Ghost's Sight (2 page)

The sharp twang of a bowstring interrupted his prayer, and the sind dropped, the heat of its body bleeding through Gerry’s leather breeches. Gerry let out a breath, his body flushed with adrenaline. It was only then that he truly felt his leg, and he gagged as the pain ran up from his ankle to his groin.

“Oh, fuck,” Gerry moaned. “Dam-fucking, hole-digging little shits. I hate fucking sind and their busy fucking little paws.” The tears stole his vision as he swore to keep from screaming, Mother kneeling by his leg.

“Oh, shit,” Conn whispered, looking up at Mother, his pretty face pale. “It’s bad. It’s really fucking bad. Is Gerry going to lose the foot?”

Gerry sucked in a breath, but he did not have a chance to speak.

“Shut up, Conn.” Mother’s voice was just as quiet as ever, but Conn squeaked before falling silent. “If you’d been spotting properly, you’d have uncovered that hole. Help me, and if you even think about fainting, the Lady help you.”

Conn swallowed hard, while Mother knelt to slide Gerry along the leaf fall. “Grab his foot and ease it out. Gently, boy!”

Gerry moaned, black spots obscuring his vision as his stomach twisted. He had never felt a pain even close to this. He fought to remain conscious, to try and help Mother as best he could.

“Easy, man. We have you.” Mother’s deep voice sounded so confident that Gerry nodded without even thinking about it. “The Witch isn’t far. I can carry you on my back, and Conn can bring the sind. We’ll not get another now anyway. They’ll have scattered.”

Chapter 2

The Witch walked out of her drying shed with a small bundle of something green and leafy in her hand just as Ghost hurried over, wary. He pointed at the path that led into the yard, a figure visible and coming closer.

“He’s coming. They’re coming.” Ghost’s voice was no more than a whisper. He slid behind the Witch, watching as a tall man in hunter’s leathers approached. For every stride that the strange man took, Ghost took a half step backward, into the shadow of the drying shed.

“Who is he, you silly little thing?” the Witch asked, squinting down the narrow path. “Do you know them?”

Rather than answer right away, Ghost shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, his knitted tunic far too big as it slid off one shoulder. He reached up to tug his hair over his eyes. “I saw them in my dreams,” he breathed. “One who leads, one who loves, one who is known by the End.” Ghost’s vision blurred, and his breath hitched as he spoke the name of the one of the Eight who was never named aloud for fear of catching the eye of that dread one. His heart hammered in his chest in time with the pressure that throbbed behind his eyes. He fought the urge to flee into the woods, to the places he had carved out where one could hide and never be found.

Ghost saw the curiosity in the Witch’s eyes, but he just shook his head, the words lost in the memory of the vision. He ducked inside the shed, breathing in the smell of drying herbs and berries, letting the fragrances sooth him. Ghost knew what they all did, had learned it all at the Witch’s knee, along with the names of the Eight, and the count of days and moons. She taught him to read the ancient words, to match those words to the coded entries in her formulary. He could mix the potions and the salves as well as the Witch, although she had forbidden him to touch the gods’ light or the Seeker’s box. He made a game of it, though, standing behind the Witch, trying to guess what the Seeker’s box would say about the people who sought her help.

“Don’t do a runner, boy. I may need you.” The Witch sounded calm, but she turned to put a pot of water on the tripod over the fire pit. As Ghost watched, the lone figure shifted and became two figures. He knew the Witch wanted him to tell her, and so he spoke.

“He’s carrying one of them.” Ghost lifted his chin, not realizing that the Witch could not see the gesture while he hid in the shed. Ghost knew she saw well enough close up. It was distance that made her narrow her eyes and fuss at him.

“Don’t suppose you’ll tell me who’s who,” the Witch said under her breath. “Seeker guide me, you never make it easy, little one.”

“Because it’s never easy. It hurts,” Ghost replied, one hand stealing up to tug at his hair again, pulling it down over his forehead and into his eyes before wrapping back around his chest. “I don’t ask to See.”

Ghost hugged himself harder as he watched the Witch walk forward, the woman looking as unafraid as ever. He could have listened if he wanted as she spoke to the tall man with the dark eyes. The stranger had long hair shot through with silver, prettier than the Witch’s hair. The man was tall and broad, and wore leathers that were clean and neat. The Witch looked like a beggar next to the man.

