Page 28 of This Midsummer Heart (Seasons of Legend #4)
Chapter twenty-seven
Broken
Auberon
“T
itaine,
stay
with
me,
please,” I beg as I cradle her to my chest, the back of her head cupped in my hand. Already, the golden glow of her soft hair, her skin—all of it is dimming, her light flickering and faltering. Dark blood stains us both, her hair sticking to my hands.
“I’ve brought the first aid kit,” one of the rangers says, but it’s too late. Titaine’s magic should be healing her. I know this, and still I plead for her to open her eyes, to come back to me.
“Sir,” a woman’s voice says—the ranger Titaine spoke with earlier. “I need you to come look at this. I’ll stay with her. I won’t let go of her hand. My colleague can help me put pressure on her wounds.”
The words come to me at a distance, muffled by the buzzing in my ears. Instead of releasing Titaine, I’m the one holding her hand, squeezing it tight and willing her to squeeze back. My vision is blurry as I search for whatever the ranger thinks is so important for me to see.
The body of Titaine’s attacker lies there in a heap, limbs bent at unnatural angles. I recognize her now. She was one of the original four bandits who attacked and robbed me. At first, I don’t know what the ranger means. Then she toes the fallen blade with her boot.
“Fae-killer,” the other ranger whispers, like it is both sacred and disgusts him.
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I can already see something about this blade isn’t right.
It’s cursed.
“It’s a blade that undoes magic. Something old and out of stories,” the female ranger says. “I’ve never heard of one actually resurfacing. But it’s—“
“The one thing that can kill a fae.” I turn back to Titaine, knees grinding into the dirt floor outside Giselda’s stall. The mare’s eyes roll back as she bucks and thrashes at the gate.
I don’t want to take my eyes off Titaine. If I look away, I’m afraid she’ll be gone—truly gone—when I look back. But Giselda is trying to tell me something.
I follow her line of sight, to the side rather than straight ahead, and see her: the other northern bandit woman, frozen against the half door of the stables. Her eyes are wide as she takes in the her comrade’s body—or maybe she means to reclaim that cursed blade.
The rangers have swords in their hands before she can so much as blink. I forget about them, about their pursuit of the final bandit, and pull Titaine into my lap.
I can fix this. I can fix this. There must be something
I can do. Think,
Auberon!
I was such a poor student of magic. While other elves used their supernatural senses to hone their shots and find their targets from unlikely angles, I relied on my athleticism and strength.
Elven magic is so weak that I soon surpassed those who relied upon it.
Physical ability is what allowed me to thrive.
Now, my body is tired, aching, and as broken as my spirit.
Titaine’s eyelids no longer flutter as if dreaming.
Her body grows cold in my arms, her magic fighting and losing its battle against the blade’s curse.
If only I had listened to those who would’ve taught me magic. Maybe then I’d know what to do.
Curses are a type of chaos magic, fixed into that wicked blade by words burned into the metal, leaving the blade as ugly and misshapen as the magic it holds. My dark magic should be able to do— something
to right this aberration. If I can unravel the curse, maybe Titaine’s body can heal enough to keep death at bay. Not permanently, but long enough that I can cross into Tethered Malu and seek help from the fae.
“Yes, yes, this is a good plan.” I talk it over beneath my breath, trying to will my panicked mind to focus. But I know nothing of curses. I know nothing of my own awakened magic.
The Blade of Hedril knew what to do, even when you did not.
Desperately, I draw the dagger from my hip, shifting Titaine as I do so. Not even the faintest whimper escapes her lips, or any change to her breath. If she is even breathing.
Of course she is. She’s not gone. She couldn’t be. Titaine is still here. Titaine is still here!
Though I try to convince myself, I know: Her life hangs by a thread.
“I call upon your power,” I whisper to the king’s blade, pressing it to my forehead. I fumble for the right words, hoping they exist and that the Blade of Hedril will respond to me as before. “As king, as your master, I bid you to save your people’s queen. Break this curse!”
The magic stirs, smoky and dreamlike as it unfurls from the blade. “Come back to me, Titaine. Come back,” I chant, wishing these were the words of a spell.
