#3 Wounds: Seen and Unseen

Avalea

When the Werewolf leaves, I force myself to rein my tears in. 

Shame and unease wash over me. I should not have shown him just how much of a wreck I am right now. Werewolves are savages. And after what the Council and Father did just last month, they hate my kind more than ever. What’s to stop him from killing me once he knows how weak I am?

I don’t know what caused me to shed tears. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to the happenings of last night, perhaps it was realizing how well and truly alone I am now, or perhaps it was just relief, knowing this Werewolf isn’t one of those who invaded our palace last night and murdered my father. Ann and I might not have seen the faces of the assassins, but we heard them speak. I know with an unshakable certainty that this Werewolf wasn’t one of the assassins.

Or perhaps it was his kindness towards me that caused me to shed tears.

Despite my vulnerability, despite knowing I was probably defenseless at that moment, he did nothing to hurt me or harm me. He said he was going to get food and a change of clothes. Are the Cursed Ones actually capable of kindness? I shake my head to dislodge the thought. There’s enough I have to riddle through without adding more to it. 

The Royal Palace was supposed to be impregnable; protected not just with guards and soldiers, but also with magic. And yet, the assassins not only found their way inside the palace, they also apparently knew about the secret underground passage. They had lain in wait for us in the general vicinity, if not exactly at the exit of the passage, as Ann and I emerged from it. 

Last night, I had pushed this niggling thought to the back of my head. But now, I am forced to face the facts. 

We were betrayed by those we trusted. Nobody knows about the secret passageway, except Father, Ann, myself, Uncle Horace, and the Council. 

I cannot return to the palace. I don't know who I can trust, and all I can do is pray that Ann doesn't return to the palace either. But knowing her, I'm certain that she must have already come to the same conclusion. 

I must find my way to Uncle Horace’s lorddom. He lives in Deneb, the second largest city in the Kingdom of Altair after Vega, our capital. He will help us weed out the traitors. 

Beyond knowing that they were all Cursed Ones, I know nothing about the assassins. Were they hired? Were they acting of their own accord? I don’t have the answers.

I can guess why they would want to harm us, though. It's surely in response to the harsh measures Father and the Council took against the Cursed Ones after the unfortunate incident last month.

I could feel the bitterness coming off the Werewolf in waves when he alluded to the incident, and I can’t blame him for feeling that way.

Ever since the punishment was enforced on the entire pack, I knew it was only a matter of time before there would be retribution. Ann even thinks there might be a second rebellion. 

I sigh as I realize that if another rebellion happens, it will be my responsibility to deal with it. I'm no longer just a princess, but soon-to-be queen. I fight a sharp stab of pain when the fresh realization hits that Father is dead. Digging deep into my reserves of strength, I push away all maudlin thoughts. 

First order of the matter is to heal myself. Once I have done that, I need to be on my way to Deneb, while taking care that I’m not found. 

They failed to capture Ann and I, but that doesn’t mean they will give up. The Cursed Ones might even now be combing the woods, trying to find us. 

I’ll have to make my way through the forest and travel on foot. I wish I had mastered the art of flying, or had a flying chariot at hand. 

As the heir-apparent, I was only allowed to master certain aspects of magic–some defense, some basic housekeeping spells, and some healing magic. The highest purpose of Venusian Witches is to bring life and beauty wherever they go. And that’s the aspect of my magic that was honed the most. I can turn this space beautiful with a flick of my wrist, but a fat lot of good that will do me. I wish I was more adept at useful stuff, like Ann. 

The only person I can hope to get help from is my reluctant host, the Werewolf. Perhaps I was too hasty in rejecting his offer to escort me as far as he could. However, my refusal was based on logic. 

From his actions, from his surprise at finding me in this condition in his hut, it was clear that he hadn't heard about what happened at the palace last night. Once he knows, will he still be willing to help me knowing I will track down and bring some of his kind to justice? 

My blood turns to ice as a fresh doubt surfaces. What if he hasn't gone to get food, but to inform the assassins of my whereabouts? I'm sure he isn't one of the assassins. But how can I be sure that he wasn't involved in any way? 

