Just as the bandit’s stone-headed axe comes down for my head, a shield that glints with the Verlassen coat of arms, a gray howling wolf on the yellow and purple background, swings between me and the axe. The stone axe chips against the polished steel of the shield with a grating metallic ring. One of the royal messenger’s bodyguards steps in front of me, using his shield to knock the bandit off his feet. Then the soldier pulls his right arm back, a sharpened sword in his hand aimed for his opponent, and I avert my eyes. I hear the bandit scream—his mixed wooden and fur armor must have done nothing to stop the soldier’s sword.
“Estelle!” Cooper exclaims from behind me. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I glance up at the helmeted head of the soldier. Just beyond the visor, I can make out the person inside the plated armor. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, young miss,” the soldier says. I recognize his voice—it’s the same man that had offered his condolences on behalf of the royal messenger when the messenger had slighted Inizion’s town leader Brian. “These rogues don’t seem to recognize a healer from a soldier. Tread carefully, ma’am.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
The soldier charges over to where one of his comrades is struggling with several bandits. I turn to Cooper, who is staring up at me with wide eyes, still holding onto the broken arrow shaft in his shoulder. I hand him a flask of grain alcohol to help deaden the pain and check how deep the arrow is. Deciding it’s too deep to pull out, I wrap his arm with strips of cloth to keep the arrow from moving and the wound from seeping.
Cooper gives a dry laugh. “You act like nothing happened!”
“Mom told me that when you’re afraid,” I say, “to tremble on the inside, because on the outside you must act.”
“And that’s why we call her Demetria the Wise,” Cooper says.
I manage a small smile, my fingers working to tie the cloths. “Stay low,” I say to him. It was what Mom had told me when I’d entered the battlefield. It hadn’t worked well for me so far. Perhaps my dark wavy hair caught the bandit’s eye. I debate throwing one of the cloths I’ve brought over my head.
Someone screams. I look up to see Brian, in an effort to protect Braxton, had taken a bad cut on his hand, forcing him to drop his woodcutter’s axe. He staggers back away from the bandit, but this seems to have inspired the bandit, who raises a spear.
Without thinking, I run forward.
“Estelle!” Cooper shouts at me. “Stay back!”
The power inside me begins to rise. I lift my hand toward the bandit, dreading this, fearing this, sickened to the point that I can feel my stomach starting to churn. But if this is the only way to save Brian, so be it. Let them label me a witch, a follower of Anieros, and toss me into a prison or have me executed. I will not stand to see my dear friend and the leader of Inizion killed before me and not do something.
The energy rushes toward my fingertips. I am ready to seal my fate by revealing my secret, the secret only Mom knows, and perhaps my blood parents who abandoned me long ago. I am ready to use my magic.
Just as I start to will the magic within me to obey my command, the bandit pauses, spotting me. I realize that the golden locks of hair coming down from underneath the wooden helmet is hers, not a part of the helmet’s decor—it’s a woman. She hesitates, and so do I, both of us staring at each other. I can just make out her green eyes, and see anguish and desperation in her gaze. She doesn’t want to do this. Maybe hunger drove her here. Maybe she was threatened with death if she didn’t help. Regardless, she doesn’t want to be in this scuffle any more than I want people to be harmed.
It is the delay that Braxton needed—he raises his pitchfork and slams this into the back of the bandit’s leg. I flinch as she screams just steps away from me, her eyes widening in pain and surprise. She falls to the ground, holding her leg, and Braxton ends her scream by lowering the pitchfork into her face.
My vision spins a little, and I stagger. I want to cry. I want to throw up. I’ve seen people die before, but I’ve never seen someone’s life taken right before my eyes like this. It’s too personal, and for a moment I’m lost in the sorrow of my heart.
Brian’s groan draws me back to my senses. I kneel at his side, looking at his right hand. It’s messed up badly. If I don’t spend time trying to stitch it together now, he might lose the use of his hand forever.
“Estelle, you shouldn’t be here,” Brian gasps.
I put my steel flask of grain alcohol into his left hand. “Drink some of this.” Then I pull out one of my steel needles and a small ball of thread. Despite being one of the most remote villages in Amenyl, Mom managed to get some of the more advanced and expensive equipment only seen in larger villages. Steel needles was one example, and I thread the end of it.
“Is Brian okay?” Braxton asks from behind me, gasping for air.
“I’m fine.” Brian takes a swig of the canteen and coughs. “What in all of Zoi is this?!”
“The good stuff, it looks like,” Braxton says, in an attempt at a joke.
“This will hurt,” I say to Brian. “Drink more.”
Brian sighs and takes another swig of the canteen, and then grits his teeth. I don’t wait—it’s just better to get this over with. The first time I insert the needle, Brian flinches and grunts in pain. I pin his arm under my knee, just like Mom taught me, since much of the medical work we’ve had to do hurts as much, if not more, than what we treat. Still, he’s not the worst patient I’ve ever had. He at least has enough wherewithal not to slam the flask into my head, although he is guzzling it fast enough that I finally take it out of his hand. Too much and it’ll thin his blood out, making the bleeding worse.
