Six and a half paces. Annet’s target was a small square of parchment tacked to a splintered wooden sign post, slightly tilted to one side, six and a half paces down the narrow street. She took a deep breath and placed her index finger on the blade in her hand. The simple touch of cool steel against her skin made her smile. In times such as these, she found it important to appreciate the small things.
Without hesitation, she pulled back and loosed the knife in an overhand swing. One quarter turn and the blade plunged into the wood with a satisfying thunk. She turned with a smirk to the person leaning against the wall. Lethe rolled her eyes, unimpressed.
“I’ve seen you hit that same mark at twice the distance,” she said. “Your technique with the quarter turn is getting better, though. Have you been practicing without me?”
“Lethe, You know I would never enjoy the finer points in life without you,” Annet grinned.
The alleyway behind the City Guard’s barracks was dimly lit with a few oil lamps, the last of the evening light already beginning to fade away.
Lethe laughed, then pushed off from the wall and sauntered over to where Annet stood. She wore dark trousers and a cream shirt with puffed sleeves covered by a fitted vest, small patterns of golden embroidery decorating the sides. Impeccable style, Annet thought, even when surrounded on all sides by an army. Typical. Her hair was dark and short, and it was styled into a messy nest atop her head in contrast with her crisp clothes. She flicked a knife from a sheath on her belt and twirled it in her hand.
“You need to keep your wrist more rigid,” Lethe said. She held up the knife in her hand to demonstrate. “With a locked wrist, you can more easily control and slow the spin. You want to do more of a motion like this.”
Lethe moved in slow motion, imitating a throw. “See? Then you are essentially ‘pushing’ the blade.”
“It feels so much weaker than my regular throw,” Annet said. She grabbed another knife from the ground where a number of them stood with their points in the dirt. The blades themselves were nearly eight inches long and honed to a sharp point.
“For now, but if you ever need to do this in a real fight, you can’t always count your paces out for the spin,” Lethe countered. “The quarter turn lets you get away with more varying distances since you don’t have to count your spins.”
Annet’s smile vanished. “You don’t really think?...” She trailed off, unable to say the words.
“We just need to be prepared,” Lethe said. “We’ve got to be realistic about these things, Annet. You don’t want me to baby you like everyone else does.”
She was Annet’s senior by ten years, but Lethe never treated Annet as such. Annet always felt as if she were on equal footing with her, even if she was the godsforsaken Nox herself. The deadliest person with a blade in the entire city. Perhaps even all the southern province.
“No, I don’t.” Annet pursed her lips, frowning. “Your unyielding candor is your most charming quality.”
Lethe smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Look, the Antuzans do have Valla surrounded. It doesn’t look good for us. The bombings are getting more frequent, and it’s only a matter of time before our food stores run out. But that’s why we have to be prepared.”
To emphasize her words, she turned on her heel and sent her knife sailing with precision towards the post. It sunk even deeper into the wood than Annet’s had.
“You do remember who I am, don’t you?” Annet raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, princess, did I forget to bow today?” Lethe made a show of bowing deeply, flourishing another knife with a wide, sweeping gesture.
“Stop that,” Annet nudged her playfully, sending Lethe off balance, nearly tumbling over. “You know I hate it. I didn’t mean it like that anyway,” she explained as Lethe recovered. “I only meant that the Lord Governor’s daughter isn’t getting anywhere near any of the fighting. It wouldn’t be allowed.” She shuddered. Until it’s too late. But she couldn’t say it out loud.
“You’d be safer on the front lines with Sira and me,” Lethe winked. “Honestly, we could use you. Most of the latest recruits are... well, they’re farmers. And tradespeople.”
“And me?” Annet asked pointedly.
“You were schooled by the very best.” Lethe winked, but then she sobered. “Ettie, we’re going to be fine. The King will send a battalion from the Royal Army to break the siege. We just have to hold out a few more weeks. I’m sure of it.”
“You said you weren’t going to lie to me, Lethe,” Annet said with half-seriousness.
“I mean it. If there is one thing we Vallans have, it’s an unwillingness to bend or break.” Lethe sat down on the floor of the alley and leaned against the building. She pointed to the spot beside her with silent command.
Annet sighed, but sat down. She leaned against her friend, letting her head sag onto Lethe’s shoulder. “How do you know?”
“I don’t.” Lethe turned the knife over in her hands, the blade glinting in the dim light. The steel was polished enough that Annet could see their reflection in it as it rotated. “But I will do everything within my power to make sure of it. Because that’s what we do, Ettie.”
By we, Annet knew Lethe meant the Guard.
“From Dawn’s first light to night’s dark veil,” quoted a voice from above.
Annet looked up to see Sira, clad in steel plate and a bright Vallan blue cloak, her dark braids framing her round face. A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. She rested a hand on the pommel of her sword, looking like a heroine out of a story.
