been healed. In truth, part of her had begun to think of him as invincible. The ideal and perfect dragon warrior.
To see him lying in the infirmary, his pale skin nearly the same color as his waist-length silver dragon lord mane—a mane sullied and stained with streaks of blood and Gods knew what else—sent an ocean of sickness churning over her, nearly drowning her. An overpowering cloak of fear enveloped her. Fear of failing him, of not being worthy enough to save him, wrapped around her in a tight cocoon of dread.
“I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
The litany ran over and over and unbidden in Sparrow’s mind. It was only when she heard a voice beside her that she realized she’d repeated the phrase aloud.
“He is out cold, young Sparrow,” one of the elder sisters said. “We made certain of it. You’ll do fine.”
Sparrow nodded, unable to verbally acknowledge the auld woman. Then she was gone, leaving Sparrow in the room with the wounded dragon lord.
How it always had to be for her to heal.
How she always felt.
Alone.
Forcing in a breath, she exhaled it slowly, her attention hovering somewhere between his strong jaw and the vein that throbbed sporadically and wildly at the base of his throat. With him safely asleep, Sparrow could allow herself to admit he had such a strong, handsome face for an elder dragon lord. In fact, his silver hair was the only indicator of his age. Like all dragons, his body seemed enormous and strong to her, each fragment of bone surrounded by a bulging sinew of muscle. Yet unlike most of the warriors, she found the captain beautiful. His face a flawless line and arch of perfection that could have been sculpted by an artist of auld.
Flexing her fingers, she lifted them to the edge of the crisp white sheet blanketing his body. Although she dreaded seeing, she had to bare his wounds to fix them. She pulled the sheet away, a gasp falling from her lips.
Blood. The harsh copper stench of it hit her nose, making her turn her head away briefly. Until she saw his leg. Instinct had her clasping her fingers around what was left of his thigh with one hand and reaching for a gauze pad with the other. Winding the thick roll of fabric around his wound, she attempted to staunch the bleeding, alarmed at how rapidly the bandage filled with dark crimson.
Closing her eyes, she decided to heal his torn abdomen first. Sparrow closed off all emotions, all sensations and zeroed in on his heartbeat. Although low, it thumped strong and constant, like a metronome. Inhaling, she let the power pour through her, allowing the flood of healing energy to flow into him on the exhale.
Beneath her open palms, invisible hands lifted the ripped and jagged tissue, ligaments sewed tight. The top layer of skin melted into a full unit once again. The thin line where a weapon had obviously entered his cavity dissolved, as if someone had taken an eraser to the mark, removing any evidence that such a wound had ever existed.
Without breaking her concentration, she moved her hands lower to his leg. A flood of heat poured from her into the warrior beneath. The energy within her pumped into him with strident force, for minutes, then the better part of an hour. Until her hands shook. Until fatigue draped over her like a wet cloak, slowing her movements, corking her energy flow.
Panting, Sparrow let her hands fall away, swiping the back of one along her forehead and the steady beads of sweat accumulating there. She’d fixed the massive wound on his abdomen. But her gaze fastened on the useless flesh and bone of his leg in muted concession. Her heart and spirit crumbled at the truth laid out in blood and bone before her.
She couldn’t save it.
She closed her eyes, dropping her chin to her chest. This could have been her chance to prove to the higher council that the position of resident healer was not a worthless one. That it deserved to be reinstated. Yet she was helpless to do anything other than saw off what was left of his leg, effectively handing this proud man a life any warrior feared more than death, tossing her dreams to the wind along with the limb to the dogs.
“Dammit.” She slapped her hand down on the table.
He groaned and her focus instantly swept up to his face. Sweat beaded on his skin. His mouth moved, his inhalations sharp and ragged.
She looked at the dragon lord beneath her. An errant thought, a plan whispered through her mind before she could stop it. Images, pictures from old texts and her father’s notebook flashed in her mind along with one thought.
I can’t heal him, but I can fix him.
Sparrow moved to her office with renewed purpose. The warrior needed her help, and by the gods she was going to give it to him. Her father might have failed the flock. But perhaps he had taught her how to save one in the process.
Once she had collected and sorted everything she needed, she cracked open a timeworn leather book to the exact page she needed. After rereading a few things, she stared at the unconscious warrior and tried to remember the ancient words she’d practiced all her life for just a moment like this one.
Fear coiled around her. Maybe she couldn’t do this. Maybe she was meant for a life of books, research not practicum. Maybe it was as all the elders whispered when they thought she wasn’t listening…that she undoubtedly had some of her father’s genius and gift. But perhaps she had some of his madness, as well.
Sparrow glanced at the golden rods and pins beside her and back at the warrior. Desire to prove herself closed her eyes. The clawing need to help the captain made her focus. Exhaling, she opened her eyes and her palms hovered over the mortal wounds on his thigh.
He’s asleep. He can’t hurt you the way Father hurt you.
A shudder passed through her at the memory. No matter how hard she tried, how many times she healed. The same fuel always stoked the fire inside her, feeding her energy as well as her fears. She tapped the well. Let the power flow through her in a dizzying current.
In a low, steady burn, the heat returned. A soft, comforting glow spread through her body, warming the room and banishing any vines of doubt still clinging to her soul. Sparrow kept her eyes screwed tight and focused all her will on the warrior beneath her. The words of the spell poured effortlessly from her lips in a droning chant barely above a whisper.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the warmth fled. The light within her died, replaced by stabbing cold, shooting daggers first through her palms and then in her gut. Unbearable agony unfurled in a nauseating ribbon down her spine, coiling around it like a serpent bent on constricting the very life out of her. Rolling waves of blackness crashed and ebbed over her vision until the ground beneath her began to fall away.
Loss.
Pain.
Misery.
Fear.
Of all the emotions bombarding her, it was the fear that restricted her. Fear that tightened around her core, knotting her stomach. Fear for the warrior. Fear for herself. Fear of failure permeated the air around her until it was all she drew in.
She didn’t realize until too late that it wasn’t her fear she was feeling.
It was his.
Конец
