Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Cool fingers brush against my forehead, and the suffering eases just enough to swim for the surface.
“Shhh,” a familiar voice says. “I’ve got you.”
I manage to scrape my eyes open, and I’m staring into the most beautiful blue eyes. At first, I think Ryot is the one bent over my bed, but when I flutter my eyes closed and back open I realize it’s not him.
Of course it’s not. Why would he be next to my bed? It must have been a dream. But how much of it was a dream?
“Elowen,” I whisper.
She smiles, and it eases something twisted within me. “You’re suffering,” she murmurs, “Such suffering.”
And she runs her delicate fingers across my forehead, tracing the outer edges of my scar.
The pain recedes little by little. Her eyes close, but not before torment flashes there.
I slap her hand away from my face, though I’m so weak it’s more like a kitten trying to bat at a string. She jerks her eyes wide.
“It’s hurting you,” I accuse, as I sit up further in the bed. The movement brings to life a battering ram inside my skull, but I ignore it. I won’t show weakness, not to Elowen. Not if using her gift pains her. “Healing hurts you.”
There’s a flurry of movement from the corner of the room and a little whirlwind of white skirts and white, springy curls hurls herself in front of Elowen.
“Don’t hurt my sister!” she shouts, one hand holding Elowen back, and the other held up toward me as if to block against a blow.
My stomach sinks at the stark fear on her face, but Elowen runs a comforting hand over the little girl’s mop of curls before firmly pushing her out of the way.
“She didn’t hurt me, Siofra,” Elowen says. “Go back to mixing the tonic, now.”
Siofra. Her white hair—so like Princess Rissa’s and the king’s—is pulled back in a bright blue ribbon.
Her eyes are fierce, but she still has the plump cheeks of a child.
We watch each other warily as she backs up toward the table at the back of the room.
She gives me one last dark look that says I’m watching you before she goes back to mashing a thick paste with a mortar.
She sprinkles in some black powder—with a glare and a smirk for me—and starts slamming the pestle down.
Whatever she’s mixing smells rank. Elowen takes a seat at the edge of my bed, and I drag my gaze from Siofra.
“Magic always comes at a cost,” Elowen says, reaching toward my forehead.
I swat her hand away again, pressing further into the pillow at my back. “Well, the cost is unnecessary today. I’m fine.”
She presses her lips together in a firm line.
“Maybe you don’t understand how this works, Leina, but you can’t lie to me about the state of your body.
I know exactly what you’re feeling right now.
You’re far from fine. It’s either a miracle or a testament to your own asinine hardheadedness that you’re even able to sit up. ”
She reaches her hand for me again, and I swat her away. “Dammit, Elowen, haven’t you ever heard of boundaries? I said no!”
Elowen crosses her arms, ready to fire back at me, but Siofra reappears, a smug little sprite, proudly offering a cup of what looks like tar. She hands it to Elowen while aiming a devilish grin squarely at me.
Without hesitation, Elowen thrusts the cup into my hands—harder than expected from someone usually all softness and calm. “You're drinking every last drop of this, Leina. And I don't want to hear a single complaint.”
The command in her voice allows no argument. That royal bloodline? It’s showing.
“Fine,” I grumble, raising the cup. The smell alone nearly knocks me out, but I steel myself and down it like the godsdamn warrior I am. Barely.
“Gods, Elowen, are you trying to kill me?”
A snort of laughter comes from the corner. I look up to see Siofra poorly concealing a giggle behind her hands.
“I added extra bitterroot,” she says sweetly. “For flavor.”
The little menace. But … the pain starts to ease. The fog lifts.
“Leif!” I burst out. “How is Leif?”
Elowen brings me a cup of laomai. “Leif is fine. He left the infirmary yesterday.”
I’m nervous to ask about the others—I’m not sure I want to know. That nauseating crack as bone hit the wall echoes in my mind. Elowen senses my trepidation, though, and she tackles it head-on.
“Fenrir was only slightly injured and is now recovered. Varek was more seriously hurt—he lost a foot—” I wince, remembering his bloodcurdling shrieks after the swipe of my scythe knocked him over. “But I’m re-attaching it. It will take time, but I think it will be successful.”
I gape up at her. “You can … do that?”
“If I begin in time, yes.”
I steel myself to ask the next question.
“Tyrston?”
“Dead.”
I close my eyes. How did he die? I remember that crack as he hit the wall. Did I do that?
“Thalric and Nyrica?” I ask.
“Unharmed.”
