Chapter Four: Devastation
In the dungeons of the keep they find a pale and skinny man who looks like he'll collapse under the weight of his scholar's robes. His name is Knoll, and he provides Ephraim with a good deal more information than Lyon did.
Natasha restrains herself from accosting him with her own questions for several days, seeing as the man likely needs time to adjust to no longer being slated for execution, and to put on a few pounds. But eventually she can wait no longer. Under pretense of knowing better than he what food he ought to eat for dinner, she hunts him down loitering on the edge of camp, puts the tray of buckwheat pudding and cheese into his hands, and politely requires him to sit. Though he's had several days in the sun, he has no more colour than before, and the shadows under his eyes are more, not less, noticeable.
He is reluctant to eat and reluctant to answer questions but does both. She gathers that he is used to following orders. Natasha asks directly whether he ever met Father McGregor, which he confirms, and then proceeds to pepper him with all the questions, formed and half-formed, that have been circling the shadowy corner of her mind since that fateful morning in the temple.
"Our work, in summary, was to research the Dark Stone and to find a way to use its power to alter future events," he mumbles. "The prince was already using it to foresee the future, but knowing the future means little if you can do nothing about it."
"The Stone had that kind of power?"
"Well, the demon inside it did," Knoll nods. "Our research into spells to control it failed. And thus, we mages triggered the worst disaster to befall Magvel in eight hundred years."
It takes a few moments for his words to process in her mind, but after what she witnessed in the throne room, she does not doubt his explanation. "But, to manipulate fate like that…" she trails off.
"It's blasphemous, right?" Knoll supplies. "That's what your Father McGregor said. But he went along with it in the end, though he loathed us. Sacrificed his own soul for the greater good or something like that."
"Father McGregor wasn't like that," she protests, weakly.
"Like what?" he shrugs. When she doesn't answer, he turns the question back on her. "Would you let thousands die to preserve fate?"
"What kind of counsel did Father McGregor give?" Natasha presses. "What was his role in the matter? What contributions did he make to the project? Did he offer up prayers for guidance and seek the blessing of Latona for your project? At what point did he turn against you?"
Knoll chuckles, despite himself. "And here I thought we'd be like oil and water. Clerics and mages usually are, but maybe you're more mage than cleric, despite your dress."
"What do you mean?" Natasha frowns.
"Your magic, light magic, stems from faith in the unknowable," he explains, pausing to lick his dry lips. "Our magic, dark magic, even anima magic, is based on knowledge and understanding. We're distrustful of what we don't know, and so strive to know everything."
"I know that," Natasha agrees. She's not completely uneducated, after all.
"But you," he continues, "You're so full of questions that the most learned shaman would grow weary. Perhaps you missed your calling."
Natasha bites her tongue, and in the silence Knoll puts a spoonful of buckwheat into his mouth. He doesn't swallow immediately, but sits listlessly with his mouth full as if the whole process of eating isn't worth the doing.
Eventually Natasha finds her voice again. "Do you think your research was evil?"
"Yes." Knoll sighs heavily. "I deeply lament our need to understand, our greed for knowledge. But you know what, Sister? It's all I have."
In Grado, the wind whistles when it blows, but in Jehanna, the land is too empty to make noise beyond the dull roar of burnt sand being eternally picked up and set down on some new dune. The landscape constantly shifts, but remains only dry sand from one generation to the next. The wind snaps into sunburned necks, eyes, and mouths, as it does now, as if the sky itself is conspiring to help Prince Ephraim drive his army forward faster and further. News has reached the prince that his sister is holed up in the desert country's royal palace, and she's barely holding out against Caellach and Valter's combined forces. They rush to her aid, or to her funeral.
They have run out of balm by the time the inferno of the palace is in sight. They have water left to drink a little, but not enough to clean any bandages, or even to wash the grit off their faces, much less to fight the flames. But they do still have their staves and their healers, and trusting them to be their support as always, Ephraim's company charges into the swarm of black wyverns, silver axes, and acrid smoke. The healers find a relatively unmolested oasis within sight of the palace and there set up camp. Natasha stays with them. It is not long before the wounded begin shifting in.
"Sister Natasha, take the one with the laceration," Father Moulder commands, taking the man with the collapsed lung under his own care.
She takes him, and dusts sand from his lacerated leg as best she can, but when she holds the staff to his torn flesh, the light which comes trickling out is so feeble, and she can't force it, that she ends up just delegating his care to a Frelian comrade and taking over triage. She's all bluster, like the wind, all business. She will be obeyed. Once, she even defiantly throws her head back and tosses her hair at the empty sky above. But then suddenly, there's Franz.
Only, it's not Franz – his mother's comb must be giving him luck – but it's the young Grad friend from Rigwald that he's supporting. Her arm is slung over Franz's shoulders, and he seems to be carrying most of her weight. Her left side is shredded with three deep tears, though she appears to be in once piece.
Franz cries, "Sister Natasha!"
She reaches out at once, calling to her colleagues. "Gerald, here's one for you now. You take her and I'll-"
The drawn-out caterwaul of a wyvern causes heads to snap up. A full squadron of the hideous beasts and their riders have broken through a pegasus wing and now speeds straight toward their encampment. The healing corps flies into panic. There are a few trees, but not enough to give any real protection. Both air and ground troops rush to regroup and meet the wyverns, but the healers and their patients have already scattered, and the wyverns beat the reinforcements to the healing tents. As the beasts and their riders dive low, the sand churns up beneath them, making those below choke as well as scream. Yet Natasha and her two wards are not entirely exposed.
