Wolfies, even the guilty. Perhaps, most especially, the guilty. And he certainly wasn't innocent. This woman stared at him with clear, perfect eyes. He could see the purity of her trade inside her... and she could certainly see something in him. He knew she did. Healers could see suffering; they could sense it as surely as they could cure it.
“I have traveled far,” he murmured.
“So I guessed,” she replied. Her eyes sharpened, falling to his crippled hand, which he kept curled close to his body. “I see you have a damaged limb. That's a bad omen.” Her eyes traveled back to his. “Do you know what you are doing?”
Volcrian had heard as much before. A knife of hatred pierced through him. It had been the assassin who had crippled his hand, who had brought him this bad luck. “I am doing all that I can to set things right,” he murmured.
“You're doing too much, perhaps.” Suddenly, it was as though the woman was speaking directly to his thoughts, to his mind. “You are a Wolfy mage, and your blood magic knows no boundaries. You must realize what you are doing. You cannot control what you have set in motion.” She gave him a piercing stare. “I saw the hilt of the blade that almost killed my daughter, and I know where it comes from. You have released something dark into the world, something bred on vengeance and hate. The gods were laid to rest a long time ago, and for good reason.”
Volcrian opened his mouth, but was at a loss. What was she talking about? The gods? And how did she know of the rapier? She must have helped the girl and the assassin, she as much as admitted it.... He tried to take a step forward, to lift his arms and put his hands on her throat, but he felt stiff, heavy, like sunken wood. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“There were laws in the old world. Rules among the Races. You have summoned your wraiths, and with them comes a dark magic that not even you are aware of. You're lucky that your race is all but extinct. If the old ways were still followed, you would be killed for your transgressions. What you do puts us all in danger.”
A chill went up his spine. The woman's words rang true in his mind, clanging together, making his ears hurt. He felt sick, suddenly nauseous; pierced by a poisoned arrow. He wanted to turn around and leave as quickly as possible.
Ever since pursuing the blood arts, he had felt changed, tainted, as though he was no longer quite truly himself. And the wraiths... they did his bidding, yes, but he didn't know where their weapons came from, or by what means they existed in the world. He had created them, following the spell as one would a recipe—but he didn't understand why it worked, why it was possible to bring the dead back to life. Too much knowledge had been lost.
“What... what do you know about it?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Only what I can see.” She nodded to him. “And a Healer can see much. Your skin is pale. Your hand pains you. You have dark veins on your arms. You are releasing a curse into this world, a disease that was buried centuries ago. You must stop this quest for vengeance.”
Volcrian's eyes flashed. “No. Never.”
“Yes. Now,” she hissed, with even more vigor.
They stared at each other, the Healer and the mage, the tension building. Volcrian knew what he must do—grab the sword at his waist, pull out the blade, shove it through her small, thin ribs. Spill her blood, serve his brother, ease his hatred....He must... but he tried to move his arm, and it felt clumsy, weak. True Healers serve all creeds. It was an ancient order, back from before the War, passed down for thousands of generations. Her art had changed her; it protected her, just as she protected the sick and the dying. They carried the favor of the Goddess. Killing a Healer was said to be the worst luck of all.
He didn't know what to say or do. But one thing was certain—he couldn't stay here.
“I thought a Healer was supposed to tend to all of
“I have traveled far,” he murmured.
“So I guessed,” she replied. Her eyes sharpened, falling to his crippled hand, which he kept curled close to his body. “I see you have a damaged limb. That's a bad omen.” Her eyes traveled back to his. “Do you know what you are doing?”
Volcrian had heard as much before. A knife of hatred pierced through him. It had been the assassin who had crippled his hand, who had brought him this bad luck. “I am doing all that I can to set things right,” he murmured.
“You're doing too much, perhaps.” Suddenly, it was as though the woman was speaking directly to his thoughts, to his mind. “You are a Wolfy mage, and your blood magic knows no boundaries. You must realize what you are doing. You cannot control what you have set in motion.” She gave him a piercing stare. “I saw the hilt of the blade that almost killed my daughter, and I know where it comes from. You have released something dark into the world, something bred on vengeance and hate. The gods were laid to rest a long time ago, and for good reason.”
Volcrian opened his mouth, but was at a loss. What was she talking about? The gods? And how did she know of the rapier? She must have helped the girl and the assassin, she as much as admitted it.... He tried to take a step forward, to lift his arms and put his hands on her throat, but he felt stiff, heavy, like sunken wood. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“There were laws in the old world. Rules among the Races. You have summoned your wraiths, and with them comes a dark magic that not even you are aware of. You're lucky that your race is all but extinct. If the old ways were still followed, you would be killed for your transgressions. What you do puts us all in danger.”
A chill went up his spine. The woman's words rang true in his mind, clanging together, making his ears hurt. He felt sick, suddenly nauseous; pierced by a poisoned arrow. He wanted to turn around and leave as quickly as possible.
Ever since pursuing the blood arts, he had felt changed, tainted, as though he was no longer quite truly himself. And the wraiths... they did his bidding, yes, but he didn't know where their weapons came from, or by what means they existed in the world. He had created them, following the spell as one would a recipe—but he didn't understand why it worked, why it was possible to bring the dead back to life. Too much knowledge had been lost.
“What... what do you know about it?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Only what I can see.” She nodded to him. “And a Healer can see much. Your skin is pale. Your hand pains you. You have dark veins on your arms. You are releasing a curse into this world, a disease that was buried centuries ago. You must stop this quest for vengeance.”
Volcrian's eyes flashed. “No. Never.”
“Yes. Now,” she hissed, with even more vigor.
They stared at each other, the Healer and the mage, the tension building. Volcrian knew what he must do—grab the sword at his waist, pull out the blade, shove it through her small, thin ribs. Spill her blood, serve his brother, ease his hatred....He must... but he tried to move his arm, and it felt clumsy, weak. True Healers serve all creeds. It was an ancient order, back from before the War, passed down for thousands of generations. Her art had changed her; it protected her, just as she protected the sick and the dying. They carried the favor of the Goddess. Killing a Healer was said to be the worst luck of all.
He didn't know what to say or do. But one thing was certain—he couldn't stay here.
“I thought a Healer was supposed to tend to all of
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