Elora Wilde's Arc

Chapter 5 of 9

They came through the door of the cottage near dawn. The fox lay where Elora had left her, curled on a folded blanket at the end of the counter. Her flank rose and fell in shallow lifts. Elora set the book on a chair by the hearth and washed her hands in the basin. Rowan stood in the doorway with his pack still on. She had never asked another person into this work. She looked at him, at the scar down his cheek, and made her choice. "Wash up," she said. "I'll show you how to mix the paste." She laid the herbs out on the counter in the order they went in. Yarrow first, torn small. Then comfrey leaf, then woundwort, then a shaving of marsh mallow root. She showed him how to press each one against the stone with the pestle before adding the next, so the oils came out slow. Rowan watched her hands and copied them. He asked one question about the root and then no more. His fingers were steadier than she expected. While he ground, she opened the book. She had spent the walk home deciding. A bear-warden was too much. A grove-ward was too much. Near the back she found a smaller rite, three lines long, for calling a guide-spirit in the shape of a bird. The offering was one drop of blood and one breath spoken over an open palm. A safe first call. Small enough to close again if the forest answered wrong. She stepped to the hearth and pricked her thumb with a needle. She pressed the drop into her palm and spoke the words on the page. Her voice shook on the first line and held on the second. Behind her, Rowan lifted the paste in two fingers and began to work it into the fox's wound with a care she had not taught him. The fox did not flinch. The air above Elora's hand thickened. Points of light gathered there, like water beading on glass, and drew into the shape of a small bird. Its feathers were pale blue and shot through with white sparks. It settled on her wrist. It did not weigh anything. It looked at her once, and she felt the look go all the way through her chest, and knew it had chosen her and would not leave. She turned. Rowan had stopped with his hand on the fox's flank. He was staring at the bird, and then at her. His jaw was set the way it got before he said something hard. He did not say it. He only nodded, once, the way a man nods when a thing is decided for good. She watched him lower his eyes and go back to the wound, moving the paste in slow circles, and something in her chest turned over and stayed turned. The fox slept. The bird stayed on her wrist. The book lay open on the chair, and the next rite waited on the next page.