Some said magic was like cooking-- in the sense that anyone could do it with a bit of practice, but not everyone could become a professional cook.

Farren, however, did not agree.

Unlike magic, cooking was not punishable by law for if you were a soldier, and overdoing it rarely landed someone in bed with excruciating pain assailing their every sense and caused them to cough up blood.

Exhausting one's magical reserves, did. As was happening to her right now.

The Countess's words echoed in her mind.

"We all have magic-- like we have blood running in our veins and worries racking our brains. Simple, eh?"

"The key to using magic is never to force yourself to give your all." The Countess would say. "Giving your all may sound heroic and all that crap. The truth is-- it's both heroic and stupid."

"Spells not working? Ditch that and come back later, maybe after a meal or two. Unless you are an adept, kid, don't be stupid enough to try to use up all your magic. It'll take weeks to replenish-- but that ain't the problem. The problem is surviving until then. Your whole body would hurt like hell."

The Countess of Silver Knife was absolutely right, Farren now found out.

The assault spell she used on the leader of the Drisian soldiers-- she'd spent all her magic into it in the moment of desperation.

So severe was the pain that assailed her now, it did not seem to have any regard for the high tolerance level set by her dubious deal with Atruer, and true to the God's words, she did pay with her blood this time. Lots of it-- which she coughed up into a bucket.

It was at times like this Farren wished she had never made that deal. While others were sure to lose consciousness from the pain-- into a temporary escape, her high tolerance kept her wide awake through the entire ordeal. Nor could regular healing lessen the suffering.

She'd once confronted the God of Despair, clutching her axe in a trembling grip. It had not taken her more than a few weeks to realise the downsides to their agreement. "I want out of this blasted deal!"

"But I do not. Despite you being such a brat, you're of use to me." He laughed. "It takes a God to break a deal with a God. And where would you find another, in these miserable mortal lands?"

In a cruel jest, he'd made an exaggerated show of looking around the plain where they'd been standing. "See anyone other than...me?"

✦✧✦✧

In that bone-racking bout of delirium that descended upon Farren, she missed the fact that Crowder was for some reason still working that jinxed job, that Gray had carried an unconscious Rendarr on his back to Crowder's carriage on which they'd got back to the camp-- and Linder had hurried back to Brittlerock immediately after some primary healing.

Seated on a chair beside one of the beds in the infirmary, Klo filled her in with the details and rested a gentle arm across her shoulders as Farren put away the bucket for the umpteenth time.

She offered the sergeant a forced smile, her teeth stained red.

"Stubborn little thing," said Klo begrudgingly.

"I have the right to refuse treatment, and I exercised it," Farren said. "And you know why."

A deep frown creasing her forehead, Klo shifted in her seat. The afternoon sun falling through the window bars cast streaks of gold across her deep brown skin, black eyes shimmering like embers in the soft light; but a shadow had fallen beneath them ever since the night of the attack.

"I hate this," she said, raising a hand to her face, "you having to be the last to get healed every time there're casualties."

Farren's grin was sour. "But what other way is there? Both Eliora and Foxward are at the end of their energy--they've tended to so many others since that night. Hands all black and blue, you saw 'em. They had just enough left to heal the others."

Farren leaned back onto the pillows. "Regular healing won't work on me. How could I let old Eliora cover up those bruised hands and work herself to death for me? There are three other people who need the last bit of help she can offer, for Rhilio's sake!"

Klo smiled sadly. "Oh, if only the lieutenant were to hear you say that."

"He would've been mad. As always."

"Yes, but also a little proud, I think," Klo said, giving her hand a squeeze. "You did well with the dagger too. Helm has told me all of it."

Farren did not respond, partly for fear of saying something stupid and ruining the moment-- mostly because she did not know how to handle compliments.

Farren Clearstrike was bad at a plethora of things. Receiving praise had to be one of the top five; especially when said praise came in a genuine, un-ironic, non-sardonic way.

She liked it though; it spread like a warmth through her heart despite the pain racking her limbs, but it was gone soon, only to be replaced by bitterness.

The true reason she always let others be healed first was not remotely close to heroic sacrifice. Nothing but pure guilt it was-- because of the deal she'd made.

I'm already cheating through life.

And Farren ended up saying something very stupid after all.

"There's hardly anything to be proud of," she said, "what happened in the woods-- all I did was to defend myself. As for the rest-- I just didn't want Eliora to waste her magic on a resistant. That's all."

Klo's expression darkened. "Waste? You sure about that word?"

"Of course. 'Mutant freak', remember?" Farren grinned, then winced as another wave of pain shot through her body. She let out a sound something between a laugh and a squeak. "And street rat. Now I even sound like one."

Klo scoffed. "Really? You're letting yourself be swayed by some noble bastard's words? What happened to that tough hide of yours?"

"The tougher the hide," she gasped, "the more cracks there are. Am I right?"

Klo did not look pleased with this bit of philosophy she had come up with. She sat in silence with Farren for a while, hands clutched in hers as a wave of pain rose, did its damage, then passed.

"As your squad leader," Klo said at last, her tone authoritative rather than friendly, "I order you not to use such degrading words about yourself."

Farren smiled at the wooden ceiling. "Right, exploit your power like everyone else."

"The cause is worth it."

Oh but you're sorely mistaken, dear friend.

Seeing the faith behind her eyes left Farren feeling more empty. The faith would be replaced with pure hatred if she were to tell her that she had made a deal with a God who took pleasure in the suffering of mortals-- that the deal was the source of her strength, endurance, even her skills with the axe.

