Page 43 of Fallen
Heaving a deep breath, Coira walked forward and ducked through the entrance into the tent.
One glance at the two men within and Coira knew they were both past her help.
The man lying to the left of the brazier certainly was—he was dead, eyes staring up at the roof of the tent, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pain.
Coira swallowed hard as dread trailed its icy fingers down her spine.
I don’t know how to stop this.
She’d always felt confident in her skills, yet she was seriously out of her depth here. Nothing she’d learned from her mother, or from the last decade working as a healer, could prepare her for this moment. She had no idea how to proceed.
“Sister.” A weak, raspy voice interrupted her.
The man lying to the right of the brazier was still alive, although barely so. He stared up at Coira, his gaze glassy. “Help me.”
Coira swallowed hard. “Aye,” she whispered, reaching with shaking hands for a small clay bottle of hemlock juice inside her basket. “I will do what I can.”
Night fell over the ravine, a misty day giving way to a damp, cool night.
Craeg crouched before the fire pit and nudged the embers with a stick before adding a gorse branch. A moment later, a shower of bright sparks and tongues of flame shot up into the darkness.
Shifting his attention from the fire, Craeg’s gaze settled upon Gunn. His friend sat cross-legged opposite him. The warrior’s eyes were desolate, his face seeming carven from stone.
Fenella was his life, his soul. And now she was gravely ill.
Sister Coira was still with her.
Craeg studied Gunn a moment, his chest tightening. They’d spoken little as the last rays of daylight had seeped from the world—there wasn’t much either of them could say. Both of them risked falling sick too. It was just a matter of waiting to see.
Strangely, Craeg wasn’t worried for himself. He’d long ago overcome a fear of death. He’d been reckless with his own life too many times to be afraid of losing it. Instead, the thought of losing Fenella and Gunn filled him with a sense of despair so powerful that it hurt to breathe.
And underneath it all, guilt plagued him over Coira. He shouldn’t have called her here. In doing so, he’d put her life at risk as well.
Fate was a cruel bitch. They were so close to bringing MacKinnon down. But if this pestilence dug its claws in and ripped through his band of followers, it would be a hollow victory indeed. It was poor timing, and yet the moment had been coming for a long while now. He wouldn’t turn away from it, and neither would those who followed him.
Gunn glanced up then, his eyes hollowed in the firelight. He seemed to have aged a decade in the past few hours. “Dawn can’t come soon enough,” he said roughly. “I’m looking forward to giving MacKinnon’s men a taste of my blade.”
“Ye don’t have to join us,” Craeg replied. “If ye wish to remain here with Fen, I’ll understand.”
Gunn shook his head, his expression turning vehement. “Fen wants me to fight tomorrow. I’ll not stay behind.”
Craeg nodded. He certainly wasn’t going to argue with Gunn when he was in this mood.
He was aware then of a dark robed figure appearing from the small tent where Fenella was laid up. Coira had finally joined them.
Both men turned to her, watching as she approached the fire and pulled off the scarf that covered the lower half of her face. Her expression was tense, her lovely eyes hollowed with fatigue.
Once again, guilt arrowed through Craeg’s gut. When he’d seen her earlier, for the first time since she’d helped him escape, his pulse had quickened. Heat had then flowered across his chest, obliterating the gnawing worry the sickness had brought.
He’d devoured the sight of her, and for just a few moments, had forgotten why he’d called her to his side. All that mattered was that Coira was with him.
He hadn’t lied. He was happy to see her again—happier than Coira realized.
“How is she?” Gunn asked, his voice hoarse with worry.
Coira met his gaze steadily. “She’s worsening … I’m sorry.”
Gunn’s face went taut. “Do none of yer herbs and potions work?”
