The next morning, they packed up their things and started back along the road. Sam was still unconscious in the back of the wagon, so Greminy drove. Meleng sat in the back so he could tend to Sam and Stavan. Felitïa sat with him, and tried to help. She was distracted a lot, though she claimed that she was getting better. Something she referred to as the “Room” was partially rebuilt.

Rudiger walked beside Borisin, with Zandrue beside them walking her horse, Lucinda. No one actually rode today. Too many of them were without horses now, and the few left were injured. Meleng had lost his own horse, as had Felitïa. Three of the horses DeSeloön and his men used had also perished. Borisin was in bad shape. The stallion’s neck and much of his back was covered in red blisters and mottled-brown burns. His mane was completely gone. Lucinda’s snout was burnt and blackened along one side. Most of the other horses weren’t much better off. Only Jorvan’s horse seemed to have escaped any injury at all.

Everyone was reserved for most of the day. DeSeloön spoke to Jorvan early on, and Meleng overheard some of it. The captain was questioning Jorvan’s whereabouts in the battle.

Sam stirred briefly at that moment, drawing Meleng’s attention away, so he didn’t hear if anything else was said. Although Sam had stirred, he hadn’t woken. For a couple of moments, he thrashed about in his sleep, but then he was calm again. Meleng checked that the bandages on his head were secure and felt his forehead for a temperature. He seemed fine. Probably just bad dreams.

Zandrue was watching him and the two men. She walked alongside the wagon, Lucinda’s reins in one hand, her other hand on the wagon’s edge. When she saw him looking, she smiled.

Meleng blinked. She smiled? It looked an honest smile as well!

She must have seen something in his reaction. “Don’t get used to it.” She forced a chuckle.

Meleng sighed. Typical. He was turning back to tend Sam, when she spoke again. “They both took blows that were meant for me.” Her voice was quiet. “I should be the one lying there. I should be dead. Yet they lie there dying in my place.”

Meleng opened his mouth to try to say something comforting, but nothing came out.

“It was like a darkness. Inky blackness. Only noticeable in the night air because of the empty...nothingness where it was. It came from the orb. That fucking orb! DeSeloön told us to be careful of it. I should have known better. I knew he was a wizard. But I apparently can’t think straight around Volgs. You should have seen me in Mesone. But he looked like nothing more than a defenceless priest trapped by a block of ice! An easy stab through the heart. It would all be over with. And such a perfect hit it was, too. Right in. Anyone would have died instantly. But the bastard just laughed. The dagger came out clean. No blood. No wound left behind.”

Meleng stared in disbelief. That was an incredibly powerful effect to achieve. The thought of someone being capable of that was terrifying. Perhaps it had only been a mentalism effect: the Volg had made Zandrue believe she had stabbed him when she really hadn’t. Meleng didn’t know a lot about mentalism, but he was sure that would be easier than the enchantment alternative.

“He knocked me aside,” Zandrue was saying, “so I went at him again, this time for the orb. And that’s when the darkness came. It was coming for me. Carcraime, he called me, and I deserved it. And then Stavan was there, knocking me out of his path. His arm just...dissolved away...” Her own voice seemed to dissolve away then.

“I…I had no idea,” Meleng said.

“I’m sorry, Zandrue,” Felitïa said. Up until this point in the conversation, she had remained quiet, just staring at her hands in her lap. “It’s my fault.”

Zandrue shook her head. “Not your fault, Felitïa. Stavan saved my life. So did Sam. Two times I should have been dead, and two times I barely got scratched. Keep them alive, Meleng. You hear me? You keep them alive!”

Meleng nodded without thinking. “I will.” The truth was, he had no idea if he could. Sam, he was confident would make it, but Stavan... Perhaps if there was no infection, Stavan might get lucky. But he had lost so much blood.

By the end of the day, Meleng was worried about Sam, as well. He hadn’t woken yet. Meleng had been sure he would have by this time. Of course, if he had, Meleng would have just advised him to go back to sleep. At the moment, sleep would help him heal faster. So, perhaps it was best he hadn’t woken. Then again... Gods! He wasn’t suited for this! He had no idea what he was doing. And yet, everyone expected him to be able to keep them alive.

Borisin went wild that evening when Greminy and Hang tried to hobble the horses. The stallion leapt between them and the other horses, screaming and kicking. Hang tried to calm him, but Rudiger advised him to stay away. Captain DeSeloön agreed that the horses would not be hobbled that night.

“Borisin will keep them from wandering off,” Rudiger said.

Sleep came no more easily that night than it had the night before. Meleng tried to sleep on the wagon, so he could be near Sam and Stavan in case one woke during the night. But the wagon was too cramped to lie out straight. So he tried to sleep from a seated position, huddling with his knees against his chest in an attempt to stay warm. He dozed off once or twice, but always awoke again shortly after with a start.

