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Alesoun and I glance at each other. We’ve been making salves since before the sun topped the horizon. There are so many people with wounds, ranging from minor scraps to deep cuts and broken bones, and the two of us are the only healers among the survivors.
“Yours?” another woman’s voice responds. “What claim do you have?”
Alaqhon took most of the able-bodied men with him after they’d rested only a few hours. They are looking for more survivors, establishing other settlements, and taking any opportunities to harass those hunting the clan. The yelling turns to the sounds of a scuffle.
I shake my head. This is none of my business, I’m not in charge. I almost get myself to believe it until one of the women emits a painful scream that makes my breath catch in my chest. I look over my shoulder and see people moving away from the fight, but no one is intervening.
“Do not,” Alesoun says, shaking her head, reading my reactions.
I grit my teeth and pound the leaves harder with the pestle, but another scream cuts into my heart and I can’t. As I rise, Alesoun grabs my arm. Her face is grim as she shakes her head.
“I can’t stand by and do nothing.”
Her eyes soften with understanding even if her face doesn’t. She releases her grip and turns her attention back to making the paste. I know she’s right. Getting involved will not win me friends but I can’t stand by letting this happen.
I know the fighting is a stress reaction. When I was pre-med, I had a unit on post-traumatic stress and understand that it can manifest in a lot of different ways depending on the person. There is no doubt in my mind that what these people have been through is more than enough of a triggering event.
I push through the crowd, all of whom watch in quiet apathy. It’s not that they don’t care or wouldn’t intervene in a normal world, but they don’t have the reserves to deal with anyone’s emotions but their own. They’re all terrified and lost.
Two middle-aged women are jerking a blanket between them. They grunt and make screeching sounds as they struggle. It’s a testament to the quality of the blanket that it hasn’t torn yet the way they are handling it.
I don’t recognize the woman on my left but the one on my right was one of Agnes’s friends. Agnes, my former tormentor, who made sure I never felt welcome with the women of the clan. She has gray streaks in her hair, her face is gaunt, but I remember her as being thin anyway. She has hazel eyes and dirty blonde hair that has broken free of its braid. She growls when she sees me, an animal sound of disgust.
Of course. It had to be one of them, didn’t it? My luck is running as usual.
“Excuse me,” I say, stopping between the two.
“Back off,” Agnes’s friend says to me and turns her attention back to the other woman. “It’s mine.”
“It is not,” the other woman says.
She is a bigger built woman, full chested and round of face. Gray eyes the color of an overcast sky and dark brown hair which is cut short.
“What is the disagreement?” I ask.
“You’ll take her side,” Agnes’s friend snaps. “She’s a witch like you.”
The other woman’s eyes go wide, and the gathered crowd mutters. My stomach roils at the accusation. I was in a fight once in middle school because the other girl called me a bitch. It hurt when she said that, but it doesn’t compare to the fear now. When I was here with the clan before, I thought I’d worried about being labeled a witch, but now, with the MacGregors being hunted, it seems even worse.
“I’m no witch,” the other woman says, her voice going so high it cracks.
“What is your name?” I ask Agnes’s friend, proud of how calm my voice sounds despite the emotional storm raging in my head.
“Names have power on a witch’s tongue,” she says, giving the blanket a hard tug that pulls the other woman towards her and forcing me to sidestep to avoid being knocked over.
“That’s enough,” a deep male voice says, stepping into the clearing.
He’ a warrior. The hilt of a claymore rising above his left shoulder. His face is scarred by dozens of white lines that look like individual sword cuts. He puts a hand on the blanket and both women let it go at the same time, leaving him holding it.
“Ach, do we not have anything better to do?” he asks, looking from one woman to the other. “Is there not enough trouble for the two of you?”
The women hang their heads in shame. A pang of jealousy thrums in my heart at how easily he accomplishes what I was trying to do.
“She took my place, Graham,” Agnes’s friend says, trying to defend herself.
Graham focuses on her, and while there is compassion in his eyes, his face is harsh. I don’t think it could be anything but with all the scars.
“Come now, Blair,” he says. “You’re better than this, aren’t you?”