The words die in my throat as the magic spools around Titaine, extinguishing her light. I can’t breathe—I dare not. Darkness coils around her, untouched by the golden beam of light stretched across the stable floor, until she is fully cocooned by it, and I with her.
I wait, still not breathing. Spots dot my vision as I try to seek her through this perfect blackness of night.
A soft, warm light breaks through the darkness, barely more than the flame of a guttering candle. I’ll take it. I will take this chance to save my bride.
Thank you,
I tell the Blade of Hedril as night recedes, spinning back into the blade at a dizzying speed.
I totter on my heels as I take my first real breath in what might’ve been minutes.
Titaine’s eyes shift rapidly behind her lids, her breathing ragged as the flow of blood from her wounds slows to a trickle.
A loud clatter and snap has me shielding Titaine with my body, until a shadow falls over me, blocking the light of the slowly setting sun. Giselda dances before me, nostrils flaring, tossing her white-blonde mane.
Just as I am struggling with how to get Titaine into the saddle without aggravating her wounds, the female ranger returns. “We lost her,” she says, breathless, “but we put out the alert. There could be more bandits—what are you doing?”
“I need to get her across the land bridge,” I reply, lifting Titaine into my arms once again.
“She needs mending before you can do that!”
“We don’t have time. Unless the tides will hold off for us, this is my only chance. The fae in the south can heal her. I know they can.” This last part I say to myself, still trying to convince myself it’s true.
It’s the only hope I have. Titaine is still unconscious, still wan and almost lightless. She’s lost too much blood. With her magic still recovering from the curse, I’m not sure how effective it will be.
I have to get her to the southern wolding—to the fae in Nadie.
“Let me tend to her. I can do it quickly. You still have a few minutes before your slot to cross.” The ranger urges me to lower her back to the ground, then retrieves the abandoned first aid kit.
Every second she spends tending to Titaine feels like an eternity. I don’t know if I should be relieved or push the ranger away when a soft groan escapes Titaine’s lips.
“It’s not a neat stitching job,” the ranger says, “but these fae you’re going to see can fix it later. Now, how are you going to secure her in the saddle?”
“I can hold her in front of me.”
The ranger cocks a brow at me.
“What?” I demand, growing annoyed at this further waste of time.
“Are you that good a horseman that you don’t need reigns while crossing the Bridge of Miracles?”
Fine, not a waste. “You have a better idea?”
“You need to make a sling. Any fabric will work—a clean shirt, if you have one. I can cut it to make one. We’ll get help to lift her into the saddle after you.”
My mouth twists as if it wants to wear a half smile I can’t feel right now. It seems that long-sleeved shirt I brought from Lunevelle will come in handy after all.
It takes three rangers to lift and secure Titaine. The female ranger uses a tall stool for currying draft horses in order to tie Titaine securely to my torso.
She sags limply against the bonds, still unconscious. Her wings are pinned between us, little more than the faint kiss of a breeze as they rub against my bare arms.
The female ranger leads Giselda to the gate blocking the land bridge. The sea looks like the sky when it is about to storm, gray and brisk as it licks at the strip of land. In the distance, I see the last of a caravan, little more than a white dot.
I will have to pass that caravan before the land bridge narrows. I cannot waste time. I need to get to the fae at our next stop—even if it will be the dead of night in the last place anyone would wish to be after midnight.
Another ranger swings opens the gate, and then there is no way to go but ahead. The Bridge of Miracles stretches out before me, past the horizon where darkness has already taken hold. It isn’t half as wide as I’d hoped.
From this point on, the way only grows narrower and more treacherous.
A good king would offer some eloquent expression of gratitude to the rangers, or offer a boon for the help we’ve received here.
My mind is too muddled, too fixed on the objective: Get Titaine to a place of magic and to the fae healers.
“Thank you,” is all I manage, bowing my head.
I cannot even press a palm to my heart in sincerity.
I take the reins, careful of Titaine even though in mere moments she’ll be jostled by Giselda’s movements. Hold on. Just a little longer.