Guards were posted outside the makeshift medical ward: large, brawny weasel-types with talents better suited to manual labor or manual violence than barring admittance to relatives of the injured. One such relative, a gray squirrel recently graduated from adolescence, was hiding around the corner of the dimly lit hallway, out of their range of vision, beside himself with grief. Vern should have been beside his older sister, Liena, but she was off somewhere in the bowels of this awful castle hovering about Miss Taverand, the object of her weird infatuation.

  Everything was all wrong. They were only supposed to help Miss Taverand settle on her soon-to-be husband’s lands. When Vern and Krim arrived for duty early that morning, before dawn, they found that Liena had packed all of their meager possessions; she even remembered the twins’ secret keepsakes behind the knot in the big redwood next to the old barn. Their sister meant for them to follow Miss Taverand to her new home. Never mind that they had a comfortable, if not simple, life in Taverand territory.

  Vern huddled in his patched, well-worn cloak trying to think. His long tail was curled under the cloak in an attempt to keep him warm. Nobaran territory was too wet and he could not shake the damp that seemed to have soaked down to his bone marrow. Sure, the Taverand castle was made of stone, but it did not seep with lichen like this particular wing of Castle Nobaran. The intermittent tapestries in the hall carried faint traces of mildew. Krim would have said something about expecting mushrooms between the cracks, if he were not hurt so bad. Maybe he had already said so, but Vern would not know since he was not allowed to see his twin.

  It was obviously suspicious that no visitors were permitted to see the injured. One of the oafish guards had blathered about a swamp ague when Vern tried to check on his brother. When the squirrel pointed out there was no bog nearby or along the path traveled from Taverand territory, the guard crossed his beefy arms across his chest and the other rested a paw on his holstered truncheon. It was not subtle, hence why Vern had retreated around the corner to plan his next strategy. He supposed, he could survey the outside of the building for likely windows that might admit him.

  “Excuse me, dear.”

  Vern raised a baleful eye to the interrupter of his thoughts, but she was already gliding past him. It was a powdery gray-brown dove in a gray mage’s habit and brown half-cloak, her long, straight tailfeathers poking out of the back of the distended shape that was the back of the habit. She was the feathermage from that mercenary group Lord Taverand hired. Some good they had been when the caravan was attacked.

  For some reason, Vern felt guilty for that last thought as he watched the dove round the corner. He would not soon forget the warm bubbles of magic appearing round his fellows during the melee. They were nothing like the firecracker displays of Lord Taverand’s feathermage and had the mysterious ability to repel the strange monsters that besieged the caravan. Krim had left his own bubble of safety to push Vern out of harm’s way, taking the savage attack meant for his younger twin.

  The feathermage must be going to the injured ward. Vern scrambled after her to notify her about the guards. She was already standing before the larger beasts, regarding them with the kind of benign eye an auntie might have for a misbehaving pup. Vern’s bravery deserted him in the presence of the guards and he huddled somewhat behind the dove for shelter.

  “And ‘ow can we help ye?” grunted the guard on the left, a mink with old scars puckering his sleeveless arms. These arms were still crossed over his broad chest as they had been when Vern first spoke to him.

  “Greetings, good gentle-beasts,” cooed the dove, her wings tucked into the opposite sleeves of her habit, the epitome of piety. “I am here to assist your healer with ministrations to those that were injured in the skirmish.”

  The guard on the right was a lankier weasel with a long, black-tipped tail that was patchy with dermatitis. He snorted, but he did not attempt to make threatening gestures involving his truncheon. That was an improvement on Vern’s earlier attempt.

  The mink guard said, “An’ ‘ow would you be of help?”

  The feathermage was unperturbed by their churlish attitudes. “I know not just any beast would be charged with the protection of those wounded from battle. Worry not, sirs, I am a healer come from the skirmish myself. I would meet with the one in charge of this ward and administer aid where I can.”

  She inclined her head, giving those rotten weasel-types more deference than even a maggot would deserve. Vern could not help admiring her silvered tongue. He was threatened away after his first sentence when he tried to see Krim.

  The doltish guards exchanged uncertain looks. Even if they had been ordered against allowing visitors, they did not have the intellectual fortitude to resist her flattery. The mink on the left eyed the dove in a predatory manner, frowning when he noticed Vern behind her.

  “It’s that little squirrel,” he hissed. “’E’s snooping again.”

  His companion bared his teeth, his snout wrinkling awkwardly due to an inflamed scratch wound, and leaned to the side to see the squirrel. Vern found some of his usual bluster and puffed out his chest, feeling surly in the face of their brutish manner. Didn’t this dove know how dangerous bullies like these could be?

