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Melantha pressed her hand to her shoulder and eased her magic into the wound. Her magic knit the muscles and torn skin, erasing the pain.
When it was done, Melantha let out a long sigh. She was tired, but at least her mind was clear. She pushed to a sitting position, then straightened. The dizziness did not return, thankfully.
As much as she wanted to rest, she glanced over at Rharreth. His breathing was far too shallow, his gray skin paling until it was almost the same shade as hers. He could not wait while she took a nap.
Melantha swung to her feet, steadying herself for a moment before she turned to Inersha, Mymrar, and Zavni. “Could you please lift him onto the table?”
Rharreth gave a small moan as Mymrar and Zavni picked him up and placed him on the table.
Melantha recleaned her tools, then got to work.
It took much longer to dig all of the bullets from Rharreth than it had the one from her shoulder. While several of the shots had gone all the way through, like the one that had struck her, many others had not. She had to examine every single bullet hole to pick out the pieces of his shirt from each wound.
Once all the wounds were clean, she pieced together bones and muscles and arteries with her magic. She healed Rharreth’s organs and placed more of her magic inside him to continue to restore his strength.
When she was finished, she sagged against the table, her hands trembling.
But she had done it. She had saved Rharreth and gotten them to a safe place, at least for now.
“Zavni, could you see to it that he is made comfortable by the fire again?” Melantha faced Zavni, then noticed the blood staining his clothing. “Right, you are injured. I can heal you as well.”
“I am not badly injured, not after you healed me earlier. I can wait. Rest, my queen.” Zavni gave her a bow, and something in that heartfelt gesture brought a lump to Melantha’s throat.
Somehow, she had gained the loyalty of this shield brother, even if the rest of Rharreth’s shield band had turned on the both of them.
“Your Majesty, you can take our bed. We will gladly sleep out here.” Inersha bowed, gesturing toward the pile of rugs and blankets, the ones that had already been stained with Rharreth’s blood.
Melantha shook her head. “Thank you for the kind offer, but it would be best if Rharreth stayed by the fire. The extra warmth will make it easier for his body to heal.”
Mymrar straightened. “I will stand guard for the rest of the night to allow you and your guard to rest.”
“I can stay awake. I am fine.” Zavni patted the sword at his side, but Melantha could see the weariness around his eyes and pulling at his stance. He needed rest as badly as she and Rharreth did.
“Zavni, take the offer and rest. If you sleep by the door, Mymrar can easily wake you at the first sign of trouble.” Melantha forced herself to push away from the table and walk on trembling legs to Zavni’s side. “You need to be well rested when Rharreth wakes and we decide on our next move.”
“Very well.” Zavni nodded. When he helped Mymrar once again lift Rharreth from the table to the nest of blankets by the fire, Zavni’s hands were shaking, and his face strained into tight lines.
When Rharreth was settled, Melantha eased under the blankets with him, resting her hands against his back.
As she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, those moments of the attack in their bedroom played against her eyelids.
She had always believed that, if she were placed in the position of having to fight, that she would find that she was tough. That she was secretly a warrior.
Yet, when faced with a battle, she had hated it. She had fought because she had to, just like she had there in the dungeon when she had tried to prevent the trolls from taking Farrendel to his death. Back then, she had not had a weapon, and she had been so frantic to get to Farrendel that she had barely noticed the blood as she had scrambled toward Farrendel’s cell.
This time, she had been in the thick of the fight. She had been covered in the blood and gore.
And she had found herself vomiting in the corner rather than fighting.
While she loved the release of the practice fights, she hated the real thing. Perhaps, contrary to what she had always believed about herself, she was not a warrior. She did not want to end up in battle ever again if she could help it.
She was a healer. Healing was her war, her battle. And she would fight it with every scrap of magic she possessed.
