Niamh gazed down at her breakfast, veggie hand pies (her favorite) and a little bowl of lush red brambleberries sprinkled with sugar. Unlike on previous days, she did not push the food away. She’d already had one guest. A woman called Loremaster Olangah had examined her top to bottom, checking her for any magical maladies. She didn’t make Niamh talk much about Northgate, only enough to get her account of what had happened.
Blessedly, she had given Niamh a clean bill of magic-health and offered suggestions for handling nightmares. Best of all, she brought a note from Archmage Miir, who was in Easthaven following the Northgate incident, and had been in touch with Keleth. Did this mean the Loremaster was aware of the Ivory Order or Niamh’s part in it?
Beneath her relief stirred nervous anticipation. She’d caught Jeron’s hints about something he’d been working on, something important. Her stomach fluttered uneasily. Would she be ready for it?
Niamh was glad at least to know her superiors were aware of her situation and would give her further instructions when they were able.
For now, her only job was to rest, heal, and continue in her confidences with Jeron and the others she’d met—a task Niamh welcomed with no guilt. They truly were her friends by this point. The past day and the morning had been a success and had made her hungry. Sister Hilde stood by her bed, waiting with a smile as Niamh tucked in.
“A healthy appetite is a sign you’re on the mend. I even got one of the other sisters to nab an extra portion for you.”
“I love extra portions. Especially when pie is involved,” Niamh said, conjuring a smile for the woman who had taken such diligent care of her.
Things werebetter after her healing sleep, contact with the Order, and talking with the Loremaster, even if her heart was still heavy and wariness still splinter-sharp in her mind. At least she was hungry again. The toils of mending her body had sparked her appetite.
Today, Niamh wore everyday clothes instead of a hospital robe. She felt more like herself in a linen tunic and cotton breeches, loose but gathered under the bandaging on her right leg. She now had a wooden comb for her hair and could clean her teeth and wash her face properly. If only these things could ease the ache of loss, or quiet the fear clinging to her like a tarry film.
“Your visitor should arrive soon. I’ll let you use the guest parlor if you feel up to it.”
“I’d like that,” Niamh said, grinning for real this time. How long had it been since she had smiled like that?
Since I last talked to him. To Jeron. Since that day I almost asked him to the festival with me.
She shoved away that thought and instead focused on getting herself out of the hospital bed. She stood more easily than before, shooing Sister Hilde away so she could learn to do this on her own. Niamh paced measuredly, a mechanical limp-hitch of leg and crutch that was tiring but already becoming familiar to her.
“It feels good to move again. I’m not used to spending so much time in bed.”
“I’m sure,” Sister Hilde agreed and ushered Niamh into a sunny receiving parlor. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll send Jeron in when he gets here and bring you both some tea. And yes, cakes.”
The other woman winked at her. Niamh realized she must have been giving Sister Hilde her best puppy-eyes at the thought of the cinnamon honey cakes that sometimes came with her hospital tea.
Niamh sat in the quiet room, propped up on the cushions of a plush divan. The late-morning sun warmed her face and hair. Phantom tingles and itches in toes she no longer had skittered over her awareness. She tried to ignore them.
She hovered on the edge of drowsiness, but today it was not the magic-drugged slumber she’d experienced since after the attack, just the weariness that came from her body’s mending and from unrelenting nightmares. Always at the edge of sleep, the terror waited, but this morning it was less awful in the sun’s light.
Noises from outside the parlor jarred her to alertness.
“Let me help you with that, Sister.” A familiar deep voice breezed into the parlor.
“Sage Jeron, you might have to fight this one for the sandwiches,” Sister Hilde said as she bustled into the room with a tea tray. “I’d let her win if I were you. Come find me if Niamh needs anything.”
She backed out and shut the door behind her. Jeron stood next to the divan, tall and smiling in emerald-green robes and toting a leather satchel.
“Niamh,” Jeron greeted her with an earnest nod. “I’m happy to see you awake.”
“I’m happy to be awake.”
She tried to stand, as was polite, but she remembered too late that getting to her feet—rather, her foot—took finesse she’d not yet honed. She staggered, one arm windmilling. A firm hand caught her in place before she could fall. Shame doused the instant spark she felt at the pressure of Jeron’s touch.
“At ease, Valiant,” he said and helped Niamh move back to sitting.
Niamh mumbled her thanks, the words harder than she intended.
Jeron watched her, his gaze frank. “If you would rather I not help or make a fuss, I understand.”
Niamh sighed. “No, I needed the help since I’d probably have broken the side table if I’d fallen and spilled the tea to boot. Thank you for coming.”
