Page 46 of Minor Works of Meda

I flopped back against the mattress, my head hitting the pillow as Kalcedon’s arm gave out and crushed his weight down on top of me. All I could think was that the window was still open; they were still out there. And now he was fully exposed, shielding me, stopping me from protecting him. With a strangled sound I wormed out from beneath him. I didn’t know a spell to close the shutters, but I ran to them doubled over and grabbed the wooden slats.

“Don’t attack them,” Kalcedon managed, his voice tight with pain. “They don’t know better.”

I got the shutters closed, though there was nothing to do about the hole in the wall; at least it was a smaller target to aim through.

“We have to get out of here,” I said, standing with my back to the closed window and taking assessment of the situation. My mind felt empty now, in a way that didn’t make sense; but I suppose panic could do that. My heart still lurched so hard I could feel each punch of it in my chest.

The arrow still stuck out of Kalcedon’s shoulder. His whole body hunched in pain. Bright blood bloomed on his sleeve, and I could smell the stench of the iron arrowhead burning his flesh. I had to get the arrow out of him, and heal or bind the wound to keep it from bleeding. I ought to burn or take anything he got blood on. There were spells, powerful spells, that could be done with blood, though no telling if anyone in Sable-Pall was strong enough to cast them.

No telling, either, whether our attackers waited downstairs or only outside. No telling how many. No telling how skilled. I gritted my teeth and jabbed my knuckles to my jaw for a moment, trying to think.

Kalcedon hissed in pain and grabbed at his arm, just below the arrow. Right. That came first. I hurried forward and tore a cloth casing off one of the bed’s pillows.

“Don’t hate me,” I begged him. “It’s going to hurt.”

He hadn’t yelled when it punched into him. But he yelled when I tore it from his skin. Roared, really. As his blood sprayed.

“Tell me you know a spell,” I begged as I pressed the pillow cloth against the hole in his shoulder. Kalcedon had done healing before; I’d picked up a few spells with the same interest I showed all enchantment but had made no special study of the subject. The half-fae’s breath came in harried gulps. Pain glazed his eyes.

“Fifth of Harrow,” he mumbled. “And… Elezan, for the backing.”

I started to draw the spell as he spoke it. My hands shook. I hissed and dropped the spell, then started over, stilling the tremble of my fingers as sigil work dragged messily through the air.

Blood. Blood stained my fingers. Kalcedon’s. I drew arcs and spindles in shimmering lines. The power strung from Kalcedon to me; then back to him, stitching closed his wound.

No arrow had come through the hole in the wall by the time I was done. Kalcedon’s eyes were wet, his face slack with the exhaustion of pain. And I? I felt too much. My body tingled from the spell, from the flood of heat I’d channeled. My tongue was heavy with fear, my mind sour. This was no place to rest. Necessity demanded we move.

“We have to leave.” I shoved the pillow cloth and the arrow into my bag, and reached out for Kalcedon. He took my hand and came slowly off the bed.

“I shouldn’t have come here.”

I shook my head, having no energy to respond. “We need to go. Where?”

Kalcedon didn’t answer. He was looking down, his lips pressed tight. I didn’t think he was even listening to me.

I was going to have to solve this one for us both, then. We could take a ship, except he’d be seen on a ship. We could try to buy a fish-craft, the type that could be manned by a single sailor, except it was growing dark and the port and coast were unfamiliar. Never mind that I was in no condition to haggle. What we needed was shelter, somewhere safe, where nobody would see Kalcedon. Somewhere to lick our wounds and rest.

“Could you transform?”

He shrugged noncommittally.

“You have to,” I told him. “We must get out of here. Get ready to move. You transform, nobody will realize. I’ll find a room somewhere else, and I’ll open the window, and you’ll come in. Give me your money.”

Still wordless, he handed over a coin purse. I tucked it into my bag and squeezed the strap hanging over my shoulder with shaking hands that were sweat-damp and flecked with blood.

I half expected attackers to line the hall outside the door, but it was empty. A room across from ours had an open door, a dark blue square of evening visible through its wide window. Kalcedon padded towards it.

“Find me,” I commanded. “Don’t go off on your own.” When he didn’t answer, I lunged after him and grabbed his wrist, forcing him to look down at me as his power thrummed into my veins. “Kalcedon.”

“I heard you.” He broke free of me, strung together Odson’s spell, then fell towards the window as a giant sea hawk. Pinning his wings to fit through the opening, Kalcedon tumbled out into the evening.

With a whispered prayer, I clattered down the steps. If I were attacked, I wouldn’t have power to draw on. I’d just have to hope they treated me as a human, and—sickening to consider—a victim.

The room where we’d sat to eat, bustling half an hour before, was now empty and dead. The fires were banked; half-empty cups and plates scattered on the table. The hair at the back of my neck prickled. I froze at the bottom of the stairs as a feeling of unease gripped me. They had left in a hurry. Did they fear him that much?

I raced outside.

“Mistress,” someone called.

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