Children with Stars in their Veins (Chapter 17)

a/n: hey, thanks for checking out Starry Veins! This is the novel I wrote for Round V of LMS, and it's still a first draft! While I don't discourage any feedback, I prefer not to receive feedback on grammar! I'm not polishing this draft up yet, so I'm not as concerned about editing. I am, of course, open to all feedback, but I ask that you keep this in consideration! Thanks <3

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[Mishal]

warning for some gross wound description, mentions of violence.

Dusk was settling into the sky, turning the horizon a buttery orange hued with lilac against pale blue.

They had finally reached the village closest to the Valley Ruins, and everyone was a silent, thankful mess. Margaretta, still riding at the head of the pack her debilitating injuries sustained in the fight against the bandits, held herself tall in the saddle.

Mishal was covered in a fine layer of perspiration. He’d shed all layers but his loose-fitting shirt that had long since began clinging to the sweat on his skin, and a pair of trousers. Heat still radiated off his skin, and he hoped the night air would bring the much-needed relief he craved.

And they were finally stopping to rest against. He would be done riding and he could sit down and try to think about something other than the pain in his leg.

Gracia had been able to do little for him. There had been no time in the past several days since the attack. Margaretta had been pushing everyone left even harder than before, and Gracia had only time to remove it and bandage it. She was too distracted.

Kizia had been hurt badly. She had performed a healing spell far too quickly in the heat of battle on Gracia and the damage had been done twofold to her. As they slowed to a stop, he glanced over to watch Gracia nearly leap from her horse to run over to Kizia on her own and catch the girl before she could collapse to the ground in a limp heap.

Isadora had been quiet since the battle. She’d been hurt minimally, but she seemed more reserved afterwards.

The bandit she had knocked out was tied up and riding with Gillian, mouth bound and looked sour. Despite the circumstances, there was something that wriggled in his chest out of sympathy for the man, captured and helpless.

Any villagers that were still out and wandering about town as the sun began to sink lower past the horizon eyed them cautiously. A man with a bow on his back approached them. Margaretta stepped forward to greet him.

“You folks look like you’ve had a rough time of it,” he said, surveying the roughened expedition. One of the walking carriages was whining, low and pitiful.

“Highwaymen,” Margaretta said wearily. “I don’t suppose you know of somewhere that would grant us rest for the next several nights while we rest and recuperate?” She pulled into a pouch strapped to her side and withdrew a small roll of parchment. “Or any factions here friendly with the Chronicler’s Guild. I’m the Guildmaster, Margaretta Cardailli.”

The man took the parchment and unfurled it, scanned over it, and handed it back. “Part of the Agricultural Guild resides here. There’s a farm a little farther out of the village, name’s Juna. She’s a part of their council. She’s got a second barn she uses to store food she’d probably allow you to recover in. The inn here’s too small for you number, but if you’re all right with bunking all together and don’t mind some hay on your clothes…” He gestured off towards a cobbled road that led away from the bulk of the village. “If you head out to Juna’s, I’d be willing to send for our local physician to come out and check on your people for you.”

Margaretta dipped her head as she pocketed the scroll once more. “That’s very kind of you, we’d appreciate that greatly.”

The man departed, and they set off down the path. Forestter, who had been following them on foot since they were short horses, took Kizia’s crumpled form from Gracia and slung her gently over his shoulder. Kizia’s skin was pale and her eyes shut. If Mishal didn’t know better, he might have believed that she was dead.

They had lost five. They didn’t have the resources to give them any semblance of proper burials or bring their bodies with to perform any last rites. They had given them in sacrifice to the Wilderlands, along with the three bandits that had been downed.

He had stood close to Isadora, holding her hand, as he watched the land rise up to swallow the bodies in what was a quick, clean, but macabre display. The bodies had been claimed for the earth, and they had disappeared.

Maybe some part of him had known what would happen in a real battle as he had learned how to fight. There was nothing peaceful about swordplay. He had taken that for granted, back at the Chronicler’s Citadel. It had been about discipline and practise and learning and sharing that knowledge with Ember and Alanna.

It hadn’t been about anyone dying or ending up wounded. There was a weight to that experience he wished he could shrug off, but it remained steadfast.

Juna was a kind, if not stern and enduring woman, but she allowed them use of her unoccupied barn. It was spacious, if not somewhat filled with bales upon bales of hay and huge vats of grains and other feed he wouldn’t be able to name if he tried. They could spread out all their bedrolls with room to spare and did so.

As soon as he was able, he collapsed against one of the posts that held up the loft and let out a heavy sigh. He wasn’t sure where Isadora was. She had been with Kizia last he had seen her, but pain and heat were beginning to cast a haze over his mind and he didn’t have the energy to keep track of her.

“I saw you limpin’ when you came in here.” A boy who couldn’t have been much younger or older than himself approached him and crouched beside him, holding several bowls balanced impressively in his arms. He held out one filled with something pale and mashed with a glob of butter. “I’m Thaddeus.” His voice was warm and kind.