The gentle smile he gave her warmed Niamh’s cheeks, making her forget her embarrassment.
“It’s my pleasure,” Jeron said. “Full disclosure: I have official matters I’ll need to work into the proceedings. If you are ready to talk about such things, that is. But first, how are you holding up? Are they treating you well?”
Niamh looked at him, weighing her words. She opted for honesty, an effect Jeron always had on her.
“I have been better, but as you know, I have been far worse. Everyone here is kind and down-to-earth. I wasn’t long in Easthaven before we set off, but if the rest of the city is like this place, I’ve been lied to.”
“Oh? How so?” Jeron asked through a mouthful of honey-cake.
“We in Sylvania apparently think little of busy, noisy cities full of mad mages and industry and the chaos that follows,” Niamh said dryly.
“Ah,” Jeron replied. “I take it you do not feel that way yourself?”
“Definitely not,” Niamh said.
“I’m glad to hear it. I am, I’ll admit, very much a mad mage and a consistent contributor to Easthaven’s industry and chaos.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second,” Niamh replied, allowing herself a chuckle.
Easthaven had surprised her in its diversity and liveliness. At least, what she had seen through hospital windows and during her convalescence. People here were busy, but always eager to help. The skies were not smoky and gray as she’d been told, but a clean spring blue had graced the windows the last few days.
They sat for a moment in silence. Niamh studied Jeron’s face—the dusting of freckles over his nose and cheekbones, the way his short, dark hair had reddened from days in the sunlight. He was strong but comfortable, his belly just a bit round, his posture all ease.
“You’re pretty hale and hearty for someone who spends his days tinkering and buried in magic books,” she teased, hoping her jest was not out of line.
“I’ll have you know I don’t mess with books unless I have to, now that my academy days are far behind me. I’m an artificer and part-time healer. After all, we must be strong if we are to lift gurneys and racks of healing potions, construct mage-carts and treat weapons and save the world. Anyhow, Sages and other mages are everyday folks, chaos and all.”
“You’re right. I was being unfair,” Niamh said. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to be a leymage with all the burden of power that comes with it.”
“Again, we are everyday folks. We learn and adapt, work, and eat honey cakes like anyone.”
“If you say so,” Niamh turned away, cheeks heating. “I have met no one like you. I think you must be special.”
It felt strange to act and speak so normally, and stranger still to be sitting in a sunlit hospital parlor with a man who, for the past months, routinely followed her on patrols as life ticked on much the way it should. Campsite meals, setting watch, overseeing armor and weapons maintenance, scouting ahead of parties of chattering mages searching for exciting discoveries.
Woven through it all were her times with Jeron. Talking about the weather and roads, about who was on mess duty—none of it urgent, allof it so important to her. She could be by his side. Could bask in his sunny smile.
She looked up to see Jeron watching her. A million goosebumps danced over her arms at the intensity of his expression.
“It’s been difficult for you,” he said.
Niamh nodded, turning away. The weight of empathy in Jeron’s voice flooded her with battling emotions.
“It’s been something. I keep forgetting I’m not the same person as before, and I do stupid things like try to stand—”
“Not stupid,” Jeron cut in, an edge to his voice. “It will take time. And that’s just the physical healing. Looks like the sisters here really like you, at least.” He pointed to the tray of sandwiches and sweets, deftly turning the conversation back to lighter matters. “I can’t say I’m surprised, as you are eminently likeable. In fact, you should eat every crumb of this delicious spread except for—” Jeron snatched another honey cake. “This one. This one obviously is mine.”
He grinned at Niamh, poured the tea, then tossed her a napkin. She caught it easily and bobbed her head in thanks. Niamh barely tasted the roasted chicken croquettes in her preoccupation.
I want to ask him. I need to ask, to see what he meant—
“Your note,” Niamh started, setting down her plate. “It was kind and welcome, but you wrote you could help me.”
“I have ideas about that, yes.” Jeron set his tea aside and rifled through his battered satchel. “I’ve been thinking about something.”
“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” Niamh teased without a pause.
“Not at all. Fine, a little.” His smile faded, expression growing serious. He took a slow breath, eyes fixed anxiously on Niamh’s face, desperate for some sign that she was open to what he had to say.
“I’m listening, Jeron. You can tell me whatever it is you’re thinking,” Niamh prodded, his sudden shyness giving her the strength to reach out.
“I have an invention I’m working on that just might make a difference in your path again. I’m not sure how to start, especially since I’m still in the planning phase. Let’s say I want to help you beyond surface healing, and I’ll tell you more as soon as I have a solid plan.”
