Page 11 of A Court Bright and Broken

“Raewyn,” he repeated. “Raewyn the firebug.”

His head shook back and forth, and one corner of his mouth eased up in a smile.

Poor man must still have been discombobulated—there was nothing to smile about.

His nose was quite obviously broken. Based on the way his arm was hanging, his left shoulder was certain to be dislocated. It was unlikely he’d escaped that kind of kicking and beating without several broken ribs.

And he’d just referred to me as a flying insect with a luminescent tail.

Perhaps his head injuries had left him feeble?

“How badly are you injured?” I asked. “Do you know your name?”

“Of course. It’s S—” He stopped abruptly, his swollen eyes widening a bit. “I… guess not. I know it begins with an S, though.”

“It will come back to you,” I assured him. “For now I will call you Sam. Can you walk?”

The man took a few experimental steps, teetering from side to side then staggering in a drunken three-step pattern reminiscent of the country dances that took place at the close of each month in our town square.

With every unsteady step, he winced.

I rushed to his side, sliding beneath his arm and wrapping my arm around his waist to prop him up.

He was more substantial than I’d expected.

I’d imagined he’d be skin and bones beneath his cloak and loose tunic, but he was rather filled-out, especially for a street beggar. Muscular, even.

He must have been managing to find meals somewhere.

I should ask for advice.

“You must sit a while longer,” I urged. “Perhaps I can find a healer somewhere in the market? Or an Earthwife?”

Looking around at the nearby vendors, I saw by their shaking heads I’d find nothing of the sort here. And I didn’t see anyone else offering to help the man.

Again, I could relate. Iknewwhat it was like to be poor and inconsequential.

“No. I need to go home,” he insisted. “Our healer will take care of me there.”

“Very well. I will help you get to your village.”

He shook his head again, which threw him off balance. His frame was so large that when he swayed, he was like a felled cedar tree.

Healmosttoppled me over, but I managed to keep us both upright.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted.

“You’re not even close to being fine. Has anyone ever told you there’s no shame in accepting help when you need it?” I asked, throwing his own words back at him.

He chuckled then clutched his rib cage in pain. He definitely had broken ribs. Hopefully there were no sharp edges threatening his lungs.

“You’re funny,” he said. “And whoever toldyouthat was anextremelywise person.”

Then he looked down at me tucked beneath his arm. “I appreciate the offer, Firebug, but my home is not close.”

“I might not look it, but I’m a hearty walker,” I assured him. “And quite strong.”

He looked around slowly and seemed to consider the alternatives–of which there were none. Or maybe he’d forgotten where he lived along with his name?

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