The reaction of Cannor’s men, both the younger ones and their seniors, was not surprising. They looked at her with anger, frustration, and disbelief playing on their hard faces. She would have looked at her the same way had she been standing in their shoes. Behind them, the storm howled again. There was no way they could travel back to Cannor with the injured and hope that he would recover. No, with the way he looked, he would die sooner than their bonfire.

Ysabel watched the emotions played on the men’s faces. She noticed that their coloring and facial structures were diverse, hinting that these men had come from all over Andor and perhaps even beyond. But despite the diversity, that night, she guessed that they were all contemplating whether or not they should believe her. The silence didn’t stretch long. Somebody pushed his way through the wall of bodies to voice out his thoughts.

[i]“How?”[/i] He demanded. [i]”No healer can stop that.”[/i]

Her response didn’t come right away. Instead, she allowed the others time to organize their thoughts and somehow form an opinion towards her. Of course she knew she could do it, she was not just any other healer. The process was painful and she knew just by looking at the exposed part of the injury that she would regret it later on.

Still, she raised an arrogant brow at the blonde man. “And how can you say for certain?” She challenged. He looked young, younger perhaps than most of the men, therefore he couldn’t be the one in charge. Ysabel turned her attention to the one who was still on horseback – the most arrogant looking of them all, the one whose voice sounded like he was used to barking demands and commands. “I am confident that I can help him.”

The man’s beard moved before she saw his mouth did. Andrel had never taken his hard eyes off Ysabel and now that she had the chance to look back into those black pools, she dared not to look away. “Are you a healer?”

“Yes, I am,” which was true. 

The men exchanged glances. “He is dead,” Greymount spat. “Or will be in a few hours. The best we can do for Rannor is to ease his suffering. End it fast and painless rather than prolonging his agony and ours.”

“No!” she protested, taking a step towards the man in pain on the floor. “I can guarantee that he will live. All I ask in return is safe passage to Andor.” She knelt down beside Rannor, ignoring the smell that lingered in the cold air around them. “Please, give him a chance. I will guarantee his recovery. I will guarantee it with my life.” Ysabel almost bit her tongue after the words slipped past. What was she doing throwing such a promise?

Greymount’s expression didn’t change. He did not believe her, yet he lifted his eyes to meet with his brothers. 

“He is dead anyway,” said Derrin with a shrug. “You said so yourself.”

Fraym grunted as he dismounted. “Prove yourself true, woman. If Rannor dies tonight, before the mountain calms down, I shall have your head.” 

“And I shall have supplies before his condition becomes irreversible,” she answered, seemingly unconcerned about the threat. 

Derrin was the one who fetched the medicinal supplies, carrying it over to her, who just stared at it, not really knowing what to do. The bag was crowded with jars and powders. She asked Derrin to identify each for her, then asked someone else to heat enough water to clean Rannor’s wound. The camp came to life around them. The elders gave out orders on who was going to be on watch, ate, and generally avoided bothering her, except for Greymount who hovered over her shoulder. She occasionally asked for assistance to hold Rannor’s down. Despite his corpselike skin coloring, he was still strong. She was witness to his strength when at one time he accidentally hit her on the jaw.

In the end, after she managed to clean Rannor’s wound, Ysabel made a hazy concoction which was mostly water and something else Derrin mentioned. By that time, Rannor was limp, his skin was clammy and his breathing very uneven. 

“Help me,” she asked one of the orphans, whose name she hadn’t asked. “I need to get him to drink this.” He helped lift Rannor’s head and slowly, Ysabel fed the liquid to her patient. She touched his forehead as if checking for fever then braced herself. While the liquid mixture would not heal Rannor, Ysabel would do it. Slowly, she reached for the thread – a familiar connection that she had learned to establish with another living being when their skins were in contact. She tugged at it, testing the strength of the connection, then gently coaxed the damage to heal.

In Rannor’s case, she wouldn’t close the wound, but rid it of the poison that was slowly eating his flesh. However, as was the law of nature, nothing can be subtracted without anything to be added in return, or else the balance would tip. What she rid of Rannor, therefore, she absorbed to herself – the part which she didn’t enjoy. 

Rannor’s breathing became a little more even and a little color came back to his face. Ysabel’s stomach lurched. She covered her mouth, waved at the one supporting Rannor’s head to also do the bandages, then ran to the mouth of the cave, fell on her knees and heaved the contents of her stomach on the snow.