“That means more thinking, I assume. Make sure you don’t overdo it, or I’ll have to set Moya on you,” Niamh joked, her light tone hiding the surge of emotion crashing through her at the thought of Jeron working on a way to improve her life. Before she could ask more, Jeron sighed, shoulders slumping, all humor gone.
“Niamh, I need to tell you more about the Northgate incident, as your captain and the Loremaster asked of me. If you are ready.”
“Yes, I suppose you should,” Niamh agreed, heart sinking.
Jeron cleared his throat, his expression pained. “Several other people were wounded that day. Two Valiants did not make it.”
Niamh’s gut sank at the news. “May I ask who?”
“Merrick and Ona-Lon,” Jeron said with a respectful bow. “Merrick was buried with full honors earlier this week, and Ona-Lon was sent to his people for a Xereth ceremony. The rest of the company is healing and doing well. Your sacrifice saved lives that day, you know. You’re a hero.”
Niamh’s heart slogged in her chest, each beat aching with grief. How was she still alive? “Well, if I am a hero, then so are you, and Moya, and all the others who were there.”
She could not trust herself to speak further, so she closed her eyes and breathed. Jeron was quiet, too. Niamh had not gotten to know Merrick well, but the other woman seemed fair and kind. Ona-Lon was as good-humored as they came, in his subtle Xereth way.
It could have been any of us. And somehow here I am, alive.
Niamh opened her eyes and looked squarely at Jeron. “I know that a healing of that level must have required many talented mages, yet you are the only face I remember seeing.”
“We did what we could,” Jeron said with a shrug, but the raw emotion on his face was almost too much to bear.
“That I survived relatively intact…” Niamh paused. “I didn’t think it was possible, but then again, I don’t really know much about healing with leymagic.”
“Healing spells can be remarkable things.” This time, Jeron was the one to look away. He absently toyed with his satchel’s straps, quiet.
Niamh blinked in surprise at Jeron’s sudden reticence. Was he nervous around her? He’d always seemed so at ease.
“If they are like what you did to me, they are truly amazing.” Niamh paused, searching for words. “I felt your presence, like a clean winter breeze but in my mind. You washed away my despair as if it were nothing.”
Jeron reached out and laid one hand feather-light over her clasped hands, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps over her arms. How could the lightest, most innocent touch have such power?
“You were fighting but fading. Then I saw it. Something in you, bright and alive. So I dove into my leymagic, and I hoped for the best.”
“Well, I owe you my thanks, and that is the understatement of a lifetime.” She sat in silence, not sure what else to say.
“I wanted to be your friend right from the start, aside from being a goodwill ambassador,” Jeron said, breaking the quiet. “The day you guarded me while I was tinkering at the portal site, I took my sweet time assembling that lift system for the larger stones even though I would’ve normally finished in less than half an hour. But you seemed like you needed someone to talk to, and I was enjoying your company, so I acted like a fool. I hope you can forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Quite the opposite.”
Here was someone she could see being a part of her everyday life, yet she might be called away from Easthaven. What sense did it make to put down roots of friendship when duty would wrench them out of the soil in the same season? It certainly would be foolish to hope for something even more. She sighed, shoulders slumping.
“Now that Loremaster Olangah has cleared you, I expect the hospital will release you soon,” Jeron said. “Do you plan to stay in Easthaven for a time? I mean, I had heard your post was temporary, but there is so much to do here, and… well.” Jeron again fidgeted, but this time he did not turn away.
Niamh’s eyes widened in surprise. It was as though he had read her thoughts.
“I’m here at least until I’m healed and able to make other arrangements.”
“Ah. Captain Hawke tells me you are from a village at least a week’s ride north of the border, in the Beechwoods. Is your family not able to make such a long journey?”
“My family are Sylvan Scouts, the first line of defense for our people, and gone for sometimes months at a time. I have no siblings or other close relatives nearby, so really it’s just me. I’m thankful to have a place here,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. Admitting her loneliness was tempting, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet.
“It sounds like important work, but I’m sorry they can’t come to you. I’m here for you, for what it’s worth. I’ll help however I can. Captain Hawke, Moya, the sisters here at Hightower. All of us. It’s our way here in Easthaven, and that’s all there is to it. Speaking of the others, we still need to talk about some important things. Again, far less pleasant than I would like.”
“Captain Hawke warned me I would need to be updated about several unpleasant things,” Niamh said. She watched Jeron, his eyes dark and his lips thinned in a worried frown.
“The casualties you now know. The rest of it is hard to explain, but I’ll do my best. Something evil is at work in all this.”
