I was still confused as to why the rebels attacked in the first place, and why their attack was so vicious, but that was something I could think about on a different day, once everything was settled and everyone was safe once more. I looked around, recognizing almost every face that found refuge in the inn, and while there were many who were able to make it inside of Sharol’s Rune Wards, there were far less here than the population of our town.
My eyes started to frantically jump from person to person, group to group, seeking out the friends who I considered family.
Where was Peti? Where were the Henshaw’s? Where was Ben? Where . . . where was Holt?
My heart rate spiked and as I scanned the crowd for a second and third time. I let out a slight breath when I finally spotted Mr. Henshaw and three of their children, but no Mrs. Henshaw, and two of the babies were missing. My heart plummeted, thinking the worst, and I decided to speak with him as soon as I found Ben and Holt.
I felt a shaky hand press against my shoulder, and I jumped from the sudden contact. Sharol stood next to me, looking even more frazzled and worn out than she had last night. There were black circles under her eyesand the whites were so bloodshot that they appeared a deep red. Her skin was still streaked with soot and blood, but some of it looked fresher than it had last night.
What happened while I was sleeping?
“Thank you for last night,” I mumbled quietly. Sharol squeezed my shoulder and turned her attention to the people in the common room.
“No thanks needed. I remember what it was like . . . my first time experiencing this level of death and destruction. It’s not something that really ever leaves you. You just learn to live with the scars and hope you never have to experience it again.”
Not for the first time, I wondered about Sharol’s past. While everyone in town knew her and adored her, she was an enigma, mostly keeping to herself and her inn. We even trained together here. I suppose we were alike in that regard. Sharol preferred the company of her inn, and I preferred my cottage in the woods with my books.
I squeezed her hand lightly before she dropped it from my shoulder.
“Go get cleaned up. And maybe rest a bit, Sharol. You look like death warmed over,” I attempted some levity, but it fell flat. Sharol shot me a wan smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Not yet, Fay. Soon, but not yet. These people, you, still need me for a bit longer.” Her voice was laced with pain and exhaustion, but I didn’t bother arguing with her. If Sharol wanted to continue helping, that was her decision.
We stood in silence for a moment longer before I asked the question I really didn’t want the answer to.
“Where is Holt?”
“Not here.”
“Yes, I can see that, Sharol.”
When she didn’t speak for a minute, a stone dropped in my stomach.
“Is . . . is he alive?”
“He’s not a body that I can see from the window,” is all she said. “Come, let’s check in with a few of our patients.”
With that, she led me into the common room where we weaved amongst the wounded and recovering, changing bandages and checking wounds where necessary. It was heartening to see some of the townspeoplestarting to make a recovery, and I felt a sliver of pride knowing thatIwas the one to help.
Time passed quickly as we moved throughout the room. Two more people—a man with an amputated leg due to being crushed by a stone from an Earth Mage, and the woman with the stomach wound—succumbed to their injuries overnight. Sharol selected two of the men who marched with Holt to remove the bodies and place them out back. A Water Mage with a little reserve left in their crystal froze the bodies so they wouldn’t decompose while we waited out the rebellion.
I ambled over to Mr. Henshaw while Sharol was out back with the bodies. He was tired, but he looked unharmed, at least physically. There was a haunted look in his eyes, though, that spoke of another pain, and I steeled myself in preparation for his words.
“Mr. Henshaw?” I approached carefully so as not to startle him or the children. He was staring into space, seemingly at nothing, while one of the youngest curled into his chest. Two of the older children—a boy and a girl—sat on either side of him, all their backs to the wall, the same haunted look in their eyes. The girl, Jenni, I think her name was, had red-rimmed eyes from crying.
He didn’t move when I first said his name, so I knelt until I was almost eye level with him and his children. I gently placed my hand on his knee while saying his name again, and he suddenly jerked, his whole body jumping at the contact.
“Y-yes?”
“Can I get you and the children anything?”
“N-no. We’re fine. Sharol just brought food by.”
I nodded my head, not knowing how to approach the subject of Mrs. Henshaw and the other children.
“She’s dead,” Mr. Henshaw said, his voice cracking on the last word. A wave of pain hit me like none I’d ever felt, tears leaking from my eyes and tracking down my face. “The babies, too. They’re all dead. They came up that way, through the farms. They burned a few of the crops and houses before claiming the others as theirs. That’s where they are now. Or some of them at least.”
He was rambling, his voice hitching every now and then, but I let him talk without interruption, knowing somehow that he needed to say whathappened. Like saying it would make it real and allow him the space to begin healing.