Sam finally woke the next day, much to Meleng’s relief. He heard him start to groan and try to say something, but Meleng shushed him, warning him of the bandages round his face. Grabbing his scrip, he pulled out his bag of Endorian herbs. It was difficult with the shaking of the wagon, but with Felitïa’s help (she was doing a lot better this day herself), he was able to mix up a simple draught to help dull the pain and let Sam sleep some more.

To Meleng’s surprise, Stavan woke that day as well. “Woah! That must have been one hell of a party!” Meleng turned to attend him. “My head feels like it has a mountain sitting on it.”

Once he confirmed that Stavan seemed lucid, Meleng called over Captain DeSeloön and Zandrue. “How are you feeling?” DeSeloön asked.

“Well sir,” Stavan responded, “apart from a terrible itch in my missing arm, I’m feeling pretty good, all round. Weird irony, that. How you doing, Zandrue? I hope you killed that bastard for me.”

Zandrue shook her head. “He got away. I did injure him though. I got the orb away from him and suddenly, he could be hurt. I’d like to think he fled after that, but truth is, the other Volg ordered him away. I’m really sorry about your arm. It should have been me in your place.”

Stavan shook his head. “Nah. I can stand to lose an arm. You’re too pretty to mess up that way.”

“You should rest a bit more now,” Meleng said, taking the left-over draught he’d made for Sam.

Stolen novel; please report.

“That’s what all you doctors, say,” Stavan protested. “If it were up to you, everybody would sleep their lives away.”

“Do what your doctor says,” DeSeloön told him. “That’s an order.”

Stavan sighed. “All right then. Let me have some of that. Oh right, don’t have that arm anymore.” He laughed and held out his left arm. Meleng placed the cup in his hand and he drank from it. Shortly after, he was asleep again.

“I think he might be okay,” Meleng said, feeling pleased with himself for the first time in days.

“Thanks,” Zandrue said. “You did good.”

They reached Cromda that afternoon. DeSeloön and his men purchased replacement horses for those who had lost theirs, while Felitïa started up her merchant disguise by purchasing more fabrics to replace the ones ruined in the battle. At first, she had to be convinced to do this, but with a bit of prodding from Zandrue, eventually she did.

It was nice to sleep in a real bed that night, and sleep Meleng actually did at last. He was sorry to see the inn go the next day. Sorry, as well, for Sam and Stavan who were stuck back on the wagon again after their one night of comfort.

Both Sam and Stavan were awake several times that day. Meleng even agreed to loosen Sam’s bandages a little to let him move his jaw to speak. The two soldiers joked with one another about the battle. They talked about diverse things, from women to weapons to the Cliffs of Elooria overlooking the Great Ocean. They even sang a few songs, urging Meleng to join in.

“Come on, Meleng!” Stavan said with a laugh. “We Eloorin have to stick together in the face of Folith oppression!”

“I’m really not a good singer,” Meleng said, feeling embarrassed. “Besides, you should probably both get some more rest.”

Stavan rolled his eyes. “Fine then! Give us your draught. We’ll drink to the Church and the army. The Church because we don’t want to offend the gods, and the army because the Church is boring!”

The two of them laughed and shared their drink. And for the next couple of days, things seemed to be getting better. Sam got steadily stronger. It would be a while, of course, before the bandages could be removed, but he was able to get up and move around a bit. Stavan was still weak, but that was only to be expected. Meleng was glad he was doing as well as he was. In general, everyone’s mood seemed a little better. Not that anyone had forgotten Corvinian. But people were talking to one another again.

Borisin put up a fuss each night if anyone tried to hobble any of the horses, so eventually, they agreed that they wouldn’t hobble the horses at all on the journey. DeSeloön made it clear to Rudiger that Borisin had better make sure none of the horses wandered off.

Then the fever hit. Three days out of Cromda, Stavan awoke in the morning complaining of dizziness and nausea. A cursory check found that he was burning up with fever. When Felitïa pulled back the dressings on his wound, Meleng gasped.

“Dear gods,” Felitïa said.

“But how?” Meleng protested, wanting to retch. “He was fine yesterday! We’ve been changing the dressings! Keeping the wound clean. How could this happen?”

The stench was overpowering. Overnight, the stump had blackened, even shrivelled. A brown, gooey puss seeped out from where some of the stitches had broken open.

“I take it your diagnosis is not good,” Stavan said.

“Gangrene,” Meleng replied.

“Better amputate then,” Stavan said with a smile.

How could he joke? “Amputate? You’ve already been amputated! There’s nothing left to amputate.”

“That’s...problematic,” Stavan agreed. “Not much of a doctor then, are you? Now, if you don’t mind, that dizziness is getting worse. I think I should lie down. Oh yes, I already am. That’s good. Very...good.” His eyes closed and he fell back into a deep slumber.

