Lyra Fernbrook's Arc

Chapter 7 of 18

Dorian could not walk back to the ridge. His ribs bled through the linen before they reached the porch step, and his weight came heavier on Lyra's shoulder with each try. She made a choice. She would not keep him in the cottage where the wards had just been tested. She took him instead to the small stone building she used for sick animals and hurt travelers, a short walk through the ferns behind her home. She called it her haven. The drake flew ahead and landed on the mossy roof to watch the trees. Inside, she cleared the long bench and laid him down. She lit the hearth and hung fresh linen to warm. She opened her satchel and set the bundles in a row: yarrow for the deep cut, comfrey for the bruised ribs, willow for the pain. She worked without speaking. She cleaned the gash above his ear, stitched it with three neat pulls, and packed the rib wound again. She hummed the same low note she had used on the porch. The bleeding stopped. His breathing evened out. He slept. She stayed at his side for three days. She changed the dressings each morning. She fed him broth when he woke and made him drink the willow tea even when he grumbled. The drake slept on the windowsill with one eye open. Lyra kept the lyre within reach at all times, its warded frame catching the firelight. She did not play it. She listened to the woods instead. Twice she heard branches shift in a pattern that was not wind. Both times the drake lifted its head, and both times the sound moved off. On the second night Dorian was strong enough to sit up. She brought him bread and sat on the stool beside the bench. He watched her hands work a fresh knot in the linen. "You could have left me on the ridge," he said. "I would have bled out." "I know," she said. He reached and put his hand over hers. She let it stay. Neither of them spoke for a while. When she looked up his eyes were on her hair, on the green threads in it, and she felt something settle in her chest that she had not felt before. She did not pull her hand back. On the third morning he stood without help. He tested his ribs, winced, and nodded. "I can hold a hammer," he said. She walked him to the door. The drake landed on his shoulder and huffed pollen at his ear, and he almost smiled. They stepped outside together. On the flat stone by the doorway lay a single black feather, longer than her forearm, its shaft wet as if it had just been pulled from something living. The drake hissed. Dorian's hand went to his belt. Lyra picked up the feather. It was warm. Whatever had left it had waited three days for them to come out.