For a moment, she considered telling her everything, of letting the weight off her chest.

Surely, even if everyone turned away, Klo would understand, wouldn't she?

Farren turned to face the other way.

✦✧✦✧

Being down in bed, helpless for hours on end had its way of making one feel morose and making them regret their life choices. She tried to switch the topic from herself-- to something less depressing.

"Where's Valerie gone off to, anyway?" she asked at last. "And I think I heard Eliora kicking out Rendarr and Gray after their healing was done-- what the hell was that about?"

Klo chuckled. "They wouldn't stop arguing whether she should've healed you first. Then when Gray tried to back up his argument by reciting the entire ethical code of conduct for healers, she threw them out with a boot to the backside."

Farren laughed, but not too hard to hurt herself. "Morons."

"Yeah, that's what Karles was saying." Klo's expression took on a serious look now. "Linder went back to Brittlerock, but before that, they argued a lot-- him and Karles. In front of everyone outside. Karles doesn't like the fact he's suspecting Dion-- a member of his squad. That'd imply he was harbouring an assassin all this time. Besides, no one at the camp believes Linder."

Farren cursed. "Told him that'd happen. Mark my words-- that man's gonna end up dead soon." She paused. "Have you any idea what Linder and Karles have going on between them? Karles' been jumpy ever since they talked on the way here from Brittlerock. I asked Linder and all I got was cheek. Has he told you anything then?"

"What?" Klo raised her eyebrows. "First time I've heard of that. Linder hasn't mentioned anything."

Damnit, just what is he playing at?

Moments later, the man in question strode in through the doors of the infirmary, and the reason for his hurrying back to Brittlerock was clear at once-- he had brought in a healer. And a colossal tome of a leather-bound book tucked under his arm.

"The camp healers here are both terribly exhausted, so I decided to bring help," said Linder.

Klo simply gave him a nod, and left her seat so the healer could have a look at her. If Klo was surprised, she did not voice it, only threw a knowing smile toward Farren.

The healer was already putting on their rune-marked gloves for intensive healing, when they paused, suspicious eyes fixed on Farren. "These are the signs of overworked magical reserves."

"Aye," said Farren, mustering up a mischievous smile, "this is exactly what it looks like-- violation of the law of restriction."

The healer looked back to both sergeants, who seemed to have come to an agreement.

"Well," said Linder, his grey eyes twinkling as they set upon Farren, "we're going to ignore the law. Just this once."

The healer chuckled, then got to work. Intensive healing might be painful, but it was nothing compared to what she was going through right now.

Farren gasped, finally able to breath properly. The scene around her seemed to blur, then slowly come into focus once again.

It was as though the light of the dusk shone a little brighter as her vision cleared, the air more fresh as she could finally breathe without hurting, the strength in her arms and legs renewed as the throbbing pain subsided and healing magic made its way into her. It was a bliss, like the first rainfall upon parched earth, the sun peeking through clouds after a stormy night.

Farren had not realised how badly she needed it until now.

Linder waited afar all the while, his concerned eyes not leaving hers, reassuring her without words. He did not look so well himself, for he had rushed out after only some primary healing. On top of that, he now sported a black eye-- the aftermath of his argument with Karles, Farren assumed.

He'd ridden all the way to Brittlerock and back for her-- an arduous journey, no doubt, what with his own injuries and exhaustion. 

Certainly he had not done all this for nothing.

Farren sat up after the healer was gone. "To what do I owe this favor?"

His eyes narrowed, the look of concern replaced with that of annoyance. "Of course you assume I've got hidden motives. Gods forbid that I help someone who's nearly on the verge of death," snapped Linder. 

"For once, shut up and accept the help you're given." Klo shot Farren a glare that could pierce steel.

"As you wish, ma'am."

"Thank you, Sergeant Wolturs," said Linder, "with that out of the way, I want you to have a look at this."

He set down the book he'd brought heavily upon the bed, which squeaked beneath its weight. "This is where I came across the ancient Drisian word 'Vasaeni', which Mr. Rodormann spoke of in his letter."

"Bet that giant of a book took an extra horse to bring," said Farren.

"You're right, actually," said Linder with a smirk. "Our lucky horse carried this."

On its cover it read in golden letters :

'POTION BREWER'S GUIDE TO ALCHEMICAL THEORIES, VOL 13.'

Then below in smaller letters, the author's name:

'RYFFIN WELLIS.'

"A genius, this one. Velan fellow. From what I've learnt about him, he was still an apprentice at the Byton Royal Academy of Magic when his books got published," said Linder, leafing through the yellowed pages, "this volume is his last."

"What happened? He died a tragic death or something?"

"No." Linder's face was solemn as he looked up. "Disappeared without a trace some years ago. And his last book is quite something."

He showed them.

The beginning pages were filled with illustrations of alchemical instruments, pictures of rare plants and herbs-- like usual alchemy books. But a few more pages in, it began to get unusual.

In one place, the author had started explaining the alchemical properties of Wolfsbane, then seemed to have lost his train of thought and gone on about how they were used in rituals of Ancient Sorcery-- something quite entirely unrelated to alchemy.

As Linder turned more pages, the writings got more and more bizarre.

There were mentioned the strangest ingredients that had nothing to do with plants and herbs. Once or twice she saw human heart as an ingredient-- followed by a rather useless caution telling not to attempt the formula.

The author seemed to have deviated from his initial aim for the second half of the book, because the subject matter was anything but alchemy. Rather, it was--

"Ancient Sorcery and necromancy," said Farren.