Echoes of the Raven (The Eldrystone #2)

37. CHAPTER 37

37

RíFíOR

“A touch of magic is a scar on the soul.”

Nightmend Proverb

I rise to my feet, letting go of Valeria’s cold hand. “What is this? I asked for a fae healer. Not this.”

The dwarf rumbles, tugging at his thick, braided beard.

The innkeeper appears at the threshold. “And I brought you one. Now, pay up.”

I step forward, ready to do the strangling my hands have been itching for, but his wife bars my way.

“The girl’s the priority. You can square your accounts later.” Over her shoulder, she throws her husband a nasty glare. He huffs, but there is no question as to who runs this household. She turns to me, and with the same stern expression, adds, “And you, you should know better than to look down on Thoran. Haven’t your kin been mistreated enough? Must you also mistreat others the way they have done unto you? Is that all you’ve learned during your time stranded here?”

Her tone makes me bristle. I do not let people talk to me this way, even if their words ring true. Yet, I swallow my displeasure because Valeria is the priority .

I am still remiss about the healer, however. Nightmend dwarfs have crude healing methods that are as likely to kill the patient as to make them better. But what am I to do? Valeria will die if nothing is done.

Since that fateful day, Loreleia took The Eldrystone from me, the powers that rule the realms have been against me. Why would today be any different? It should not surprise me that I am left at the mercy of complete strangers. Unable to do anything else, I take several steps back and incline my head.

Francisca grunts in approval. “Thoran, would you kindly help the girl? I did what I could, which wasn’t much. She’s in a weakened state.”

With a grunt and a sidelong glance at me, the dwarf approaches the bed and regards Valeria with his small beady eyes. His skin is weathered as if he has spent countless hours out of doors. He is stout, with a protruding belly and bowed legs that march unevenly over the wooden floor.

His people form a small population in Tirnanog, so small that he is the first of his kind I have ever encountered in Castella. In fact, I thought none of them had been stranded here. Clearly, I was wrong.

They inhabit a region known as the Shadowed Glen, which is nestled deep within the heart of a mountain range named The Shadow Peaks. Their land is shrouded in perpetual twilight, thanks to the mountains themselves and the dense woods that stretch across the landscape. Holes carved into the mountainsides serve as their homes, while the lush, wild forest provides ingredients for their remedies, and only the gods know what else. The scant few who have ever visited this land say the air is tinged with magic and whispers of ancient energies that echo through the towering peaks. Nightmends rarely venture out, and those who do peddle their healing skills to the desperate… like me.

Stretching out his hands, Thoran lets them hover over Valeria’s body, his stubby fingers wiggling .

There is no evidence of magic, no color or disturbance in the air to indicate that any power is emanating from him. Yet, Valeria winces and a weak sound breaks through her blue-tinged lips.

Thoran grunts, his mouth turning upside down as he speaks in a deep voice. “The blade cut deep, but all that is vital is well. Lots of crimson wasted, easily replenished by food and drink and rest. What is left to do is close the wound, and for that there must be payment.” His small eyes swivel in my direction, twin mud pits of distrust and resentment.

“We have gold,” I tell him. “I have already said we will pay.” I dig a hand in my pocket but freeze when Thoran speaks again.

“Not that kind of payment ,” he says the last word as if it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

“What kind then? No price is too steep to save her.”

“We shall see.”

He gestures toward the table, prompting Francisca to swiftly remove the tray, which she places on the dresser. Thoran then reaches into the satchel slung across his barrel chest and retrieves what appears to be a leather scroll, thick and musty. Setting it on the table, he proceeds to unroll it. A myriad of unsightly tools is stored in individual pockets, looking as if they would serve better in torture than in healing.

Quickly, he pulls out what looks like a fishing hook and line and threads the two together. Next, he pulls out several bottles filled with murky liquids that might have been siphoned from a dirty pond. A deep frown cuts across his forehead as he cranes his neck to peer up at me.

“Remove your shirt and lie on the floor,” he instructs.

I look around confused. “What?”

“Well, there ain’t no other bed, is there? So the floor it is.”

“But why do I—”

He cuts me off. “Your girl has little to no time. You want to waste it sitting here, interrogating my every move? ”

Grinding my teeth against every fiber of my body, I do as he says and remove my shirt. When I lie on the floor, I welcome the cold on my back. It is the only thing that feels real in this entire situation.

“Align your middle with your girl’s,” the dwarf says.

It is a strange request, but I scoot down until my waist is parallel with Valeria’s.

