Ghost's Sight Page 2

  The Witch looked up at the tall man with her fierce look.

  “Mother,” the Witch acknowledged. “It’s been a time.”

  Ghost did not mind the tall man that the Witch greeted with such familiarity, or even the limp hunter that this Mother carried. The third man had a sind across his shoulders, which he dropped, assuming an air of injured innocence when the tall man turned to look. That one made Ghost’s hackles rise.

  “Conn.” Mother’s voice was firm. Ghost found himself nodding approval as he watched from the shed.

  The tall man turned back to the Witch, having issued the quiet reprimand. “This is Gerry. Can you help him?”

  The Witch looked at the third man, her eyes flashing. “Bring the injured lad in,” she said to Mother. “That one, your Conn, he can wait here. If he needs to be useful, I’ll take that sind.”

  Ghost nearly choked. The sind held a gland that was worth as much to a witch as a double hand of pelts, but that was something the witches did not want known, nor the uses for that potent musk. Ghost relaxed when the Witch continued, in her tone that allowed for no argument.

  “He can hang the carcass in the tree there, and leave it to bleed out proper. Your dependent’s likely got a bad break, and a sind should cover the fee.” The Witch looked up from under her greasy hair.

  “As she says, Conn.” The tall man had to stoop to enter the house, while Ghost edged closer to the door of the shed, pulled along despite his misgivings.

  “Bring the water, little one.” The Witch followed Mother. Ghost hurried to the fire pit to take the pot of water from the tripod.

  Ghost did his best to avoid looking at the one called Conn. It did not help, and Ghost flinched when Conn hissed at him. He could feel the loathing in those eyes as they raked him. It was bad enough that he had to concentrate to avoid spilling the heated water on his own feet as he stepped over the threshold into the Witch’s house. He placed the pot on her workbench, turning to get out the basket of linen for bandages, the neat rolls wrapped in wide leaves to keep them clean.

  “Is this your dependent?” Mother’s quiet voice startled Ghost, making him nearly drop the pot of salve he had gotten down from the shelf above the workbench. He shied away from the tall man’s gaze, feeling unsettled. To hide his confusion, he looked at the man on the table, the one called Gerry.

  Gerry’s eyes were closed, his face pinched with pain, but his hair was thick and brown, shot through with bits of autumn red. Ghost inched closer, looking down the man’s lean body to his leg. The leather boot was intact, but even with that around his leg, there was no mistaking the angle.

  “Dependent? No, not really. Part apprentice, part pet.” The Witch laughed. Ghost looked at her with a small frown. “He’s here most of the time, unless I offend him, and then he disappears faster than the morning’s mist. He comes back in a day or two, hungry and tired.”

  “I’m not a pet,” Ghost said, aggrieved. “I help. I know the plants, and I can make the recipes. I don’t make mistakes.” He looked at the Witch from under his hair, his eyes meeting her dark eyes without any hesitation. “Unless you don’t want me.”

  “Hush, little one. Has my door ever been shut to you?” The Witch’s expression was kind for a moment, the harsh mask she wore dropping away. “Now come and help me. I’ll need your hands.”

  Ghost nodded, moving around the table opposite Mother.

  “Hold him tightly,” the Witch instructed Mother. “Ghost and I will try to get the boot off without cutting it, but if we need to, we’ll cut it away. Better a boot to be replaced than a leg gone.”

  Mother nodded, and Ghost could see his acknowledgment of the harsh reality. These were not market people. They knew well enough that there were no hunters with one leg. Ghost waited for the Witch to straighten the leg a bit more, before Ghost would try to remove the boot. The man moaned and stirred, as Ghost looked up at the Witch.

  “Hemp tea?” Ghost asked, stroking the stranger’s forehead to soothe him. Ghost could feel the sweat that glossed the man’s skin.

  The Witch made a small, disgruntled noise. “I don’t want to wait for it to work. Get something for him to bite on, and we’ll give him the tea afterward.”

  Ghost nodded, bringing over a leather-wrapped stick, thick and hard. He handed it to the Witch before moving down to Gerry’s foot, his hands wrapping around the boot. When the Witch nodded in her turn, Ghost began to pull the boot with care, one hand cupped around the heel of the boot and the other hand on the top of the foot.

