“Won’t do it. No way no how.”

  “Willard...” Idris sighed and pressed his temples. “I need to be able to walk.”

  “Ain’t putting no boots on that thing until the swelling’s down, so you use your crutches or you crawl everywhere,” said Willard, folding his arms.

  “What’s the racket?” said Lila, ducking into the tent, and then her eyes clocked Idris’s stump. “Oh bells, Sir Idris, how long has it been like that?”

  Idris shifted his jaw and said nothing.

  “Maybe your ma should look at it after all,” said Willard.

  “No. Absolutely out of the question,” said Idris, tucking his right leg protectively up onto the bed.

  “Ain’t nothing I’m doing that’s helping.”

  “When is the last time a real healer magician looked at your leg?” said Lila with a concerned frown.

  It had been longer than Idris cared to admit – likely once they took the sutures out after the second amputation. Lila and Willard had cared for it exclusively since then.

  “You need rest,” said Willard. “It ain’t good wearing your boots every day and walking as much as you do.”

  “I cannot afford to rest.” Idris sniffed. “If you will not help me, I will do it myself.”

  “Stubborn as a blood stain,” Lila muttered.

  “Want it noted that I refused,” Willard said to her as he left the tent.

  “It will be.”

  “I take it you will not assist, either,” Idris said. Lila shook her head.

  “I shall not. I can fetch your crutches.”

  “I will be fine.”

  By the time Cressida entered, Idris was alone and attempting to force the prosthetic sock over his swollen leg. She tutted, smacked his hand and took the prosthetic away from him. Without a word, she handed over his crutches and walked out.

  Idris supposed that qualified as a royal order, and he tied a knot in the end of his trouser leg with a resigned sigh.

  Everyone who resided in the main camp was someone who knew him, anyway, so he was not concerned about the average soldier catching sight of his leg. He was more worried that his mother would see his lack of prosthetic as an invitation to meddle. Willard, who was planting some fae seeds, smiled gratefully to see Idris on his crutches.

  “Now there’s a thing,” he said. “Shame Her Majesty had to force you, but here we are.”

  Idris nodded to the seeds. “More creepers?”

  “Aye. Got to make it so that my pa can come when we need him.” The creepers had been Idris’s only method of leaving Raven’s Roost once it became clear that Layton intended to harm him. It seemed sensible that Joa was given a doorway should he have to hurry to the Harransee. “Ey, I don’t hear a lot of fae arias here.”

  “I do not suppose you do. This is a rather arid place.”

  “If you want me and mine to be useful, could be something to consider,” said Willard, straightening up.

  “I will add it to the list. Perhaps Joa will have an idea on how to proceed.”

  “What’s today’s plan?”

  “I was going to ride to one of the watchtowers, but alas...” Idris wiggled his half-leg. “I do not think anyone will let me make my pentagons again today, either. I am rather at a loss.”

  “Must be something you can do that ain’t harmful to yourself.”

  “There are books I can read.”

  “Sir Idris?” called Riette.

  He turned, nodded his head to her as she approached.

  “Lady DeTrentaville, forgive that I cannot bow.”

  “Forgiven.” She put her hands on her hips. “Well, your mother is bothering me and I do not have time to babysit her.”

  “What is it now?” said Idris.

  “She wants to get some rare beetles that go into some kind of medicine and she is trying to corral my soldiers into going with her.” Riette shrugged. “I told her she wasn’t authorised to delegate to Her Majesty’s troops but she does not care at all.”

  Idris chewed his cheeks. “Tell her if she behaves herself, I might find someone to help her. Tomorrow,” he added, firmly. “She has to put in a request for soldiers if she wants soldiers and she knows that. She is being deliberately annoying to try and coax me over there and I will not stand for it.”

  Riette and Kurellan left for the watchtowers with their cohorts, leaving Cressida, Lila, Willard and Idris to do their preparations. Idris and Lila began setting out crystals and bells in the area, marking out the boundaries of the camp, while Willard followed with seeds, dropping them into cracks and crevices. Cressida went out to meet the remaining soldiers she had sent for. Once they arrived, the serious work of looking for Layton in the Harransee would begin.

  The whole morning, Idris noticed Eremont underlings watching him, occasionally following him. His mother was sequestered in her medical tent, subdued by Riette’s refusal, but her eyes and ears were everywhere.

  “What’s her problem, anyway?” said Willard as they trudged back to camp.

  “She, like Layton, believes me to be her property,” said Idris.

