Blood of the Fey (Morgana Trilogy) (28 page)

“But I can’t skip EM!” I say. “I’ve got so much to catch up on, and I can’t afford to—”

“Tut, tut,” she says, batting her hand in the air like she’s trying to get rid of a noisome fly. “Not everyone’s meant to be a knight, you know. It doesn’t make them any less worthy.”

I gape at her as she hands me my new schedule.

“We’ll be going over the basics of plant medicine first,” she continues. “Then you’ll help me with patients. You start tomorrow. Questions?”

“But I—”

“Excellent. See you tomorrow then.”

She shuts the door in my face and I remain staring at it, open-mouthed. Finally, the meaning dawns on me and my cheeks stretch wide: Arthur’s recognized my skills, and that’s why he recommended me! That’s right, I
am
brilliant!

“Aren’t you lucky?” Keva says, not at all sounding pleased. “Get to skip this grueling training to parade in front of hot knights.”

“I won’t be parading,” I say.

“Please,” she says, “everyone knows that the ones who usually end up in the infirmary are knights. And since you won’t have just worked out, you won’t be all sweaty and disgusting either.”

“It’s true,” Bri says, “since they actually go all out in their fights. Maybe you’ll get to see your brother, though he hardly ever gets injured.”

“I really wouldn’t want that,” I say under my breath as the girls head over to EM class and I to the mending hall.

But what’s waiting for me there is not at all the easy and carefree fate that Keva was bemoaning me, but grueling work that makes me break out in a sweat within minutes.

“Put that jar of honey on the corner shelf,” Dr. Cockleburr tells me as I lug about a massive pot that’s twice the size of my head, and weighs as much as a whale. “Come on, girl, don’t take
so long. You need to take these used bandages to the cleaners afterwards.”

I wipe my dripping forehead on my sleeve before grabbing the large basket of bloodied gauze and wraps, the pungent smell of rotting flesh rising from its depths. I throw a longing glance toward her office, where I can see an herbal encyclopedia open at a page showing plants I’ve never seen before—guess working with plants will come later. Holding the basket as far away from me as possible, I make my exit.

“And tell them the water needs to be boiling,” Dr. Cockleburr says before turning to a knight’s bloodied foot. “Pike wound, you said Johnny?”

I hurry to the back of the building to turn in my grisly burden and the doctor’s instructions.

“What do you mean boil it?” the woman asks, her cheeks rosy from the overwhelming heat in the room. “We can’t boil it more than we already do.”

“I’m just reporting what she said,” I say, eager not to get in the middle of another argument. To my greatest relief, the woman snatches the fetid load from me and hands me a fresh, clean-smelling batch of bandages without another word.

“Maybe if we were allowed the use of salamanders like we used to, this wouldn’t be an issue,” I hear her mutter on my way out.

As I make my way around the building, I’m drawn to one of the bay windows where I can see the other students’ training session. Flashes of colors burst over the field as different elementals are called upon, brightening up the darkening sky-lake. How much longer till I get to practice with them, or am I forever doomed to be no better than a cleaning girl?

With a sigh, I leave my vantage point and retrace my steps back to the infirmary. Before I even open the door, I can hear the loud
roar of shouting voices. I push the door open to find half the senior year crammed into the room, going off about some accident.

I set my basket down on a chair, then squeeze past the crowd to the surgical quarters.

“And then the undine’s ogham must’ve run out,” a boy with spiky blond hair says.

The girl next to him adds, “Maybe he didn’t recharge it properly.”

“A knight of the round table wouldn’t make such a basic mistake,” another girl says. “Someone sabotaged him.”

“And he wouldn’t have noticed that, would he?” the blond guy snorts.

I find Dr. Cockleburr and a nurse attending a boy whose leg is open from the thigh all the way down to his ankle, part of his femur poking out of the deep wound.

I gag and turn away to avoid throwing up on the patient, but the doctor sees me and calls me over. “Morgan, where have you been? I need you to go see the boy in the consultation room. I think he’s suffered a light concussion. Hurry!”

I stagger to the office, a small, windowless room with yellow walls. Sitting on the table, looking rather pale, is none other than Percy. He gives me a faint smile when he sees me walk in, but the effort proves too much, and he faints.

I hurry to catch him before he falls to the floor. The boy, though shorter than me, is much heavier than I had anticipated. I struggle to push him back onto the table, leaning against the wall for support, when someone comes over to help.

“Thanks,” I say, my hands coming away slick and sticky. Light concussion, my ass.

“You’re in charge of him?”

I whisk around to find Arthur standing behind me, and he’s not happy to see I’m the one taking care of his friend.

“Why yes,” I say, getting back to Percy. I need to find the source of his injury. “I work here, on your recommendation. Now help me take his coat off.”

Arthur does as told, and we manage to take the heavy metallic garment off Percy’s unconscious body, then roll him to his side, his blood-soaked shirt sticking to the table.

I grab the bottom of the shirt and rip it open, exposing a nasty gash down his chest. I let my breath out. The injury isn’t as bad as it looks. Whatever sliced him open glanced off his ribs before it could pierce anything vital.

“He’s going to need stitches,” I say, grabbing the necessary tools from the cupboard, “but first, let’s control the bleeding.”

I press a fresh towel to the wound, hoping the blood loss will subside soon.

After what feels like an eternity, I raise the towel and find that my prayers have been answered. I disinfect the wound as carefully as possible, but even in his sleep, Percy winces.

“You’ve done this before?” Arthur asks, watching me from his corner.

“Once,” I say, trying not to show my nervousness. “On a cat.”

Arthur rushes over to me and grabs my hand before I can start on the suturing.