The Witch looked drab on purpose, though. No one looked too close at her, a hag with greasy, gray hair hanging in lank strands around her face. They tried not to notice the rusty black homespun with the raveling edges, and the nicks and stains that marked her hands. They missed the fierce, dark eyes like those of the raptors that tore the little songbirds to pieces and scattered bright feathers to the winds, never saw the fine bones of those deft hands.

The Witch looked up at the tall man with her fierce look.

“Mother,” the Witch acknowledged. “It’s been a time.”

Ghost did not mind the tall man that the Witch greeted with such familiarity, or even the limp hunter that this Mother carried. The third man had a sind across his shoulders, which he dropped, assuming an air of injured innocence when the tall man turned to look. That one made Ghost’s hackles rise.

“Conn.” Mother’s voice was firm. Ghost found himself nodding approval as he watched from the shed.

The tall man turned back to the Witch, having issued the quiet reprimand. “This is Gerry. Can you help him?”

The Witch looked at the third man, her eyes flashing. “Bring the injured lad in,” she said to Mother. “That one, your Conn, he can wait here. If he needs to be useful, I’ll take that sind.”

Ghost nearly choked. The sind held a gland that was worth as much to a witch as a double hand of pelts, but that was something the witches did not want known, nor the uses for that potent musk. Ghost relaxed when the Witch continued, in her tone that allowed for no argument.

“He can hang the carcass in the tree there, and leave it to bleed out proper. Your dependent’s likely got a bad break, and a sind should cover the fee.” The Witch looked up from under her greasy hair.

“As she says, Conn.” The tall man had to stoop to enter the house, while Ghost edged closer to the door of the shed, pulled along despite his misgivings.

“Bring the water, little one.” The Witch followed Mother. Ghost hurried to the fire pit to take the pot of water from the tripod.

Ghost did his best to avoid looking at the one called Conn. It did not help, and Ghost flinched when Conn hissed at him. He could feel the loathing in those eyes as they raked him. It was bad enough that he had to concentrate to avoid spilling the heated water on his own feet as he stepped over the threshold into the Witch’s house. He placed the pot on her workbench, turning to get out the basket of linen for bandages, the neat rolls wrapped in wide leaves to keep them clean.

“Is this your dependent?” Mother’s quiet voice startled Ghost, making him nearly drop the pot of salve he had gotten down from the shelf above the workbench. He shied away from the tall man’s gaze, feeling unsettled. To hide his confusion, he looked at the man on the table, the one called Gerry.

Gerry’s eyes were closed, his face pinched with pain, but his hair was thick and brown, shot through with bits of autumn red. Ghost inched closer, looking down the man’s lean body to his leg. The leather boot was intact, but even with that around his leg, there was no mistaking the angle.

“Dependent? No, not really. Part apprentice, part pet.” The Witch laughed. Ghost looked at her with a small frown. “He’s here most of the time, unless I offend him, and then he disappears faster than the morning’s mist. He comes back in a day or two, hungry and tired.”

“I’m not a pet,” Ghost said, aggrieved. “I help. I know the plants, and I can make the recipes. I don’t make mistakes.” He looked at the Witch from under his hair, his eyes meeting her dark eyes without any hesitation. “Unless you don’t want me.”

“Hush, little one. Has my door ever been shut to you?” The Witch’s expression was kind for a moment, the harsh mask she wore dropping away. “Now come and help me. I’ll need your hands.”

Ghost nodded, moving around the table opposite Mother.

“Hold him tightly,” the Witch instructed Mother. “Ghost and I will try to get the boot off without cutting it, but if we need to, we’ll cut it away. Better a boot to be replaced than a leg gone.”

Mother nodded, and Ghost could see his acknowledgment of the harsh reality. These were not market people. They knew well enough that there were no hunters with one leg. Ghost waited for the Witch to straighten the leg a bit more, before Ghost would try to remove the boot. The man moaned and stirred, as Ghost looked up at the Witch.

“Hemp tea?” Ghost asked, stroking the stranger’s forehead to soothe him. Ghost could feel the sweat that glossed the man’s skin.

The Witch made a small, disgruntled noise. “I don’t want to wait for it to work. Get something for him to bite on, and we’ll give him the tea afterward.”

Ghost nodded, bringing over a leather-wrapped stick, thick and hard. He handed it to the Witch before moving down to Gerry’s foot, his hands wrapping around the boot. When the Witch nodded in her turn, Ghost began to pull the boot with care, one hand cupped around the heel of the boot and the other hand on the top of the foot.