“You were supposed to meet me at the hospital before dark. Lethe, I thought you promised not to distract our dear ward with these sorts of hobbies,” Sira chided, waving a hand towards the collection of knives protruding from the sign post.
“And I thought I told you that our dear ward needs to be able to defend herself,” Lethe said, but her grin broadened. “You were supposed to meet me in the square for lunch. The bread was particularly crunchy today.”
Sira’s face fell, if only slightly. “I know, but something happened to one of the wall scouts today.”
Lethe sat up a little straighter. “What?”
Sira glanced at Annet before saying, “Nothing, we can talk about it later.”
Annet frowned. She hated when they did that. Kept information from her. She was the Lord Governor’s daughter, but that title held no real power in the city until she inherited her father’s position. Sira and Lethe, on the other hand, commanded the cohorts of Day and Night respectively, responsible for the protection of the city. She looked between the two captains and shook her head.
“You two are unbelievable. You know that, right? You can tell me these things.” She stood and brushed the dirt from her skirts.
Annet caught Lethe giving Sira a knowing grin as Sira helped her stand up. “Nettie, one day you’ll be ordering everyone around and Sira and I will have retired to a quiet house in the countryside by then. Maybe somewhere along the coast. Until then, you are the one who is under our wardship, are you not?”
Annet stuck out her tongue. Of course Lethe would use her own words against her. The nature of their relationship was not so formal—it wasn’t as if her father had appointed her as their ward in any official capacity. But throughout her early adulthood, after her mother passed, over the many days, weeks, and months in which her father left her unattended, she had taken to injecting herself where she could into their duties. Her father, whether through sheer ignorance or simply gratitude that she was taken care of, allowed it to happen. And so she called herself a ward of the Guard, learning all that she could about protecting Valla. Her city.
So she wasn’t going to just plug her ears and pretend that she wasn’t important, or that she couldn’t help.
“If it was an issue I thought you could help with,” Sira interjected, adopting a placating tone, “you would be the first to know. I promise. Besides, you were supposed to help me at the hospital.”
Annet sighed. Right. The hospital. She’d gotten distracted practicing her knives, but with the constant bombings in the city, the hospitals were running out of capacity to care for the injured. And in this, Annet could help. It was one of the few things she was allowed to do to make a real difference.
“Let’s do it.” She nodded, then turned to Lethe. “Thanks for your help.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Sira asked, “Are you sure you’re up for it? You aren’t too tired?”
Annet shook her head. “I’m fine, I can do it.”
“Alright, but we can stop whenever you need. Remember what happened last time? You were out for nearly a half hour.”
She collected her knives, placing them carefully into the leather roll. “I’m ready.”
Lethe offered to tag along, but Annet knew she didn’t really mean it, and Sira told her to go home. It was difficult for Lethe to be around the victims of the siege. To her, it was a reminder of her failure to uphold her oath.
They parted ways, and Annet went with Sira to the hospital near Caelen Square, where the most recent bombings had been the worst.
An elderly doctor greeted them at the entrance to the old stone building, his bespectacled eyes kind and warm. Upon seeing Annet, he said, “Lady Finn, you are a welcome sight. I was hoping we would see you soon. Your gifts are crucial in these difficult times. And you, captain.”
“Thank you, medicer Palus. We are happy to do what we can,” said Sira.
Annet nodded her head in agreement.
“Please, come in.” Palus gestured for them to step inside. “I presume, as before, you wish to see those patients that we could do nothing for but ask the priests to come see them.”
The medicer took them through the infirmary. They passed a wall lined with patients. Heavy curtains were pulled to give most privacy, but a few other medicers worked methodically, tending to a patient near the end of the row, giving Palus a silent nod. One of the medicer’s spared a fleeting glance at Annet, but only Palus knew what Annet did when she came here. Perhaps the other’s thought she came to see victims as some sort of political demonstration.
Annet fought not to look away as they passed by the patient. A young guard whose arm bent in an unnatural direction. She went pale at the sight of bone protruding from the skin on his forearm. As the medicer’s worked, the guard stared, wide-eyed into the middle distance with an unnerving calm. Annet’s heart wrenched, then she blinked and hurried after Palus and Sira.
As he led them deeper into the infirmary down a hallway, Palus explained, “Most of the patients in our palliative ward are the victims of severe burnings from the bombings. We, of course, treat the burns as best we can to prevent infection, but in the most severe cases, we can only hope that their bodies are able to repair themselves before they succumb to the rot, or any other number of complications.”
He looked back to Annet. “Can your... gift help with this?”
She didn’t know, but she said, “Yes, I think so.”
The medicer just smiled and nodded.