That was the last time they were able to have a lucid conversation with him. He awoke occasionally over the next several days, but always in a hallucinatory state. Sometimes, he would scream and thrash in his sleep. At other times, he would mumble, groan, and sigh.

Zandrue stayed at his side constantly, helping Felitïa and Meleng when she could. The others checked on him as well, especially Sam, Greminy, and Hang. Captain DeSeloön kept a greater distance, trying to keep everything running efficiently, making sure everyone was still doing their jobs. But Meleng could see in his eyes that he was just as affected as everyone else.

When they reached Mesdinine, Meleng and Felitïa scoured the city, looking for herbs and medicines that might be able to help. They bought everything they could find, but nothing worked.

Two days after leaving Mesdinine, Stavan died.

They buried him off the side of the highway. At DeSeloön’s urging, Felitïa performed a simple burial ceremony. “Why me?” Felitïa asked.

“As I understand it, you have training as a priest,” DeSeloön replied.

“Some. But I never finished. I ran away, remember?”

“It still makes you more qualified than the rest of us,” the Captain said.

And so Felitïa did as she was asked. It all seemed appropriate enough to Meleng—of course, he was no expert on religious ceremony, but it seemed dignified and gracious.

Zandrue came up to Meleng after it was over, her face full of anger.

“Look, I tried, okay?” Meleng said. “I tried!”

Zandrue stared at him for a few moments, before finally saying, “I know,” and walking off. Meleng felt useless.

Moods improved slowly after that. For the next couple weeks, they rode sombrely, carrying out tasks mechanically. Sam continued to get stronger, and soon started driving the wagon again. When they reached Porthaven, his bandages were ready to be removed. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Nor was it ever likely to be. When the scabs came off, he would be horribly scarred. But at least he was alive and healthy.

It seemed that every time Meleng was in Porthaven, he had to leave it before he’d spent any real time there. It was the biggest city in Arnor and one of the oldest, full of history and brilliant architecture. It had once been the capital of Elooria—and the seat of the Dragon’s power two centuries ago. That was a shameful part of Meleng’s family’s history, but there wasn’t really anything he could do about that. He still wanted the chance to explore the city, visit the ancient Church of Elooria, the Royal Arnorin Museum of the Arts, and so much more. But they had to keep moving.

On the ship from Porthaven, Meleng passed the time contemplating pieces of paper. Specifically, falling pieces of paper. He wasn’t sure just what, but the book in Mesone and his spell in the fight with the Volgs had prompted something in his mind. The beginnings of an idea. So, he tossed pieces of paper into the air and watched them fall. Sometimes, he tossed a group together. Sometimes just one at a time. Other times, he tried folding them in various shapes to see how that affected the rate of fall. He didn’t reach any conclusions, but it was something to do. When he wasn’t watching falling paper, he spent his time talking to Jorvan about various things—even about paper on a couple occasions.

People were gradually becoming their old selves again, Meleng noticed. Except Felitïa. She looked apprehensive most of the time. He asked her what was wrong once, and she just said she wasn’t looking forward to the homecoming. He supposed he could understand that.

“What about your head?” he asked. “That is, your mind, what the Volg did to it. Your telepathy.”

“Back to normal. I think. My telepathy is weird at times, even when it’s normal. And even if I feel normal, I still worry about what that Volg did to me, whether it’ll have long-term consequences.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure things out,” Meleng said.

Felitïa smirked. “It’s been something like twelve and a half years since I first manifested the abilities, and I still haven’t really figured them out. Elderaan tried to help me where he could, but I’ve never had the benefit of anyone to properly teach me, and there’s remarkably little written about it.”

“Maybe you can find something in Arnor City.”

Felitïa grimaced and Meleng immediately regretted saying it. “Sorry. I was forgetting how much you really don’t want to be going there.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But I have to, don’t I?”

Meleng shrugged.

“And maybe you’re right. Maybe I can find something in Arnor City. Whatever the case, I need to do something. I’ve seen too many people die in the last few months. I have to find Corvinian. Find justice for people like Stavan.”

“Can we be sure Corvinian is even still alive?” It was a question he had been worried about bringing up with the others, though he was sure they must have all thought of it.

Felitïa shook her head. “No, we can’t. But they had a way to negate his powers. If they wanted him dead, why kidnap him and not just kill him?”

That made sense, he supposed.

Ten days after leaving Porthaven, a month and a half after Corvinian had been kidnapped, the towers of the Cathedral of the Gods came in sight, the first glimpse of Arnor City. Meleng was on deck talking to Jorvan when the call went out. He peered out, eager to see for himself what so many stories talked about. There was a short wait before those not in the crow’s nest were able to see, but then, there they were, just a speck in the distance, gradually getting larger. Slowly the rest of the city formed around them, and around that the thin stretch of Arnorinn Island.

They had arrived.