The day of her birth, he thought. Often the light could be just as sly and cruel as the dark.

He heard her moving about, though he wished she’d stay down for an hour more. Then he heard the shower. It banged a bit, the pipes, but it served. And she’d earned it.

He imagined she wanted to wash away the stink of the prison, the smear of death. And realized he wanted to do exactly the same.

He went out to walk to the stream. Once they were clean again, he’d take out the spice cake he’d had baked for her. Hope it pleased her.

Balance, he thought as he stripped. Some cake and tea, a quiet evening with no tasks for her.

A small way to balance out the ugliness of the day, and the sad duty they’d face on the morrow.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Winter followed fall and brought with it brutal cold, howling winds, and relentless snow. Despite it, Mallick pushed physical training. Battles, he told Fallon, didn’t wait for balmy spring.

She learned to fight with a sword in one hand, a knife in the other. And when Mallick tripled himself in an illusion, how to fight multiple foes.

She died often, but she learned.

She rode Grace for pleasure, and Laoch for the thrill and the practice, as rider and mount must be one in battle.

Armed with a sword and a small shield she fought Mallick on horseback. Snow blew in sheets while the throaty wind whirled it, and again and again charmed steel rang against charmed steel.

The seasoned Gwydion charged, reared, pivoted with a fearlessness Fallon admired and respected. Laoch exceeded even that skill, Fallon knew, just as she knew her mount’s disadvantage was his rider.

She’d get better.

Swords clashed, their ringing muffled in the curtain of snow. All the hours she’d wielded the sword, all the buckets of water she’d lifted, carried, had given her a sinewy strength. Despite the cold, exertion warmed her muscles. And with an eye and skill she hadn’t possessed only a few months before, she slipped past Mallick’s guard, struck his heart.

He only nodded. “Again,” he said, this time conjuring the illusion of a battle raging around them. Warriors on horseback, on foot, arrows winging, fireballs blasting.

Gwydion charged, Mallick’s sword flashed. But she was ready. She blocked him with the shield, and hammered at him while Laoch drove Gwydion back.

Despite the war cries, the screams of the dying, she heard Mallick’s laboring breaths. And with her honed young strength struck blow after blow. Then swept out with her shield, striking to send him tumbling from his horse.

He landed in the trodden snow with a thud.

Grinning, she leaned forward against Laoch. “You gonna call ‘uncle’ this time? That’s the third time in an hour I’ve—”

Her grin faded as he only lay, eyes closed.

“Oh shit!”

She leaped off her horse, dived to him. As she started to glide her hands over him, he opened his eyes, waved her off.

“Only winded.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Are you sure you’re not hurt? Let me see.”

“I know if I’m hurt or not, and I’m not.” He levered up to sitting. “You unhorsed me, but with your attack so focused on only one opponent, a half dozen could have struck from your flanks.”

“No. Laoch would tell me.”

Mallick’s gaze shifted to the horse, who stood at his ease now. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. And I can sense—not everyone, not every time—but I can sense if one of your ghosts comes at me. Between us, we know. You can’t always know. And you have to take out the primary foe. You taught me that. Take out the primary, take out the next.”

He only grunted, but she heard approval in the sound. And fatigue.

“We should rub down the horses. They’ve been out in this over an hour,” she said.

“They’re strong, healthy creatures. And so am I. We’ll go again.”

But as he got up and started to remount, they heard the shouts.

Mick ran toward them, skimming over the snow at a speed that barely left a trace. His hair, coated with snow, flew behind him.

“You have to come!” he shouted. “You need to come.”

Instantly, Fallon gripped the hilt of her sword. “What is it? An attack.”

“No, no. Sick. People are sick. My dad—you have to come.”

“Slower.” Mallick stepped forward, put his hands on Mick’s shoulders. “What sickness? How many?”

“A lot. It’s fever and chills, and my father can’t get his breath. Coughing. The teas and potions aren’t working. You have to come.”

“You don’t look so good, either,” Fallon pointed out.

“I’m okay. I’m—” Then he contradicted the claim by falling into a hacking, coughing fit. “My dad—”

“Come inside.”

“No, I have to—”

“Inside,” Mallick repeated. “We need medicines. You’re feverish. Fallon, brew tea. Yarrow—”

“Yarrow, elderberry, peppermint. I know. Don’t waste time,” she told Mick, pulling him toward the cottage, signaling the horses to follow.

“Sit by the fire,” she ordered Mick, setting it to blazing.

Ginger, she thought, thyme and honey. For the coughs. Licorice, echinacea, she added as she gathered the fever herbs.

She flashed a mug of water to boiling, added the herbs to steep. “Do you have enough blankets?”

“I think so.” Shivering a little, he shot her a look of desperation. “We need to hurry.”

“What about the shifters, the faeries?”

“The faeries have been trying to help, some of them are sick, too. The pack’s good. At least they were.”

“Drink this. I have to get more supplies. We have medicines in the workshop. Mallick’s getting what we need, and I can get more from here and the greenhouse. We’ll go as soon as we have what we need.”

“Some of the elders are afraid it’s like the Doom. They remember the Doom. They’re afraid.”

“It’s not the Doom.” Putting a hand on his forehead, she looked. “It’s a virus, but it’s pneumonia. You have it in one lung.”

“What is that? What’s ‘pneumonia’?”

“It’s not the Doom,” she said briskly. “Drink that. I’ll be back.”

She raced up to the workshop. “Pneumonia,” she said as Mallick filled two packs. “Viral.”

He nodded. “Go to the greenhouse and gather—”

“I know what to get.”

She dashed off. Her mother had helped heal three people with pneumonia in the village at home, and she’d watched. And Mallick had gone over this specific illness in her healing studies.

She filled another pack, ran back to the cottage just as Mallick came down the steps.

“We’ll make more of what’s needed at the elf camp. Take Mick on Laoch with you.”

Once she’d mounted, she held out a hand for Mick. His hand, clammy and ungloved, shook in hers. “You need to hold on to me. We’re going fast.”

“I can hold on. Go. Go.”

Snow flew as Laoch charged through it. When she felt Mick’s grip around her waist held tight enough, she took Laoch up so he flew just above the snow, gaining speed as they weaved through trees. Mallick would fall behind, she knew, but she could begin to brew the teas.

The moment she crossed into the camp, Mick jumped off. Though he stumbled, staggered, he pushed himself to the hut he shared with his father.

“Anyone who’s well,” Fallon called out. “We need to brew teas.”

Orelana, pale with exhaustion, added wood to a fire. “The teas haven’t helped. We thought they were, they would, or we’d have sent for you sooner. It came on so quickly.”

“These teas will have more, do more. We need to make poultices, and steam pots.”

Around the central fire, she instructed Orelana and three others how to brew and mix, barely glancing around when Mallick rode in.

“The one who is most ill,” Mallick demanded.

“My youngest. My youngest and Old Ned,” Orelana called out, pointing to a hut. “Ned’s granddaughter’s caring for him. She’s not ill. Minh is with the baby.”