The palliative ward was eerily quiet. Palus led them to the first bed, pulling back the privacy curtains. He examined a sheet on the wall. “This is Kallas Ducar. She was caught indoors during the last bombing, severe burns throughout her torso, neck, and face. Her lungs were likely damaged by the smoke. We’re keeping her on a low dose of dewblood to keep the pain down.”
Annet looked down at the woman, wrapped in clean white bandages. Only her eyes and arms were exposed. Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell slowly. The serenity brought on by the dewblood was the most the city’s best medicer’s could do for her. That, and pray to the gods they no longer believed in.
Palus thanked them again and to let him know if they needed anything before leaving.
Sira placed her hand on Annet’s shoulder. “Do you want me to stay this time?”
“No, it works better if I’m alone.” Truthfully, she hated doing it alone, but it was more difficult if she had an audience. “I’ll be okay,” she promised.
Sira stepped back and closed the curtains, leaving Annet alone with the patient.
Annet reached out and touched the women’s hand lightly. Her skin was ice-cold and clammy. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to help you.”
She washed her hands with a small bar of soap and water in a stone basin set in the corner of the space, then set about unwrapping the women’s bandages. It took nearly twenty minutes to unravel. She gasped as she saw the wounds underneath, black spots of charred flesh surrounded by angry raw skin. Her hands shook slightly as she peeled the last of the cloth from the women’s body, discarding the rags.
With the wrappings removed, Annet saw the full extent of the damage. The poor woman was going to die. She would die. The medicer’s would make it as painless as possible, but it didn’t take someone with medical training to know that there was nothing that could be done to treat burns this extensive.
The woman coughed then, a horrible rasping wheeze that rattled deep in her chest, as if she suddenly could not get enough air. Her eyes cracked open and met with Annet’s and widened as much as could be managed.
“You,” she croaked in surprise. “The Lady Finn.”
The woman, Kallas, reached out as Annet approached, and she let her take her hand in an astonishingly strong grip.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Annet said. “Just close your eyes.”
Kallas did as she commanded, and Annet let go of her hand. “Just focus your breathing, and listen to my voice.”
Annet took a deep breath. This would be the fourth time she’d come to the hospital and done this. The fourth time, she’d use her gift for something meaningful. Something that actually helped people. Even her father could not deny that from her. He knew his people were suffering, and he couldn’t order her to keep her talents hidden any longer.
She reached out, fingers splayed over Kallas’ body, hovering by mere inches over her ruined flesh. And this time her hands did not shake. She reached into her mind, to the hazy shores of some ancient land, where the words had first come to her in her dreams one summer night as a child. She wrenched those words from that place, to the forefront of her conscious as she spoke them. Even as she spoke, the sounds filled the air and then were gone. The surrounding air shimmered. She could feel it coalesce. Small pockets of... something. Power. Small trickles that seemed to seep through the cracks in reality. The trickles of power converged, pooling into her. The power fed the words, and crackles of lightning formed at her fingertips, popping with energy and bright flashes of light.
The lightning flickered from her fingertips across Kallas’ body, whose eyes shot open as if the sensation was overwhelming, her hands gripping the cloth sheets of the bed. But she did not scream. She just watched with wide eyes as the shimmering electricity flowed over her body. As the fibers of her flesh began to stitch back together, the charred remnants flaking as new skin grew underneath, impossibly fast. Only then did she groan, as the sinew of her neck and chin formed, and her mouth gaped wide.
Annet held her focus, channeling the trickles of power into her hands until the woman’s body was once again whole, patches of crisp skin peeling off. Then she let go, and the words slipped from her mind as swiftly as she had taken them from that place deep in her consciousness. The rivulets of power faded, and she dropped her hands, sagging from the sudden nausea and disorientation.
Sira came in shortly after, gripping Annet’s shoulders to help support her. She gasped softly. “Ettie, that’s incredible. Are you okay?”
After a few moments, Annet righted herself, the queasiness subsiding. “Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just a lot.”
Kallas let out a sob, putting her hand to her mouth. She was looking at Annet in disbelief. “Oh gods,” she cried, and her voice no longer rattled. “By the Trinity.”
Kallas sat up and put her arms around her chest, grasping her reformed skin, which was scarred and uneven in places. Annet’s gift, although powerful, could not restore injuries from nothing, instead it seemed to boost the natural healing process significantly. Tears welled in her eyes, then streamed down her face. An overwhelming sense of emotion washed over Annet, of joy and empathy and anguish all wrapped into a single feeling.
“Thank you,” Kallas sobbed. “Thank you, Lady Finn. How...?” She trailed off. She stared in disbelief at Annet and Sira, unable to form words.
“It’s alright,” Sira said. “Just rest, now. We’ll let the medicer know that you’re awake. Annet, are you sure you’re okay? We can be done for today.”
“No,” Annet said. She rubbed her face as if to clear off the rest of the sickness. “I can keep going.”
She would go as long as she could. Heal as many as she could.