap the belt around Harper's leg, fumbling as she worked around Logan's arms. She cinched it tight, pulling with all of her strength, then pulled again when Logan said, “Tighter.” The healer released the pressure and leaned back, already examining the wound now that the blood flow was temporarily stemmed.

Behind them, one of the fighters was babbling. “We were checking the ridge. Harper slipped and fell over a ledge. He didn't fall far. He must have landed wrong. His leg just snapped, like a twig, and the sound! Not a crunch, but a tearing snap, and then he screamed!”

“Shut up!” Logan focused on Morrell. “We have to reset the bone, if it isn't too badly splintered.” He glanced back down and grimaced. The end of the bone was jagged.

“My kit.”

She leaped up, grabbed her satchel from near the door, and skidded to her knees again at Harper's side. Logan had placed another man's
leather belt between Harper's teeth, murmured something to him that Morrell didn't catch. Harper nodded, his face slicked with sweat, already pale, his blond hair matted and wild.

Logan patted his face, then turned to Morrell. “Hold the leg steady. I need to see if there are any pieces of bone in there.”

Morrell grabbed hold of Harper's lower leg, leaning her weight over it. Two of those watching crowded down to help, one across Harper's torso, the other beside Morrell, stretching over both of Harper's legs below the knee. Logan crouched down to examine Harper's wound more carefully. He grabbed a few tools from his own satchel, dabbing at the continued blood flow, sluggish with the tourniquet in place, while poking around the torn muscle and shattered bone with a thin rod. Harper writhed and moaned through his gag, his leg shifting beneath Morrell's body. Logan's hand halted abruptly and, setting the cloth aside, he grabbed a pair of tweezers and plucked a sliver of bone from the mess, as long as the tip of Morrell's finger. Some of those watching gasped and gagged, stepping back, but Logan simply set the sliver aside and resumed his search.

He pulled three more slivers out, Morrell entranced. The muscles, the tendons and ligaments—even the blood—absorbed her attention. She could feel Harper's pulse where she held him, noted his struggles weakening.

The healer sat back. “I think I've found the largest pieces. I'd look for more, but he's fading.” He caught Morrell's gaze. “We have to push the bone back into place.”

She nodded.

“It's going to hurt.” Setting what he'd need within reach, he shoved everything else out of the way. “Whoever can squeeze in here and help hold him down, do it. Morrell, I'll need you to help. Let someone else take your place.”

She released her grip and knelt close to Logan's side.

“We have to try to get the ends of the bones together. I need you to hold here and here, while I push down. The end of the bone is sharp, so be careful. I'll work it through the torn muscle as best I can. Ready?”

“Yes.” Her hands were already in place.

Logan began pushing down on the bone.

Harper screamed, the sound muffled by the leather stuffed into his mouth. He thrashed as Logan cursed and pushed harder. Morrell's
fingers were slick with blood from holding the wound open. The muscle and flesh was oddly supple and stringy to the touch, twitching and throbbing with every move Harper made.

Then she felt the bone slipping into place, everything beneath her hands suddenly
right
. Morrell could feel the ends of the bone scraping against each other. Logan pulled back as Harper lapsed into unconsciousness.

Morrell's fingers began to prickle, as they had when she'd been inspecting Claye's wound in Logan's cottage. The commotion of those around her faded and she felt herself sinking into the flesh and blood rhythms of Harper's leg. She could
see
the sharp edges of the bone where they touched, could feel those edges cutting the sinew and muscle around them as Harper's body was jostled by movement. The torn ligaments and gaping wound throbbed in her vision, all of the blood vessels and severed tissue a pulsating mass of damage.

She could also see how it was all meant to knit together, even with pieces of it missing, like the removed splinters of bone.

The prickling in her fingers intensified. She closed her eyes. Her hands grew warm. Someone gasped and the commotion that swirled around her died out. She breathed in once, the flesh and bone beneath her fingers flooded with sudden heat, then exhaled.

When she opened her eyes, she caught a blue-green glow of fading auroral lights, and then she withdrew her hands.

Harper's thigh was still covered in blood, but the gaping wound was closed. All of the torn muscle was hidden beneath a mottled scarring of stitched-together flesh, the skin raw and new. Except Morrell knew the muscle underneath wasn't torn anymore, and the bone had knit back together.

“What—” Sophia's voice broke. She hadn't been holding Harper down, but she'd been close. “What did you do?”

“I saw how it was supposed to be. And fixed it.”

A few of those watching flicked their fingers as if to ward off evil.

“She healed him.” Logan wiped the back of one arm across his sweat-sheened forehead. His hands were covered in Harper's blood. “She healed him. Better than I could have.” He waved those nearest back, then began examining Harper's thigh, carefully at first, then more thoroughly. “As far as I can tell, the bone's been reset, as near to never having been broken as is possible. The flesh is hardened and he'll likely be
stiff for days, but with the possibility of some scarring and weakness, Harper should be fine. If you'd asked me, I'd have said we'd lose him for certain, even if I did manage to get the bone set and his leg splinted. He'd lost too much blood.”

Morrell glanced around at everyone else. Their expressions ranged from awe to fear.

Morrell dropped her head and stood abruptly. “I just healed him. That's all.” Then she backed up, stumbling slightly, and fled.

“Morrell.” Janis reached for her arm as she swept by, but Morrell evaded the grasp and rushed outside. She paused in the sunlight, blinking at its harshness, but ducked and cut right. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and her chest ached with a liquid amalgam of uncertainty, fear, and anger.

She burst through the door to her father's cottage—her cottage—and slammed the door behind her, leaning up against it as the tears broke. She stayed there, sobbing, head lowered, until the ache in her chest faded, then pushed away and made her way to the table, where a heap of small potatoes had been left, the peeling knife discarded to one side. Janis must have been working on them when the warning bell sounded.