Page 11 of This Midsummer Heart (Seasons of Legend #4)

Chapter eleven

In Need of a Healer

Titaine

T

hey

left

him

tied

to a tree.

Were he mortal, his nose might’ve been broken.

As it is, dried blood makes a path between both nostrils and the gag in his mouth.

I cast hasty wards around us as I crouch down to untie him, pausing only to pat his cheek in an attempt to wake him.

He’s badly beaten, but there’s no way they’d leave him tied like this if they weren’t planning to come back.

Did they recognize him? Are they planning to hold him for ransom?

As I peel the gag off Auberon’s blood-crusted skin, he wakes with a groan.

I can’t help but feel sorry for him and the obvious pain he’s in.

Elves are adequate healers, using poultices and spelled items to speed their naturally quick recovery.

But they cannot heal as quickly as fetes—not by a long shot.

The next few hours are going to be extremely painful for him if I can’t find a healer or green witch in Mircose.

Since healing is far from my specialty, I can only offer him a little bit of comfort. Still, it is just enough to bring him back to wakefulness.

I find myself breathing a sigh of relief as he speaks, his voice breaking. “They took my dagger. My father’s dagger.”

I suck in a breath, my heart aching for him.

It’s not just that the dagger marks him as king of the Dark Elves; it is an heirloom passed through his family.

His father gifted it to him just before he left this realm, going on the long walk of the elves from which there can be no return to this plane.

“The money,” he adds with a groan. “They took everything.”

The money you took from me.

I don’t bother to tell him that they’ve just stolen a sack full of oak leaves and acorns, glamoured to appear as promissory notes and gold and silver coins.

As if I would leave real money out in plain sight for Auberon to take!

Our remaining funds are safely tucked into my bodice, and spelled several different ways to both hide them and curse any who tries to take them.

I feel sorry for him anyway. Being robbed is a bitter thing for such a prideful man.

“Bandits?” I ask gently.

His reply is tart as green gooseberries.

“What gave it away?”

Instantly, my pity for him sours. I stand, my wings straightening with me, reflecting my indignation. “Up with you, then. We don’t want to be here when they come back.”

Auberon is slow to move. With a huff, I reach out, offering him my hand. He takes it, his callouses jogging memories I don’t want to revisit as his hand wraps around mine. And then his other hand is on me, sliding across my back, under my wings—and then he is standing and I

am the one bowed as he folds me in half with his weight, using me as a crutch.

“Morgana take you, get off of me!” I cry.

With a grunt, Auberon’s weight leaves my back, though not before jostling my wings. The touch of another on my wings feels as personal as a caress, and not something I want to feel from Auberon. Again, I straighten, shaking out my wings.

Auberon regards me almost as if I puzzle him, gripping his ribs all the while.

“Do you think you can ride?” I ask him, brushing at my skin as a bug lands on me. No doubt it looks as though I’m trying to scrub away his touch.

“I could manage. Can Giselda carry us both?”

“Of course she can.”

I give my wings one final flutter, pull down the ward I cast around us, and then begin to lead my mare out from the woods.

“It only took four of them to bring me down,” Auberon says, his voice low. “Humans. Mortals.

Just four of them. And there are others—many others in their company, by the sounds of it. They wouldn’t have left me if some of their companions hadn’t called them to see to a caravan on another road.”

“Then we must get ahead of them. We should be safe once we’re in Trident Wood.”

“You, admitting to the strength of elves?”

My nostrils flare. Fortunately, he saves me from making a peevish reply.

“If there are as many of those bandits as I think, even the elves will have trouble defending their homes. But they wouldn’t dare cross them in their own lands.”

“They dared to attack you,” I point out.

“Four against one, with their friends somewhere out in the forest. It’s not the same as trekking through elven woods with hidden archers in the treetops.”

Our almost-argument comes to a halt as we reach the road. I hop into Giselda’s saddle with the help of my wings, while Auberon needs several tries.

I should’ve bound his ribs. I should’ve done a great many things. For one thing, I would’ve studied healing magic more—even if I wasn’t very good at it—had I ever guessed I’d need to go on a journey like this.

I hold my tongue the rest of the way to Mircose, because I don’t want to say what I’m really thinking.

There was a time when no band of humans, no matter how large, would take on a single elf, let alone one with dark elf blood in his veins. For while they might defeat that elf, the cost to them would be dearer than any would pay.

These are desperate times indeed.

Despite every instinct telling me not to tarry in Mircose, I have no choice but to ask for a healer.

I stash Auberon in an alley as I do it, with Giselda watching over him.

With his blue-tinted skin, he draws as much attention as I feared.

I have no choice but to waste magic on a spell to deflect attention, a sort of warding that requires too much concentration to maintain while going about the town.

I have just stepped into the local healer’s parlor—a grand space, thanks to all the travelers in need of her services, no doubt—when I hear a low rumble from the street, like a stampede or horses passing through. A cry rises from the Lis Byway.

“Bandits, bandits!”

Cursing, I fly from the parlor almost literally, my wings beating furiously as I make my way back to Auberon.

I’m too late. A force so large they’re practically light cavalry races out of the town, hollering war cries as they ride.

Auberon lies face-down in the street. I’m racing to his side before I can stop myself, before I can remind myself I’m not supposed to care for him any longer.

At first, I fear he is not breathing. Then his limbs slowly stir, trying and failing to lift his broken body from the dirt of the road. I turn, mouth open to call for help.

And then my own breath ceases as I notice the flash of white among the shaggy horses heading south out of town, chased by a force of local guards that is half their number. Giselda. The bandits have Giselda!

I reach for my magic, for a spectacular spell that will spook their horses.

Nothing happens. I grab for another binding, hoping to slow their horses. Their gaits barely change, the thunder of their hooves no quieter.

I fall to my knees not far from Auberon, overcome by hopelessness. Giselda is gone

. And without her, I have no hope of reaching Nox.

I have to get her back. I have

to.

But with my magic failing, I have nothing left but tricks of the fetes to aid me.

Auberon rises to a seated position with a mighty groan, rubbing the back of his head. “They snuck up on me. I didn’t hear them coming,” is all he manages, his pupils dilated as they take in the crowd gathering in the street, anxious to hear what their town has lost to that lawless band.

One look at him and I know: We won’t be chasing after the bandits tonight.