The Right Side of History (Schooled In Magic Book 22), Christopher Nuttall [books to read romance TXT] 📗

Emily sagged, feeling sweat trickling down her back as she forced herself to stand up. Her magic felt drained after healing so many people, but... there were always more. She tried not to collapse completely as she looked around, searching for Lady Barb. There was no sign of her. Men were cursing, promising to lynch Dater and every last damned aristocrat in the country; women were crying, some clutching children to their breasts as they stared at the rubble. They wouldn’t be strangers to violence, Emily reflected, but this was new. The wounded hadn’t been caught in the middle of a riot. They’d been blown up by a bomb deliberately placed to kill as many civilians as possible. She dreaded to think how many people might have been killed or wounded in a single, catastrophic second.

Aiden stepped up beside her. “Are you alright?”

“Just tired,” Emily admitted. Her head was starting to pound. She didn’t want to know, but she had to ask. “How many...?”

“Dead?” Aiden glared at the smoking crater. “At least forty. Probably more. It would have been much more if you hadn’t helped.”

“Yeah.” Emily couldn’t help noticing that Aiden’s shirt and trousers were stained with blood. She’d been helping the wounded to safety, despite the risk. The shirt, thankfully, was too loose to stick to her skin. “I just...”

She took a breath, trying not to collapse. Healing wasn’t her greatest talent. The spells she’d used would mend some of the damage, but not all of it. Too many of the wounded, thrown on the mercy of the chirurgeons, would be crippled for life. She’d heard sarcastic jokes about chirurgeons being more murderous than a band of angry orcs, but she’d never seen the funny side. The chirurgeons simply didn’t have the knowledge or resources to do any more than the basics. And yet, they’d never admitted it. They’d fought a desperate rear-guard action to ensure they didn’t have to wash their hands before burying them in someone’s gut. Emily dreaded to think how many people had survived horrific wounds, only to die on a chirurgeon’s table.

Her eyes narrowed. She sensed... magic? Magic was in the air. She looked around, wishing her head felt clearer. It was hard to focus properly. She heard Aiden say something, but she didn’t hear it. Something was in the air... she saw a young girl walking towards her, wearing a little cloth cap and peasant’s dress a size too big for her. Her face was bland... no, blank. Emily started, too late, as the girl lifted her hand to reveal a flintlock pistol...

... And, before Emily could react, she pulled the trigger.

Chapter Twenty-Two

SHE HURT. BADLY.

Emily took a shuddering breath, despite the pain in her chest. Her memories were a blur, an endless jumble of lights and sounds that couldn’t be assembled into a coherent whole. There’d been a girl... she was sure there’d been a girl... and... she wasn’t quite sure what had happened after that, apart from the fact it had hurt. The memories refused to come into focus. Someone - Lady Barb, perhaps - had once told her the mind often declined to remember pain. Emily had the feeling she’d been right.

“I think she’s coming around,” a voice said. “Step back, please.”

Emily opened her eyes and instantly regretted it. Light stabbed needles into her brain. She closed her eyes again, trying to move her head to shield herself. Her hand felt... weird, as if it were partly disconnected from the rest of her body. Panic shot through her as she tried to move, even though she wasn’t sure where she was. Who’d spoken? It was hard to be sure through the roaring in her ears.

“It’s alright,” the voice said. It sounded like Lady Barb. “I’ve lowered the light.”

Emily gritted her teeth as she opened her eyes again. It was still too bright. She was lying on her back on a bed, a handful of faces looking down at her. Lady Barb, Aiden, Silent... someone she didn’t recognize. Her head swam as she tried to sit up, her body refusing to obey until she forced it. A stab of pain in her chest nearly sent her falling back to the bed again. Lady Barb touched her forehead lightly, muttering a spell. The pain receded, but didn’t fade completely.

She found her voice. “What... what happened?”

“You were shot in the chest,” Lady Barb said. The cold anger in her voice nearly made Emily flinch. “The ball lodged itself in your lung. Your wards reduced the impact, but not enough. It was sheer luck it didn’t kill you before I slapped a stasis spell on your body, then carefully mended the damage. That person...”

Emily remembered. “I sensed magic,” she said. “I... where is she?”

“In a cell,” Aiden said. “They’re going to behead her.”

“Not yet,” Emily said. “I have to know why.”

“She was a royalist,” Aiden said. “And she tried to kill you.”

Emily rubbed her eyes as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. It didn’t make sense. The royalists would risk everything if they tried to assassinate her. The White Council wouldn’t be very pleased if its designated representative was murdered, although - she acknowledged sourly - Master Lucknow would probably raise a glass in their honor. It would certainly be hard to provide any further support to the royalists. And besides, she doubted Dater would sign off on an assassination. It would set a dangerous precedent.

Although someone could have done it without permission, to shield him from blame, she thought, tiredly. Her legs felt wobbly, as if they were made of jelly. And they’d take the blame themselves if it exploded in their face.

“You should stay in bed,” Lady Barb said. “I’m sure the assassin will keep...”

Emily shook her head. Althorn and the remainder of the council would want to behead the assassin before the mob decided to take the law into their own hands. Even if