dead, but neither would he get better. She could not heal the way her father and the other Earthsingers could. Her Song could prevent death or give it. That was all.
However, she was also blood mage. Once Oval and the guards moved off down the hall, she crept into the darkened cave, approaching the prisoner’s body. Since so much of his blood was present, she could use it for the spell. Softly, so no one would hear, she began the incantation that would set his bones.
It was a difficult working, forbidden for use by all but the shaman. If done incorrectly, it would do more harm than good. But having done little else but study and practice for years, she was confident in her abilities and focused all her will and intent on saving the man’s life.
The blood allowed her to knit his bones back together and inflate his collapsed lung. It stopped the bleeding inside of him. She could not afford to heal him too much, else she would be discovered, but at least now he was no longer on the cusp. He would live—at least until his interrogation.
She sat back on her haunches and took a closer look at him. He shifted, his head rolling toward her, giving her a good look at his face. High cheekbones and skin a shade somewhere between the coloring of the Cavefolk and her own hue. His hair was coiled in thick, dark locks, and his eyes fluttered and slowly opened.
She sucked in a shocked breath. Gold and copper swirls moved inside his irises. She’d never seen eyes like that. They transfixed her so that she couldn’t look away.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice a rich honey. He spoke the language of her father, not the tongue of the Folk.
“My name is Mooriah, who are you?”
“I am Fenix.” He looked around, then tried to sit up only to groan in pain and lay back down. “Where am I?”
“You trespassed in the mountain and disturbed a stone from the sacred Mother. Our guards found you and brought you here to await sentence by the chieftain.”
A strange look crossed his face. “Another prison.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “You are one of them? You don’t look like the others.”
Her back straightened. As if she hadn’t heard that enough. “I was not born of the Folk, but they are my people. I have lived here my entire life.” She stood and prepared to leave.
“Wait—I, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
She froze at the sincerity in his voice. She was being oversensitive. He wasn’t from here, and it was a perfectly reasonable question.
Vibrations shook the floor. “Someone’s coming. Please don’t tell anyone I helped you.”
He frowned. “You weren’t supposed to. Why did you then?”
These were her people, but she still didn’t understand or agree with some of the rules. She turned away, stepping to the entrance to the chamber. “The penalty for your crime is death. I probably shouldn’t have bothered, but it should be swift, not slow and full of suffering.”
The footsteps drew nearer. When the guards arrived again, she was pulling out the ingredients that Oval would need to aid in the man’s questioning. The guards loaded Fenix onto a litter and carried him away. As he passed, he looked upon her with his golden swirling eyes, making Mooriah’s breath catch.
They were so strange—he was so strange. She followed behind him, hoping once again that her impulsiveness would not come back to bite her.
~ 5 ~
Binding of Truth: To aid in determining lie from truth.
Best enhanced with doe herb and the scent of funeral bane. To be undertaken only by those well versed in communing with the Mother. The strength of the blood of the recipient will determine the spell’s efficacy.
—WISDOM OF THE FOLK
“Who are you?” Coal, the clan’s Protector, asked, his voice thunderous. Mooriah stifled a wince. She’d never liked the man who used his fists liberally for even the most benign of offenses. Crimson, Ember, and Rumble stood in a line next to him, standing over Fenix. The chieftain had included both of his potential heirs in this interrogation, probably to evaluate their leadership styles.
Mooriah and Glister were seated next the prisoner who lay upon the ground in the justice chamber, unable to sit upright. Mooriah held the censer of incense and a fan, wafting the smoke over to him, Glister sprinkled him with herb water every few minutes. Both were used to keep the prisoner calm, as the