5

The first summer brought blood to the door.

Isolde was behind the stable, repairing a fence, when she heard Bruma on the path. The mare was coming up too fast. Branches struck the saddlebags, and Kaoran repeated a word the wind broke apart.

“Steady.”

Bruma appeared among the birches with foam on her chest. Kaoran rode leaning to one side. He held a girl in front of him. Dust covered her face, and one leg was bare to the knee. Blood ran down her boot.

Isolde dropped the hammer.

“What happened?”

“Overturned cart,” Kaoran said. “The wheel opened her thigh.”

“Inside.”

Kaoran dismounted with the girl in his arms. She looked sixteen or seventeen. She wore a work skirt, a patched shirt, and a green cord around her wrist. Her lips had turned gray.

Isolde opened the lower chamber. She pushed the tools to the far end of the table and spread one of the sheets they kept beside the door. Her left leg trembled as she moved the bench; she let it fall on its side to make room.

“Here.”

Kaoran laid the girl down without lifting the hand pressing her thigh. Isolde brought the lamp closer. Its flame revealed blood on the old man’s knuckles and an eyelash stuck to the girl’s cheek. She knelt on the other side of the table, where the girl could see her.

The wound crossed the outside of the thigh. A metal edge had lifted skin and muscle. The cloth Kaoran had used for pressure was soaked through. When he removed it, blood came in dark pulses.

“Boiling water,” Isolde said. “Forceps. Thread. Enna’s box.”

Kaoran went to the hearth.

Isolde pressed above the cut. The girl opened her eyes and tried to get up.

“My brother.”

“He’s in Nydel,” Kaoran said from the fireplace. “Doven has gone to find him.”

“The men…”

“Breathe,” Isolde said. “Tell me your name.”

“Lera.”

“Lera, I’m going to press your leg. It will hurt.”

“It already hurts.”

“I know. You can squeeze my right wrist. My left hand is holding the bandage.”

Lera reached for the offered arm. Isolde arranged the girl’s fingers and let her cling to it.

Isolde found the pulse with two fingers and increased the pressure. Lera screamed. The flow lessened. Isolde’s left hand could barely hold the cloth, so she looped a strap around her palm and tied it with her teeth.

Kaoran brought the water, forceps, and box. He knelt beside the table.

“You have to let go for a moment so I can clean it.”

“When you’re ready.”

Kaoran prepared a broad tourniquet but left it short of fully tightened. Isolde counted. She released the pressure, and he poured the water, now lukewarm, over the cut. Dirt, skirt fibers, and a wood splinter lay inside.

Lera moved again.

Fear lit a spark in Isolde’s fingers. She put it out before it reached the strap.

“Look at me,” she told the girl.

Lera fixed her eyes on her.

“Do you work with him?”

“He’s teaching me. I’m Iria.”

Lera turned her head toward Kaoran.

“Teach her to warm her hands.”

He gave a cough that might have been a laugh.

“She always starts with the hardest part.”

Lera looked at her again. Isolde rubbed the cloth between her fingers before laying it on the girl’s forehead. For a few seconds, Lera stopped looking for the door. Kaoran removed the splinter. The forceps then found a curved piece of metal.

“This is part of a staple,” he said.

“The cart was carrying crates,” Lera murmured. “They came loose on the way down.”

“What crates?”

“Records.”

Kaoran looked at Isolde.

“Later,” she said.

The bleeding had eased. The muscle was cut, but the main artery remained whole. Isolde cleaned the edges while Kaoran prepared the thread. She had seen field healers close similar wounds. She also remembered every movement Enna had made over her own side.

“Two layers,” she said. “The deep one first. Leave a drain.”

“Do you want to stitch?” Kaoran asked.

Her left hand was still strapped over the compress.

“Your hand is steadier.”

“I thought you’d never admit it.”

“Make the most of the moment.”

Kaoran began stitching. Isolde kept up the pressure, counted Lera’s breaths, and moistened her lips. Whenever the girl grew restless, she asked her to describe her house.

It had a slate roof.

One window looked toward the mill.

Her brother Oren slept beside the oven because he still woke cold.

Her mother had died during the winter.

Each answer brought Lera back to the table.

Kaoran tied the last stitch and left the drain in place. The leg remained warm below the knee. The pulse at the ankle was weak but steady.

“She’s lost a great deal of blood,” he said.

“Enna needs to see her.”

“I sent her to the mine. There’s fever in the third gallery.”

“How long will she be?”

“Until night.”

Isolde covered Lera with a blanket. The bandage around her thigh took up most of the leg.

“She needs broth, water, and rest. If her foot gets cold, we open the bandage.”

Kaoran nodded.

“We also need to clean the path.”