  “Nobles are right weird, Idris,” said the hedge witch, wrinkling his nose.

  “She does not think she has done a single thing wrong and she is unwilling to see anything from my perspective. As far as she is concerned, I am being melodramatic.”

  “If she had seen the state of you after Raven’s Roost, she would feel differently,” said Lila, casting a sulky glare at the medical tent.

  “Doubtful,” said Idris. “She did not come when Haylan told her about my foot. If she did not care about that, a few loose teeth and broken bones make little difference.” He pulled a face. “I think we may need to let some blood, Lila. My leg feels heavy.”

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  “That ain’t really her place,” said Willard. “I can do it.”

  “I don’t think I brought my letting equipment,” said Lila.

  “Lemme check the chest.”

  “It is not urgent,” said Idris, already fed up of the conversation. “I will retire for the day and perform some more studies. If anyone needs me, I will be in my tent. Tomorrow, I will wear my hare’s foot and we can do a movement test out on the plain.”

  War preparations meant that there was more dormant time than Idris liked. Latrines were being dug by the stone aria magicians and scouting parties were out looking for a reliable fresh water source; Kurellan and Riette were too busy making the watchtowers viable to come and assist with anything else. Necromancers’ duties in wartime came later. His job was mainly clean-up.

  Idris was not surprised that nobody came with the blood-letting tools, what with everything else going on. His stump did itch, though, and when he examined it again, it was red and inflamed still, with the necrosis creeping up the veins further than he felt comfortable with. If it got worse, he could theoretically perform the incision himself – he had seen it enough times and he was, after all, a healer’s son – but he could not bring himself to go and ask for the knife and bowl. Instead, he would have to use his dagger.

  He waited until it was too much to bear, and then he decided he would take matters into his own hands. When the sun was down, he peered out into the camp and took himself out of the pass when the coast was clear. It seemed that everyone was out, having their evening meals. Portable resin lamps were lit in comforting purple-and-green glows, and the firelight from the cooking fires threw strong shadows across the cracked earth. It was easy for Idris to get to the forward camp without anyone noticing him.

  Many of the healer supplies were still stacked outside of the tent. Idris waited until he was sure that no Eremont underlings were around before he flipped a few chests open. There was a surgical kit tucked between two of the herb chests, so he picked it up and tucked it under his arm, and started the slow way back to his tent.

  He had the belt around his shin and the knife in his hand when his tent flap fluttered and there was his mother.

  Everything was still and silent. Lady Eremont’s eyes were focused on the knife and the stump, and her face was pale in the lamplight. Idris took deep breaths through his nose, waiting for her to start crying or to comment or to do anything, and she did nothing for so long that he thought he might scream.

  Eventually, briskly, she came over, took the belt off and sat on the edge of the bed, and she patted her lap and said, “Here.”

  “This does not concern you,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth. She tutted, pulled his loose trouser leg and lifted his stump up.

  “This is my profession, Idris,” she said, like he was being particularly dim. “Arias on high, put the knife down before you hurt yourself with it.”

  Dumbstruck, he put the knife on the bed.

  His mother’s hands were cool on the hot flesh. She appraised the amputation with bright, quick eyes but gentle touches, without emotion or distaste. Idris had expected her to say something that would justify all the shame and secrecy, but she hardly batted an eye at all. Somehow, her efficiency was worse. It paralysed him.

  “You need three days’ bed rest but I know you will ignore that,” she said. “Whoever has been wrapping this has been doing a sloppy job.”

  “That would be me.”

  “Then you know better. Haylan taught you better than this.” She pursed her lips. “Morning thistle paste,” she said to herself. “And... ice pine sap.” To him, “Ice pine sap, where is it?”

  He gestured vaguely to his box of medicines.

  Lady Eremont gathered everything she needed, placed the bottles and jars onto the bed and lay her hands on his leg again, and closed her eyes.

  The first few, gentle, spring-time notes of the healer aria whistled through her nose. Idris sat, stricken by the sound of them, the feel of his mother’s hands. It was like being six years old again, while she touched up a graze on his knee or whispered away his fever – he had forgotten how primal that sound was to him, how it made him long for his uncle and Temple Hill and everything he had lost. It came from her like a lullaby, escaping with every breath, as her fingers soothed the swelling, massaged the aches.

  “Stop,” he whispered, shaking. She frowned, opened her eyes, made to say something, but he would not hear it. “Please,” he said, and the tears came.

