Chapter 8
eight
Salt in the Wound
Zydar
She was reckless. Insubordinate. A walking liability. And if that wasn't enough, she was a distraction.
Not the kind one could ignore with a clenched jaw and a cold bath. No, Miralyte Tavora disrupted the air itself, threaded into every breath I took until even the mere thought of her consumed me.
Something that had never happened before.
"Where are you taking me?" Miralyte was practically stepping on my heels as I continued down the storm corridor, until we reached a pair of round doors. They spun apart as I approached, revealing a medical wing.
The scent of copper and stormroot greeted us as the doors opened, revealing rows of long sick beds. Pale crystal sconces bled soft light across obsidian walls veined with lightning, the storm within the walls humming and crackling softly.
There were no healers. All of them were busy with the rot. Which meant I would have to take care of Miralyte myself. Fine by me.
Near the front of the room was a large wooden table filled with potions and medicinal leaves, jars of herbs neatly stacked next to each other. A second table a few feet away from it contained various bandages, metal tools, and pots of balm.
"Sit," I commanded, pointing to the nearest bed.
She looked at the spot, then at me, her golden eyes narrowed.
"I said, sit."
"I heard you."
"Then do as you're told."
"Don't order me around," she snapped.
"Little dove, I have absolutely no desire to stand here bickering like children. Either you get onto that bed willingly, or I will pick you up and put you there myself."
Miralyte opened her mouth to make a retort, seemed to reconsider, then stalked towards the edge of the cot. She sat, all the while glowering at me as though this was the worst offense one could possibly inflict upon a person.
"Happy now?"
"Not particularly. No."
"That's a shame." She shrugged. "I care deeply about your feelings."
Why was everything out of her mouth so infuriating? One would think her tongue was laced with the venom of a Sunserpent.
I stalked forward, each step reverberating against the stone, the stormroot in the walls flashing and sizzling gently. She watched me with that maddening tilt of her chin, with the fierce pride of a predator hiding a wound.
“You’re bleeding,” I said flatly, not because she didn’t know, but because I needed something—anything—to break the spiral of heat and fury that twisted in my gut every time she looked at me like that. Like she didn’t fear me. Like she shouldn’t.
"Then get a healer."
"You are looking at one."
"You? A healer?" She snorted. "Stars and gods above, the irony."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"That you are the least healing person I have ever met. Ever. You are the very embodiment of unhealiness."
"Unhealiness isn't a word."
"It's the best word to describe you."
I sighed, raking a hand over my face. "Do you have any idea how close you were to starting a bloodbath? Had that fork hit you in the right spot, even the most skilled healer wouldn't have been able to save you. You’d be dead."
"You were threatening to kill me not two days ago," she countered, her voice cool. "I find it difficult to believe your concern is genuine."
My jaw tightened, and I felt a vein in my temple throb. "I’m being practical. You heard Narietta at dinner. We need you alive."
"Right." Her laugh was bitter. "Because I'm somewhat immune to the Rot, and you need to cut me open and see what makes me different."
"Yes," I said simply. "The little dove needs to transform into a guinea pig.” I stared at her sternly. “You know that’s not what Narietta meant. You’re walking around freely now, aren’t you?"
Her lips parted, but whatever she had been about to say vanished the instant I reached up and gently brushed a fingertip against her cheek.
It was meant as a cursory examination, nothing more, but the second our skin touched, I froze, and so did she.
Shaking my head, I returned my attention back to the task at hand, a part of me trying not to dwell on the fact that I was growing much too accustomed to holding her face in my hands.
I gently tilted her chin, studying the gash across her nose. The cut was not deep, but it was still an open wound, and could easily become infected.
"Hold still," I said, letting go. "This will sting."
I grabbed a nearby pot of salve and dipped two fingers into the thick, greenish paste, the scent of stormroot and winterberry wafting into the air.
"Wait, what are you—"
Before she could finish, I pressed the pads of my fingers against the wound, applying a thin layer of the ointment.
"Ouch!" She jerked away, her hand flying up to her face.
"Stop squirming."
"No, it burns!"
"That's the medicine," I said, grabbing her chin again and forcing her to look at me. "Now hold still, and let me help you."
Her eyes narrowed, and she huffed out a breath. But she didn't try to move away, and I took that as a sign of acceptance.