"Here!" Franz shouts and hurls both females towards a small hollow under a stone outcropping. It's small, and barely shields the trio, but it offers more protection than the open air, in exchange for eliciting a horrid scream of pain from the injured girl. Natasha immediately takes hold of her so that Franz can crouch at the ready, sword drawn. In a matter of moments, a downed Grad rider rushes around the outcropping, looking for cover. Franz cuts him down with an efficiency that's surprising from one who seems as innocent as he.
Amid this racket of screeches and wyvern wings, Natasha helps the girl loosen her armour and then cuts away the fabric that obscures the full wound from view. The three gashes are not the worst of it. Her whole gut is swollen purple and throbbing. Her skin is otherwise pale and cool. In a moment of reprieve, Franz ducks back to join them, his eyes asking the obvious question.
"Do you have water?" Natasha commands.
He immediately hands her his half-empty water sling. She takes it and rips off her hood to use as a makeshift bandage and rinses the wound. "Was it a club? A mace?"
"Wyvern tail," Franz grunts.
The girl gasps and Franz grabs her hand with one of his and strokes her cheek with the other. "Don't you worry, Amelia," he clucks, "I've seen worse. It hurts, but it'll heal. Sister Natasha is the best."
"It's not how I wanted to meet her, though," Amelia croaks, hoarse.
"Yeah, talk about embarrassing. You'd better do some real heroics soon to make up for this."
"Next time I'll throw myself against a bigger wyvern's tail." She gasps again. "Oh, wow, I'm dizzy." She peers quizzically at Natasha. "Who's she?"
Franz is right; the wound is bad, but she's fixed up worse. She brings her staff to bear on the most swollen area, seeking the source of the internal hemorrhage, willing herself to force through the wall damming up the flow of magic. A trickle of impotent energy sputters through but grows fainter. She shakes her head and refocuses. With clenched jaw and fists, she utters the incantation to encourage the free flow of magic. Nothing comes at all.
"I have to break through," she mutters by way of explanation, but it's different this time. In her gut, she knows it is. There will be no breaking through because there is nothing to break through to. The reservoir is dry.
With a cry of frustration, she throws down her staff.
Franz looks sharply. "What's wrong with your staff?"
"It's not working," she says, but it's a lie. She's the one who's lost her link to the healing light. If she knows anything, she knows this.
"I'll get another," he replies, and immediately moves to do so, but dives back under the hollow before he's taken three steps, a massive wyvern claw and then tail barely missing his head and shoulders.
"Idiot," hisses Amelia. "Stay here."
"Thought I'd get swiped since it was so much fun for you," Franz replies, terse, then turns to Natasha. "Where are the staves?" But his question is nearly drowned out by a screech overhead. The beast that almost clawed off Franz's head comes back for a second go-round, but this time the young fighter successfully lops off one of the animal's feet and nicks its belly, causing a bloodcurdling shriek that makes everyone cover their ears. No sooner does the wyvern beat its wings away than he asks again, "Where are the staves?"
"Franz!" Amelia pants, "You can't leave! I can't defend!" She hisses again, then cries out, and falls back on her elbows.
"We need to bandage her tightly for the time being," Natasha decides, "Hold in her blood until we can get more help and supplies." But they have little with which to do the job. Amelia's whole abdomen is throbbing, her eyes unfocused. Probably the internal injury was exacerbated by the dive for cover.
Biting her lip, Natasha picks up her staff again and goes through the motions, but it's all as dry as bone - which is what Amelia will be soon if she can't figure this out. If Natasha's magic would just reach through the flesh, it would regenerate the damaged tissue and stitch everything back together, blood vessels and all. But, of course, it doesn't. She can't. She's a hoax. That last trickle of energy was all there is.
"No!" Natasha screams, grabbing her head and shaking it wildly. She tries again and again. Empty air. "Work!" she chokes. "Latona!"
"Franz?" Amelia's voice is higher than it was.
"That's it. I'm going-"
"It hurts-" she convulses and Franz dives back to comfort her. "Amelia, listen to me. You need to hold on, Amelia. You're so brave, and you're going to meet your mother, still. And you promised to be my shield, remember, and-"
The girl cries out weakly and slumps back, her eyes rolling into her head.
"Work!" screams Natasha. "Damn you, work!" Her face is streaked with blood and sand, but she has no tears.
Eventually the chaos diminishes enough for Franz to recruit real help, but by that point, the girl is too far gone for even Moulder to save her.
The sun is about to set, when all is said and the battle is done. Natasha stands by the rows of the dead. Their faces are covered, but there are not enough blankets to hide their full frames. The air is heavy with the smell of smoke and carnage. Natasha and her torn robe are caked all over with dried blood and sand. She shakes slightly, cold and brittle as a brown leaf. Her limbs are stiff. She'll probably snap apart if someone tries to touch her.
Eventually Franz comes out from among the shrouded ones. His elder brother walks with him. They both stop when they see her standing there, but the younger one doesn't quite make eye contact. Nevertheless, his voice reveals gentleness.
"I don't blame you," he says.
Natasha laughs softly. It's the most cynical sound she's ever heard from her lips, and it startles her. But, she follows through. "Yes, you do," she whispers.
"No, I don't!" says Franz, turning his face away. "It's not your fault!" But his voice cracks.
She laughs again, for lack of anything else in the hollow that used to hold her heart. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I-" She doesn't know what's meant to come next, and stops. So, she stumbles away and avoids Franz from then on. He is no longer her good luck charm. Franz avoids her, too.
