<The desert, near the Shadar,> said Lahlil.
<Is he Shadari?>
<No. He’s Nomas.>
<Nomas,> Cyrrin said pensively, but then Isa felt a crack open in her clipped, impersonal demeanor and something more genuine reached through. <Shit, Lahlil—for Onraka’s sake, please tell me this isn’t King Jachad.>
Lahlil didn’t need to answer. <Now you know why I had to bring him to you.>
Isa felt the tension straining between them and didn’t want to be in that room any more, but the thought of taking even one step away from the fire made her hug her arm closer to her body. She looked at the little girl instead, watching her very carefully pour out a little of the poisoned wine into a shallow, red-rimmed dish. The girl was missing her first and second finger on her right hand, but she had no trouble at all taking the stopper off the skin, pouring out the wine or putting the top back on again. Isa watched her smooth movements with envy.
<The Mongrel’s here,> moaned the man on the other bed suddenly, rolling over but throwing his arm across his face. <She’s here—it’s all true.>
<No, it isn’t,> Cyrrin told him, with surprising force. <This has nothing to do with you. Stay quiet, or go back to your room with the others.>
Isa’s hand dropped to her side as recognition stole over her, slowly, creeping like a shadow and draining the blood from her hand and face. She couldn’t believe it, but she couldn’t deny it, either. She should have recognized Ingeld at once—except how could she, when this was the last place she would ever have expected to find him?
<Isa?> Lahlil called out to her as she went to the pallet and pulled the man’s blanket to the floor. He was skinny and filthy and had one less hand than before, but it was undoubtedly Ingeld. The bloodstained bandage over the stump of his wrist made her want to crow with joy—it was an ugly, brutal impulse, but in that moment she didn’t care.
<What are you doing?> Cyrrin cried out.
<Get up, Ingeld,> Isa commanded, ripping off her borrowed fur. The cold hit her wet skin like a fist, but the pain only fed her rage as she swept Blood’s Pride from its scabbard. <Do you remember this sword? You were going to follow it, and Frea, into battle against the emperor. Now you can die by it. I said, get up!>
<Who are you? Leave him alone!> said Cyrrin. She tried to put herself between Isa and Ingeld, but the best she could manage was to lurch into the skinny arms of the little girl who darted forward to catch her. <Lahlil, you brought her here. Control her!>
<This man tried to kill my brother and me and Rho,> Isa told them all. <He’s a traitor and a murderer. You should have let him die.>
<That’s not what we do,> Cyrrin answered icily.
<No, don’t stop her,> said Ingeld, sitting up. Dry fir needles dropped from the bed and scattered the floor around him. <I want her to kill me. If I’m already damned, at least I can die by the sword. Go ahead, Lady Isa. Kill me.>
She readied Blood’s Pride to oblige him.
<Lahlil, make her stop,> Cyrrin commanded, her anger burning like a red-hot poker.
Isa struggled as Lahlil grabbed her sword-arm, holding her with a strength she couldn’t match while everyone else in the room stared at her, their emotions colliding and careening all over the place.
<Berril, give Ingeld some more of that elber root to calm him down,> said Cyrrin.
The girl snatched up a clay bottle from the table and hurried over. He was too exhausted to resist and she managed to get a few drops down his throat. He fell back onto the bed a moment later and shut his eyes.
<What did he mean, “it’s all true?”> Lahlil asked Cyrrin. Isa pulled away as soon as her sister loosened her grip. <What didn’t you want him to tell me?>
<The Shadari witch foretold your return,> said Trey, stepping though the doorway behind them. He was dressed in the same ragged clothes as everyone else, but on him they looked like a poor attempt at a disguise. <She said you would come to Norland and lead an army of the cursed, making way for Lord Valrig’s return. Emperor Gannon has been preparing for war.> He walked past Isa to Ingeld’s pallet and lifted the drugged man’s wrist. <He cut off Ingeld’s hand so he could deliver a message to you. He wants you to know that he’s waiting for you.>
<You said there’s a Shadari witch?> Isa asked him, ignoring everything else Trey had said. <You mean Ani? The one who brought the secret of the Shadari ore to Norland—?>
<That’s not why I’m here,> said Lahlil, cutting Isa off. <I’m here so Cyrrin can cure Jachad.>
<That’s why you came,> said Trey. Isa didn’t know how she could ever have mistaken him for Rho. He had a spark inside him, a bright, cold light that was the exact opposite of Rho’s careless dispassion. <It’s not why you’re here.>
<Everyone, just shut up,> said Cyrrin. <Lahlil, don’t listen to him. It’s all some stupid fantasy.>
<It’s true,> Trey insisted, dropping Ingeld’s arm. <She swore she’d never come back here, but here she is, just as the witch foretold.>
<This is different—> Trey began.