Sluggishly, he reached for the food. “I’m Mishal. I’m sorry I’m in less than ideal condition to greet you in.” It was hard to think, and his tongue felt heavy, but Thaddeus was being nice to him and he wasn’t going to ignore that.

“It’s all right.” Thaddeus smiled. “Maybe we’ll try again once you’ve rested up a bit here.” He stood up and went off to distribute more bowls of food.

It was nice, whatever it was. Much better than what they had been salvaging on the road. He’d nearly forgotten what a decent meal tasted like, although the stew made for his birthday had been all right.

Sixteen. One more year and he would be of age. It was… it was surreal. Isadora being seventeen already was surreal.

Eating, on the other hand, was somewhat of a task. His head fought to loll back against the poll, and his eyelids didn’t want to stay open. His throat prickled and sweat was still beading off his skin. It was dripping down his spine, and everything was sticky with it. He wished he could take a cold bath. Anything to cool himself.

His leg still throbbed. Curiosity to unwrap the bandage to see it was strong in what was perhaps a morbid way. It had looked nasty when Gracia had extracted the arrow and before she wrapped it. What would it look like now?

Someone settled down beside him, and he lifted his head wearily to see who. Isadora pulled her loose hair over her shoulder. It was knotted and dirty, and she ran her fingers through the long strands absently.

“The two physicians are here. One’s with Kizia and Gracia right now,” she said, voice dull. She looked lacklustre, as if some of her life had been sucked out of her. She glanced over towards him. “You look rough, are you feeling all right?”

He shrugged. “I will be after I rest.”

Before she could say anything more, he realised Margaretta was approaching with someone he assumed to be one of the physicians. He had long, greying black hair that was tied back into a low ponytail and spectacles that hung partway down his nose.

As Margaretta approached, a frown began to deepen the creases on her face. There was a nasty cut along her jaw that had begun to scab. “Mishal, Isadora. How are the two of you feeling?”

“Tired, but I’ll be all right,” Isadora said.

“About the same,” he added. Should he mention his leg? There were others who needed attendance more than he did. Thom had suffered a bad blow to the head, and who knew what other injuries were distributed amongst them.

The physician ducked towards him without saying anything and rested his knuckles to Mishal forehead. He flinched away in surprise, but the physician was already drawing his hand away.

“He has a fever. Probably an infection.”

Margaretta’s gaze turned hawkish. “Why didn’t you say something?” she asked, voice strained but firm. “It’s his leg. You should have said something sooner.”

“Where is the wound?” the physician asked, crouching down beside him and placing a bag down that he began to rifle through.

Cautiously, he lifted his trouser leg to expose the wrapping around his lower thigh. “You wanted to get to the village. And I’m not half as bad as Kizia, and Thom wasn’t feeling well either. Half the expedition could use this more than I could, I don’t feel that bad.”

As the physician began to unravel the bandage, Margaretta folded her arms over her chest. “You could have suffered much worse. In the future, you will bring attention to the discomfort you are experiencing no matter how trivial you believe it to be. I need you healthy and strong for this expedition, Mishal.” She glanced towards Isadora. “That goes for you as well. I brought the two of you along with a promise to your parents that you would come back in one piece, and I intend to see that through.”

He nodded at Margaretta, and then made the mistake of glancing at his leg. There was sinew and pus that wept from the bloodied gap as the soiled bandage was removed. The smell was worse, and it roiled in his stomach like undercooked meat.

Then he shivered, turned to lean as far away as possible, and threw up the food he had just eaten.

Isadora reached over to rub his back as he sat back up, mouth gone sour and stomach once again empty. He let his head fall back against the post as the physician went about his business, undisturbed.

“I’ll find someone to clean that,” Margaretta said. She lingered for a moment longer, glancing between him and Isadora with an unreadable expression, before turning to do as she had said.

“Will you be all right?” Isadora asked, still rubbing soothing circles against his shoulder blades.

He nodded, closing his eyes to try to shut out the pain in his leg and the heavy heat that was hanging over him. “I will be.”

It wasn’t the wound that had sickened him. He had seen injuries on the Chronicler’s Guild’s horses before. He lived with Cassius and Ember and if one of them wasn’t breaking a bone doing something stupid, the other was. It was usually Cassius.

He had fought, in a real battle, where people had really died. He had survived. He had been struck by an arrow, but he had survived. Five people he had known had been killed without remorse, three he didn’t know had been killed in defence. Their lives had been gone, as quick as you please, no grander than a leaf on the wind. And they had been swallowed by ground, instead of holding a proper funeral.

They had died so easily, so soon. It was a gross loss of life, and it was… he had been there.

What would he have done if the bandit he was fighting had not fled?

He reached out, and Isadora stopped rubbing his back to take his opened hand. He squeezed on hers, harder than probably necessary, and bit his tongue to keep from whining out from the pain as the physician began to clean his wound.

Sometime during the night, as he started to drift in and out of consciousness, he thought about the family they had left back at the citadel.

He thought of them, and he missed them with a raw intensity that hurt more than the pain of his leg.

word count:

2,080