Page 66 of Humans Don't Have Horns
I help Emek rise, and slowly, supporting each other, we walk to the infirmary. I’m surprised to see Siean there. She hurries to me as she sees me. “You’re hurt.” Her face is tinted with alarm.
“It can wait. Help Emek,” I order because Emek’s injuries look far worse. Her collarbone area looks shredded, and her right arm barely hangs to her body.
“No.” Siean’s face turns harsh, and the alarm is gone. “Anya, come heal my sister,” she orders a Renyan woman near us. She’s dressed in a healer’s uniform. An indigo tunic and pants and that make her aqua hair and eyes pop. The embroidered silver pattern on her chest signals that she is the head of the royal healers, and I blink at that in surprise. I assumed Siean was mocking me when she said the head of the royal healers would be supervising the infirmary.
“Her injuries are worse. Stop being such a racist, and treat her first,” I growl through my teeth. I am so tired of this, of all this hate and obsession with colors and horns.
Siean actually looks aghast at my words. “What kind of a person doesn’t put their family first? It has nothing to do with race.”
“Yes, Your Highness, your sister’s fault is mere nepotism.” The woman she called Anya smiles snidely. And I feel something as Siean’s composure calms a bit. Anya helps Emek lie down on one of the cots for healing.
“I told you to treat Lian first,” Siean snaps at her.
“And if you were a healer, I would have obeyed your orders. But you are merely a queen.” Anya manages to sound haughty and impish at the same time. Siean shakes her head and rolls her eyes, but the corner of her lips rises in a suppressed smile, and she doesn’t push it any further.
Instead, Siean turns her attention back to me and asks slyly, “Where’s your boyfriend?” And maybe it’s the fatigue in her voice or my own personal terror, but I don’t bother answering her. In truth, I’m surprised she is even here, so close to the canyon while the Aldonians are at their safe position and the Kozaries have already fled with the Mongans who weren’t fighting. She’s the Queen of Renya; no one would expect her to stay, and she will gain no praise for it from her own people.
“Why are you here and not someplace safe?” I eye her gingerly. She just shrugs, her eyes wandering to Anya. I can’t interpret the look on her face, and then it’s gone anyway.
Suddenly the moon begins shifting away from the sun, or maybe it is the sun that has given in and shifted. It’s all so abrupt. Thetwilight of the evening appears. The air smells of salt, blood, and something sweet that reminds me of Daton. Mongan warriors start to climb out of the canyon. I see Niska drenched in blood, gore, and mud. She and Nehol carry a giant warrior on a stretcher toward the healers. My heart sinks to my stomach as I realize the man they’re carrying is Daton. As Niska spots me, she cries to me in panic, “You must save him!” She lays him on the ground near me. He’s barely recognizable, covered in gore and mud from head to toe. His body is limp as if lifeless, and I hurry to look for a pulse. After a terrifying minute of searching, I finally feel a shallow pulse. So shallow, so unlike his usual, strong heartbeat. My eyes scan his figure. It’s hard to say how much of the blood is his own, but there are alarmingly deep wounds on his throat and torso. His flesh looks shredded. I have no doubt any Puresoul would have long been dead from such injuries.
Anya kneels at my side and her hand reaches toward Daton, but Niska smacks her hand away so powerfully that Anya cries out in pain. Then she pierces me with her ruby eyes and snarls, “He would never let one of those witches treat him. You must do this.”
“Look at him. He needs a blood transfusion!” Anya exclaims, appalled.
“No,” Niska snaps, “he would rather die than have heretics’ blood in him.” And she looks at me as if Anya has just proved her point. That only I can treat him. The blood is sacred to the Mongans in ways I can’t begin to fathom.
I remember Emek nicking young children. Daton drinking their blood with such voracity. I couldn’t believe what my eyes were seeing, and I could barely breathe because there was something in the air that shifted. I didn’t know how to name it, but it commended reverence. As if my presence at the moment alone was sacrilege. I was torn between repulsion and awe. But the other Puresouls only scoffed.
