The Enchanter Heir

Chapter Twenty-six

Survivor

Voices were calling to her, as if from a great distance. Hands poked and prodded her—none too gently. Burning hands. Relentless hands. Needles. Liquid flame, running into her veins.

Clamoring voices. Harsh, squabbling voices. Strangers.

She’s not responding. Some kind of poison. Or a toxin. Resistant to treatment. She’s going to die, and if she does we’ve got nothing. We need to bring in a healer.

No. Absolutely not. Nobody can know she’s alive.

Well, if you don’t get someone, she won’t be for long. Gabriel Mandrake is the most gifted and knowledgeable herbalist and healer in the country. He’s right here in town.

Emma opened her eyes then, and looked into their shocked faces. Strident voices washed over her, but none of the voices she wanted to hear. She closed her eyes again.

After a while, someone new came—someone whose hands soothed her, who gave her bright liquids, one teaspoon at a time . . . liquids that tingled on her tongue, then disappeared, without her ever swallowing. Someone who sponged off her body and cooled her flushed cheeks. Who called her back from the precipice onto solid ground.

And, then . . . muttering. Unhappy muttering. Outshouted by a new voice of authority.

No you cannot question her. Not even for a few minutes. I don’t care what you think she knows. Do you want me to save her life or not?

When Emma opened her eyes again, she was lying in a small, spare room with a tile floor and rough, plaster-and-timbered walls. A fire burned merrily on the hearth under a mantel layered with pumpkins, gourds, and dried flowers. Candles burned in glass jars, emitting a fragrance of cinnamon and pine. Sunlight spilled through French doors into the room from a small garden, studded with dry seed heads and brilliant autumn grasses. Just outside, birds squabbled around a feeder.

Emma’s vision blurred, then doubled, then seemed to go back to normal.

The doors stood slightly open, admitting cold, clean air. It felt good against her heated skin. She rested back against the pillows, her head all at once too heavy to lift.

She shifted under a fluffy comforter in a single bed—the only furniture save two chairs, one on either side of the bed, and a small bedside table with a lamp. Lined up on the table were bottles and jars of remedies and sickroom supplies.

Have I been sick? I don’t remember being sick. But her mind practically creaked from disuse.

She focused in on the bottles, hoping that they would give her a clue, but they were unlabeled. The room was painted in soothing, neutral tones, save for the jewel colors of the medicines, whatever they were.

A girl was sitting in a chair beside the bed, sound asleep. Emma studied her with interest. She was solidly built, tawny-skinned, her black hair tied back with a bandanna. She wore jeans, high-top sneakers, and a faded Cleveland Agora T-shirt that exposed muscled arms. A plaid flannel shirt hung on the back of her chair. Emma guessed she was close to her own age. A stranger.

Or was she? There was something familiar about her. . . .

Emma had no idea where she was and no recollection of how she had come to be there.

She also had a raging headache. Reaching up, she probed the back of her head with her fingers. Her hair had been clipped short over a small, tender area. A ridge of skin told her she’d had a gash in her forehead that had been repaired.

Did I fall? I don’t remember falling.

She resisted the temptation to close her eyes, leave these questions behind, and return to the vivid intensity of her dreams. A boy, rimed in light. A kiss that arrowed into her very core. Dreams or memories? She didn’t know.

“H-hello?” Emma’s voice sounded loud in her ears, rough and blunt from disuse. Until she spoke, she didn’t actually know if anything would come out.

The girl’s eyes sprang open, and she straightened guiltily. “Oh! You’re awake! I thought you might be close to waking, so I didn’t want to leave you alone. I was just resting my eyes.”

“Wh-who are you?”

“I’m Natalie Diaz. A healer.” She looked at Emma hopefully. “I’m Emma Greenwood,” Emma said.

Natalie grinned, as if Emma had passed some kind of test by remembering her own name.

“I’m sorry . . . but do I know you?”

Natalie shook her head. “No reason you should know me. I’m the one that’s been looking after you. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you open your eyes.”

“Why? Am I sick?”

