Malik was angry with his mother for sending him with Consul Pelasius. Hadn’t they sacrificed enough for the empire? Let them heal their own sons!

But Madri had insisted, and his mother was not a woman to be argued with when she set her mind to something she believed to be right.

“When the gods brings a problem to your door, you do not run,” she’d said.

Malik knew she was hinting at his almost uhmskara. It was the unspoken mistake that hung over every interaction between them since the attack. He had almost left his family and his people for a far-off land without a word, and he felt guilty each time he looked at her.

What might have been different had he and Riese been celebrating with the rest of their people? It had been impulsive, cowardly. Reckless.

Malik knew that now.

His father said Malik was right for being disturbed by the truth, but he could hear in his mind exactly what his mother would say to that.

You do not run…

And yet that was what their entire people were preparing to do. Was that what she was truly upset about?

Malik had watched the quiet tension between his parents all evening. She did not believe either of them to be right.

Should Malik have told her the whole of it?

Urla Pelasius did not speak a word to Malik as they crossed the Attican encampment, and for once, Malik resented the stillness.

What if he was wrong? What if Ava was full of shit? What if she was manipulating his hope that Riese might actually be safe?

He was relieved when they reached Consul Pelasius’s tent. A soldier pulled back the flap, and Urla ushered Malik inside.

The tent was vast, nearly as long as his family’s log home. And remarkably luxurious for a war tent. Multiple rooms were partitioned with large flaps of ornate cloth, a pattern of diamonds criss-crossed the dark material in gold thread, looking like mountains stacked atop one another by their peaks.

The smell of death filled the entire tent, though there was no sign of Ruan in the main chamber.

A healer emerged from behind one of the flaps to greet them. She was a young woman with bronze skin and frizzy hair, dressed in forest green robes. She dipped her head to Urla, but made no acknowledgment of Malik.

“Your son lies at peace, Consul,” the healer said.

“He isn’t…” Malik began, nearly overwhelmed by the stench.

The healer shook her head. “Ruan yet lives, shaman.”

“Prepare a stretcher,” Urla ordered. “We’re taking him into the village.”

The girl’s face contorted, and she shot a glare at Malik.

“Are you certain, Consul? I’ve seen many dark effects from sorcerous healings. Many a lordling has fled desperately to the Free City in hopes of a magic touch. Most regret this in the end. Witches are swindlers, and their arts always have a price. Are you prepared to pay it?”

“This isn’t a Beirusian witch,” Urla said. “The emperor knows the risks, or he wouldn’t have suggested this course of action.”

“Pardon, Lady, but I expect the emperor knows little of witchery, and even less of healing, gods save him.”

Urla patted the girl’s shoulder. “I appreciate your concern for my son. But my mind is made.”

The healer nodded, then ushered them into the chamber.

Ruan lay upon a mat at the end of the room, head propped on a wide feather pillow. The skin of his face was drawn loose over his cheekbones, as though he’d aged fifty years in a day. His pallor had turned a deathly porridge-grey. But what disturbed Malik most was how faint the boy’s spirit resonated. Distant, as though half-departed from the world already.

It pained Malik to see anyone in such a state. At once, his anger dissipated, replaced with sympathy. He wished it were easier to see the Attican boy as an enemy, but in his heart, he knew it was never so simple. The boy had been brave the night of the attack. And he had paid a greater price than any Faltari. Death seemed a fearsome hand clenching its fingers around them all.

“I’m sorry, Lady Consul,” Malik murmured. “I fear…”

Urla knelt at her son’s side, while soldiers prepared a stretcher. Her lip trembled. It was so strange to see a woman like her—fierce, formidable, devoted to the empire—brought to tears like any mother would in such circumstances.

Malik almost reiterated what the imperial healer had said, for it was true that there was little hope for Ruan Pelasius. But Malik did not have the heart to speak it.

“I know there is only a chance my son will wake,” Urla said. “And an even smaller chance that he will thrive if he does. But that chance is all I have left in this world. Do you understand?”

Malik nodded to her. “It is good you’ve brought him to us. His wounds are deeper than flesh and bone. But my father is the finest spiritual healer on the island. We should hurry.”

***

One look at the boy, and Malik’s entire family began scrambling about the healing room to prepare for surgery.

First, a tincture of edelgrass and noxium root to numb the pain.