I screw my eyes shut and force myself to think. He wouldn’t have insisted I leave if he were indeed involved. He would have tried his best to keep me imprisoned here. 

His actions have so far defied what I believe I know about the Werewolves.

Despite that, I’m reluctant to trust him. Werewolves are not to be trusted. Everybody knows that. They don't have magic. They gained entry into Altair–a safe haven for all magical beings–after being banished from human society, by using trickery and subterfuge. Our children are taught to stay away from the Cursed Ones. We're told stories, taught rhymes, ballads and songs about the dangers of trusting a Cursed One from a very young age. In schools, the Werewolf rebellion is taught as a cautionary tale. We are made to learn all the finer points of the treaty that the Werewolves were made to sign once the rebellion was quelled. 

Werewolves were allowed to live freely within the city limits before the rebellion. But as per the terms of the treaty, they were banished to the outskirts. Even that changed after the unfortunate incident last month. 

Now, they are confined to ghettos well outside the city limits. They're forbidden from interacting freely with other magical beings, and can only interact via the official intermediaries. The jobs they can be employed for are the ones involving physical labor–security guards, soldiers, manual laborers. In a society where magical prowess and mental acumen are held in higher regard than physical labor, it's not surprising that the Werewolves, who aren’t native to Altair in the first place, haven't been able to lift themselves up socially. 

They resent that. They resent us. And that's why we're taught to always remember that the Cursed Ones are neither humans nor beasts, but a torrid amalgamation of both. They're untamed, savage, dangerous, owing to the beast lurking underneath their skins. 

However, I can't help thinking that my reluctant host didn't seem savage or dangerous. Yes, there is a certain wildness about him; in the bulging muscles of his forearm, his strong shoulders, the way his tunic stretched across his chest. But his silver-gray eyes held wariness and shock rather than untamed rage. 

A lifetime of lessons war with my instinct. I don't want to think the worst of him. But can I really risk my safety on the strength of my instinct alone? 

I think not. 

It's best that I heal my injuries and be on my way before he even returns. I can’t stay here forever. In fact, it might even be best if I get away before he comes back. Perhaps that display of kindness was out of character. 

His jacket, lying inches away from me, makes me feel guilty for thinking poorly of him. With the rays of the sun heating up the earth, the chill has vanished from the air. I don’t need the jacket. Shame settles in my stomach for rejecting his kind gesture. Logically, I know I did the right thing, but it feels so wrong.

Pushing the thought aside, I try to get to my feet.

Sharp pain shoots up my leg; I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying out loud. At least some of the injuries are more severe than I'd imagined them to be. Taking a deep breath, I limp some distance away and seat myself on the dirty floor, supporting my back against the wall. I focus my attention on my feet, letting the healing magic flow through my fingers as I move them over my feet. The cuts and scrapes heal, leaving my unblemished skin behind. Next, I move my fingers up my calves and do the same, healing the wounds. As I push my nightgown up my thigh, I see a small but deep gash which I had failed to notice last night. I'll heal it last. I move my hands up and down my arms; now, I'm nearly all healed. There's perspiration on my upper lip and forehead, and my breath is coming out in sharp gasps. I cannot understand why such a minor magical effort has made me so tired. The happenings of last night took more of a toll than I realized. I force myself to sit down and take a few deep breaths. Once I’m steadier, I push my nightgown up my thigh to expose the wound. It’s where the silver dagger had cut me while I was hidden under the Cloak.

I run my hands over it, trying to close the edges of the wound. 

It only gapes more! The healing magic, instead of closing the wound, is ripping it open! I cry out loud as I feel my flesh tear. I’m now bleeding freely from the wound. I dare not try to heal it magically again. What cursed poison was that dagger dipped in? Ripping a piece of my sleeve, I press it to the wound tightly. The flow of blood slows, but does not stop. 

I feel a fog enveloping my brain as darkness steals over my senses and I lose consciousness.