Corvina Blackwood's Arc

Chapter 5 of 5

By the time Corvina reached the edge of town, her arm had gone wrong. The burn had spread past the first blisters. Red streaks crawled toward her elbow. Her sleeve stuck to the wound. When she tried to lift her hand, the fingers shook. She leaned against a fence and made herself breathe. The rite needed a chant, long and exact, held steady from start to finish. She could barely hold a thought. Sable pressed against her neck, silent. The binding fist tightened in her chest and did not care that she was hurt. She went to the only person who might know a cure. Arthur Dust had found the phoenix for her. He read the grief people left in old books, and the forest people feared what else he knew. She found him outside the library, kneeling in a tangle of wild blossoms against the wall. Dark flowers and pale ones grew through the thorns together. He did not look up. "You're burned," he said. Not a question. "I can't do the chant like this," Corvina said. "I need it stopped." Arthur stood. He looked at her arm, then at Sable. "Phoenix fire. It keeps burning after the flame is gone." He pointed at the garden. "Not here. These bite." He led her around the building. Behind it grew a second cluster, small and bright. The petals glowed with a soft light, pink and gold and blue. Even the dim air near them felt lighter. Arthur knelt and cut a handful at the stems. "Chew these," he said. "Then press the pulp on the burn. It pulls the fire out. Hurts worse before it helps." Corvina chewed. The taste was sweet and sharp. She spat the pulp into her palm and pushed it against the raw skin. The pain flared white. She bit down on a cry. Sable stirred and nipped her ear, as if to steady her. She held the pulp there and counted her breaths. The heat under her skin began to fade. The red streaks pulled back toward the wound. Her fingers stopped shaking. She flexed them. They obeyed. "It's leaving," she said. Arthur nodded. He pressed the rest of the flowers into her good hand. "Keep these. Fresh, they work. Dried, they're nothing." She tested her voice on the first line of the chant. It came out even. Strong enough. She could perform the rite now. Arthur watched her, then looked past her shoulder toward the forest. "The thing that burns," he said. "It came to my window again. The guide by the glass was warm." He met her eyes. "It knows where you're going. It's close." Corvina closed her hand around the flowers. The arm would hold. But the fire-starter was no longer behind her on the slope. It was ahead of her now, between her and the rite she still had to finish.