“Do you remember being pushed?”
I stare at the plaster, willing memories to return. After a bit, I shake my head.
“It’s probably for the better. Nobody wants to remember falling off a cliff.”
I sputter. “Say that again?”
“You followed Jamis’s trail to a dead end.”
“The cliff?”
She nods, and a gauzy memory returns. “You got off Siron, walked to the edge, and looked over. As if Jamis would be there.” She rolls her eyes like that was the stupidest thing I could’ve ever done. Like she’s never checked out the edge of a cliff before.
“What happened after that?”
She stands, and the bed morphs back to how it was before she sat. Again, pain lances through me. I glare at her.
“Settle your feathers. I won’t bump the bed again.” She takes her poultice and puts it on the dresser before turning back. “Ulrich shoved you.”
“What?”
She shrugs. Like I’ve just asked her something as silly as whom she’s courting. Ulrich is a man I’ve served with for the last year and a half. I’m boggled.
“Wallace tried to grab you, but Ulrich put a knife in his gut before he could get to you.”
Lirra doesn’t pretty up any of the truth. I lie on the bed, overwhelmed and shocked as the day I found out Saul had been murdered. This sort of mutiny in the king’s guard is unprecedented. Men must pass vigorous mental and physical tests to be considered for the elite force. It’s an honor and a status of lower nobility to be on the king’s guard. I cannot fathom why Ulrich would turn on us.
“Wallace is dead.” I let out a slow breath. It’s my duty to inform his young wife once I’m on my feet again. Didn’t know the man well, but I knew his wife had a babe months ago. I lost my father last year. At least I had him till I was grown. But Wallace’s little one is still in swaddling.
“You’re lucky I got there in time to help.” Her chin jerks at my arm. “Else you would’ve been . . .”
Like Wallace is what it seems like she’s going to say. But she goes quiet as she crosses the room to a small table and picks up a satchel. She withdraws a pinch of herbs, which she drops into a bowl and starts to grind with an iron pestle.
I study the crack in the plaster overhead, puzzling out the parts of Lirra’s story that make no sense. Every speck of me aches like I’ve been squashed, but I’m here and I’m alive. That cliff was at least a hundred arm spans high. I should be dead. Nobody falls that far and breaks an arm and a few ribs. My memory may be foggier than a winter night, but I remember the drop. The cliff had a sheer face. Nothing on the side of that cliff would’ve been large enough to break my fall or provide a soft landing spot.
“How exactly did you help?” It comes out sounding more suspicious than I want.
She pauses, and her gaze turns up from the pestle as she pushes her dirt-colored hair off her forehead. Lirra’s eyes are a shock of gray-blue. Where Britta’s are a summer sky, this girl looks like pieces of winter were stolen to make her eyes.
Alarming is what it is. Doesn’t seem natural. Not with her tawny skin and fan of black lashes.
“I used the wind,” she says, and goes back to grinding herbs.
It hits me right before she says it. Blue eyes. Using the wind. Channeler. How did I not pick up on this before?
She mashes the pestle into the bowl, her hand movements choppier than before. “I’m an air Channeler. Before you turn your nose up, remember my ability saved your life.”
I try to sit up, but damn my ribs, so I lower back down and gape at her. That gaping goes on for a good minute. “Why would you think I’d do that? And don’t tell me it’s because I’m from Malam.”
Her hand stills. “I traveled with you for nearly two weeks, and every time you mentioned Channeling, you got a foul look on your face.” She lifts a shoulder. “I figured you weren’t a supporter.”
“That’s not true. I don’t mind. I just worry for Britta—”
Her bark of a scoff cuts me off. “Oh, you don’t mind? Stars. In all of creation, has there ever been a man as noble as you?”
I glare at her. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I’m twisting nothing. Shove your ego aside and think.” Her pestle scrapes and bangs into the bowl.
My anger is right beneath the surface. “All right, please tell me, how’d you find me?”
Another one-shoulder shrug. “After Gillian and Britta left for the feast, I followed you.” She lowers the bowl and scowls at me. “When I reached the castle, you were heading out with a group of men. Of course, my goal was to catch up and knock a reminder into you about finding Orli, but when I saw the captain get hurt, I suspected foul play.”
I have the sense to look contrite. Her no-nonsense tone makes me think if Ulrich hadn’t pushed me off the cliff, she might’ve.
“How did you stop me from splatting to my death?”
“Such a way with words.” She points the pestle at me. “I coaxed the wind to push you up. But you’re so heavy, probably that head of yours, you fell to the bottom of the cliff anyway.”
I laugh and wince because of the pain. That’s the most modest way to explain how she used the wind to soften my fall. Her derision has bite to it, but the image of my big head dragging me down is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time.
Lirra places the pestle on the table and grabs a waterskin to pour water into the bowl. Her ability saved me. Twice now Channelers have saved my life. Makes me think Malam truly is the weaker country, considering we weren’t smart enough to see the benefits of having Channelers in our midst.
She crosses the room with the bowl in hand and gestures that I should drink the liquid.
I scrunch up my nose and sniff at the bowl when she brings it close to my face.
“I’m not going to kill you after all the work I did to save you. I had to load you up on my horse and travel a half day to get here. I nearly collapsed myself from all the energy it cost to float your heavy arse back up the cliff.”
Another laugh and a wince. “Where is here?”
“My aunt’s secret meeting location, a home in Tahr. There were towns closer, but this place is safe. I won’t get lynched if anyone suspects I’m a Channeler.”
Makes me cringe, hearing her say that. Change needs to happen in Malam, sooner than later. “What about my horse?”
She gestures for me to drink first. I comply, gagging down the gravelly, mud-tasting drink. She puts the bowl on the edge of the bed and bites her lip. “In the stable, where he’s been fed and watered and brushed. Good seeds, that horse loves to be brushed.”
“Well, thank you for what you did.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Have you heard any word on Omar?”
“He’s in the next room over. Leif brought him here.” She picks up the bowl and stares down at the mix. “He’s not looking good.”
“What of Geoffrey, the guard who went to find the healer?”