Hearing a cheer, I look up to see the remaining bandits that can still stand have turned tail and are fleeing over the grassy hills. All six of the messenger’s bodyguards are up, most of them splattered with blood, a couple of them staggering. From the midst of the fallen horses, one of the soldiers pulls up the royal messenger, who face is paler than me, his messenger’s vestments soiled with dirt and blood, his feathered cap missing, but otherwise looks well.
“Go make sure he’s okay.” Brian gestures from me to the messenger.
“Not yet, or your hand won’t heal right.” I spot the graying-blonde curls of Mom as she makes her way over to the messenger. “Mom’s on it.”
Brian sighs and lays his head back. The grain alcohol seems to have finally hit. He’s much calmer, still grimacing as I thread but no longer fighting me. “You and your mom are true blessings from Ariadna. Inizion’s lucky to have you both.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“This is outrageous!” the royal messenger screams, his voice rising to an impressively high pitch. I’m not sure I could hit it. “I demand to speak with the leader of this Ariadna-forsaken blemish!”
Brian, who is now clearly intoxicated, uncharacteristically rolls his eyes and raises his left hand rather dramatically. “That’s me.”
The royal messenger stomps over, his once-shiny boots covered in dirt and grass stains. His small, beady eyes flicker in my direction, and then he slows, noticing that I’m working on Brian’s hand. And then the royal messenger comes to a complete stop, staring at Brian. I don’t know why, but I keep working in the silence. Mom has followed the royal messenger and is trying to discreetly check him for wounds. Finding none, she turns to inspect one of the soldiers, who holds out an arm for her where a bit of blood is seeping between the plates of his armor.
“Well?” Brian says.
“Erm.” The royal messenger shifts on his feet. “I guess I will require your hospitality after all.”
Brian gives the royal messenger a smug smile. But despite his state, Brian offers the messenger his left hand. “Of course.”
The royal messenger sheepishly reaches out with his right hand and grasps Brian’s left in appreciation. I smile, glad for the messenger’s change of heart.
What a mess of a day! While no one from Inizion had been killed, many were wounded, out of sheer lack of experience according to Brian. “We aren’t warriors,” he admits to me. His hand now rests in a sling, helping to direct people as he follows Mom and me around.
I try not to think about the bandits that had been injured but still lived—those people had been dragged away from Inizion and executed. We were too small to save them, and they had turned their hand against us and so condemned themselves to death, according to many people and according to the law. But it still makes me sick, thinking about the female bandit whose eyes had held so many fears and worries and regrets.
It’s the end of the day before I’m wrapping up, tending to one of the soldiers who had volunteered to go last, his left thumb disjointed from the use of his shield. After the battle the soldiers had removed their armor, though they look little less imposing even without the glinting platemail. They’re tall, muscular men, their clothes underneath as well put-together as their armor, and they retain their weapons, perhaps out of habit or fear of returning bandits, or maybe even protocol. Still, it’s good to see that there are people under those suits.
“That’s a pretty song you’re singing,” the soldier I’m fixing up says.
Surprised, I glance up at him. I hadn’t realized I was humming. “It’s one that Mom sings to me.”
The soldier glances at Mom. “You mean the one they call Demetria?”
“Yes,” I say. The man doesn’t point out that she has fair skin and I’m dark-skinned. Maybe he thinks I took after my father. Or maybe he realizes I’m adopted and doesn’t think that’s a problem.
“And you’re Estelle,” the man says.
“Yes, sir.” I look up at his face again, recognizing his eyes. “Thank you for saving me earlier.”
The soldier gives me a warm smile. He looks close to Mom’s age, with just a bit of gray coming in along the sides of his blonde hair. “Happy to help such a beautiful and kind-hearted young lady as yourself,” the man says. “I’m Warin.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
“It’s nice to meet you too.”
Wiping her hands on a cloth, Mom comes to stand beside me as I finish wrapping Warin’s hand in a wrap. “How are you feeling?” Mom asks the soldier.
“Great, with you and your daughter’s care,” Warin says cheerily. “You have a talented and caring daughter here.”
Mom smiles at me. “That I do. And did I hear right—are you the soldier that saved my daughter earlier?”
“Well—” Warin starts to say.
Mom interrupts him by wrapping her arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
Warin’s cheeks are a little flushed when my Mom pulls back, and he scratches the back of his head. “I’m happy to help. It’s why I joined the army.”
I wonder why he’s only a foot soldier—he seems like he cares enough to have been promoted to at least some sort of officer status, and clearly he has skill, too.
Mom taps me on the shoulder. “If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you, Estelle.”
“Sure thing,” I say.
“Thank you,” Warin says to me, and to my Mom.
“And thank you,” I say. We share another smile before I follow Mom outside Nadim’s tavern, which had been hastily converted into an extended hospital after the attack. As soon as we’re just behind the building, Mom turns and throws her arms around me.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” Mom whispers. Then she sobs into my shoulder.
Tears fill my eyes as I hold onto my Mom, thanking Ariadna that I’m still here to hug her.
Tamara Rivers 
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