“Look, buddy,” I say, holding his stare. “If you want to wait for someone with more experience to come stitch him up, let me know. But considering the mess that’s out there, he may end up bleeding to death before that happens. So, what’s it going to be?”

Arthur stares at me for another solid minute before finally letting me go.

“If it makes you feel any better, suturing a moving cat requires quite a bit of skill,” I say, getting back to work. “At least Percy’s unconscious.”

My heart thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird, I thread the needle and hold it to the wound, align both sides of the injury to the best of my abilities, and make my first stitch. When the first knot is done, I cut the thread.

The wound seems so big and a piece of thread so little to hold all that flesh together, yet I carry on. I hold my breath, insert the needle perpendicular to the epidermis, push the needle through, then bring it back out the other side, tie, and cut. And repeat.

I can’t keep from glancing up at my work to make sure everything’s holding properly and that the needlework’s not too shoddy, terrified of making a single mistake.

I barely notice when Arthur comes over to wipe the sweat off my brow with a small towel. “Do you need a break?” he asks.

I shake my head, intent upon my task. It’s not until I’ve finished the thirty-second and final stitch, that I stretch up with a long sigh. My back cracks, and I feel the tendons in my neck pull.

“What happened?” I ask as I apply the antibacterial salve to the sutured wound with shaking hands.

“Training went awry,” Arthur answers.

“No kidding,” I say. “How?”

“We’re not sure yet,” he says after a slight pause. “Agravain, Percy, and Safir were practicing together. It appears Agravain’s defenses went out at the last moment, just when Safir’s attack was reaching him. Safir tried to pull back, but his sylph went haywire. Percy tried to cover Agravain and ended getting cut up, along with a couple of other students who were training next to them.”

“Was there a problem with his gear?” I ask. Now that my task is done, I feel the urge to sit down before my legs give out.

Arthur hands me a stool and helps me down. “No. Agravain’s in no shape to answer anything right now, but Safir says that they both checked and recharged their gear the night before, so his barriers shouldn’t have failed like they did.”

“What does it mean then?” I ask, recalling the earlier shouts and accusations. “Something’s wrong with the ogham?”

“Perhaps,” Arthur says evasively.

I close my eyes, feeling the adrenaline ebb away. It’s so strange how things seem to be going wrong lately. Ever since I came here, in fact. I feel my innards shrink at the thought and sincerely hope no one else will make the connection.

But perhaps there’s another explanation. After all, bad things have been happening all over the country of late that have nothing to do with me. Like the locusts that destroyed the crops in the Midwest, or the strange disease that killed all the livestock in Texas. And Luther thought it was the Fey who were behind the storms of hail and thunder that have been ravaging the East Coast…

Something nags at me, as if the answer’s blatant and I keep missing it.

“How are you holding up?” Arthur asks, his voice low.

“I’m alive,” I say, not opening my eyes. “And in one piece. Which is more than I can say for others.”

My mind goes back to the screaming boy on the surgical table. Unless she’s some kind of sorceress, there’s no way Dr. Cockleburr can save his leg. I shiver, imagining the blow it’ll be for him once he wakes up, no longer a knight.

The door to the room opens, and Dr. Cockleburr enters, followed by Jennifer who’s looking dapper as usual. The girl’s tense smile turns into a scowl the moment she sees me.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

I keep my eyes on the doctor as she examines my work, my stomach knotted in tight coils. She lowers part of the bandage gently, prods the wound, then bends over it and sniffs.

“Very good,” she finally says. “I didn’t realize his injuries were so severe—fatigue, I suppose—but his pulse is steady, the wound
clean. You handled it very well. You may clean yourself up as well and go. And you, young man, help me get him to a proper bed.”

“Wait a minute,” Jennifer says as I leave the room. “I’m not done talking with you.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” I reply.

Jennifer follows me to the sink, where I wash the dried blood from my hands, letting the hot water take away some of the tension.

“I know what you’re doing,” she says malevolently. “You complained to Arthur that training was too hard for you, because you’re new and unaccustomed to our way of life. But playing princesses doesn’t suit you. It’s like dressing a pig in human clothes. No matter what, the only thing you can do is roll in the mud.”

I throw the soap back in the sink. “So what? The only one who’s allowed to play princesses around here is you? Is this what this is all about? You afraid someone’s going to steal your thunder?”

I stare Jennifer down—an easy feat considering I’m taller than her. If she wants to get into a fight, I’m all for it. Maybe then she’ll shut her pretty mouth and leave me alone.

But Dr. Cockleburr walks in, carrying sheets dripping with blood.

“What are you two still doing here?” she asks, her brow furrowed. “Get out before I make you.”

Still glaring at each other, Jennifer and I leave.

Outside the medical wing, the blonde girl turns on me once again. “Just know this. You may think you’re being smart finding excuses not to practice because you lack the talent, but one day will come when you’re faced with a Fey, with no chivalrous knight to rescue you. And on that day, as the Fey lays waste to you, you will remember my words.”

“I’m too tired to deal with your temper tantrum right now,” I say, turning on my heels.

But as I make my way to the dorms, I keep rehashing her dire warning. Jennifer may have said it out of spite, but the truth is that, no matter how much I’d like for her to follow the blonde airhead stereotype, she is right.

Dragging my feet, I engulf myself in the shadowy staircase.

“We need to talk.”

I gasp and punch at the shadow beside me. Arthur ducks and sniggers.

“What was that supposed to be? Self-defense? You might try not to close your eyes then.”

Ignoring him, I climb up the steps.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he asks, hovering next to me. “We need to talk.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Fine, then you need to listen to me,” he says, cutting my way off.

What is it with this boy and his constant nagging?

“What?” I ask when I can’t get around him.

“I heard that last bit of your conversation,” he says, having the decency to look embarrassed. “Where Jennifer explained your need for self-defense.”