So a deep part of me understands why she insists that only I heal him. Still, I stare at her with a slack jaw because he’s obviously lost too much blood to survive and treating such injuries is way beyond my abilities. “This is the head of the royal healers of Renya. She is the most accomplished healer in Amada. I—”
Niska grabs my wrist in a bruising manner, and it feels as if my bones might crack. “Save him,” she grunts through clenched jaws, desperation and adamance in her voice. Even in her distress, she will not let go of her hate toward the Renyans. And in truth, Daton would consider her actions honorable. Impossible Mongans. Not an inch of pragmatism in them.
“I’ll help you,” Anya whispers to me, and I nod to her. Daton went to battle with his armor, but the armor didn’t survive the onslaught. I cut through the clothes that remain on his body and rinse him with fresh water to be able to see the wounds and clean them before treatment. Anya hands me a jar with a healing extract. But these injuries can only result in death. His cuts are so deep that I can see bone in more than one place. He’s lost too much blood. I start the chanting with a trembling voice, and I apply the extract to the deepest wound. An Aldonian would have tried to stitch the wounds up, but that is not the way the Renyan healing works.
My tears make it hard for me to see the injuries, and my sobs muffle the chant. As hard as I try to regain my self-control, I can’t stop the tears and sobs as pure terror grips me. I can feel Niska’s eyes on me, but still, I can’t stop crying. I have seen him injured before but never like this.
I keep applying the extracts and chanting the best I can. Anya orders my sister to bring her more remedies, and the queen obeys. More extract is needed because there are so many wounds, and they are so deep that it only covers a third of them.
I continue the chant, not stopping. Again and again, the words fall from my lips. My eyes are dry. There are no tears left in me. Anya brings me another jar of healing extract. I don’t even know what’s in it. The scent is so different from the extracts my mother taught me to concoct. But these are not healing methods of an amateur. I can feel the extract hum with power, whisper its need to heal. Anya returns with another remedy, a different one this time.
I never stop chanting the healing spells. Yet my mind keeps wandering. What a fool I’ve been to try to protect my heart from him, to fear him walking away from me. Only now, when he is walkingaway forever, do I realize what a fool I’ve been trying not to love him when he already holds my heart so completely. I should have spent more nights with him while I had the chance. Like last night, with no barriers between our bodies and souls. I should have taken whatever he would give me instead of fearing the things he couldn’t have given. Because surely I can never love again the way I love him. And I wish I had made it known to him.
Niska helps us turn Daton on his side so I can treat his back, which looks equally bad. I swear I can see his damn kidney. I treat it the same way, rinse it and then apply the remedies while chanting the spells. When I’m done, I sit on my heels, and Anya leaves Niska and me to attend to other wounded Mongan warriors. “You should go and rest,” I tell Niska because she looks so fatigued I fear she’ll collapse.
She looks at me pensively. “You love him.” It’s not a question.
It’s strange having this conversation over the limp body of the man who’s never told me he loved me, nor did I ever tell him I love him. And while I don’t need to hear him say it to know that he does, I should have said it while I had the chance. That doesn’t mean what happened last night could happen again, even if he weren’t dying. He’s still a Mongan, and I’m still a Puresoul. And yeah, we’re in a Renyan infirmary, but only Mongans shed their blood today for Amada. Things are not changed. And he is the uncrowned king of his people. He needs an uncrowned queen at his side, not a fallen princess of the enemy. Still, no matter what happens, I would never have undone last night.
“I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole.” Niska sighs and rubs her face with her hand. “I just—”
“You wanted to protect him.” I squeeze her hand. “I get it.”
She squeezes my hand back, and she sobs, “He can’t die.”
I feel someone grip my shoulder, and I look up to see Bahar. He’s barely recognizable with all the blood and gore that covers him. “He’s alive.” He sounds relieved, his eyes on Daton. But Daton’s life is hanging by a thread.
Only then do I notice that I don’t hear screams anymore. Moansand groaning, yes, but no squeals of the demichads. “We killed them all at the end.” Bahar’s voice is somber. “There was a point I thought we were not going to make it. But the Goddess was lenient for once.” He shifts his eyes to Niska. “Twelve dead.” And she swears under her breath. It could have been so much more. It’s a small miracle. Yet for their loved ones, it’s anything but.