<No, it isn’t. I saw the visions myself, and every time one came true, it wasn’t what I expected it to be. Seeing the future isn’t the same as understanding it. You can’t know what it really means until it happens.>
Isa could feel Trey trying to hold back his anger. <I do know what it means. You just refuse to accept it.>
<I told you, I don’t want to hear any more about it,> Cyrrin lashed out. <It’s just a story from some crazy old woman who needs to give them a reason to keep her alive. You’d believe anything if it meant you could fight again, Trey, even though we both know you wouldn’t last an hour with that shoulder the way it is, no matter how often you soak it. You’ll never fight again. Everyone else around here has found a way to accept what they’ve lost—everyone except you. That doesn’t make you special. It makes you an idiot.>
Isa felt as if a pail of freezing water had been thrown in her face. The image of Trey rising up naked out of the pool appeared unbidden, but it was the scars down his right shoulder that she remembered most clearly. She held her breath, waiting for him to say something fine and noble; something about courage and perseverance and strength of spirit, the kind of speech she made to herself sometimes when she was trying to thread a buckle or sharpen a pen.
But Trey just walked out of the room.
Disappointment curdled in Isa’s stomach. As she moved closer to the fire Cyrrin lurched over to the table, shutting them all out.
Lahlil bent down and picked up the fur Isa had dropped. <Put this back on, before you freeze,> her sister said, holding it out to her.
<Ani is still alive,> said Isa. <She’s still there.>
<It looks that way. We’ll deal with it later.>
<But you heard what Trey said. There might be a war—don’t you think we should get her now, before something happens?>
<No,> said Lahlil. <I told you, we’ll deal with it later.>
<No, we won’t deal with it later,> said Isa. She was shivering, but she still didn’t take the coat her sister was holding out to her. <We’ll deal with it now. I know you said you wouldn’t leave Jachad—you don’t have to. Just tell me where to find Ani and I’ll go myself.>
<You’re not going to Ravindal,> said Lahlil. <I brought you here so you would be safe, and for now, that means staying here.>
<I knew it!> said Isa. <You’ve been planning to dump me here all along. That’s the only reason you wanted me to come with you.>
<It’s about time you told yourself the truth, Isa,> said Lahlil. <You can’t go back to the Shadar, with or without Ani. You must have figured that out by now.>
<Daryan—>
<Daryan is never going to make the Shadar into what he wants, and what’s
worse, he’s too much of a dreamer to realize it. I’ve seen his kind before, and I’ve seen what the world does to them. They’ll break him, Isa, and if you go back, you’ll just be watching it happen.>
Isa hadn’t realized how badly she was shivering until her teeth ground together and the buckles on her swordbelt rattled. <Did you think I would want to stay here,> Isa asked her sister, her words stuttering as if the cold had crept into her mind, <or were you planning on stranding me?>
<This is the right place for you,> said Lahlil. <You belong here. There isn’t any other place for people like us.>
<Then why didn’t you stay?>
<We’re not talking about me. I … > Lahlil tailed off, and it felt like whatever she had been about to say had tumbled down into a dark pit. <I’m just trying to help you.>
<I know,> Isa shot back, <but you’re really bad at it! Ordering people around and making decisions for them isn’t the same as helping.>
Lahlil’s anger licked out into the space between them and she dropped Isa’s coat. <I’m not giving orders. This isn’t a battlefield.>
<Isn’t it?> asked Isa. <You never asked me what I wanted, or Jachad either. We’re not real people to you; we’re just pieces to be pushed around a map so you can make whatever moves you need to win this war of yours—against the gods or against yourself, if there’s even a difference. You should have seen for yourself that Jachad never wanted to make this trip.>
Lahlil’s mind went as blank as a sheet of paper, and Isa would have sworn her sister had disappeared if she hadn’t been looking right at her.