  As Ghost pulled, Gerry screamed, trying to jerk upright. Mother’s hand patted Gerry’s shoulder before pressing down again to hold Gerry still.

  “We’re at the Witch’s house. We’ll get you well, man. Just howl through it if you need to,” Mother said in his deep voice. “Trust me; I’ve screamed a time or two myself in this very house, a long time ago.”

  Gerry took a shaky breath as he nodded, his hands gripping the edge of the table tightly. “Do it,” he croaked around the leather-wrapped stick.

  Ghost took a deep breath, looking first at Mother, then over at the Witch. The two alphas looked back, and when the Witch nodded, Ghost pulled the boot off in a single motion.

  The hunter’s scream was cut off when he passed out. Ghost dropped the boot, shrinking back in alarm when Mother moved around to the side of the table.

  “He’s unconscious, little one. Let’s get his leg dealt with as quickly as we can, and you can make the tea for him afterward.” The Witch looked at Ghost until he moved back to the table.

  It only took a moment for the Witch to assess the damage. She turned to Ghost, her voice crisp. “Get the pot of bone fibers, and the vinegar. Some honey, too.” She turned to open a small but ornate chest, taking out the gods’ light and a thin sharp knife. “He twisted when he fell. It’s a difficult break, but I can heal it. I’m going to open the skin so I can see the break properly. If you can’t handle it, say so.”

  Mother was as pale as anyone so tawny could be, but the man took a breath and nodded, much to Ghost’s surprise. He was sure he was mistaken, but he thought for a fleeting instant that there had been fear in the tall man’s eyes. Ghost looked down at the small pot he had taken from the shelf, shaking off the moment as he went to the kitchen to get the honey and the flask of vinegar.

  By the time Ghost returned, the Witch had opened Gerry’s leg and was spreading the muscle away from the bone. She looked up at him. “Good. Hold this open for me.”

  Ghost complied, holding back the muscle while the Witch sprinkled some of the fibers and picked up her gods’ light. The dot of light fused the fibers, knitting the bone as the Witch twisted Gerry’s foot to align it. Mother made a gagging sound, and Ghost looked up at the man in surprise. He would have thought the hunter was made of sterner stuff. Ghost bit back an urge to reassure Mother. That would mean talking to the man, and Ghost was not ready to acknowledge Mother that much.

  Losing all sense of time as he always did when the Witch was healing someone, Ghost’s attention focused on the way her hands moved, sure and deft. The thin, fine-boned fingers were as steady as the stones of the walls that surrounded the Witch’s house. Her fierce eyes were narrowed in utter concentration as she rebuilt the bone and reinforced it, the dot of light never wavering in its dance. It was only when Mother let out a small cry of relief that Ghost was dragged back into the world, the last of the afternoon sun already fading. He looked at Mother, momentarily bewildered as he felt the cramping in his fingers that meant he had been at this too long.

  The Witch looked at Ghost but said nothing, putting the gods’ light down for a moment. “Hold like that, little one, just a moment more.” She broke open a packet of linen, cutting a piece with her sharp knife and dipping it in vinegar to clean the wound. When she was satisfied, she patted Ghost’s hand. “Let go, now, so I can close up.”

  Ghost watched her as h
e wiped off his bloody fingers, massaging them to ease the stiffness. The Witch used the gods’ light to close the incision she had made. Once the skin was closed to her satisfaction, she wiped the area down with more vinegar, followed by some of the hot water. “Paint the area with the honey, and bind his leg, little one. Then make the tea for him.”

  The Witch gestured to Mother. The two of them walked to the kitchen, Ghost not bothering to listen as he put a coating of honey over the red line on Gerry’s leg. He was more interested in Gerry, in the strong line of Gerry’s jaw, the strength in those hands as they gripped the table, preparing for the pain to come. There had been courage there, which called to Ghost in a way he found unfamiliar, yet exciting.

  Ghost wrapped Gerry’s leg in a loose bandage of clean linen, more to keep the honey from smearing everywhere than anything else. Ghost knew with a certainty that defied reason that the gods’ light had fused the bone properly. With a night’s rest, the hunter would be fine. Gerry’s leg would ache for a bit, and he would limp for a quarter-moon, but even that would pass, or so Ghost’s Sight had shown.