“Thank Thera,” I breathe out. “Where—” I stop. I can’t quite bring myself to ask where Ryot is. He must have been a figment of my weird, wild dreams. And I don’t want anyone to know about my dreams.
Elowen refills the water cup and brings it back to me.
“Thank you,” I tell her, and our fingers brush when she takes the cup back from me.
The contact agitates her, and she slams the cup onto the worktable at the back of the room with a noncommittal “mmm.” I slant a look at Siofra and raise my eyebrows. What’s that about?
Siofra shrugs. “Elowen gets grumpy when people are hurting,” she says.
“Siofra,” Elowen says in a warning tone, but the girl ignores her.
“Not me, though,” Siofra whispers. “I don’t mind so much.
Elowen says it makes me ill-suited for healing and that I should have more empathy.
” She says empathy like it’s a dirty word and rolls her eyes.
I’m taking a drink of water when she speaks, and I laugh so hard at her frankness that I snort water out my nose.
“Siofra!” Elowen reprimands, but my sniggering undermines the rebuke.
“I completely understand, Siofra,” I say. “I don’t think I’d make a very good healer, either.”
Siofra grins at me, coming closer to the edge of my bed. I guess we’re not enemies, anymore. Snorting water out of your nose—a tried and true trick to win over children, whether they’re serf or princess.
“Then it’s a good thing you don’t have the obligation of blood magic, Leina,” Elowen snaps. “But Siofra does. She is a gifted healer. And healers help when people are hurting.”
I sober. Siofra stops laughing, too, looking more contrite. I clear my throat, eager both for a way to ease some of the tension between the two sisters and to learn more about the gifted. It’s clearly much more complicated than I thought it was.
“What is blood magic?” I ask. Elowen looks taken aback. Either she’s unsure how to describe it or uncertain what to tell me.
“You don’t know?” she asks.
“No.”
Her eyes widen, and she doesn’t speak at first, but Siofra has no such problems. “Blood magic is from the True Gods, from literally forever ago. We all have different gifts.” She cuts a resentful glance over at Elowen. “Different obligations. Elowen and I are healers. Rissa is?—”
“That’s enough, Siofra.” The sharp command from the doorway has all three of us—Elowen, Siofra, and me—jumping.
Princess Rissa is in the doorway, flanked by two guards. I hate that she’s the royal emissary to the Synod. I don’t see her often—she’s normally closeted with the archons and the Elder when she’s here—but every time I do, part of me bristles.
I. Don’t. Like. Her.
Her ice-blue eyes settle on Siofra with the cold precision of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “You know we don’t speak of our gifts,” she tells the girl, her voice laced with hard reprimand. Her eyes find mine, and they’re hard and unforgiving. “Not to outsiders.”
Siofra’s lips seal tight, and she backs up against Elowen. The child tucks her hand into Elowen’s palm, and Elowen gives her a gentle squeeze before speaking to Rissa. “You know she doesn’t think about it,” Elowen says. Her tone is respectful, but not meek. “Healing isn’t a gift that’s hidden.”
My mind catches on that. I glance at Rissa again, but this time I really look—not at the polished exterior, the perfect posture, or the imperious tilt of her chin.
What kind of gift needs hiding? For the first time, I wonder if Princess Rissa’s icy control isn't just about keeping others in line but keeping whatever’s inside her from slipping out.
Princess Rissa ignores her sisters, turning to me. She speaks to the room, but she doesn’t remove her gaze from mine. “Leave us.” Her guards obey without question. Elowen nudges Siofra toward the door, and the girl leaves with quiet reluctance, glaring at Rissa’s back as she closes the door.
Elowen, though, squares her shoulders, and stays. “Why are you here, Rissa? You’re disturbing my injured.”
Rissa’s gaze snaps to Elowen, and for the first time, fury flares behind those glacier eyes. “You think to be so informal—in front of her?” She points to me like I’m the trash someone forgot to take outside.
Elowen drops her hand to my arm and squeezes. “Leina is my friend,” she says. “I’ll not change how I act around her to suit your hunger for hierarchy.”
Rissa jerks her head back, but it’s not a flinch of pain. It’s controlled rage. They’ve fought like this before. Ice rushes in to cover the fire, freezing every line of her face into something sharp and deadly.
Rissa points at me again—not a wild jab, not an impulsive thrust—but a single, measured gesture. Precise.
On some instinct I don’t understand, I jump out of the way. Even as I jump, embarrassment flares. Why would I be afraid of Rissa pointing at me?
But a hairline crack splits the stone wall behind where I was with a sharp, brittle sound. The noise is small, barely noticeable. But I’m an Altor. Oh my gods .