Chapter Thirty-Two

Stitches and Scars

Michael sat alone on one of the long benches in the Fort Guardian pavilion. He kept thinking about the fort surgeon’s words. Her name was Lillian.

Nothing a little Arcancy can’t fix, she’d said. But just so you’re all aware. Don’t bother with belts, twine, shirts or anything that isn’t a medical grade tourniquet. If it doesn’t have a windlass to tighten it, it’s not really doing anything. And if your patient isn’t screaming, then it’s not really working. Good rule.

It was dark across the grounds but the ever-glowing lanterns chased away the worst of the shadow. Without the wind of the Treewater, everything felt much quieter. Though the chill remained in the air as Michael traced the patterns in the wooden tabletop.

They’d fixed Nirrada’s leg in about five seconds. It was a grotesque piece of flesh-binding Arcancy, but it worked like a charm. Their upper thigh had healed with a dark green scar. Just thinking about it made Michael think of Jack.

He wondered if the Riniglacian man had ever hurt someone else like that. He knew it was a silly question as soon as he thought of it.

“Michael?”

Michael turned to see Ilo hobble down from the keep doors, half-asleep and half-drunk. “What are you doing out here? It’s nearly morning.”

Michael looked down at table again. He was tracing the shape of a crescent moon in the wood. “Just can’t sleep. Hard day.”

Ilo frowned for a moment and then nodded in realisation. “I heard.”

The young man ambled past Michael and poured two tankards of some ale from the barrels. He patted Michael on the arm and he sat down gave him one. “Nothin’ like first-blood jitters.”

Michael sipped his drink and almost coughed it up, only narrowly holding it back. “I’ve killed monsters before...”

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“You’ve fought in the Arena before, where it’s life or death in a big and ugly and obvious way. Where everything is all claws and teeth. It’s a little different when the thing you hurt has a name.” Ilo leant back and took a big mouthful, sighing sharply as he swallowed. “You didn’t start that fight, Michael.”

“Didn’t I?” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “We did the equivalent of breaking into someone’s house. I’m hardly shocked we weren’t welcome.”

“Was it your idea to do a training mission in a protected region of the Treewater? No. Blame that asshole,” Ilo waved his cup vaguely at the keep.

Michael frowned sharply. “Sidney or Jack?”

Ilo smiled bitterly. “Jack wanted you to learn how to fight Creations, so he put you in a room of illusions. Sidney does whatever Jack thinks is best. And yet, on your second day of training, you’re dropped in Atyon territory?”

Michael looked at him for a moment and then his eyes drifted back to the keep. He gave a humourless huff.

“It’s certainly some Amekot-type shit. Where do you think she got that scroll.”

Michael didn’t say anything. He wanted to agree just like that but Amekot didn’t throw that sword. Amekot didn’t have to wash blood off his hands for twenty minutes. Amekot didn’t have to stand by the surgeons and explain himself when he’d dragged in a person with a mutilated leg.

“Where are your friends?” Ilo asked, genuinely surprised to see they weren’t around.

Michael sipped his drink again. “I sent them to bed. They needed rest, despite what they kept saying.”

Ilo finished his drink and cleared his throat. “First time I stepped into the Arena with this,” he touched his hand to his broadsword, “I accidentally sliced my friend across her back. She was fine, she said it was barely a scratch and was more annoyed at my apologies than the actual injury. I waited till after we had finished up practice, then I went and vomited behind the keep. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. That’s the problem with our line of work. The moment you pick up a weapon, luck plays a part. Skill and talent are all good and well, but a single piece of wind can change an archer’s fate. A single miss-step can doom a swordsman. And we often think that the worst thing that can happen is that we hurt ourselves. Until we hurt someone else.”

Michael could hardly imagine hurting anyone he loved. His eyes swelled in the dark just thinking about it. “You still think about that day in the Arena?”

Ilo’s handsome, unshaved face bent into a sad smile. “Get some sleep, Paladin.” Ilo stood slowly and walked back inside.

Michael thought about what he said and about what he didn’t say and stayed on that seat for a little while longer. Eventually he made his way back to his bunk.

Everyone slept in the Defanin dorm and he lay there, staring at the underside of the top-bunk.

His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since the forest.

They didn’t stop shaking till he slept.