Winter Queen(4)

The girl took off at a run.

Ilyenna gave the bell rope one good tug. It clanged three times before swaying silently. Within seconds, women were pouring from their homes. “The clanmen are coming with injured Argons,” she announced. “Load up the sleighs with food, blankets, and medicine for double our number of men. Anyone willing to drive a sleigh or heal the injured, dress warm and wait for me at the bell. The rest of you make a hearty stew and be ready to help in any way you can.”

Lifting up her skirt, Ilyenna hurried to the clan house. Great-aunt Enrid met her at the door, disapproval on her stout face.

“Let the others go,” the elderly woman said. “A clan mistress mustn’t put herself at unnecessary risk.”

Ilyenna wanted to remind Enrid just who the clan mistress was, but she’d be better served to ask the burrs not to grow on her mother’s grave. Practicality was the way with Enrid, not arguments or whining. “They may need me. And Otrok didn’t say anything about Tyrans.” She pulled on her fur-lined gloves and tugged a knitted cap over her braid.

Enrid pressed her lips together and stood with her fists on her hips. Gnarled and bent over as she was, she possessed a stubbornness that made her a formidable woman. “I heard him. Didn’t sound like he saw much of anything, really. And your father wouldn’t approve.”

“No,” Ilyenna admitted. “He wouldn’t. But Father’s not here. He left me in charge, and I’ve made my decision.” She held her breath. Enrid no longer held the authority to stop her, but she looked determined to try. “Enrid,” she said more softly, “what if Bratton or Father’s injured? You know I’m the best healer.”

Sagging in defeat, Enrid seemed to age twenty years before Ilyenna’s eyes. “If you must.”

Ilyenna snatched her medicine satchel and hurried out before Enrid could change her mind. Eighteen grim-faced women in nine sleighs greeted her. The rest of the village’s horses were tied to the backs of the sleighs. The women’s hands gripped the reins, and each wore a knife strapped over her coat. Most of these women had helped Ilyenna with the healing during times of sickness.

She nodded to gray-haired Sharina as she slid in beside her. The woman had finished Ilyenna’s education in birthing after her mother’s death. Sharina snapped the reins and the horse took off, the runners slicing smoothly through the snow.

By midday, Ilyenna caught sight of the first dark figures struggling up the curving road. The Argons were easy to recognize. If their clan belts hadn’t given them away, their appearance would have. Even from a distance she could see most were disheveled; some had their feet wrapped in cloth instead of shoes. The worst hunched painfully over a horse’s withers or were carried between stretchers.

Ilyenna’s father had left with just under four hundred men. Ilyenna could only guess there were at least double that in Argons—mostly women and children. The occasional man she did see wasn’t in good shape. Usually, he rode a Shyle horse. Sometimes only the hands of the men and women surrounding him kept him in the saddle.

The village would double in size in one day. In the throes of winter. How could Ilyenna possibly provide healing for so many? Feed so many?

As the two groups drew closer, she stood in the sleigh, searching for her father and brother in the mass of people, but they were as thick as winter wool. Her stomach twisted into knots. Father and Bratton should’ve been here to greet the sleighs. Then she caught sight of Konj, her father’s enormous horse. But it wasn’t her father who rode it. Instead, a pale Argon clutched his ribs and winced with every step the horse took.

As the other women fanned out to help load the most severely wounded, Ilyenna launched herself over the side of the sleigh and rushed to the man riding her father’s horse. “Where’s Clan Chief Otec?” she asked breathlessly.

Straining through the pain, the man tried to turn in the saddle, but then shuddered and simply tipped his head. “When he fell off his horse, they put him in a stretcher.”

The words knocked the breath from Ilyenna’s lungs. “Fell off his . . .” She whirled in place, her eyes frantically scanning the nearby stretchers. A hand fell on her shoulder. A heavy hand, just like her father’s. Her heart aching with hope, she turned.

But it wasn’t her father. It was Bratton. Bloody bandages wrapped various parts of his body, and one side of his face was swollen and bruised.

With a small cry, she reached for him, but he held her back. “He needs you, Ilyenna.”

With a quick nod, she followed him as he limped through the crowd. Two of her clanmen, bloody and battered themselves, carried a heavy stretcher between them. She fell in beside them, hardly believing the man inside was her father. His skin was ashy and sagging, as if he hadn’t moved in hours. “What happened?”

