“You are like so many I have encountered,” the foreign woman continued, her eyes sad yet fierce. “Frightened into shameful submission. This is not a life, my dear.”
The woman walked to the dead garden beside their house, the vegetables that rotted in an overabundance of rain. She crouched beside a wilted squash vine and took a stem in her hand. Stephon watched in wonder as a trail of green moved from her hand up and down the stem, down into the ground where the roots lived and into the leaves. Tiny white flowers budded then bloomed, falling off as the flesh of a yellow squash pushed outward, oblong and perfect. In minutes, she’d grown food with a simple touch. It was the most beautiful thing the boy had ever witnessed. Stephon’s mother raised a trembling hand to her mouth.
“See what you could have?” asked the woman. “What you should be enjoying? Your magic can defy seasons and weather. It can defy disease and poverty.”
Another breeze danced across their skin, bringing choking scents from the fire. The woman stood and put her hand out to touch the wisp of smoke. “Can you feel the winds of change? Will you grasp it, as I have?” She closed her hand around the air and smiled. The fervor in her eyes sent a jolt down Stephon’s back. And then he noticed her purpled fingernails. His mouth and eyes gaped open, his heart hammering in fear at her nearness.
“I—I’m sorry, miss,” his mother stuttered. “I can’t. . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
“Soon, you will.” The woman continued to give his mother a knowing smile. “Be ready.”
Stephon’s mother pulled him close as the strange women turned, walking into the path of smoke.
Chapter
17
Paxton was taken straight into the infirmary wing of the castle, along with four other men. Several refused treatment. Eight had been killed that night. Six Kalorians, one Lochlan, and the youngest Zandalee. Paxton considered himself lucky, though his injuries were worse than he’d first assumed.
The gash on his arm gaped, filled with dirt. A path of now-dried blood had run down to his hand, soaking his tan tunic, so he removed it. His back, chest, and stomach were bruised. And on his left side he had cracked ribs and several severe scratches where the beast had kicked him.
But he was alive.
He leaned against the wall on the cot in the infirmary room where the guards had left him alone. The room was small and clean with only a cot, a side table, and a chair. He’d cleaned his wounds and now sat waiting.
Without a knock, the wooden door opened and an old woman stepped in pushing a cart with a covered plate. She had a long, gray braid across her shoulder. Her eyes were wise as she approached Paxton. Perhaps it was in his imagination, but he could have sworn he felt static in the air. Energy. Immediately, he knew the woman was Lashed and he felt a strange feeling of peace and tenderness—something he hadn’t felt since childhood.
She came to his side without smiling. “Don’t be afraid, Paxton Seabolt. My name is Mrs. Rathbrook. With your permission, I will heal you.”
“I don’t fear you,” he said. His voice sounded reverent to his own ears. Paxton openly stared at the woman. He had expected the royal Lashed to be much younger. He’d never seen a Lashed person of her age, or one in such good health. Mrs. Rathbrook had to be in her sixties.
Emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for many years rose up and overflowed his system. The words poured out against his will. “My grandmother was Lashed.”
He’d never said those words out loud. A pang of fear for his family tightened inside his chest, until Mrs. Rathbrook took his mangled hand in her own. Looking down at his injury, she said, “I know. I knew Margaret Seabolt well.”
Paxton’s heart kicked. “You . . . you knew her?”
“Sh. Let me work.” The woman held his hand, touching his skin around the injury on his arm without brushing the torn flesh. “You’ll feel heat. It will be uncomfortable for a moment. Stay still.”
Paxton nodded and the woman closed her eyes. His heart went erratic . . . but it had nothing to do with the magic pouring into him.
She knew his grandmother.
He became so engrossed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the intense heat rushing through his veins, straight to his hand where the magic flamed, stitching his skin and muscle back together. He watched in awe as purple lines fused in the tiny space of white at the bottom of her nails. Her entire fingernails were purple with the exception of two paper-thin white lines near the top. Mrs. Rathbrook let out a hum of satisfaction.