Jeron related the events of the moot, the situation with Sage Belden, and the Loremaster’s call to arms. Niamh sat frozen in shock, trying to take it all in. Kraah were real. Not myth, not fairy tales to scare children.
Kraah are real, she thought again with a shudder of horror.
Monsters walked among them. Monsters that might be the reason she was injured and, now, altered irrevocably. And somehow, the Order had suspected this would happen.
Her stomach twisted in nerve-sick knots as she thought of the voices that taunted her in her nightmares. Were they Kraah, whispering to her from a dark and terrible place, set free to wreak havoc on her mind? Or were they just remnants, memories of near-death and pain?
Thank the Source the Loremaster had deemed her safe, otherwise the terror might have crushed her.
“Are you well, Niamh?”
Niamh startled back to the moment, seeing Jeron’s brow creased in concern, his eyes narrowed. She had to tell him.
“I dream about the same thing every night. A key, just out of reach. The word, key, but the images I see make no sense and I never remember them clearly when I wake up. There is always that horrible green light we saw coming from the Waystone. Source, those cruel whispering voices are the worst. It’s like the attack left a stain on me. I told your Loremaster all of this.”
“That is terrible,” Jeron said softly. “And yes, Loremaster Olangah wanted me to watch you for such things, so it’s at least some comfort she thinks you are in no danger from the dreams. The good news is your captain has a plan of action for preventing any further attacks, and we’re all working together to make it happen. And like I’ve said, I have some ideas to help you get back in action, too, along with just being here for you. If you want help, that is. This is not something you should deal with alone.”
Niamh’s breath caught sharply, grief and hope battling within her. Whatever it was Jeron was planning sounded like it might mean freedom, or the possibility of reclaiming some normalcy. But it also meant vulnerability, admitting openly how deeply she had been changed.
“I welcome your help. Help from all of you. I’m terrified, Jeron.”
“I would be too.” Jeron reached out, catching her hand in his. “But we will be here for you, no matter what.”
“Thank you.” Her cheeks flooded with heat, and she turned away. “I can’t even tell you how much that means.Though I think right now I’m a little tired. Would you have any objection to drawing our little meeting to a close?” All the news and revelations, the warm sun, and the work of walking with only one leg had worn her out.
“I object strongly,” Jeron said, already standing, though he kept his grip on her hand.
Niamh grinned and tried to stand, forgetting her crutches. She tumbled into a wall of green Mageguild robes, face-planting onto Jeron’s chest, and grabbing onto him. He steadied her but did not let go. His brawny arms circled her waist, and his chin rested on her head.
There was nothing else in this moment but Jeron. His brisk, clean-linen scent. How solid he was, and how safe he made her feel. Niamh’s legions of goosebumps turned into festival fireworks, heat rushing through her that had nothing to do with the sunny parlor. Jeron tightened his hold, one large hand brushing her lower back, the other smoothing through her long hair. Surely this was heaven.
Jeron’s lips brushed softly against her head, then Niamh felt him exhale a sigh. He slid his arms away enough to put some distance between them, though he still helped her balance in place. She felt the absence of his warmth keenly.
What in Ahra had just happened between them?
Niamh cleared her throat, fighting to look casual. “So, are you up to helping me back down the hall, hale and hearty mage? I think I might need it.”
“Eh, I have experienced slightly worse occupations in my lifetime,” Jeron said with a chuckle. “Hold on to my waist. I’ll go slowly and come back for my bag later, and of course whatever cakes you didn’t eat.”
“Ha. Scavenger.” Niamh curled her fingers into his side, solid muscle behind a layer of softness. “Are you certain you are not a Valiant yourself? A bear wrestler?”
“Last time I checked, I was a full-time Sage and only aspiring bear wrestler,” he said, leading her out of the parlor. “Though we magic users are quite scatterbrained. I could have missed something.”
Niamh surprised herself with a short bark of laughter. “I must be beyond tired,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “You made me cackle like an old hen.”
“I’d say it was more of a zalith bray, but yes, you must be exhausted if my awful jokes have you laughing. Let’s get you to sleep.”
Niamh followed, lost in the dreamy warmth of Jeron’s company. She vaguely noted they’d arrived in the healing room and Jeron was giving Sister Hilde strict orders to let her sleep, and to send word if they needed him. Both helped Niamh climb into bed. She lay on her back, covered in fresh white sheets, sleep softening the edges of the world around her.
Maybe I can still make something of this situation yet. Maybe I can stay for a while. And maybe I won’t have nightmares today…
“I’ll see you soon, Niamh,” came a low, warm voice, a brush of fingers over her cheek then blissful nothing.
Lizzie Sinclaire 