Bratton winced with pain as he struggled to keep up with them. “Took a war hammer to the side of his head.”

Ilyenna stepped into the sleigh ahead of the men and helped them load her father. Usually, Ilyenna was the calm one, the one who took charge while other people panicked. But seeing her father being jostled into the sleigh and not so much as stirring . . . She took a deep, biting breath of winter air and forced her mind to still.

She unwrapped his bandages, revealing a wicked knot that began just below his bald spot. The skin had split, and blood crusted the wound. “Father! Father, can you hear me!” He didn’t respond. Prying apart his eyelids, she checked his pupils. One was wide, the other narrow.

His brain was swelling.

“Not good,” she muttered. Desperate to try anything, she slapped his cheeks. Nothing. Knowing it needed cleaning anyway, she poured some whiskey on his wound. He moaned and shifted a little. She nearly cried out in relief. She barely noticed when the sleigh moved forward. Instead, she gave him five spoonfuls of dandelion tincture to reduce his swelling from the inside. Then she bandaged his head with a compress of mountain daisies, packing it on the outside with snow to help reduce the swelling.

After checking her father for more injuries, she realized there wasn’t much else she could do. She tried to rub some warmth into his cold hands, silently hoping death would stay away.

“Ilyenna,” Sharina said gently. “There’s a little one what needs your help.”

Forcing herself to turn away from her father, Ilyenna saw a girl of about seven who cradled her arm as tenderly as if she held a newborn. Her face was gray, her breathing quick and shallow. Reluctantly leaving her father, Ilyenna crawled over to where the girl sat. “What’s your name?”

“Dekle,” the girl answered weakly.

Ilyenna gently reached for her arm. “Can I see?” Reluctantly, Dekle held it out. It was a mass of swollen, black tissue. A hard knot revealed where the jagged edges of the bone pressed against the swelling muscle. “What happened?”

With a shudder, the girl looked away. “When I wouldn’t come out of the wood pile, a Tyran hit me with the butt end of his axe.”

Rage flashed hot in Ilyenna’s breast.

Balance, she tried to remind herself. For every innocent, there is also evil.

But the adage did nothing to dissuade her anger. She gave the girl a strong dose of dandelion tincture, but she didn’t dare wait for the alcohol to take full effect. The girl’s eyes were starting to droop—a dangerous sign. “I’m going to have to set it.” If I don’t, you’re going to die, she thought.

Dekle winced. “You’re going to hurt me?”

Ilyenna hesitated before discreetly motioning for Sharina to come help. “Sometimes a healer has to hurt in order to heal.”

Dekle violently shook her head and shrank into the sleigh bed.

Ilyenna was sorry, but she didn’t have time for this. “You may as well be brave, Dekle. We’ll do it either way.”

Wide-eyed, the girl looked between both healers. She must have believed they meant it, for she finally bit down on the blanket and lay back in Sharina’s arms.

Ilyenna nodded to Sharina. “Hold her.” To the girl, she said, “It’s going to hurt, Dekle, but I need you to hold as still as you can.” Dekle nodded. Pushing down on the break while pulling on the girl’s hand, Ilyenna felt the bone snap back into place. She fought the nausea that rose within her as the girl arched her back and screamed.

With those screams ringing in her ears, Ilyenna probed the break to see if it had lined up.

Dekle jerked away, clutching her arm and sobbing.

“Dekle,” Ilyenna said softly, “I need to make sure it’s lined up. I know it hurts, but after I’m done you can rest.”

But Dekle was done cooperating. Sharina had to lay herself across the girl so Ilyenna could finish inspecting the break. Satisfied, she allowed the girl to cradle the arm against her stomach. Sharina helped Ilyenna apply a compress of mountain daisy, wrap it with heavy strips of canvas, splint it, and use hemp as a sling. Then they gave Dekle another dose of dandelion tincture. After Dekle, there were more breaks to set and wrap, ointments to rub into wounds, dressings to change, and tinctures to hand out.



Ilyenna regularly checked on her father. She gave him another dose of dandelion tincture and stuffed more snow in his wound. But aside from the occasional moan, there was no change in his condition. Blowing on her numb hands, Ilyenna realized they were crossing into Shyleholm. She’d been so busy she hadn’t realized how far they’d come. She jumped down from the sleigh. All these people would have to sleep somewhere, and she was going to displace her clan to do it. With a suppressed sigh, she jogged on ahead.