“Sick or injured or something.” Natalie sat down on the edge of Emma’s bed. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

Emma touched her forehead again. “Did I hit my head?” she guessed.

“Seems like it. Or someone hit it for you.” Natalie paused again, waiting for Emma to fill in.

But Emma had nothing to say. It was like her head was full of molasses with only the occasional thought forcing its way through. “I—I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I’m not usually like this.”

“Give yourself a break,” Natalie said. “You’ve been really sick. Sometimes it takes your brain a while to wake up.” She touched Emma’s forehead with her fingertips. Her face seemed kind, but there was a wariness in her eyes, as if she were standing on shifting ground. “Are you able to sit up?”

“I—I think so.” Flattening her palms against the bed, Emma pushed until she was upright.

“Good job. Any dizziness? Vision changes? Pain anywhere?”

Emma nodded. “I’m dizzy. Some double vision. And I—I’m kind of sick to my stomach.”

Natalie took her pulse and tested her reflexes. “Do you remember what month it is?”

“Well. Last I remember, it was mid-October. Right?” Natalie grinned in relief and approval.

“How long . . .” Emma hesitated, then gave up and spit out the standard question: “How long have I been out?”

“It’s been a week,” Natalie said. “I’ve been here the past five days. You turned a corner of sorts yesterday.”

“Does Sonny Lee know?” Emma asked. Pain trickled up from a reservoir deep inside. “No. I forgot. He’s dead.”

“Who is Sonny Lee? Was he with you when you got hurt?” Natalie asked softly.

Emma shook her head. “He was my grandfather. He died back in the summer. He—he fell.” She rubbed her forehead.

Were the Greenwoods prone to falling? “I’ve been staying with Tyler.”

“Tyler? ”

“My father.”

Natalie reached out and cradled Emma’s hands between her own, looking into her eyes. “Look, you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I’m here to help you, not to hurt you . . . do you understand?”

No! I don’t understand anything, Emma wanted to say. But she nodded anyway.

Natalie leaned toward her so she could whisper in Emma’s ear. “When the wizards come back, we won’t be able to talk.

So if there’s something you want to tell me that you don’t want them to hear, say it now.”

The wizards? Emma took a deep breath in and out, trying to calm her hammering heart. The wizards would be here soon. Tyler had mentioned wizards. That they were dangerous. That her mother had worked for them, was afraid of them.

Should she admit any of this to Natalie Diaz? Could she trust her?

“You’re a—a healer?”

Natalie nodded. “A sorcerer savant.”

Savant! Where had she heard that word before?

“Not a wizard?”

“Not a wizard. Now . . . did they do this to you?” Natalie said, her voice low and fierce. “The wizards. Did they hurt you? That’s what I want to know. They refused to tell me exactly what happened. It’s like blindfolding me and then asking me to do surgery.”

Emma tried to focus—to concentrate. But it was as if somebody had swiped a huge eraser through her mind, obliterating a landscape of memories. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t remember.” She looked around, trying to regain her bearings. “Where am I, anyway? In—in a clinic? A hospital?”

“You’re in a private home,” Natalie said. “In Bratenahl Village. Up on the lake. It belongs to Rowan DeVries. Do you know him?”

DeVries. She did know the name. But from where? “I’m sorry,” Emma said. “The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know why.” She hesitated. “But if I’ve been that sick, then shouldn’t I be seeing a doctor? In a hospital?” It sounded blunt, harsher than she intended. “I—I mean, you seem like you know what you’re doing, but—”

“A doctor wouldn’t do you any good,” Natalie said. “I know a lot about poisons, so when the wizards asked Mr. Mandrake if he’d come take a look, he sent me instead.”

Poisons? Toxins? Emma flattened herself in the bed, as if she could disappear into the bedclothes. Maybe she was still dreaming. “Wait a minute! You think somebody poisoned me?”

“Well . . .” Natalie cleared her throat. “We don’t know. They said that your father was a sorcerer. Tell me: did he keep poisons, herbals, and the like on hand? They say they didn’t find anything like that at your house, but . . .” Her voice trailed off as she took in Emma’s expression.