As Ghost pulled, Gerry screamed, trying to jerk upright. Mother’s hand patted Gerry’s shoulder before pressing down again to hold Gerry still.

“We’re at the Witch’s house. We’ll get you well, man. Just howl through it if you need to,” Mother said in his deep voice. “Trust me; I’ve screamed a time or two myself in this very house, a long time ago.”

Gerry took a shaky breath as he nodded, his hands gripping the edge of the table tightly. “Do it,” he croaked around the leather-wrapped stick.

Ghost took a deep breath, looking first at Mother, then over at the Witch. The two alphas looked back, and when the Witch nodded, Ghost pulled the boot off in a single motion.

The hunter’s scream was cut off when he passed out. Ghost dropped the boot, shrinking back in alarm when Mother moved around to the side of the table.

“He’s unconscious, little one. Let’s get his leg dealt with as quickly as we can, and you can make the tea for him afterward.” The Witch looked at Ghost until he moved back to the table.

It only took a moment for the Witch to assess the damage. She turned to Ghost, her voice crisp. “Get the pot of bone fibers, and the vinegar. Some honey, too.” She turned to open a small but ornate chest, taking out the gods’ light and a thin sharp knife. “He twisted when he fell. It’s a difficult break, but I can heal it. I’m going to open the skin so I can see the break properly. If you can’t handle it, say so.”

Mother was as pale as anyone so tawny could be, but the man took a breath and nodded, much to Ghost’s surprise. He was sure he was mistaken, but he thought for a fleeting instant that there had been fear in the tall man’s eyes. Ghost looked down at the small pot he had taken from the shelf, shaking off the moment as he went to the kitchen to get the honey and the flask of vinegar.

By the time Ghost returned, the Witch had opened Gerry’s leg and was spreading the muscle away from the bone. She looked up at him. “Good. Hold this open for me.”

Ghost complied, holding back the muscle while the Witch sprinkled some of the fibers and picked up her gods’ light. The dot of light fused the fibers, knitting the bone as the Witch twisted Gerry’s foot to align it. Mother made a gagging sound, and Ghost looked up at the man in surprise. He would have thought the hunter was made of sterner stuff. Ghost bit back an urge to reassure Mother. That would mean talking to the man, and Ghost was not ready to acknowledge Mother that much.

Losing all sense of time as he always did when the Witch was healing someone, Ghost’s attention focused on the way her hands moved, sure and deft. The thin, fine-boned fingers were as steady as the stones of the walls that surrounded the Witch’s house. Her fierce eyes were narrowed in utter concentration as she rebuilt the bone and reinforced it, the dot of light never wavering in its dance. It was only when Mother let out a small cry of relief that Ghost was dragged back into the world, the last of the afternoon sun already fading. He looked at Mother, momentarily bewildered as he felt the cramping in his fingers that meant he had been at this too long.

The Witch looked at Ghost but said nothing, putting the gods’ light down for a moment. “Hold like that, little one, just a moment more.” She broke open a packet of linen, cutting a piece with her sharp knife and dipping it in vinegar to clean the wound. When she was satisfied, she patted Ghost’s hand. “Let go, now, so I can close up.”

Ghost watched her as he wiped off his bloody fingers, massaging them to ease the stiffness. The Witch used the gods’ light to close the incision she had made. Once the skin was closed to her satisfaction, she wiped the area down with more vinegar, followed by some of the hot water. “Paint the area with the honey, and bind his leg, little one. Then make the tea for him.”

The Witch gestured to Mother. The two of them walked to the kitchen, Ghost not bothering to listen as he put a coating of honey over the red line on Gerry’s leg. He was more interested in Gerry, in the strong line of Gerry’s jaw, the strength in those hands as they gripped the table, preparing for the pain to come. There had been courage there, which called to Ghost in a way he found unfamiliar, yet exciting.

Ghost wrapped Gerry’s leg in a loose bandage of clean linen, more to keep the honey from smearing everywhere than anything else. Ghost knew with a certainty that defied reason that the gods’ light had fused the bone properly. With a night’s rest, the hunter would be fine. Gerry’s leg would ache for a bit, and he would limp for a quarter-moon, but even that would pass, or so Ghost’s Sight had shown.