Zenia.
Zerafine could not bind all Zenia’s shattered pieces together, but what she could do was
enough. She gave her Kalindi’s peace, Kandra’s blessing, and the triple arch that would take her to Atenas’s court. She imagined the woman’s relief; the consolation had been as much a promise of merciful judgment as the offer of a path home, and it was Zenia’s irrational fear of what awaited her at Atenas’s hands as much as the pain of her death that had created a ghost.
Chunks of seicorum struck the cobblestones in a sharp, rattling rain. She let out a sigh and calmed herself, wiped her eyes; her hands were trembling. Then she pushed back her hood,
wondering why Gerrard didn’t move, and found him lying at her feet, blood running down the side of his face, unconscious. Nacalia darted in and wrapped herself around his waist, sobbing.
“Somebody find me a healer!” Zerafine shouted, dropping to her knees and checking his
pulse, her own pulse hammering in her ears. Yes, unconscious but alive, thank Atenas. The stone had caught him just behind the ear. She saw that the ghost’s victim was in even worse shape; the screaming woman had flung herself over him and was keening a different note now. Zerafine left Gerrard and pushed the woman aside, checking the man’s head and body, feeling his wrist. Alive
—injured, a few bones probably broken, but alive. No new ghosts would be created this day—at least, not if the healer came quickly.
“Quickly!” she shouted at Nacalia, because it looked as though every onlooker in that crowd had been turned to stone. Nacalia started, then leaped to her feet and ran off. Zerafine cradled Gerrard’s head in her lap and willed him to wake up. He looked white under the sunburn and she could barely see his chest rise and fall with his breathing. He’ll be fine, she told herself, this is nothing , but her hand ached and when she looked at it, she realized she was gripping the front of his tunic so tightly the blood had stopped flowing to her fingers.
It felt like forever before Nacalia pushed her way back through the crowd, leading a man
and a woman in green and blue tunics. Two healers. What a stroke of luck. They conferred
quickly, and then the man, who bore Kalindi’s sun on the back and front of his tunic, laid his hands on the ghost’s victim’s head and threw his head back in prayer. Zerafine had never wished so hard for the sun to come out just then, blessing his work, but he seemed capable of managing on his own.
The woman, whose robe was unmarked, felt Gerrard’s pulse, turned his head to see where
the seicorum stone had struck him, lifted his eyelids to look at his pupils. Just then he groaned and twitched away from her hand. Zerafine felt an enormous weight lift from her chest. “Did you get it?” he asked hoarsely.
“I did, no thanks—no thanks to your big dumb ox body getting in my way,” she said, feeling a tear slide down her cheek, quickly wiping it away before it could fall on his face.
His eyelids fluttered. “You’re sort of blurry,” he said.
“That’s because you’ve had your brains rattled a bit,” said the healer. “Do you feel dizzy?
Nauseated? Have a headache?”
“Of course I have a headache, I got hit in the head by a lump of seicorum the size of my fist.
Have you seen the size of my fist?”
Zerafine laughed. It was only a little wobbly.
“If he can make jokes, he’s probably going to be fine,” the healer said. “But stay there for a minute, sirrah. I want to see how bad that cut is.”
Gerrard lay there long enough that Zerafine’s legs started to go numb. The cut turned out to be small but bloody, easy enough for the healer to deal with. Finally she allowed him to stand. It took both of them to get Gerrard to his feet, and he wavered a little bit, enough that Zerafine inserted herself under his arm to give him support. Not that her short frame would make much difference if he decided to go down again. But he
Zerafine could not bind all Zenia’s shattered pieces together, but what she could do was
enough. She gave her Kalindi’s peace, Kandra’s blessing, and the triple arch that would take her to Atenas’s court. She imagined the woman’s relief; the consolation had been as much a promise of merciful judgment as the offer of a path home, and it was Zenia’s irrational fear of what awaited her at Atenas’s hands as much as the pain of her death that had created a ghost.
Chunks of seicorum struck the cobblestones in a sharp, rattling rain. She let out a sigh and calmed herself, wiped her eyes; her hands were trembling. Then she pushed back her hood,
wondering why Gerrard didn’t move, and found him lying at her feet, blood running down the side of his face, unconscious. Nacalia darted in and wrapped herself around his waist, sobbing.
“Somebody find me a healer!” Zerafine shouted, dropping to her knees and checking his
pulse, her own pulse hammering in her ears. Yes, unconscious but alive, thank Atenas. The stone had caught him just behind the ear. She saw that the ghost’s victim was in even worse shape; the screaming woman had flung herself over him and was keening a different note now. Zerafine left Gerrard and pushed the woman aside, checking the man’s head and body, feeling his wrist. Alive
—injured, a few bones probably broken, but alive. No new ghosts would be created this day—at least, not if the healer came quickly.
“Quickly!” she shouted at Nacalia, because it looked as though every onlooker in that crowd had been turned to stone. Nacalia started, then leaped to her feet and ran off. Zerafine cradled Gerrard’s head in her lap and willed him to wake up. He looked white under the sunburn and she could barely see his chest rise and fall with his breathing. He’ll be fine, she told herself, this is nothing , but her hand ached and when she looked at it, she realized she was gripping the front of his tunic so tightly the blood had stopped flowing to her fingers.
It felt like forever before Nacalia pushed her way back through the crowd, leading a man
and a woman in green and blue tunics. Two healers. What a stroke of luck. They conferred
quickly, and then the man, who bore Kalindi’s sun on the back and front of his tunic, laid his hands on the ghost’s victim’s head and threw his head back in prayer. Zerafine had never wished so hard for the sun to come out just then, blessing his work, but he seemed capable of managing on his own.
The woman, whose robe was unmarked, felt Gerrard’s pulse, turned his head to see where
the seicorum stone had struck him, lifted his eyelids to look at his pupils. Just then he groaned and twitched away from her hand. Zerafine felt an enormous weight lift from her chest. “Did you get it?” he asked hoarsely.
“I did, no thanks—no thanks to your big dumb ox body getting in my way,” she said, feeling a tear slide down her cheek, quickly wiping it away before it could fall on his face.
His eyelids fluttered. “You’re sort of blurry,” he said.
“That’s because you’ve had your brains rattled a bit,” said the healer. “Do you feel dizzy?
Nauseated? Have a headache?”
“Of course I have a headache, I got hit in the head by a lump of seicorum the size of my fist.
Have you seen the size of my fist?”
Zerafine laughed. It was only a little wobbly.
“If he can make jokes, he’s probably going to be fine,” the healer said. “But stay there for a minute, sirrah. I want to see how bad that cut is.”
Gerrard lay there long enough that Zerafine’s legs started to go numb. The cut turned out to be small but bloody, easy enough for the healer to deal with. Finally she allowed him to stand. It took both of them to get Gerrard to his feet, and he wavered a little bit, enough that Zerafine inserted herself under his arm to give him support. Not that her short frame would make much difference if he decided to go down again. But he
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