  “Ah, yes, my assistant,” replied the dove without missing a beat. She turned to Vern and winked with the eye the guards could not see. “He is with me and, I assure you, he will cause no harm to the patients.”

  The dove withdrew a wing from her wide sleeves, revealing a small paw on the outward bend. She sidestepped so that she was no longer obscuring the guard’s view of Vern and patted him once on the head with her odd little paw. Vern was engulfed in a warmth he had not felt since sitting before the hearth fire the night before. The damp left his body and clothing at once, an allover tension easing from his body soon after.

  “Oh, but before I enter…” She raised up, revealing reddish, taloned toes under the hem of her clothes, and tapped the right-side guard on the nose with a paw glowing a soft white.

  The guard jerked back, wriggling his nose. Before Vern’s very eyes, the inflamed flesh on the weasel’s snout shrank down, the angry pink of infection fading.

  “Oi, she fixed yer smeller!” exclaimed the mink guard, jaw going slack.

  Vern snapped his mouth shut when he realized he was gaping in a similar manner.

  “You sirs have an important task,” said the feathermage, sinking back down with an indulgent smile. “I would be remiss if I did not do my part to see that you remain effective.”

  The healed guard rubbed his snout, going cross-eyed as he tried to examine the affected area.

  The other was nodding his head, eyes shining with reverence. “Er, yes. Very important,” he agreed. He shoved his companion away from the door. “Move, you oaf. You can’t keep a real healer away.”

  “And her assistant,” the feathermage reminded them.

  “Hrim, t’woo,” agreed the healed guard, his words coming out distorted by the paw on his snout.

  As Vern followed the feathermage through the heavy, wooden door, he could not believe his good luck.

  ‘Healing ward’ was a stretch to the imagination. The stone room was bare of ornamentation, with screens made of white sheets draped over clothing rails blocking access to the majority of the space. Even though there were two braziers on this side of the screens, they could not seem to keep the shadows at bay.

  The feathermage walked forward, parted a screen, and turned back to Vern. “Shall we?” she asked. She did not wait and Vern found himself scurrying after her disappearing tailfeathers.

  The other side of the screen was nothing like the well-lit infirmary at Castle Taverand, with its dormitory style arrangement of narrow but comfortable, well-furnished beds and large windows to admit fresh air. There were a mix of ground-level cots and makeshift pallets, only half-occupied by limp figures Vern recognized as healthy comrades hours ago. The few with triage were done with sloppy bandaging that showed the darkened stains of heavy bleeding. The weak braziers on this side of the room were a mercy.

  Vern’s eyes darted to every cot until, “Krim!” He started to a cot against the wall, but was stopped by a firm grip on his shoulder.

  “Hold.”

  It was the dove. She was frowning, her delicate brows drawing together. The sympathy in her eyes kept the squirrel from wrenching away from her.

  “My brother…”

  “Yes, let us see him first,” agreed the feathermage. “Assistant, you must do everything that I say. This is a distinct matter of life and death.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Vern made a visible gulp and nodded, not trusting his voice.

  When she was sure of his assent, the feathermage released her hold on his shoulder. She raised her wing, choosing to use the foremost feather of her wingtip instead of her magic paw to trace a small circle upon the squirrel’s forehead.

  Vern wrinkled his nose and tried to hold back a sneeze as his short snout was tickled by the other long feathers. He did not feel any sort of magic, but when he looked down, he saw a soft sheen of light coating his body. He raised his arms to examine the faint glowing on his fur and clothes.

  “This should help repel sickness,” explained the dove. “However, you must not, I repeat, you must not touch any of the injured or the effect will dissipate. There is certainly something unnatural about this malaise.”

  Vern bobbled his assent, his gut clenching. Was Krim going to be okay? Surely, this miracle working dove would put him to rights. Vern could not keep his focus on her, his attention straying to the only patient with a tail longer than his body, resting limp on the ground next to the cot.

  The feathermage started to wade among the cots and paused. Vern almost bumped into her before he could slow his momentum.

  “Oh, and you will address me as ‘Healer Gloria’ should any of the Keep’s nurses make an appearance,” said the dove.

  Vern pulled back in surprise and scanned the room. These patients were unattended. There was a second closed door in the back corner of the room, leading to who knew where. Healer Gloria was halfway to Krim’s cot when Vern finished staring at the door.

  “My name is Vern,” he blurted as he hurried after her.

