Nym's Arc

Chapter 35 of 41

Nym knelt in the dirt beside the wounded pegasus. Its black wing dragged limp, torn to the bone, blood dark on its flank. Tears ran down her face. She had killed the hunter, but the horse could not fly, and the mountain waited days away. She thought of the light inside her. It had mended a dead flower once. It had brought her mother back from the dark. She pressed her wet hands to the ragged wing and closed her eyes. White light poured from her palms. It spread across the torn feathers and sank into the wound. The green cat crept close and pressed against her ankle. Its warmth steadied her breathing. She did not force the magic. She held the calm and let it flow. Titus threw his arm across his eyes. "It's too bright," he said. The clearing filled with white. The pegasus went still under her hands. Drasila stood at the fire and watched, her pale eyes wide. She had freed Nym's light, healed Drasila's death-sleep, but she had never seen it close a living wound. Under Nym's palms the torn flesh drew together. The bleeding stopped. New feathers rose black and whole where the beast had ripped them away. The pegasus lifted its head. Its wing flexed once, twice, then folded clean against its side. The light faded. Nym opened her eyes and stared at her own hands. "I healed it," she said. Her voice shook. "I didn't know I could." Drasila crossed the clearing and knelt beside her. She took Nym's hands and turned them over. The rune marks glowed faint beneath the skin. "The light unmakes," she said softly. "But it also mends. I carried it three hundred years and never once mended flesh with it." She looked at her daughter with something close to fear. "You are stronger than I was." Titus laughed, half in wonder. He ran his hand along the pegasus's neck. The horse stamped and beat both wings. Wind rushed over the fire. "He can fly," Titus said. "We reach the arch by dawn." Nym should have felt joy. Instead a cold thought settled in her chest. If her light could mend a dying thing, it could do far more than the book had shown. The prophecy said she would unmake Zarool and burn to death doing it. But she had just poured that same power out and stood unharmed. She looked at Drasila. "Mother. If it heals as well as it unmakes, then maybe the book is wrong about how it ends." Drasila did not answer. Her face closed like a door. She rose and turned toward the ridge. "Pack the camp," she said. "We fly at first light." Nym stared after her. Her mother knew something she would not say. The wing was healed. The road was open again. But a new question burned brighter than the light, and this time she meant to ask it.