"Good," I said. "Now, tell me, what were you thinking, attacking him like that?"
"He insulted me. What else was I supposed to do?"
"Ignore him."
"Easy for you to say."
"You are not a child. Act like it."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she snapped. "Is there some rule about not getting angry when people insult me?"
"There is a rule about not using our fists to sort out disagreements." I paused. “Unless sanctioned, of course.”
"Well, you would know all about that, wouldn't you, Warlord?"
I chuckled. "Think what you will, little dove, but every battle is won with either blood or pain."
"So, the end justifies the means, is that it?"
"It does."
She fell silent, her golden eyes distant. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, more careful.
"What will happen to Terys?"
I continued applying the salve, not bothering to look up. "He will be thrown to the pits."
Her sharp intake of breath made me pause. "So... he’ll die?"
"That is what he gets for using his training for the wrong purpose." I resumed my work, noting how she stiffened at my words.
"I am not weak," she said, fire returning to her voice. "I had him. If he hadn't attacked me from behind like a coward, I would have won."
"Mmm," I murmured, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as I smoothed the ointment across her skin.
She was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "I don't want him dead."
I stopped what I was doing and looked at her directly. "There it is."
"There what is?"
"Your weakness." I set down the salve pot with deliberate precision. "He was going to kill you, little dove. Would have, if I hadn't intervened. And yet you still show him mercy."
"Mercy isn't weakness."
"In this realm, it is. It’ll get you killed."
Her chin lifted with that familiar defiance. "Then perhaps this realm needs to change."
"The world doesn't bend to suit your ideals, Miralyte."
"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean I have to be an active part of it." She caught my wrist as I reached for fresh bandages. "Choose a different punishment. Please."
The word 'please' from her lips was so unexpected, so quietly spoken, that it gave me pause. I studied her face—the earnest set of her mouth, the way her eyes held mine without wavering.
"And what would you have me do instead? Pat him on the head and send him on his way?"
"Exile him. Send him to the Ironbridge District," she said without hesitation. "Put him to work in the sulfur mines. It's dangerous enough to be a proper punishment, but not a death sentence."
How in the seven courts did a mortal girl from some backwater village know about the Ironbridge District? The sulfur mines were a closely guarded secret, known only to high-ranking court members and those unfortunate enough to be sentenced there.
"How do you know about Ironbridge?"
Color drained from her face. "I... someone mentioned it once."
"Who?"
"I don't remember."
"You don't remember." I set down the cloth and leaned closer, studying her with new intensity.
Her jaw tightened. "Does it matter? It's a good solution, isn't it?"
"It matters because mortal Vessels don't possess such knowledge. Ever." I tilted my head, watching as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Unless they're not quite what they appear to be."
"I'm exactly what I appear to be."
"Are you?" I reached out, brushing my thumb along her jawline. She didn't pull away, but I felt the tremor that ran through her. "Because right now, little dove, you appear to be someone with access to information she shouldn't have."
"Maybe I'm just well-read."
"There are no books about Ironbridge in any mortal library."
She was quiet for a long moment, her golden eyes darting away from mine. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Fine. Send him wherever you want. I don't care."
But I did care. This slip of knowledge was another piece of the puzzle that was Miralyte Tavora. A puzzle that grew more complex with each revelation.
First the failed Oath Mark. Then the agralt necklace. Now this. What exactly was she hiding?
I finished applying the salve, then stepped back.
"There," I said, wiping my fingers on a nearby rag. "That should hold until the morning, when you can see a proper healer. "
"Great," she said.
"Did you think about the offer?" I asked, deciding the situation might be better dealt with honestly. The girl refused to take anything I did as genuine, at least not yet.
"I did," she said, after a long moment. She chewed her lip, a human habit I knew was nothing but a sign of deep deliberation.
I waited, patiently, my fingers gripping the edges of the desk.
"I won't change my mind," she said, finally.
I let out a ragged breath. Narietta would be disappointed.
"Unless... you give me something in return."
"Tell me."
"I want Pelbie to go home. Let her go back to her family."
I closed my eyes in regret. "That's not possible."
"Why not?"
"Because, Miralyte, mortals are not allowed to leave this territory once they have entered. It is the law. One that even I cannot break."
"A law you set."