<That’s not true,> Lahlil said at last.
<He told me in the forest.> She was sick of being pushed around, and Lahlil needed to understand. She shoved any regret about betraying Jachad’s confidence aside and drove her point home. <He wanted to be with you when he died and he knew you wouldn’t have stayed with him—you’d have gone off looking for a cure without him and left him to die alone. He was weeping when he told me.>
Lahlil collapsed in on herself—Isa was reminded of a spyglass folding up, and all trace of her emotions just vanished, until Isa again became aware of the rest of the room: the snap of the fire; the small sounds of Berril grinding something with a pestle and mortar; the creak of Cyrrin’s strange brace as she reached for something across the table.
She couldn’t stand it any more. She picked up the coat and went out into the hallway and ran straight into an old woman with a small stack of clothes folded neatly over her arm. A complicated pattern of purple blotches roiled over the whole left side of her face.
<Boiling soup,> said the old woman before Isa could say a word, and handed her the clothes. <My name’s Dara. I was a cook for the Olsdans. You can put these on in that room over there.> She pointed. <You’ll have to dry your boots by the fire. I’ll find some food for you when you’ve changed.>
<Thank you,> said Isa, noticing as she balanced the bundle on the crook of her arm that Dara hadn’t shown any exaggerated care when she handed them over, or offered any unsolicited assistance. <What do you people call this place?>
The woman gave a wry smile. <We call it Valrigdal—you know, like Valrig’s city in the Under-realm—well, Cyrrin doesn’t, but it’s just a joke.>
<Oh,> said Isa, wondering how exactly it was a joke. <Do you know where Lord Trey went?>
<Here,> said Trey, leaning out of a dark doorway a little further down the hall. His emotions were drifting around near his feet like a cloud of heavy smoke. <What do you want?>
<I thought you’d want to hear about your brother.>
Chapter 26
Lahlil turned back to Jachad, squeezing her fists until they ached as she watched him twitch and moan in his sleep, remembering the forest and how he had made her promise she would stay by him. If Cyrrin couldn’t help him, then Lahlil had made his last few days a misery just to please herself. Everything always has to be about you, Callia had told her.
Jachad gasped in pain and called out her name.
“I’m right here,” she said, kneeling down by the pallet and taking hold of his wrists as he tried to claw at his chest. Confusion clouded his eyes and Lahlil wasn’t even sure he recognized her. Her wet gloves began to steam as black flames twisted around his hands, but she held on, whispering, “Jachi, it’s me. Stop fighting me.”
<Give him the rest of this,> Cyrrin said to Berril, handing her a little jar. <It’ll help with the pain.> Lahlil could feel her anger roiling underneath her words: a swift current under a calm sea.
<No, Cyrrin,> the girl protested, <you—>
<Just give it to him, Berril.>
Lahlil took off her gloves and carefully took the jar from the girl’s maimed hand without acknowledging her hostility. Everyone’s anger would have to wait. She circled her arm behind Jachad’s shoulders and lifted him up so he could swallow the last few drops of the syrupy liquid inside the jar, then held him until the moaning and writhing stopped. When he was no longer gasping for air, she pulled her arm away and took his wrist to check his pulse, but he took her hand instead.
“So, that’s striding,” he said. He was too weak and too pale for his smile to be reassuring, and his voice had a thin, reedy quality that made him sound like a little boy. “You won’t hear me complaining about triffons after this.”
“Good.”
“You won’t leave, now that we’re here,” he reminded her. “We’re staying together. You promised.”
Lahlil gathered up the edge of the blanket in her hand. The wool was stiff and smelled of damp and woodsmoke. “I haven’t forgotten.”
