Chapter 3—Terra

Martin must have heard the commotion, because he quickly emerges from Abraham’s wagon and jogs down the stairs. The riders have just stopped, their horses nervous and jittery. They chomp on their bits and stomp their hooves. The men mounted on them appear much calmer.

“Where’s the troupe leader?” a dark-haired man with a gravelly voice asks.

“I’m here.” Martin swells up, his chest expanding. “Do you need Healing?”

“None of us,” the man says, his expression grim. “But our Unit Leader’s son requires your assistance.”

I shouldn’t breathe a sigh of relief at hearing a child is injured, but I do. I’m a bad person.

“Your leader is the Lord of Spurlock Castle?” Martin glances in the direction of the largest settlement on this side of the Flashing Forest.

The soldier nods brusquely.

Martin closes his eyes. “Is his son Wasting?”

The man shrugs. “He says no. You’re bid come to evaluate him.”

The citizens almost always insist on having Healers come when a young person is Wasting, though there’s nothing anyone can do about that. Abraham would normally accompany him as part of the Healing pair—his size and strength are usually a slight deterrent to grief-induced rage. Even Lifters don’t want to mess with two good-sized men, but Martin won’t ask him to leave his baby, and he won’t take Roland and leave the troupe utterly defenseless either.

“I’m ready.” Martin jerks his head at Thomas. “Bring my horse.”

“And mine, too,” Thomas says.

Martin shrugs. Thomas isn’t very skilled yet, but Healers work in pairs.

Unfortunately, Thomas is so small, no one would think twice about him being around. Not much protection for Martin in a possibly hostile situation. While Thomas prepares Francis and Sunshine near the front of camp, I lead Wind over to the big oak tree on the side of the camp and throw his bridle on—with my balance, I don’t need a saddle. I’m hoping if I leave near the back of the group, Martin won’t even notice I’m going until we’re almost there.

I won’t allow him to treat someone who’s doomed to die without anyone to watch his back.

My plan works perfectly. Martin’s so busy talking to the gravelly-voiced man that he never even turns around. Thomas is such a nervous rider that he focuses all his attention on keeping Sunshine from jumping six feet in the air over every rain puddle. Any horse dumb enough to be terrified of water should go into the cookpot, but Thomas unreasonably loves his stupid mare—probably for her gorgeous butter-colored coat.

The guys are going to kill me when they realize I’m behind them. Every time Martin glances over his shoulder on the side I’m on, I pull Wind back or urge him forward so there’s another horse and rider between me and him.

As we draw closer to the castle looming ahead, I urge Wind to put on a little more speed.

“Whoa,” a tenor voice next to me says. “Why aren’t you up by the other two Healers?” His eyes narrow. “And why would they bring a woman?”

Because we can’t Heal, so what’s the point? “I’m an assistant.”

His frown deepens, probably because I don’t have a bag or supplies, so how can I possibly be planning to assist? Luckily, like most citizens, he knows very little about Healing, so he doesn’t bother to argue further.

He does mutter something rather rude about women and racing around and Healers not keeping us in line. Then he shakes his head and spits. He doesn’t shift over at all, forcing me to ride along the weedy hedge instead of making room for me on the well-packed and worn road.

Not that I’m surprised. Most of the Followers of Amun treat women like trash. It’s one of the many reasons Martin would have objected to me coming, had I given him the chance.

As if he heard my voice, Martin turns around, his eyes widening in alarm when they meet mine. His lips flatten into a thin line. I knew he’d be upset, but what can he say? They won’t let him take me back home. He’s stuck with my help, whether he wants it or not. I may not look as impressive as Abraham or Roland, but I pack a bigger punch, and it’s one that none of these idiots will ever see coming.

Not that I want to chance it. Martin has been so severe about keeping my abilities hidden—he’d probably rather go home on a stretcher than have me stop them from harming him.

The second we reach the wall that surrounds the settlement around Spurlock Castle, the large wooden doors swing open. The men on horses urge their mounts through, and we follow. Racing through the streets of an actual city isn’t something I imagined I’d be doing anytime soon. My heart hammers against my ribcage and my thoughts rattle around in my head like dice in a cup. It’s so big, so grand, and so overwhelming.

I force myself to focus on why we’re here.

A little boy is probably dying.

There’s nothing on Terra that Healers hate more than Wasting. It’s the one thing they can’t Heal, the one injury for which they can’t puzzle out a fix. One day you’re fine, and the next you’re burning up with fever. Three days later, you die.

I wonder how many days this little boy has been struggling.

I hope against hope it’s not the Wasting. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s an unidentified injury.

When we reach the next set of enormous wooden doors, the last defense around the castle proper, the men begin swinging off their horses and tossing reins to stable boys. I’m not sure what to do with Wind, so I lead him over near Martin and Thomas. They’re tying Francis and Sunshine to a fence post. Since Wind doesn’t get along with others very well, I move down one section and tie him alone.

“I know you’re going to say—”

“You should not have come,” Martin hisses, his eyes flinty.

“Abraham wasn’t coming,” I argue, “and I didn’t want you here alone.”

“Hello.” Thomas waves with a small scowl. “I’m right here.”

“You know what I mean,” I say as kindly as I can manage. “It’s not like you know what to do with a real sword.”

“Well, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that instead of being alone, I’ve got two of you to babysit.” Martin glares.

Does Martin really see me as a liability? Still? After my mother Wasted, I know I was a burden, but I was only six. I feel like I’ve grown and become much stronger—I’ve proven myself since then. Abraham knows how to punch someone in the nose, but I can Lift an entire wagon.

“Joshua, our leader’s son, has been like this for two days,” the gravelly-voiced man says. Now that he’s dismounted, it’s clear that he’s tall. Like, ridiculously tall. He towers over even Martin. “Come this way.”

