Chapter 30
Fairies in the Wind
Long after Keiron led the others from the clearing, Bronwyn battled against the chains. The unbreakable steel depleted any energy not already stolen from him by the massive amount of blood loss. He rested the best he could, not able to kneel or sit, yet not able to stand straight. The shackles dug into his flesh unless he positioned himself just right. His aching body throbbed from the discomfort.
The sun sank low in the sky, stealing light; Bronwyn’s only source of comfort. He fought to stay awake. At every sound, he jerked himself upright to see what creature might be hunting for a ration. It played on his nerves, and his imagination created movement in the shadows. If an animal did come, the attack would be brutal.
The agony of losing Isla renewed itself, and he whimpered from the heartache. He had failed to protect her from the one person he’d been warned about. Catriona had said Keiron would return. The hauflin told her so when he left Isla with her, but the threat occurred long ago, and as the years slipped by, Bronwyn had simply forgotten about it.
He heaved a great sigh, and the dizziness made him slouch forward. He had come so far only to die here alone.
Bronwyn felt warmth on his leg; the only feeling in his numbed condition. It grew so hot it stung. The burning sensation persisted, and he struggled to get in a position to swat whatever had attached to his trousers. When he finally managed to brush the back of his hand against the material, he found nothing there. He tried again, slower this time and felt a bulge in his pocket. Had a rodent crawled inside? With all his might, he fought to reach it.
After much toiling, he pulled his translucent stone and an odd-shaped piece of steel from his pocket. The heliodor had burnt hot, but now, clenched in his fist, it felt warm and tingly. Never before had it burnt him. Why did it burn now? Was it magic? He squeezed with all his might. If any drop of magic the pebble possessed could save him from this fate, he’d use it.
He thought of Isla’s desperate plea for him to live. He had promised to survive but didn’t know how to keep it. The shackles were too strong, the chains too secure. He clutched the yellow stone as if it contained all his hope.
He opened his palm and stared at the twisted chunk of steel. Where had it come from? He closed his hand around it and the stone and tried to focus on them.
A few more hours passed, but Bronwyn journeyed in a state beyond noticing the measurement of time. He had spent his strength pulling and tugging and twisting the chains. Sagging against his bonds, he drifted in and out of consciousness. He heard sounds, but his weakened state prevented him from searching for the source. Whistling breezes, hooting birds and soft thuds mixed together to create a night melody. A puff of air fell warm and moist upon his cheek.
“Bronwyn?”
The wind sang a song with his name and beckoned him to sleep.
“Can you hear me?”
He dreamt of Alaura in the middle of the forest beside him. He imagined her face, traced her jaw line to her chin and looked upon the lips he longed to kiss. Leaning forward, he caressed them with his own lips, savouring the scent of her skin. He kissed deeper and…
The wind tugged on his chains, disturbing his dreams of Alaura. The sound of steel against steel bounced off the night air. A voice cursed. It sounded like fairies in the wind arguing over the first to drink from the spring. He licked his parched lips.
A quick jerk of the chain securing his left hand made him almost drop his stone and the piece of steel. He held them tighter. The wind would not claim his only possessions. The fairies continued to argue and fight amongst his chains. They travelled along the links to the shackle securing his wrist. Their soft wings caressed his skin. He wondered if they were preparing him for his journey to the Plane of Peace. The fays played with his fingers, teasing them to release his treasure. Their fluttering wings kissed his skin and whispered for him to share.
“What’s in your hand?” The little imps’ chorus of tender voices soothed him, enticing him to share his treasures.
A warm feeling swelled in his blood, similar to the feelings which had erupted when Alaura planted little kisses on his cheek. His grip softened. Their wings fluttered about his fingertips, eager to see his treasure. Then it disappeared. They had taken the piece of steel. He clutched Isla’s stone; he couldn’t lose it, too!
Once again, Bronwyn heard a chinking sound as the sprites squabbled. He imaged his left foot falling free. Then he moved his right foot without the weight of the shackle. They must be delivering him to the Plane of Peace. All at once an arm released, and he fell forward. One remaining shackle kept him from slamming into the ground. The feeling of weightlessness lasted but a second, and his knees hit the dirt. He’d have fallen further, but the fairies caught him and laid him flat. They smelt wonderful, a mixture of wildflowers, horse and sweat.
“Bronwyn, speak to me.”
“Alaura?” He mouthed the sweet name.
“I feared the worse when I saw you.”
The death fairies sounded like the woman he longed for. He felt their wet, cool wings on his cheek. The coolness spread across his face and down his neck. What were they doing? He forced open his eyes and grabbed the wrist holding the wet cloth. He stared into the face in front of him. Alaura? An hallucination? Worse. Lindrum masked himself as the woman he loved.
“Bronwyn, it’s me, Alaura. Why don’t you believe your own eyes?”
He looked at his wrist and found the shackle gone. He jerked the woman forward for a better view. In the dim light of a floating orb, he saw in her eyes the sparkle impossible to duplicate by an illusion. “Alaura?”