“Of course they didn’t!” Emma’s voice trembled. “And they won’t!”

Natalie seemed taken aback by Emma’s reaction. “I’m not calling your father careless, but sometimes sorcerers build up a resistance and they don’t realize just how dangerous—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emma said, rubbing her aching head. Her rule was not to say anything to the authorities. Natalie didn’t look like the authorities, but it was best to play it safe. “My father didn’t poison me. He’s a musician. He’s in a band. My mother is dead. Until a few months ago, I lived with my grandfather in Memphis. I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”

Unbidden, Sonny Lee’s words came back to her. You need to get out of Memphis, before they come after you.

“Have you been having symptoms?”

“Symptoms?”

“Even savants who don’t have symptoms at first often develop them later on, as they age. Savants who’ve never been in treatment come to us in their teens, when they begin to have problems. That was what happened with me. I lived with my aunt until I was twelve, then I went to the Anchorage.” Natalie paused and, when Emma said nothing, asked, “Were you under treatment?”

“Treatment?” Emma figured it was safe to just repeat the last word Natalie said.

“Are you on meds that might have interacted with something else you took? Maybe street drugs of some kind?”

Emma’s ironwood spine stiffened. “I’m not using any street drugs, and I’m not having any symptoms, and everything was basically just fine until my grandfather died. Since then, things have gone downhill real fast.”

Natalie glanced at the door, then leaned in again, speaking low and fast, “Don’t worry. The wizards don’t know you’re a savant, because they can’t read stones. They can’t even tell for sure that you’re gifted.”

Emma stared at her. “What? What’s that you keep calling me?”

“A savant. See, that’s why I’m here. I have experience treating savants.”

“I’m just lost,” Emma said wearily. “Tyler told me about the—the magical guilds, but he never mentioned—what you call it—savants.”

Natalie frowned, as if puzzled. “You were at Thorn Hill, right?”

How does she know that? “I guess I was, yes,” Emma admitted. “For a while. I guess I left before the . . . before the massacre.”

“You did? But . . . you have a savant stone.”

“I can’t help that,” Emma said wearily. Wishing there was at least one question she could answer.

“Do you mind?” Gripping Emma’s wrist, Natalie pulled Emma’s right sleeve up to expose her wrist and forearm. Then sat back, looking confused. “Huh. You don’t have the tattoo,” she said.

“The tattoo?”

“All of us have these.” Natalie extended her arm, displaying an inked design of flowers.

Something tugged at Emma’s memory, something from childhood. “I think I remember seeing those when I was a kid,” she said. “Everyone had one but me.” She’d been envious of the others with the flower tattoos.

“Everyone at Thorn Hill had them,” Natalie said. “But you don’t.”

“You were at Thorn Hill, too?”

Natalie nodded. “I know this is a really bad time, to be finding all this out. But—I’m warning you—the wizards are in a hurry to talk to you. I don’t think I can keep them away much longer.” She used the word wizard like a curse.

Apprehension settled over Emma’s heart, pressing all of the air out of her lungs. “My father’s dead, isn’t he?”

Natalie hesitated. “I don’t know for sure, but if he was with you, he may be. The wizards said that you were the only survivor.”

“Survivor of what?”

“Damned if I know,” Natalie growled. “I was hoping you might tell me, because they aren’t talking.”

“But . . . what do they care? What’s their interest?”

“Apparently, wizards were among the dead, and you’re the only witness.” Natalie leaned in close, spoke in a low voice. “Is there any other family? Anyone else I can call? Somebody who might help you?”

“No,” Emma whispered, a great well of misery churning in her middle. “I have nobody.”

Just then she heard footsteps, rapidly approaching. They both stared at the door. Natalie leaned close, speaking into Emma’s ear. “Listen to me,” she said. “I’ll try and buy you some time. Don’t be afraid to tell them you don’t remember anything, if that’s the case. If they think you don’t know anything, they might let you go.”

Emma clutched at Natalie’s arm. “Are you saying I’m a prisoner?”

Natalie hesitated. “From what I’ve seen and heard, I believe you may be.”