Chapter 14: [05.1] The Scar that Never Heals

Scholars have categorised theurgy into five divisions; each of which encompasses countless classes of theurgic ability known to man.

It is to be noted, however, that certain types of theurgy are much more rare and uncommon than others, and scholars are constantly finding new abilities to study.

—Corthair's Compendium of Theurgy

5

↝ THE SCAR THAT NEVER HEALS ↜

Isla came awake to a face she did not recognise: a large nose, white bushes for eyebrows, and more wrinkles than she could count. A twitch, and thunder coursed through her hips. The stranger waved her down, his words rising above the ringing in her ears ... something about keeping still and a lot of blood ... interrupted by someone a distance away.

'I could not find a female therapeut as you asked. He'll have to do.' She recognised Aldir's voice. A little of her panic subsided.

'Fine,' came Noi's response. 'We can take it from here. I will send news in the morning.' Followed by a screech of hinges and the loud thud of a closing door.

It was unlike Noi to be curt with Aldir, but it was also unlike Noi to squander money on a therapeut. Isla saw it, now – the old man's off-white and pale blue cape. Something must be terribly amiss.

She went for the sharp pain blossoming from her hip, but the therapeut guided her hand away before laying a damp cloth over her forehead. 'No touching.'

The cold was a welcome shock against her skin. Only then did she feel the heat burning through her body. Isla moaned, fighting to sit up. This time a tangle of hands pushed her down.

'Try to relax, little miss.' The handmaid hovered over her, brows crinkled, greying hair tumbling out of their usually immaculate topknot and now clinging around her face. She held a hand under Isla's head and tilted a cup against her lips. 'Here ... drink ...'

Whiskey. No tea to dilute it this time. Only the strongest, foulest whiskey the realm managed to piss out of its breweries. At least it cleared her throat. 'What happened?'

'You were stabbed, little miss. Aldir carried you home – caused much a stir with Syaifa downstairs – oh, what will she think of you?'

Noi babbled and snivelled away, but Isla only latched to one word.

Stabbed? She propped herself onto her elbows; arms shaking under her weight. She was in her bedchamber, her kirtle and chemise had been thrown carelessly on the floor, leaving her down to her undergarments. A red gash clawed the right side of her body. Isla gagged at the sight of pink flesh and tissue underneath. 'But ... how?' Another spasm of pain interrupted. She did not resist when the therapeut eased her back down and took her wrists in each hand.

'You were being careless,' said Noi.

Careless.

'You should not have been out.'

Yes ... they had been out with Aldir ... and then the book ... and then they had gone to find him so Haana could—

'Haana!' Isla snapped back up with a cry. 'Where is she? The burning man – he took her and I –'

'Haana is fine. In the sitting room. Crying and beside herself.'

'Please, do try to remain still.' Isla's hands had slipped in her sudden movement. The therapeut motioned for her to recline before taking her wrists once again. Something cold pulsed from his thumbs into the tips of Isla's fingers, soon spreading like ice through her veins.

A tranquility washed over her, the tension faded from her joints.

'You are lucky Aldir found you.' Even Noi sounded less reproachful under the therapeut's calmative. To him she asked, 'How looks it?'

He released Isla's wrists and held his fingers over her wound. The burning dulled to a faint throbbing in her gut. 'Tangential laceration of the appendix, though by providence it has missed her vital organs.'

'That means she will be all right?'

'I can close the wound, but it will leave some scarring. That is a matter beyond my skill.'

'Scars can heal.'

'Not one as this. Once I heal her, no other therapeut can tamper with the theurgy I have placed. No one short of a godling will be able to rid her of her scar.'

Isla smiled, not finding it within herself to worry of scars or godlings. The coolness had reached her head, soaking through her skull, bringing with it an utter bliss.

'We have no other option,' said Noi.

'I agree. I only wanted to warn you.' The therapeut opened his palm over Isla's wound. 'Another warning. This will hurt.'

❖ ❖ ❖

'Scars are a sign of courage.' Haana entered her chamber without so much as a whisper.