  When they reached his brother’s cot, the healer held out her wing to keep Vern from crumpling at his twin’s side. She knelt beside the cot in that peculiar bird way, legs folding backwards in a calculated collapse, habit pooling about the ground. She was angled in such a way that her tail went into the aisle, so as not to disturb any patients. Vern followed her lead and she folded her wing so that his view was unblocked.

  Krim looked terrible even though he was borne away from the caravan ambush with Miss Taverand’s escape escort hours before Vern and the rest dragged in at duskfall. The twins’ best friend Tarle had jumped from his own protective bubble to carry wounded Krim to Miss Taverand’s escape wagon before it left the battle. At the time, Vern had been grateful for the lanky fox’s foresight but now he was regretful. Healer Gloria had plied her trade amongst those left behind while her tiny compatriot repaired their wagons. Would Krim be better if the dove had seen him sooner?

  Healer Gloria was a paragon of compassion as she leaned over Krim’s unconscious form, cooing with concern as she inspected him with her head cocked sideways. The twins had traces of red in their fur, Krim being redder than Vern, but it was dulled to an ashen brown with poor health. The older twin had taken the monster’s attack to the back and, as a result, was laying on his side with darkened bandages over his middle backside and upper right shoulder blade. His eyes were scrunched in pain and his breath came in short, quiet huffs.

  She raised her small paws, but did not touch the prone squirrel. The paws began to glow the soft white again. The corners of her beak tipped down ever so slightly and she withdrew her paws, wings folding at her sides.

  “Can you heal him?” Vern dared.

  Her beak parted for a moment before she said, “I will do what I can.” She turned from Krim. “Do you have an object of emotional importance? Like a keepsake. Anything will do.”

  A northern squirrel always traveled light when away from home. As Vern remembered his special necklace, he noticed that its twin was not around Krim’s exposed neck. His brother must have lost it when he was protecting Vern.

  Vern pulled a simple necklace of sturdy, braided twine from under his tunic. The twine was threaded through a small hole drilled in an acorn. Every north squirrel had a pendant of a seed from their birth tree. Vern and Krim’s acorns, selected by their mother, had come from the same stem.

  “How very lovely,” complimented Healer Gloria. “I can tell it has seen much love. May I?” She held out a paw, pad up.

  Anything to help Krim. Vern undid the clasp and passed his treasure over without hesitation. The dove did not take it from him.

  “Hold it tight with both paws and think of your best memory with your brother,” she instructed.

  That was easy and hard at the same time. The squirrel clutched the acorn and tried to decide if the time he and Krim caught the huge salmon for dinner, impressing their father, or the time they once outsmarted Liena at cards was the better memory. There was also the last time their mother sang them to sleep even though they were way too old for pup stuff.

  Tears formed at the corners of Vern’s eyes and he squeezed them shut, biting his bottom lip. Krim had to be okay. He and Liena were all Vern had left now. He did not care if they had to live in rotten, wet Nobaran territory forever as long as his brother would be okay.

  “That’s the way,” cooed Healer Gloria. Vern started when her warm paws closed over his. “Hold onto all of those memories.”

  How did she know? Vern peeked a look at their clasped paws, a tear escaping down his cheek as he felt the warm, white glow sink through his skin. When the healer removed her paws, he tilted his gaze up to her.

  “Will this work?”

  “Well, it will help, certainly,” the dove replied. She held out her paw and Vern gave her the magic-ified acorn necklace. “Mage holy magic is best described as an emotive science. Assist me in the administration of the healing object.”

  Assistance amounted to lifting poor Krim’s head enough for Healer Gloria to thread the twine around Krim’s neck. She tucked the acorn under the tattered hem of the wounded squirrel’s tunic and tightened the laces of the V-neck to keep it out of sight. As Vern set his brother’s head back on the cot, the dove placed a glowing paw on the wounded shoulder. Vern knew she was healing his brother because the tension went out of Krim’s agonized posture and his breathing deepened with true sleep.

  “This is all I can do for now,” said Healer Gloria in a tone that indicated subtle dissatisfaction. She pulled away and stood. “It’s best that you come with me now.”

  Vern did not want to leave, but he was no healer. What good could he be to his brother now?

  The feathermage saw his hesitance and said in a somewhat stern tone. “Krim is absolutely contagious and you should not get too close or stay too long.”

  Reluctance did not begin to describe Vern’s feelings. So far, the dove had been more helpful that he could ever be in this situation. The squirrel acquiesced to her. He did not turn around to get a last look at his brother, fearing he would break down and look like a mewling pup in front of the feathermage. He was good at saving blubbering for the solitude of a high place.