Malik’s family often assisted Joren’s healings. Malik had endured fitful screams as bones were set, changed sheets drenched in sweat from villagers tossing and turning in fever dreams. Few times had this room been so utterly still.

His mother bit her lip as she fixed leather bands to Ruan’s arms and legs, fixing him to the surgical table. Malik wondered if the bindings would be needed. He hadn’t moved an inch during the entire transfer from the Consul’s tent. The boy was so distant from this world, it seemed the slightest nudge might send him over the brink into death.

Surel gathered cloths in utter silence, and if that wasn’t a testament to the direness of the situation, Malik didn’t know what was.

Joren held instruments over a torch to sterilize them. Several long needles and a slender spike with a flat head on one end, like a nail.

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Urla watched with remarkable calm, clutching her son’s limp hand.

Malik stoked the fire in the hearth, then he and Surel draped thick leaves of fireweed on a rod above the flames. One leaf ignited, and he had to douse it. The leaves were on the verge of being too dry for the ritual, and if they burned hot, the effect would not last.

“A little more water,” Madri instructed, handing Malik a basin to dip the leaves in before adding them to the rod.

Smoke began to permeate the room.

“What is that?” Urla asked.

“There is swelling in Ruan’s skull,” Joren said, fetching a tiny iron hammer and a spiral-crank needle from a drawer of healing elements in the corner of the room. “The pressure will have to be relieved, or I fear he will not wake again. The process is terrifying, but the smoke will help dull the senses and draw hish in to strengthen his spirit.”

“You don’t use channelers?” she asked.

Joren took hold of her hand and looked into her eyes. “You brought him to me, Lady. You must decide at once if you will trust my methods.”

Consul Pelasius nodded.

“I can promise nothing,” Joren said. “But I performed this procedure once before on a soldier bludgeoned to near-death by a war hammer. This is the only way I know to help him.”

“Of course. Do whatever you must.”

“We will have to drill a hole in his skull. Too far and he will die. Too little and he will die.”

Malik and Surel draped a long cloth over the boy’s body. It was unnerving how still he was.

“Even with the tincture and dreamsmoke, he may wake during the operation,” said Joren. “And he will be in the worst pain of his life. An unsteady hand…”

“I will hold him,” Urla said.

Joren shook his head. “The spiritual toll will be great, and you are untrained. It would be better if you remained out in—”

Urla brushed off his comforting hand. “Shaman, I’ve fought in over thirty battles in my life. I’ve lost comrades in my arms. A few weeks ago, I lost a husband. I will not leave my son tonight.”

“Very well. Malik, you hold his feet. Madri, you tend the smoke. Surel?”

Malik’s sister was frightened, biting her lip as she fought not to show it.

“I need you to pass instruments the moment I ask, do you hear?”

Surel nodded and stood straight, suddenly seeming much older than the annoying adolescent girl she was.

Malik stood at the side of the table, and took hold of Ruan’s knees and chest. He could feel the swell of hish all around the room as the smoke heightened his senses.

It would make the healing more powerful, but it would also make the pain...

“Surel, razor.”

Joren began to trim away hair from the back of the boy’s skull.

Urla stood beside Malik, holding either side of her son’s head with immense warrior’s hands.

“Drill.”

Surel handed it to him, and Malik leaned over the boy, pressing his own weight down, head growing light from the smoke.

The only sound was the soft scraping of bone as his father cranked the drill.

“Hold steady!” Joren said.

Now, the soft ping of the hammer and spike. A faint crunch.

Ruan’s entire body twitched.

“Oh Mahra,” Urla said. “I think he’s—”

“Hold steady!”

Joren tapped again.

The boy groaned.

Crunch, crunch, then a squelching sound.

The boy’s entire body spasmed beneath Malik’s weight.

And screams erupted.

***

Malik’s parents claimed it all lasted but a few moments before Ruan Pelasius fell back into unconsciousness, but the look of the boy’s face twisted in agony, eyes wide and bloodshot, was seared into Malik’s mind.

He slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, while his parents finished the ritual. The dreamsmoke drifted out an open window, and the intensity of the operation began to dissipate. But Malik could still hear the screams in his mind, feel the way the boy had writhed beneath his grasp.

Surel had left the room the minute the operation was complete.

Now, Ruan slept peacefully, chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

Urla Pelasius had been unfazed by her son’s screams throughout the procedure, but she slumped beside her boy now, body shaking with heavy breaths while Joren completed the final healing rites, carefully drawing rune spells on the boy’s skull and neck, whispering the words over and over as he wrote them in the boy’s blood.