There was blood on the chair, the saddle, and the stones at the entrance. Isolde took a bucket. Months of work had strengthened her left leg, though running remained beyond her. She went down to the first bend and threw water over the marks. Kaoran swept Bruma’s tracks with a pine branch.

“Who was behind you?” Isolde asked.

“Two collectors and four guards. The cart went over on the mill slope. Lera was underneath when I arrived. The men wanted to get the crates out before her.”

“Did they see you bring her?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’ll come up.”

“They’ve requisitioned Doven’s two horses to pull out the crates. They’ll have to come on foot.”

Isolde studied the hillside. Summer foliage hid the house from the lower road. It also blocked the lines of sight around the wall. A patrol could come within ten steps without anyone seeing it.

“We move Lera into the well chamber,” she said.

“Getting her down could open the stitches.”

“We leave the table up here and remove the signs. If they come, you say you took her to Enna. While they search the mine road, Lera stays here.”

“The chamber is cold.”

“I’ll kindle the vein in the floor just enough to warm it.”

“Your fire can react with the stone.”

“I’ve been practicing for six months.”

“With an empty chamber. If the vein changes, you’ll have to get Lera up that ladder.”

Isolde looked at the entrance. They would have to tilt the door they would use as a stretcher; the bandaged leg would lie lower than her body. She could already imagine blood soaking through the cloth.

“The chamber would hide her from them,” she said. “It would block our way out.”

Kaoran waited as she examined the other staircase. They had removed the chest from the landing weeks ago. Two people could turn there without bending the stretcher.

“We take her to the upstairs room,” Kaoran said. “The roof entrance lets us get her into the woods if they search the house.”

“Heat gathers upstairs.”

“We’ll open the shutters.”

“They’ll see movement.”

“Then we place the bed behind the wall and cover the window with dark cloth.”

Isolde measured the stairs, the width of the table, and the state of the bandaged leg.

“All right.”

They carried Lera upstairs on a door removed from its hinges. The move took time, though the bandage stayed clean. Isolde left water, a knife, and a bell beside the bed. Then she went downstairs and put away anything that would reveal a patient’s presence.

“What do we do with you?” Kaoran asked.

“I live here.”

“The patrol is already looking for a woman on this hillside.”

“They were looking for a wounded woman who left Cendral in winter. Iria walks, works, and has a scar no one will see.”

“They could recognize you.”

Isolde covered her hair with a scarf, smeared ash on her cheeks, and changed her shirt for a work tunic. She hid the pendant beneath a board.

“They could also find two cups if I disappear every time someone knocks.”

Kaoran took a pitcher and set it before her.

“The woman who lives here looks after the house while I tend to the district.”

“And makes decisions when you’re wrong.”

“We’ll leave that for a later conversation.”

The guards arrived as Isolde finished scrubbing blood from the table.

Three knocks at the door.

Kaoran opened it. On the threshold stood a sergeant in Varek’s coat, two frontier soldiers, and a fat man dressed in red cloth. The last clutched a leather case to his chest.

“You removed a debtor from requisitioned property,” the man said.

“I removed a young woman from beneath a cart,” Kaoran replied.

“Lera Vos owes forty-three crowns for grain, housing, and a family exemption.”

Isolde set the pitcher on the table.

“Exemption from what?”

The collector looked at her. His eyes passed over her clothes, scarf, and left hand, where two fingers were still somewhat stiff.

“Her brother’s service.”

“Oren is nine,” a weak voice said from upstairs.

Kaoran closed his eyes for an instant.

The sergeant raised his head.

“She’s here.”

“Yes,” Isolde said. “She has an open wound in her thigh. If you go up in those boots, you’ll clean the floor afterward.”

The collector took a step.

Isolde moved into his path.

“Who are you?”

“Iria Thennar.”

Kaoran glanced at her but upheld the lie.

“My niece,” he said. “She arrived before the thaw.”

“You’re not registered in Nydel.”

“I come from the western villages.”

“All residents must register.”

“You’ve spent months counting coal,” Isolde said. “I thought you’d finish that before getting to people.”

The sergeant hid a smile. The collector opened his case and took out a sheet.

“Lera Vos is placed in custody for debt and destruction of the kingdom’s property.”

“The cart fell because a wheel broke,” Kaoran said.

“She was responsible for the load.”

“Who ordered a minor to drive a cart down that slope?”

The collector pointed to the seal.

“The regent’s authority permits me to collect in labor, goods, or custody. Stand aside.”

Isolde had grown up watching a seal change the weight of a room. Officials raised it before announcing a decision and expected everyone to look at the mark instead of the hand holding it.

“What is a day’s labor worth?” she asked.

“It depends on the task.”

“Who sets the value?”

“The reconstruction office.”

“Who sets the price of grain?”