He let his head fall so he could see the fire. “That Abroan man in Prol Irat, the way he looked at you…” He tailed off, then said, “You were right. I didn’t understand.”
“Don’t talk any more now.”
“Do you think my mother is in Ravindal now?” he asked. Lahlil kept her eyes on the stitches unravelling along the blanket’s hem so she wouldn’t have to see the tears darkening the freckles on his cheeks. “I think she’s close. Just a feeling.”
“We’ll find her as soon as Cyrrin figures this out.”
He didn’t say anything; she knew he no longer had the energy to pretend to believe in a cure, even for her sake. The hundreds of tiny nicks opened by Isa’s accusations began to bleed.
Cyrrin and Berril came over carrying a small cloth spread with a thick red paste.
<What’s that for?> asked Lahlil.
<Time,> said Cyrrin.
“Don’t,” Jachad pleaded in Nomas as Berril exposed his chest again, but he couldn’t lift his arms to push her away. Cyrrin laid the poultice over his heart.
“It’s cold—” he began, before his hands curled into fists and his whole body convulsed in pain. Lahlil clutched his arm as a tortured sound twisted its way through his clenched teeth.
<What is that? What are you doing to him?> she demanded of Cyrrin.
<What I said: giving him more time. His heart was shutting down, Lahlil; I’ve given it a push. The pain won’t last long and he should sleep a little after that.> She picked up a staff leaning against the wall. <Berril, take the poultice off when the convulsions stop and then cover him up again. He can’t take the cold the way we can. See if you can get that fire a little hotter, then come over here and grind up some more of that blue-root. We might need it.> Using the staff, she made her way back to the table on her own.
Lahlil kept hold of Jachad’s hand until he settled down again, then she moved out of the way so Berril could take care of the poultice.
<Did you give him anything before you got him here?> asked Cyrrin.
<The Nomas healer gave him something—I don’t know what was in it, but it helped with the pain for a while. I bled him on the way here.>
<You shouldn’t have done that,> Cyrrin said brutally; she never had been one to soften a blow. <Backward nonsense. You only made him weaker.>
<He told me that, but I kept doing it anyway,> Lahlil admitted. She expected a tart reply, but
Cyrrin’s silence was worse. When Berril went to tend to the fire, Lahlil walked over to get an extra blanket from one of the empty pallets. The musky smell of the fur brought back the memory of waking up in this room for the first time. She remembered thinking she would never leave, and then she remembered thinking she would never come back.
<A normal poison spreads through the body,> Cyrrin explained. <I’ve seen it a hundred times. The poison moves through the blood and invades the various organs, and they die.>
<And this is different?> said Lahlil, laying the blanket over Jachad.
<The poison’s in his blood, but it’s not spreading through his body,> said Cyrrin. <Only his heart is under attack.>
Berril was kneeling in front of the fire and piling on more logs.
<How much time does he have?> asked Lahlil, glaring into the fire until her vision blurred and the modest blaze swelled with rings of light.
<Not long,> said Cyrrin. <A few hours; a day at most.>
<But you’ll save him.>
<I don’t know,> said Cyrrin, dropping a pinch of white powder into the saucer of poisoned wine. <Maybe. Maybe not.>
<Maybe?> One of the logs slipped and sent embers hissing onto the cold stone hearth. Lahlil grabbed the poker from Berril’s hand, startling the girl. <That’s not good enough. I didn’t bring him all the way here just to have him die now. You are going to save him.>
<Or what, Lahlil?> asked Cyrrin.
The rough iron of the poker scratched at her hand and white ash from the end of it dusted her boots. There wasn’t any point in saying she had taken it from Berril without thinking. That was exactly the problem.
<Berril, go and find Petra and get something to eat,> said Cyrrin.
<I’m not hungry,> said the girl, busying herself with brushing the ash and embers from the hearth.
<Well, I am. Get some cheese, and some of those pannis berries—but make sure they’re ripe. You know I don’t like them too sour.>
Berril put down her brush with exaggerated care and took her coat from the hook by the door. She left to follow Cyrrin’s instructions, but not before making sure Lahlil felt her wrath like a shove from her small shoulder.