Havoc's Daughters

Chapter 13 - Day 2 (night): Diannah (part II) - Duty

J’Lian tensed.

Thunks came from the kitchen postern, and Diannah hurried through moonshadows to meet the healer and guide her back.

Once inside the shed, the Lady Caidrin drew up the wick on the lamp she carried, and what had been a dim spark sprang into flame. The light stabbed, and Diannah raised a hand to block the glare until her eyes adjusted.

Crouched on the edge of the light, J’Lian looked even less herself than in the dark:  a grim, cold-iron stranger; wary and prone to bite as an abused dog.

It was a shock. With J’Lian in the city for the past two years, working with Uncle Faelian, Diannah had dealt with the tragedy. She’d put it in her past, more or less.

J’Lian clearly had not.

She lost her brother, and then her betrothed, both in barely a season.

But she’s always seemed so strong….

J’Lian crouched beside the unconscious man like a coiled snake. Her hand was conspicuously not near her belt knife, but she wouldn’t make the obvious strike so that was no reasurance. Her eyes were locked with Lady Caidrin’s, distrustful and unfriendly.

Does the duchess recognize her? Diannah wondered, holding her breath.

“You’ve brought him for my care, young sir,” the healer stated, her whites glimmering in the lamplight. “Will you allow me to tend him?”

“Do it.”

The voice was low and rough, as alien as the image it came from.

The Lady Caidrin set to work, kneeling at Furlong’s side with no regard to the dirt or soiled bandages.

The wound to the abdomen was apparently deep. Diannah gagged at the ooze of blood as the healer parted the ragged lips and peered in.

Furlong moaned in pain, but mercifully did not wake.

“This was done by one of my countrymen?” the healer asked softly.

“Nay, my Lady. He was Roenish.” The bitterness was caustic as lye.

Caidrin glanced up from her examination, her face impassive as it always was when with a patient. “Roenish?” she queried. “Who was it?”

“One of Ralhain D’Scrofa’s men,” J’Lian grated roughly. “A swordsman known to enjoy a slow kill.”

Captain Ralhain. He’d been well ensconced behind the walls of Rose Hill town that last morning, but some of his men were stationed in the watchtowers dotting the length of the Mirze. Diannah would have asked more, but at that point the healer sent her to the kitchen to prepare a strong cup of garlic broth.

Furlong was awake when she returned; awake, and whimpering like a child. His knees were drawn up protectively, but not too close to his belly. He refused the cup when the lady healer offered it, but drank in labored gulps when his commander held it for him.

They allowed him to lie back when he’d finished. Diannah was surprised to see him grope for her sister’s hand…and to see J’Lian hold tightly when their fingers met. He was gasping, now, with the pain; mewling little cries he couldn’t help.

Lady Caidrin once more cleaned the wound, the rag dipped only in clear water. She leaned over to examine it more closely…sniffed experimentally…and sat up.

Grey eyes and blue locked in the lamplight, and the healer shook her head.

The grim spectre J’Lian had become nodded once, then shook her head for them to withdraw.