Chapter 15
The next time I fully woke, I was back in the Islandrian castle.
Everything between the attack and now existed only in fractured, fevered flashes.
Disjointed scenes that made no sense blurred together.
There had been a dark-skinned Avivian woman gripping my arm with hands that smelled of smoke and herbs, forcing splintered bone into a splint.
Aria’s face had crumpled as she wept uncontrollably, Curtis patting her back, his own tunic torn and bloodstained.
A thick, pungent paste had been smeared across my face, its smell so sharp it stung my nose, and a spoon of broth pressed to my lips, my mouth too raw to chew.
When lucidity finally returned, it dragged my pain with it in full measure.
My head throbbed in a slow, merciless rhythm.
My tight, raw skin felt too small for my body.
My left arm was dead weight, wrapped so tightly I couldn’t feel the fingers.
I tried raising my right hand to my face.
The moment my fingertips brushed the stiff poultice, I froze.
The entire left side of my face was swaddled in that reeking paste.
My hair, the little that was left of it, had become brittle and scorched.
Tears welled instantly. I gasped, sharp and uneven.
“Truly? Sweetheart, are you awake?”
Mother’s voice came from the shadowed corner. She rose from an armchair, and my heart sank at the sight of her. Her hair hung in tangled snarls, as if a comb hadn’t touched it in weeks. Dark crescents pooled under her eyes, and her gown looked rumpled and slept in.
I tried to answer, but my throat was dry, my voice buried under pain. Instead, my eyes flooded and my breath hitched. I wanted to cry, but it would hurt too much.
Mother sat carefully on the edge of the bed. Her hand, cool and trembling, wrapped around my uninjured arm. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she said. She tried to smile, but it faltered before it reached her eyes.
A soft knock interrupted us. Comfort slipped inside, her presence like a sudden burst of light. “Truly!” she gasped, rushing forward then stopping just short, reading the wince on my face. Her hand found my leg instead, patting gently. “We were so worried about you.”
I nodded, still unable to speak. The moment I closed my eyes, the attack was there waiting, complete with torches, screams, and the smell of my burning hair.
I clenched my eyelids tight, but the sounds clawed their way in anyway.
As much as I wanted to avoid crying, tears slowly seeped out of from between my eyelids.
Mother kept patting my arm and Comfort murmured the sorts of things people say when there’s nothing useful to say like “It’ll be okay,” and “You’re safe now,” but they slid over me without sticking.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that before the plump court physician bustled in.
He smelled faintly of soap and something medicinal and bitter.
Without preamble, he began scraping the poultice from my face.
Even his gentlest touch sent fresh shocks of pain skittering across my skin.
He made little “hmmm” noises as he inspected the burns, then washed them, the cool water both soothing and cruel.
Another layer of paste was smeared on top of my burned skin, followed by an efficient, methodical check of my bruises and cuts. I must look terrible.
“Well,” the physician said finally, “you are very lucky to be alive. Everything should heal fine if we keep treating you. There will be some scarring, but not too much.”
I turned my face away. I didn’t care about his prognosis.
His voice sounded like someone speaking through a closed door—distant, muffled, and unimportant.
Mother walked him out, their voices a low hum beyond the door.
Comfort stayed, her hand a warm weight on my leg, one of the few places left that didn’t scream with pain.
I scanned the room for Father. He had to be here. He had to. Surely, he would want to check in on me. I hadn’t seen him since the attack.
“Co—” My voice cracked, too hoarse and raspy to sound like it belonged to me. I swallowed and tried again. “Comfort?”
Her eyes snapped to mine. “Yes? What is it?”
“Father?” My voice barely made it past my lips.
She froze. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, and her eyes filled with tears. She turned away from me, her voice trembling as she whispered, “His funeral was yesterday.”