First, attend the body, then the spirit. That was the only way with such a wound.

Malik leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head propped in his hands, nearly as spent as he’d been from his entire Ascent.

His mother handed Joren tinctures and salves, and then came the bandages.

Malik had helped his father with operations before. Broken legs, wounds from a hunt gone awry. Some of them had been serious. Three years ago, a hunter had died on his father’s table.

But this operation had affected him more than all the others. He was not sure why.

Madri had removed the fireweed leaves, and now, only traces of smoke hung in the rafters of the chamber. His mother whispered in his father’s ear, then prepared a prayer cloth and burned it in a clay bowl beside the bed.

Then, she joined Malik, taking a seat in the other chair, and took his hand.

“You look like you could use some clear air, son.”

“I’m fine, mum. Most of the smoke is gone.”

“I think your father could use one of the rune books to complete the healing.”

Malik shot to attention in spite of himself. “In the Sacred Hall? Sure, I’ll get them right away.”

He cursed to himself. He’d nearly forgotten about Ava Rykus. He’d managed to keep her presence a secret until now. His father had been so pre-occupied, the one time he’d needed into the room today—to fetch one of the clan ledgers—he’d gladly let Malik get it for him. And the room was warded by many spells.

“Why don’t I come with you?” his mother said.

Malik tensed. “Er, no, it’s fine, I can—”

“I could use some air too.”

Only shamans were able to open the Sacred Hall, but there was no good reason for his mother not to come with him. His father had taken her there countless times before. But if she saw…

“Come.” Madri took his hand and led the way out.

The moment they exited and breathed clear air, Malik’s spirit lightened further.

“The spiritual toll is worse with outsiders,” his mother said. “Bloody Atticans think their aversion to magic keeps them safe. Perhaps it does. But their spirits are weak, and ours were forced to compensate for that weakness tonight.”

“Makes sense,” Malik said, trying to feign casual conversation. “Guess I’ve never been part of a foreign healing.”

“Your father learned that on the battlefront. During his uhmskara, he fought in the Taikan uprising. Against the empire.”

His father was a such a kind, non-violent man, it was difficult to picture him anywhere near a battlefield. That is, until Malik had seen him fight off those creatures during the attack. He’d fought with skill beyond what could be explained by hunting experience.

Malik scowled. “Yet another secret, then.”

Madri nodded. “Your father is a complicated man. With a complicated role. One he never truly wanted to be his.”

“Never wanted? But he was the eldest. It was always meant to be his role.”

His mother smiled and shrugged. “There is much you do not know about your father. Much you have assumed. The problem with men is you all keep everything pent up inside and think it a strength.”

Malik’s mother took his chin in her hand and turned his face to look directly in her eyes. “You are brave, son. You are strong. And the past few days, you have shown yourself to even be wise. At times.”

She winked, and Malik laughed.

“But you hide much inside. From our family, yes. But also from your friends. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you kept Yuri and Riese at arm’s length these past two years. Thinking they could never understand what you’re dealing with.”

Malik nodded. “Riese and I worked things out… before all this. But Yuri... I don’t know. I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”

“Gods yes, you have,” she said on a chuckle. “We all have. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in these forty-four summers, it’s that the greatest mistake of all is not being true with the ones you love. When you trust someone, you hold nothing back. This family has known too many secrets, son.”

A sinking feeling tore at Malik’s gut. They stood ten feet from the runemarked door.

“You... you already know, don’t you?” Malik asked.

His mother lowered her voice to a whisper. “About the Valucian girl in this very hut? No.” She chuckled.

Malik felt a strange mix of terror and relief. “D-does father? Does anyone else?”

“No one else. But I don’t expect a foreign mage would escape your father’s sense. Not even locked behind wards.”

“Then, why didn’t he... why didn’t either of you…”

Madri clasped his shoulder and pulled him toward her. Malik sunk into the embrace.

“Because your father once fought against this empire.”

“He fought with the Taikans.”

“Driven by the same youthful conviction of justice and passion that drives you now. Your father said nothing of the girl because he knew this was a passion you inherited. Your father... both of us knew you’d do what’s right, given a little time to decide.”

A wave of relief swept over him.

“Can the girl be trusted?” Madri asked.

Malik reached for the runemarked door, and the glyphs glowed at his touch as he spoke the words.

“Come decide for yourself.”