Isla felt blood rush to her cheeks, though her reflection hid it well. How long had she been standing there, staring at the scar etched from her hip-bone to her ribs? She was not normally so preoccupied with her physical deformities; but this ...

She poked at the welt. It was not large as far as scars went, but it protruded into a very noticeable lump. A fat, serrated worm, burrowing and settling under her skin.

'It shows defiance and strength,' said Haana, louder this time, as she crossed the room. 'You should wear it with pride.'

'I might have Whitebill mistake it for dinner if I wore it out with anything,' replied Isla bitterly. The erne squawked as though in protest. Haana flinched and edged away from the mirror upon which he perched.

'You think you have it bad, you have not seen how much worse the world can do.'

'The misery of others does not discount my own.' Isla was in no mood to argue. At least Haana had come out unscathed; and a scar was nothing compared to what could have been. Truly, she was glad, and they had only luck to thank. Luck, and Aldir.

He had not been at The Seven Peals that night, having chosen to dine elsewhere. It had taken Whitebill a while to locate his presence and pursue him. By the time he had returned to the inn, he told them, they had already gone. If it were not for the fire in the alleyway, Aldir may never have found her and Haana at all.

And the man ...

Aldir had taken care of it. Isla did not ask how; it did not matter. A man had burned, and it was her fault. How strange that not days before, she had served him coffee.

He had taken Haana, she reminded herself. But what of it? They should not have been out to begin with. She should not have left Haana alone; not even for a minute.

'I'm sorry.' Haana beat her to an apology before Isla could muster even the strength for one.

'You aren't to blame for any of this.'

'I begged you to take me.'

'It was my decision to go.'

'But none of this would have happened if I had just ... listened.'

Isla took her hands and when Haana looked up, her eyes were red and muddied with tears. 'Look. That man would've found you eventually. This way, we no longer need to concern ourselves with him.'

'Him we are rid of, but the other ...'

Isla had not forgotten. Her hand left Haana's and trailed down to her scar. She would bet her money on her alley-stalker. He had attacked her, Haana said, but Aldir had come before he could finish the job. 'Your brother will find him.'

'He says Sir Edric's men have arrived. Even now they guard the streets.'

'It's about time.'

'They would not ... watch us, though? Through the windows?'

'They aren't like that. Your father would never retain such men.'

'I take it to mean Whitebill will return with Aldir, now that they are here.' Her eyes darted over Isla's head, a touch of fear in the curve of her brows.

'We'll be fine with the men watching our doors. They'll also cover us when we go into the city.' But for how long? Sir Edric's men can't stand guard forever.

'It is only ... how well does Sir Edric truly—stop scratching that!' Haana slapped away the hand picking at Isla's scar. 'It will rupture if you keep at it!'

'It itches like a plague.'

'I know, but ... let it be. You will soon forget it is even there.'

'You know?' Isla raised an eyebrow. She noticed the hesitation in Haana's eyes, but it was quickly gone. The girl turned, lifting her shirt. Isla's breath caught in her throat.

Every area between her shoulder blades down to her loin was covered in an intersection of cicatrised skin; darker stripes of brown over the otherwise fawn surface. Isla dared not touch, though they were long healed. Her own scar looked tame compared, and a deep shame heated through her cheeks.

'Who did this to you?'

Haana brushed down her shirt and turned back to face Isla. 'That makes no matter.'

'No, but they shouldn't have.'

'My scars have helped shape me. I would not be who I am today without them.'

There were better ways to shape a girl, Isla thought, but kept her silence. If those were the words Haana told herself for her own peace, Isla did not wish to disturb it.

'You wonder if they are the reason I fled Surikhand.' There was a ghost of a smile on her face.

Isla did not rise to the bait. 'I believe you're stronger than a few scars.'

'Stronger than them? The scars are what has made me strong. I would not change them for all the beauty in the kingdom.'

'I wasn't implying –'

'It makes no matter.' The indignant pitch was back in Haana's voice. 'Aldir is waiting.'

'Wait.' Isla stopped Haana before the girl turned to leave. She limped towards her table, favouring her right leg, and pulled out a rolled parchment. Haana stared at it blankly until Isla said, 'You never had the chance to give him this.'

❖ ❖ ❖