  Ghost paused for a moment in clearing away what he had not used, his fingers brushing back the man’s rough-cut hair. Ghost’s head came up when he registered what the Witch was saying, and he tightened his hold on the basket of linen he had just picked up.

  “He’ll stay the night here. I don’t have room to put you and your other dependent up, but you can camp behind the drying shed, inside my walls.” The Witch gestured. “The little one will show you where to put him.”

  He stiffened, not really wanting to deal with Mother, but the Witch had said, and Ghost had no choice. He dipped his head to hide under the fall of his hair, lowering his eyes to watch the floor. He waited for Mother to gather Gerry up, gesturing for the tall man to follow him to the one room the Witch held for those who needed more care. The bed was clean, the blanket warm, and Ghost fluffed the pillow with nervous hands just before Mother eased Gerry down.

  Ghost watched Mother warily as the tall alpha turned. He walked away to make it harder for the man to speak to him, moving with deliberate haste to take down a pot from the shelf of supplies over a small table, the wood pale from countless scrubbings. He measured dried leaves into a cup, doing his best to avoid even so much as looking at Mother. Mother shrugged and removed Gerry’s other boot, pulling up the blanket.

  The Witch paused to check the cup before she walked Mother to the door. Ghost followed, hesitant, his heart pounding as hard as if he had run from the lake beyond the woods all the way home to the Witch’s house. He let his eyes flicker back to the man in the bed in the little room. He would rather have stayed with Gerry, but he felt compelled by something he could not name to follow the Witch out into the small yard.

  Conn had hung the sind where the Witch had told him but his tunic was wet, as if he had just washed off any blood that had stained it. A muddy spot by the well bore that out, though it made little sense to Ghost. Conn should have washed his shirt far earlier, right after he had hung the sind. Ghost looked at the young man, Conn’s blue eyes several shades darker than Ghost’s eyes. Conn stared back, insolent, before turning to Mother, his expression changing at once to a softer, more innocent look.

  “How is Gerry?” Conn asked, hurrying over to Mother’s side, one hand slipping under Mother’s arm. Ghost fell back into the house, just a step or two, wrapping his arms around himself.

  “He’s fine. He’s staying the night to be watched, but the Witch says he’s healed.” Mother sounded relieved, smiling as he looked at Conn. “We can camp behind the shed, and then we can all leave tomorrow.”

  Ghost frowned as he watched Conn force a smile. “But I’d rather go home tonight, and sleep inside. We can come back in the morning. We’ll get up early.” Conn stroked Mother’s arm, the look in the dependent’s eyes dark with need. “Let’s go. I’m cold, and we don’t have any of our gear to camp, and I want to go home.”

  Mother frowned a little. “We’ve camped rough before. I don’t like leaving Gerry, not that I don’t think he’s in good hands. But we’re a family, Conn. We should be there for each other.”

  “I’m wet and cold and you remember how I had that cough?” Conn pressed against Mother, his tunic clinging to his lithe frame. He tilted his head up a bit, managing to look both helpless and endearing all at once. Ghost’s frown deepened.

  “You’ll need to be up before dawn,” Mother said.

  Mother sighed a little when Conn made no reply, and he nodded. “All right. We’ll come back in the morning.” He looked at the Witch, his expression apologetic.

  The Witch said nothing more, watching Mother leave with Conn still hanging on the tall man’s arm, the younger man’s attitude possessive.

  Ghost turned on his heel to hurry back into the house, pouring hot water into the cup he had prepared. He stirred it, his shoulders hunched as he listened to the Witch stop to check on Gerry, hearing the murmur of their voices. She paused again as she passed behind Ghost.

  “He’s awake and sore. Bring him the tea.” The Witch patted Ghost’s shoulder before she walked away.

  Ghost took the cup and grabbed the pot of honey, walking into the little room, his eyes lowered.

  “I remember you, I think.” Gerry’s voice was rough. “You were helping me, you and the Witch.”