  The guards snapped to attention when Healer Gloria exited the room. She turned around, waiting for Vern to resume a position behind her. He had no qualms about being seen as her subordinate. At least the feathermage had done something worthy of fealty, unlike a certain mink miss that happened to be born upper caste.

  “You do a most important task, sirs. This malady appears to be quite serious indeed. I must be away to source what local healing herbs may be had around the Keep,” she explained. “My assistant will check on the patients in my stead until I have prepared an appropriate poultice.”

  Both guards stood straighter at her grave compliment. “As you please, Miss Healer,” replied the mink.

  His companion nodding agreement, adding, “Be sure not to go wandering outside the grounds after dark.”

  Healer Gloria inclined her head to them before setting off down the hall. “Come along, Assistant Vern.”

  There was pep in the squirrel’s step as he kept pace with the dove. ‘Assistant Vern’ had a nice ring to it. When they were out of earshot of the guards, the feathermage spoke to him in hushed, serious tones, her head facing forward, but inclined toward him.

  “I believe there is something sinister afoot with this strange illness,” she admitted. “The castle folk are behaving strangely. I must beg a favor of you, Vern.”

  “Anything!” was Vern’s ready assent. Although he was also keeping his attention for their path before them, he could see her smile out of the corner of his eye.

  “Very good.” Some of the doom left her with the compliment. “You are more of a local to these northlands than I. I need you to keep an eye on the doings of the castle, the healing ward area in particular. If you see anything suspicious take place, you must alert me at once.”

  Vern was determined to assist her in any way that he could. She could count on him. “Of course, Healer Gloria.”

  “Be not afraid to approach my fellow Redsnouts,” she added. “They are all good beasts in their own ways and will assist you should you say to them, ‘hear me or the dove mourns’.” She paused and nodded to a mink passing by in the goldenrod Nobaran livery. When the mink was farther behind them, she said, “Repeat that you know it.”

  A code phrase. Vern and his siblings had a few coded phrases between themselves. “Hear me or the dove mourns,” he whispered loud enough that only she would hear.

  “Very good. That phrase will let them know that I have taken you into confidence.”

  She stopped when they reached the entrance chamber of the castle, bustling with Nobaran and uninjured Taverand vassals about various tasks. The air was wet as ever, but it did not have the claustrophobic fetidity of the hallway. Proximity to the tall double doors at the front of the chamber allowed for airflow, increased by the current activity.

  Vern caught a whiff of something that took him a moment to register as the aroma of hot food, hopefully coming from a less humid area of the castle. The feeling of his stomach rumbling seemed to happen to a body that was not his. Food was the last thing he wanted right now.

  A transformation seemed to come over Healer Gloria when she caught sight of a large, unfamiliar weasel-type walking on the other side of the wide room. Only Vern’s closeness to her allowed him to see her shoulders roll back as if sighing, her brows softening, and a smile tease at the corners of her mouth where beak met feather. It had to be one of her Redsnout comrades.

  The dark brown weasel-type Redsnout halted with preternatural sense and turned in their direction, revealing an orangey throat. The inky black eyes shone in the firelight of the nearest torch sconce, the large, triangular ears swiveling forward. There was a cold-blooded patience in the stare and Vern tried to imagine in what way this creature was good to Healer Gloria.

  A sense of abandonment filled Vern when he realized it would be time to part with the healer. He wondered what it would be like to travel the land with a group of friends bent on common cause. Even though she was a mercenary, the feathermage’s reaction was one of someone sighting a friend.

  The gentle dove smiled at him and patted his shoulder. “Now, I must confer with my fellows. Let us meet at breakfast.”

  Vern stifled a yawn. “Okay. And… thank you, Healer Gloria.”

  She chuckled. “The ‘healer’ stuff was for any eavesdroppers. I am simply Gloria to my friends. Please address me as such.”

  Vern’s stomach flipflopped at the notion that a simple squirrel such as he could be considered a friend by a kind and talented feathermage such as her. He nodded to keep from showing the emotion in his voice, but he suspected the dove knew his feelings by the way her eyes twinkled with amusement.

  The happy feeling stayed with him as he watched the feathermage cross the entrance hall to meet with the weasel-type Redsnout. They exchanged pleasantries of some sort and exited the castle from a smaller side door out of the way of traffic, probably going to the mercenaries’ encampment opposite the stables. Then his mood sobered. He had a grievously injured brother still and wayward sister that needed locating, though he suspected she would not be far from the shadow of her precious milady.

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