“Bronwyn, don’t you recognise me?”
He released her. “I thought you were death fairies.” His voice caught in his parched throat.
She caressed his cheek and came within an inch of his face. “You’re very much alive, and I’m going to keep you that way.”
He sank back and closed his eyes. His body felt like a lead weight, but he had to get moving. Finally free of the shackles, he had to continue his search for Isla. He attempted to stand, but failed to muster the strength to rise off the ground. He moaned as every ache in his body attacked at once.
“Lie still. You’re too weak to move.”
“I have to. They have Isla.” He flopped back onto the grass, feeling helpless.
“You saw her?”
“Keiron has her. I’m going to kill him.”
She eyed him with a strange look.
“I have to go after them.” Again he struggled to reach a seated position, but collapsed. “Help me get up.” His determination couldn’t be heard in his voice, no louder than a whisper.
Alaura helped him to his unsteady feet. She released her hold and watched as he crumpled into the grass. She rolled him to his back and knelt by his side. “In this condition, what good are you if you find them?”
Bronwyn didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to get underway, do something other than lie here, letting them escape. The dizziness which swept over him when he stood dictated otherwise.
“You need to rest. Sleep will help you heal.”
“I can’t sleep. I have to catch them.”
Alaura dabbed at the wounds on his face with the damp cloth.
“Ouch!” He wailed when she pressed too hard on the cut above his eye. His senses became more aware. When she hit the bruise above the other eye, he winced again. “Take it easy. My face feels like I ran into a rampart.”
“Oh…?” she said. “I thought you’d said you were fit for travel?” She pressed on the cut near his lip.
He moaned and grabbed her hand. “Is this how Beathas taught you to mend the wounded?”
A sly grin spread across her face. “Only trying to get your attention.”
“You have it.” He released her hand then a heavy sigh. He couldn’t tackle a loaf of bread without help, but every moment he lay there put one more moment of distance between him and Isla.
With the gen
tleness of a mum cleaning the creases on a newborn, Alaura washed the wounds on Bronwyn’s face. He watched her fingers move across his forehead and down the side of his head. It felt strange having her care for him like this, fussing over him as if he was Isla after a fall from a tree. In the dim glow conjured by a Light Spell, Bronwyn saw the concern in Alaura’s eyes. He must have looked horrendous after the beating he’d taken.
“They have to stop for the night, too,” she said. “I know you’re thinking otherwise, but if they travelled all day, they’d need to rest.” She dabbed his eyes and wiped away the dry blood.
He sighed again. “You’re right.” He should be thankful to be given another chance to kill Keiron.
“Where are the other guards?” Alaura dug in her pouch.
“Dead.” When she stopped to study his face, he added, “A few returned to Maskil, but I don’t know if they made it.”
“They did.” She looked away as if weighing her words.
“Did you see them? Did you see Farlan?” He held his breath, waiting and hoping.
“Farlan’s fine. He’ll heal.” Alaura looked down at him. “A group of bandits attacked the men before they reached Maskil.”
“And?”
“They managed to fend off their attackers, but they didn’t make it to the castle on their own accord. The captain of the guard of the Dukedom of the South came upon them.”
“He travelled with Lord Dunsworth.”
She nodded. “They brought the men into Maskil. One of the guards, the elf, was in critical condition. The dwarf had a better chance of surviving.”
“And Farlan?”
“He’s going to be fine. I spoke with him before I left. He told me about the dragon attack.”
“Did you see Dad?”
“He was the reason I visited the Infirmary and found Farlan.”
“How is he?”
“He’s recovering.”
“Why did you come? It’s not safe for you here.”
Alaura looked down at her hands. “I couldn’t stay at Maskil, knowing you were searching for Isla. I wanted to help.”
Bronwyn sensed another part to the story, but felt too tired to talk further.
She finished applying the ointment and bandages, then moved the magic light to inspect the lower part of his body. “Where did this blood come from?” She pointed to red swaths across his vest.
“A dagger.”
“You wiped blood from a dagger on your vest?”
“Keiron.” He shivered remembering the pain the dagger had inflicted.
She hesitated. “Whose blood is it?”
“Mine.” His hand rested on the abdomen wound.
Alaura brought the floating orb nearer, and the light illuminated the blood-soaked area. “You should have told me about this first,” she scolded. She unfastened his vest and pulled open his shirt. “I don’t understand. Why is there so much blood? The wound is closed.”
“Isla.” Bronwyn closed his eyes and imagined Isla’s face as she looked up at him, willing him to live. He had promised to do so, though at the time he thought it an impossible promise to honour.
“Her hands?” She washed away the dry blood, tenderly dabbing the wound with the cloth.
“She didn’t have a lot of time, but I think she healed the worst part.” He felt an ache where the dagger had entered, but no sharp pain.
“She’s an amazing little girl.”
“Not because she knows magic. Magic alone doesn’t make one special.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” Alaura dried the wound and applied a layer of ointment. “Anyway, Isla’s ability to heal isn’t magic. It’s natural. As natural as seeing and hearing is to us. Many confuse the two and believe it all to be magic, but magic must be nurtured. Like when a gifted artist hones his skill by drawing hundreds of sketches.
