The De'Nauguath Chronicles - Book 1: The Summoner's Daughter

Chapter 4: Rise

The girl wouldn't wake. She was dead weight as I hoisted her through the streets – except she was lighter as time passed, as if not being awake made her less solid. Aye, I pitied her, but that didn't keep me from swearing about my new troubles. I still wheezed from the running and the dusty air. I had a burning thirst for the same reasons. I noticed a boil rising on a spot where the girl's weight stubbornly pressed down on. Where one boil came, many others followed.

It felt like it had taken hours to find the outer edge of the city, but the sun was barely past noon position when I heard the faint sound of water gurgling on the outskirts. I caught the scent of pipe smoke. Longfeather's pipe blend, uniquely foul, worked as well as any tradesman's sign when someone needed to find him.

The girl puzzled him. He knew better than to ask about something before the crisis was finished, but I saw questions in his eyes. I only took my most urgent problems to him. He almost laughed at first glance, but he turned intense when he saw that the girl wasn't sleeping. I helped her onto a pallet in his hut and left him alone to his work.

In the time he spent in the hut, I heard cries and groans – but not from the girl. I'd only watched Longfeather do a healing once, and it was ugly. They were draining things, more of an exorcism than a healing. This wizard was only called a wizard out of respect for his age. He knew a few spells for dire times, but he wasn't an expert. His healing skills were little better than mine, but he knew different tidbits than I did.

It was almost two hours before he emerged. He looked tired. He wheezed a little for a moment before trying any speech. He pulled out a tiny flask and took a few swigs. His face sweated like an oiled pig on a spit. He sat down heavily on a flat boulder that he normally used for sun cooking.

"Her bones wouldn't join back together."

His voice had only been a phlegmy grumble, but it still sent something creeping down my back. I shrugged. "Maybe her bones weren't the problem."

He shook his head despite his shaking and panting. "I can point to the spot that broke, but the bone doesn't feel solid. Her skin feels like a sponge. It's like her blood's made from swamp dredges. Everything's there, but – but it isn't." His face glistened, but I wasn't sure if it was from sweat. "Sóra, she won't answer my calls."

My fists clenched. "I'll take her to Sirian tonight."

"This girl won't respond to any medicine. I doubt if even the monks in Clare know how to fix this."

"Why?"

He took another long swig, as if something stayed his tongue. "What you have here's a shewla."

I left him to his silence. I paced twice around the hut. "A shewla."

"I swear it on all my life."

"You've been sampling your own wares too much."

He stood. "I'd bet every coin that's ever passed through my hands. I'll swear it on my newborn granddaughter's future grave." He jabbed his hand at the hut. "That thing is a shewla."

"But the stories all agree."

"I know."

"Even the Gerni say it."

"Aye."

"That kind of magic is dead. It was overspent."

"I know."

"It was dead even at the start of the recordkeeping."

A storm flashed in his eyes. "Then someone's been very clever and spent an awful lot of energy to renew the knowledge."