Page 116 of In Her Own Rite

“Do you want me to shift? You can ride on my back. We’ll get to the infirmary faster.”

She shakes her head. “No. I have to do this myself. I need to carry him down the mountain.”

“Okay,” I say weakly.

I shift beside her, falling back a few paces to walk behind. This is her rite, and it’s her choice. So she takes the moment for herself, and I watch as she carries her father’s broken body down to safety.

I don’t understand it, and it’s not the choice I would have made. But it’s Em, through and through. Knowing how to love people better than any of us.

Proving to me again that she’s stronger than I am.

42

KIERAN

We encounter Seb and Saga on the way down, but they see me walking behind Em and follow suit. As we near the infirmary, we all shift and follow Em inside, Seb pulling some clothes from the box at the entrance for us to put on.

When we enter the infirmary room, it’s like a wind storm. The room’s edges are full of frantic energy: Helen and a few healers in training rushing around, getting items Em is asking for: gauze, salve, disinfectant. And at the eye of the storm, completely still, is Em. She’s standing in front of the bed where her father's wolf lies. As we walk in, Saga immediately joins the busy fray, and I stand back, watching.

Em stands tall, her head held high, the braid around her head looser now but still intact. There are wisps of loose hair around her face and neck, some sticking to her face with sweat, others curling away. Her clothes and hands are stained with blood, and she’s giving orders to everyone else in the room.

I’ve never seen her like this. She’s leading without asking, without apology. Helen comes forward holding gauze and tries to push Em out of the way, but Em stops her.

“No. I’m doing this.”

She raises her hand above her father’s wound and closes her eyes. I see something in her posture change just slightly. Her core seems to tuck in and I see her lower her chin, like the back of her head is being pulled up by an invisible string. Then she begins to whisper.

I’m too far away to hear what it is, but I can tell from here that it’s Fakari. And as she begins muttering, the whole room goes still.

Between her hand and her father’s stomach, a little wisp of energy begins to form. At first it looks like a small blue flame, dancing between her skin and his. But it grows thicker, and then it’s green and purple and blue, dancing. It looks like thekiyyulit.

I hear a whisper ripple through the room. We all watch in confusion and bewilderment as the wound under Em’s hand slowly begins to disappear. The lights grow stronger, brighter, dancing more fervently. Within a minute, the wound is gone.

“How are you doing that?” Helen asks, but Em ignores her, still whispering. Her words come faster together, and her hand moves from the gash in his side to the mangled twisting of his spine.

I feel a wave of shock wash over me as I realize what she’s trying to do. Bone healing is a long-lost art. She can’t be…

The lights between her hand and his body grow brighter, so bright they hurt my eyes. Her father whines on the table, and I can see that whatever’s happening is growing in intensity, nearing some kind of end. Em’s voice grows louder, more rhythmic, and her eyes flicker open, the gaze in them hollow. Her father barks out in pain and Em twists her eyes shut tight, as though she’s pooling all her concentration and effort. Then, suddenly, the light under her hand flashes outwards as a softboomechoes through the room.

The infirmary is completely silent, everyone staring wordlessly at Emerson. She looks up, her gaze empty. Exhausted.

“I gave him some water, but he’s still probably dehydrated,” she says, her voice weak. “And he’ll be out of his mind for at least the next day from the unprocessedkattaka. You should have someone here, and tie him to the bed, for when he comes to.”

“Emerson—” Helen says.

“I don’t want to see him. But if he asks who saved him, I want him to know it was me.”

“Okay,” Saga gently.

“I’m going to go home and sleep,” Em says, and I can hear the exhaustion in her voice. “We can talk about what it means for my rite in the morning.”

She starts walking towards me, her feet shuffling. Behind her, I can see her father panting, his eyes looking around frantically. His back no longer looks twisted, and though he’s still thin and matted, the wound being gone makes him look almost like a different animal entirely.

How the hell did she do that?

“Emerson, no—you should rest here, in the infirmary,” says Saga.

But Em shakes her head, walking past her.

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