  Ghost looked down, his cheeks warming as he nodded. He held up the cup, his own voice just above a whisper. “I’m Ghost. I made tea, to help you rest.” He moved closer, his heart pounding hard again. “They left. The younger one, he wanted to go. He said he was cold, and his tunic was wet.”

  “You mean Conn.” Gerry pulled himself into a sitting position, his movements cautious. “It bothers you that they left.”

  “He didn’t listen to the alpha. The one called Mother.” Ghost put the tea down on the small table beside the bed, offering Gerry the pot of honey. “It’s bitter. Honey helps.”

  “Conn isn’t very good at listening sometimes,” Gerry said. “He’s nineteen now. Still pretty young and headstrong, right?”

  Ghost frowned. “I’m eighteen.” Ghost watched Gerry add a small taste of honey to his tea, showing a courteous frugality. He did not presume on the bounds of hospitality, this man, and Ghost found that interesting enough that he forgot to frown. “You might want more honey. It’s hemp tea, to ease the pain from the healing. I added some chamomile to help you rest.”

  Gerry took a small bit more of the honey, stirring the tea. “Well, maybe you’re more sensible. Conn needs to feel secure, I suppose. He worries that Mother favors me, because I hunt and work with him as a guard for one of the bigger merchants.”

  “Foolish.” Ghost felt his cheeks grow even warmer and he ducked his head. Conn’s rudeness angered him; yet he was having trouble understanding why. After all, he had never met these men before today, nor did he did not think it was the visions that were upsetting him so much. Ghost never saw faces when he was gripped by his Sight. It was all emotion and raw sensation, or maybe a whisper that he could almost make out. In fact, it was much like the way he felt at this moment, standing like a fool next to the bed.

  Gerry smiled a little as he patted the bed. “Keep me company for a bit,” he urged. “Are you the Witch’s dependent?”

  Ghost shook his head as he sat on the very edge of the bed, poised to take flight if need be. The spiral under his hair felt warm, almost painful, but he resisted the urge to rub it. It never helped when he did, and he was not sure what Gerry would do if the man saw it. The Witch had a symbol she called a triskele, the ink a vivid scarlet still, but no male that had ever come for healing bore a mark like hers, or like his. He had never found the words to ask the Witch about it, about why he was marked like a witch.

  “She doesn’t like having dependents. She says I’m her apprentice, but there are no male witches.” Ghost shrugged as the overlarge knitted top slid off his should
er. “Sometimes she says I’m a pet. There’s a witch she knows who raised an orphaned sind whelp, and kept it for a pet. The Witch said I’m like that sind.”

  “Wild at heart?” Gerry asked, his muddy green eyes warm and friendly.

  “Not quite housebroken.” Ghost snorted a little as he tugged the knitted tunic back up over his shoulder. “The sind used to mark the place something fierce. His musk was pretty awful.”

  Gerry started to laugh, and Ghost smiled, still cautious. He had no desire to leave the room yet, no growing unease that would propel him into the woods. If he did not know himself better, he would have thought he was enjoying Gerry’s company. That was foolishness, though. He hardly knew how to talk to anyone except the Witch, and they could go days without needing actual words between them.

  The injured hunter took a sip of the tea, wrinkling his nose a bit at the bitter taste. Ghost had warned him, but it was obvious that it was more vile than Gerry had anticipated. If it would help him heal, though, Ghost thought the taste was worth it.

  Ghost tilted his head a little as he watched Gerry. “You should be careful of Conn. He doesn’t know what he wants, and that makes him dangerous.” The words came from someplace deep inside Ghost, a warning he felt compelled to offer.

  The other man shook his head with a smile. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call him dangerous, although Conn could be more alert, I suppose. The truth is I think he’s afraid we’ll leave him. Me and Mother both.”

  “Is he right?” Ghost watched the way the man’s eyes lost focus as he thought. It reminded Ghost of the Witch when she was talking to her witchsisters in the scrying mirror. Ghost’s hand itched with the need to reach out to touch that stubbled jaw.

  Gerry sighed as he took another gulp of tea, making another grimace. “I want to branch out, start a family of my own someday. But I’ll still stay affiliated with Mother, and if he’ll have me, I’ll work guard with him, maybe even hunt with him. Conn’s not good at either, really.”