  Lady Eremont did not reach to dry them. She let her son sob into his hand, head turned from her so she did not have to watch him cry, and she waited. Idris did not know why he was crying. He hated that seeing her face was still raw. Deep down, he knew he loved his mother. How could he not? But the reality of that was too hard, and he did not understand anything she did and he did not wish to, not really.

  “Done?” she said, after some time.

  Idris sniffed, nodded, dried his eyes. She returned to her task.

  “This was recut, recently,” she said. “How long did it heal until you started walking on it again?”

  He shrugged.

  “The necrosis, you blood-let. Correct?”

  “Correct,” he whispered.

  “That is not sustainable.”

  “It is the only treatment available to me.”

  She applied the sap liberally, sighed. “You are putting too much burden on your joints. Do you have a cane? And if the answer is ‘yes’, why are you not using it? It had better be a more suitable answer than ‘vanity’, Idris.”

  There was no other answer, so he said nothing.

  “You need adequate lubrication in the sock going forwards,” she said, ignoring his silence, “and please do try to stay off your feet, hmm?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Idris whispered.

  Out of everything, this was what gave her pause. She froze, as if he had uttered some sort of curse against her, and her cheeks became pink.

  “And for the love of the kingdom, Idris, do not try to let your own blood again,” she said, in her usual tone. “You are hardly qualified for minor surgery.”

  “I wish that I was,” he said.

  Lady Eremont slid her hands away, put them into her lap and sighed.

  “I do, too,” she murmured, and got up. “But you are not,” she said, with some finality, “and we make do with what we have. That is the Eremont way, after all.”

  She did not wait for thanks or for any response. She swept out much the same way she had come in, leaving Idris motionless on the bed, filled with regrets and wants.

  *

  “Ready?” said Willard. Idris nodded, bouncing the hare’s foot’s springy metal on the rock. “Is it sturdy?”

  “Remarkably so.”

  “When is the last time you ran, Idris?” said Cressida, watching with an amused smile.

  “That time I fell down the stairs,” he said.

  “When we were twelve? Goodness.”

  “Well, we don’t need to run right yet, eh?” said Willard. “A jog will do fine.”

  Idris took a deep breath, looked at the flat ground before him. He could walk passably on the hare’s foot, but he definitely was not used to the tension. Running was out of the question, but perhaps a jog might work.

  “See if you can keep pace with me,” said Willard, and he began to do a quick walk with his bare feet. Idris anxiously picked after him. The hare’s foot bounced under his stump leg, as if it wanted him to go faster. “Quicker,” said Willard, and moved up to a jog.

  With a rush, Idris realised he was running. This was it. He had forgotten the way the wind sang past his ears, on his cheeks; the staccato of his heart interrupted the shuff-shuff-shuff of his steps. The hare’s foot excelled at speed. It was like it was not there at all. Willard laughed, eyes aglow, and Idris laughed, too -

  And then the momentum caught up with him, and Idris tumbled head over feet onto the ground with a clatter and a curse.

  Somewhere behind, he heard Cressida applauding and calling, “Marvellous acrobatics! Quite thrilling!”

  Willard reached down to help Idris up, cheeks red.

  “Now that’s something, ain’t it?” he said proudly.

  “Oh, Willard, I ran,” Idris gushed, unconcerned about the grazes on his hands. “I really – I really did run, what a thing! To think I used to run all the time!”

  They moved at a slower pace back to Cressida, who held out her arms and beamed.

  “Running!” she cried. Idris hugged her tightly, still breathless and giddy. “I am as proud as proud can be! What would Uncle Haylan think?”

  “He would be delighted,” said Idris, thinking of how Haylan laughed when he walked without crutches for the first time. “It was a slow run, but – but it was running, wasn’t it?”

  “It definitely counts as running, yes.”

  “Best get you back so we can rest those running legs,” said Willard, rummaging in the prosthetic trunk for the other boot.

  With his ‘proper leg’ reattached, the three returned to camp, where surprisingly a sergeant was waiting for him.

  “Sir Idris,” the man said, saluting.

  “At ease. What is the problem?”

  “Sir, we... well...” The sergeant hesitated and then said, “You should see this, sir. Follow me.”

  Confused, Idris allowed the sergeant to take him to the barricade, where there was a cart covered in a cloth. The Eremont underlings were already watching the scene with trepidation, with Idris’s mother in the centre, her hands behind her back. Idris felt the death aria rumble in his bones.

  When the sergeant tore off the cloth, he revealed hundreds of dead ravens.