“Isla has learnt to use her natural ability wisely, but she didn’t have to practise the skill. She possessed the ability to heal since birth.”
Alaura sat back to rest. “Bronwyn, why didn’t you use the key?”
“What key?”
“The key you held in your hand.”
“What did it open?”
She looked at him, puzzled. “It unlocked the shackles.”
His mind raced. Where had the key come from? “Tam.”
“Who?” She leant close to hear his low voice.
“Tam,” he said again. “He’s the dwarf with Keiron. He must have put the key in my pocket. There’s no other way for it to have gotten there.”
“Why would he help you?”
“I think because of Isla. She said she trusted him.”
Alaura put away her things and pulled her rucksack on her back. “Then Isla has made a friend who might help her.” She stood and doused the Light Spell. “We have to relocate. It’s unsafe here with the smell of blood attracting the night animals who feed on carcasses.” She looked around. “Where are your boots?”
He pointed to the area where Keiron’s men had tackled him and removed his footwear to secure the shackles.
After a few minutes of wrestling with Bronwyn’s feet to get the boots back on, Alaura sat back. “It’s no use. Your feet are too swollen. I’ll carry them.” She fastened them to her rucksack, stuffed his socks inside and helped him to stand. “There’s a small clearing about five hundred yards from here where I set up camp.”
Bronwyn steadied himself against her shoulder. After taking a few steps, he stopped. “My sword. Keiron dropped it over there. Can you get it?”
Alaura leant him against the elm which once held him prisoner and went to find the sword. She slid it into his scabbard and repositioned him on her shoulder. Together they stumbled their way into the night.
After travelling an agonising distance, Bronwyn’s hobbling developed into dragging feet. He laboured to keep moving.
“A little further...” Alaura panted, catching her breath. “You can do it.” She smiled at him.
Her confidence slipped, but Bronwyn used her encouragement to continue. He was slightly shorter than she, but he weighed heavier. His thick limbs and muscles must have felt like a cart load of building stones upon her nimble body.
Ducking beneath a few branches, they staggered into a small clearing. Evergreens, ash and birch trees surrounded the grassy area on three sides. A six-foot rocky bank added protection along the northern edge. Clover, Alaura’s pony, grazed a few feet away.
Alaura guided Bronwyn to the blanket spread near the rocky bank. Half falling with him, their cheeks brushed as she caught herself.
“Sorry.” He moved quickly to steady her. “I…I didn’t expect the ground to be so far away.”
“Ground has a tendency to move.” She winked and patted him on the shoulder as she rose.
Bronwyn settled, getting as comfortable as possible with the hard ground pushing against his bruises. He watched her assemble items from her rucksack. She pulled out a pot and mixed the ingredients together.
“What are you making?”
“Soup.” Alaura mumbled a few words whilst her fingers danced in the air. A small glow grew under the pot, and she stirred the contents.
“What kind of soup?” He didn’t see anything familiar, like potatoes, meat or carrots go into the pot.
“It’s a mixture of broth, herbs, seasonings and water,” she said. “It’ll help you regain your strength. You’ll sleep well after eating it.”
“Why? Did you put magic in it?”
“I’m using magic to heat it.”
“I don’t want anything queer in it for a spell-induced sleep. When my strength returns, I’m going after them.”
“It’s a simple soup that will help restore your strength. You’re exhausted. You’ll fall asleep whether I add a slumber herb or not.” She avoided stating the obvious, and Bronwyn watched her dodge eye contact.
“Don’t use magic to make me sleep.”
Under her breath she said, “If you keep complaining, I’ll double the dose.
”
“What did you say?”
“Do you trust me?”
She shot the look at him, the one which stated he’d better do what she said…or else! After all these years, and after receiving many of those looks, Bronwyn still hadn’t figured out the or else part. It still had the same effect on him, taunting him, luring him into an argument.
“Of course, I trust you.” Bronwyn wanted to debate further but knew she’d win this battle. She’d match him word-for-word until his exhaustion forced him to surrender.
Alaura poured the liquid into a bowl and held it out to him. “Then be a good boy and take your medicine!” He hesitated to accept. “Do you want me to feed it to you?” She glared at him, wheedling him to eat.
Bronwyn relinquished and took the bowl. He put a spoonful in his mouth; it tasted warm and soothing. He’d lost this quarrel, but there’d be others.
By the time he had finished the last spoonful, sleep beckoned every sense in his body. He wanted to argue the fact Alaura had put magic in the soup, but couldn’t manipulate his tongue. Instead, when she unbuttoned his shirt and slid it from his shoulders, he didn’t resist. When he felt her grapple with the buttons on his trousers, he hadn’t the strength to assist her.
And when Alaura helped him to lie on his good side, the one not torn by the dagger, he merely gave a drunken grin and mumbled a bit of gibberish. He thought he felt her skin upon his forehead, but the numbness of sleep had seduced his body to the emptiness of a deep slumber.