Thoran comes around and stands on my right side, in full view of the bed. He uncorks one of the bottles and dips his finger in it. Eyes flicking back and forth between Valeria and me, he seems to calculate the exact spot of her wound. Carefully, he lowers his muck-covered finger to the right side of my abdomen, marking the exact spot. At his touch, a stab of pain runs me through. I clench my teeth, and my growl of agony hisses out.

“A warning would have served me right,” I spit, lifting my head to look at the spot he marked. I expect to find a wound, but there is only a small blemish made of the brown liquid he pressed onto my skin.

“Interesting,” Francisca murmurs, watching from the corner.

The stark pain slowly morphs into an acute throbbing sensation deep in my gut. I settle back down, my doubts growing. How will he save Valeria by hurting me?

At least if she dies, I will soon follow.

Forming a circle with his thumb and forefinger, he hovers his hand over my side and aligns the circle with the brown muck. Murmuring words I do not understand, he begins to recite the same chant over and over again, while he makes the circle of his finger smaller and smaller.

The pain on my side fluctuates as if someone is repeatedly stabbing me.

Digging my nails into the wooden floor, I watch Valeria’s face through bright flashes of pain. Her features tense with each fresh wave that assaults me. Her body spasms, betraying her anguish .

Thoran’s chants stop when the circle of his fingers closes. I dare hope it is all over, but then he picks up the fishing hook and line, pinching them between the same two fingers.

Sweat slides down the sides of his weathered face.

Heating the tip of the hook in the candle flame, he warns, “’Tis going to hurt.”

I glare at him.

“More,” he clarifies. “But if you care about your girl, you will bear it like a proper male.” He cocks his head in question.

I nod to let him know I can take it. I have been through worse, after all.

Without further ado, he stabs the hook into my skin and proceeds to sew me as if I am nothing more than a tattered rag doll. Every stab of his curved needle feels like a thousand daggers mercilessly tearing at my insides. I claw at the floor until my nails feel ready to rip from their beds. My vision wavers, but I manage to gaze at Valeria, who shares the same agony. Her body trembles uncontrollably, and sweat pours down her brow. Her face is covered in a glistening sheen, illuminated by the flickering candlelight.

An eternity seems to pass as I silently plead for each stitch to be the last, yet there is always another, and another, and another.

All the while, Thoran murmurs under his breath, this time a different chant that sounds like gibberish to my ears. When I think I cannot endure it any longer, he stops and casts the needle to the floor.

The ping of metal reverberates through the air, as loud as the pounding of my heart, my harsh exhalations, and Valeria’s feeble whimpers combined.

Abruptly, Valeria sits up, her face ghostly pale, her eyes sunken hollows. A blood-curdling scream erupts from her lips. Time seems to stand still for a moment, before she collapses back down, her features slack and devoid of her normal vitality .

Groaning, I roll to my side and crawl toward the bed. Grabbing the mattress, I pull myself up and peer at her face.

“Valeria. Valeria!” She is deathly still. I turn back to the dwarf. “What have you done? You killed her!”

He is slumped against the wall, looking as if he has run for leagues without stopping. “I have done what you asked,” he replies, words choppy and breathless. “I saved her, and we both paid. Nothing is free in this world. There must always be balance.”

A small exhalation comes from Valeria. My gaze flicks back to her, and though she is quiet once more, I notice her pulse beating lightly at her throat. It is still weak, but her brow has relaxed, and her expression seems peaceful.

My head slumps on the mattress. Gingerly, I press a hand to my side, the ache of the dwarf’s ministrations still festering deep in my gut.

The innkeeper pokes his head through the door. “Is it done? Did he pay up?”

Francisca swats him, and he vanishes once more. My eyes drift closed as I watch Valeria’s chest rising and falling. I am suddenly tempted to press a kiss to her lips. The feeling is unwelcome, not unlike the lust that drove me to the wagon the other night. There should be no room for sensibilities left in me. I shut that door a long time ago.

Even when life seemed to offer me a perfect opportunity for happiness, the facade unraveled to reveal a rotten core. It would be ludicrous to expect anything different from whatever this is between Valeria and me, a relationship born of my deceit and laced with her greed for The Eldrystone.

No. That door must remain closed.

The dwarf puts his tools away. Wiping his brow with his sleeve, he shuffles toward the door.

“Thoran,” I call .

My eyelids barely pried open a sliver, I watch him stop at the threshold, silhouetted by the hall light. He throws a glance over his shoulder.

“Thank you.” My words are sincere.

He grunts and nods, then leaves.

Exhausted, I slowly slide back onto the floor, my consciousness shrinking like an echo until nothing remains.