The Queen of Storm and Shadow by Jenna Rhodes

Author:Jenna Rhodes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DAW
Published: 2017-03-15T12:25:32+00:00

Chapter

Thirty-Two

RIVERGRACE WOKE on the muddy banks of a river, a fading warmth against her, the taste of blood and sweet water on her lips. As she put her hands underneath her to rise, her flesh grew out of the puddles, forming her body bit by bit as she reclaimed it. Excess water ran off her in cascades as she did. Rivergrace looked down and saw Sevryn’s wet form huddled next to her, soaked in blood, but alive. Still alive. For how long, she could not tell. Crimson soaked into the puddles and mud, dribbling away in vivid streaks.

She had to stop the bleeding and get the two of them away before they drew predators and Quendius to the scent of blood. Her body ached in every fiber and her gut knotted up in ravenous hunger, her flesh drawn beyond its limits to sustain her. She knelt at the river’s edge and drank, gulping down its cool sweetness until she could no longer drink, and sat back, panting a little. Then, and only then, did she look at and seriously assess Sevryn. She brushed his hair back from his forehead, darkened by the wetness and by blood. His flesh held life’s warmth but felt cool to her touch. She tore her outer skirt to ribbons, wondering a moment that her transition to water and back had transmuted her clothing as well. She bandaged his gaping wounds quickly, sealing the edges of flesh together as well as she could. Stitching would not help him, only a Vaelinar healing, and she could not manage one here. Nor could she heal as a true Vaelinar, but she was the only hope he had.

There were other wounds that troubled her more. Slits in and about his vitals, bleeding on the surface and hinting at great damage unseen. He could easily be bleeding out internally, giving her little time to get him somewhere safer. Rivergrace pushed her hair from her face, knotting its heavy tendrils at the nape of her neck and scanning the countryside. They had lost the road, or passed over it as rivers and bridges have a way of doing, and their mountain stood tall and indomitable in front of her. She might build a stretcher she could drag from the driftwood that littered the muddy bank around her. Even as she shaded her eyes, she could see movement down the mountain, a rippling on the horizon. Not movement on foot or even horseback but on wing. As she straightened to get a better look at the phenomenon, she realized she saw river birds coming down out of the evergreens where they nested in the early evening, gliding on the afternoon air, quiet except for a low call now and then, a sight like she’d never seen before. They came as if summoned, and they came silently as if knowing her life might depend on it, and they glided to a halt all about her at the river, wings of blue and gray and brindled brown folding, and their sharp bright eyes upon her.

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