I bow my head out of habit, and possibly as a result of the ingrained respect and fear that everyone on Terra has for members of the units, the thirteen men at each castle who command the rest of the soldiers. This man isn’t only large—for him to be wearing the livery and running errands for the Spurlock unit leader, he’s likely a member of the unit himself. That means he’s one of the most powerful and well-trained Lifters in this entire region.

He could very likely squash me like a bug. Maybe Martin was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I force my hands to stop shaking. My fear’s natural, but hardly helpful.

I expect Martin to explain to this huge man that he can’t Heal someone who is Wasting. I expect him to prepare this leader of soldiers for the inevitable. But instead, Martin merely walks alongside the tall man, tight-lipped, his movements jerky.

He’s scared.

Even if I’m no match for one of these military trained men, much less thirteen, I’m still glad I came. Family sticks together, no matter what. Martin may not have been Named my father with some kind of golden glowing light, but he’s the father of my heart, and that’s what matters.

We finally enter a dark room, the curtains pulled firmly closed, blocking nearly every bit of sunlight that would otherwise stream through. The only light comes from a handful of candles strewn around—two on the bedside table. Two on a desk. A lone candle on the wooden beam at the foot of the bed.

It appears they aren’t worried about the bedding catching fire, but I certainly would be.

Focus, Alora. That is so not the issue right now.

“My lord, the Healers are here.” The tall soldier stands entirely still and stares at the man by the bed.

The broad-shouldered man by the bed rises from his chair. I assume he’s the Lord of Spurlock Castle—currently their Unit Leader. “You’re Healers?”

Martin nods.

“Good. Joshua’s injured.” Even in the dim light, I can see that his hands are clenched at his sides.

“He’s injured?” Martin’s eyes are kind. “Or he’s Wasting?”

The lord’s brow furrows and his lips twist. “It’s not the Wasting. If it was, there would be no reason to bring you, would there?”

Oh, no. He’s already this aggressive?

“Why don’t you tell me what happened, exactly?” Martin walks slowly toward the bed, Thomas tripping along at his heels. I stand against the wall. “What kind of injury is it?”

“A few nights ago he fell off his bed. Joshua told us about it the next morning,” Lord Spurlock says. “Then later that day, he started feeling poorly. I’m sure it’s related.”

The kid fell a few feet. . .and got up and told his parents about it. They think that caused this? He’s lying prone, utterly unmoving. I’m not even a Healer, but I can tell he’s Wasting. The father’s delusional. A Unit Leader would be completely capable of ending Martin and me, and no one would stop him. But the Lord of Spurlock Castle, who also happens to be their Unit Leader?

He could stab us in the heart and no one would even bother to reprimand him.

Based on the slump in Martin’s shoulder, he knows that as well as I do. He rubs his hands together. “Let’s check the little fellow out.” He steps toward the bed and places his hands on Joshua’s small shoulders.

“Can you make me better?” His voice is tiny, desperate.

“I sure hope so,” Martin says.

Thomas glances back at me, his eyes downcast. We’ve been partners on the tightrope for years. I always save him when he stumbles or falls. I always keep him safe.

But I have no idea whether I can catch any of us today, after this.

Martin releases the boy and straightens. “I’ve delved him.” He clears his throat. “I can find no injury.”

Lord Spurlock growls. “Try again.”

“There isn’t anything—”

“Try again!”

Martin flinches and turns back toward the boy.

“Dad.” The boy’s voice is tiny. “No one can Heal this.”

“He hasn’t even tried.” The father steps closer. “He will do his very best. He’ll try all night, if that’s what it takes.”

So Martin delves the boy again, and then he keeps right on trying. I’ve asked so many questions about Healing over the years that I already know it’s a total waste of time. I can sense objects that surround me—their weight, their structure. I’m assuming all citizens can—or at least the male ones who can Lift. I’ve never asked, since apparently females can’t Lift, just as they can’t Heal. I can sense anything that I Lift or Bind—although luckily I can’t sense the Bindings of others. Similarly, Martin and Thomas can sense the internal organs when they delve. I’ve tried, and all the inner organs feel like a big mushy mess to me, like one mass of gooey juice. Like the inside of an orange.

But to a Healer, every part of the human body is distinct and different.

And when someone is Wasting, everything is working perfectly. The body simply heats up. . .and then gives out. Which means there’s nothing for Martin to fix, nothing to adjust, nothing to correct. All he can do is sense the shape and feel and functionality of perfectly working body parts over and over. . .until the boy dies.

An agonizing hour after we arrive, a woman I assume is the boy’s mother enters. “Oh, Joshua.”

Martin gratefully shifts backward so that his mother can embrace him.

“Is this the Healer?” Her bright eyes are hopeful in her round face. “Does he know what’s wrong?”

Lord Spurlock’s tone is flat. “Not yet.”

“Kyle said he’s been here an hour.” She frowns. “Just tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” the father says. “Nothing.”

“He’s Wasting,” she whispers, her face turning up toward Martin. “Isn’t he?”

Martin nods.

“He’s not,” Lord Spurlock practically shouts.

She places a hand on her husband’s arm. “Hush, Leonard. Yelling at these people won’t help Joshua.” Her voice drops to the barest of whispers. “And it won’t help me, either. You can’t frighten this away, dear. Not this.”

Lord Spurlock’s shoulders droop first, and then his entire body slumps, like a puppet with sliced strings. He collapses into the chair, and his wife sits down on the edge of the bed, next to Joshua. Both of them talk softly to their son.

Martin and Thomas inch backward toward me slowly, trying not to draw any more ire. We stand by the wall for three more hours, almost forgotten.

Until the boy dies.