Page 187 of Mother of Death and Dawn

TISAANAH

It was nearly a full day before someone came to see me, and by then I was deliriously feverish. I could do nothing but lie on the floor, listless, moans dripping from my throat.

I was barely conscious when Laron came into my room and swore to herself. She flipped me over to look at my face—which, of course, pressed my decimated back to the floor, making me cry out. She held her hand to my forehead and swore again.

Darkness took me.

When it parted again, someone else leaned over me—a man, middle-aged, with dark salt-and-pepper hair.

“She’s burning,” Laron muttered, sounding a little panicked. “Look at her back! Idiot girl. That’s worse than what they did to her. I don’t know how she made it so much worse.”

The man was silent as he felt my face, my pulse, and gently turned me to examine my seeping back. As he leaned over me, I caught a glimpse of the tattoo on his wrist—a sigil. He was a slave.

Just as I thought. Good.

His hands ran over my back, and I let out a whimper as his magic fluttered across my skin.

“I’m trying to help,” he muttered, sounding tired but kind.

I made a sound halfway between a moan and a sob.

“She can’t die, Merick,” Laron hissed. “They’ll have my gods-damned head. Do you know how the Lady would react—”

The man had a bag with him, which he pulled closer. Inside, I glimpsed many little glass vials. He grabbed two, then mixed them. A flash of magic radiated through the liquid.

“Hold her head back.”

Laron obeyed. Pain shook me as she pushed me upright.

“Sorry…” She sounded as if she meant it.

The potion that Merick poured down my throat burned the whole way through me, and it was so potent that I would have thrown it up were it not for his hand clamped hard over my mouth. Eventually my body accepted it, and they released me, allowing me to fall to the ground.

A call rang out in the distance. Laron leapt to her feet and swore.

“Go,” Merick said, softly. “I’ll stay with her.”

Laron thanked him before rushing out of the room, leaving Merick and I alone. With great effort, I forced my head up to look at him.

Days of constant drugging, combined with the infection, had taken their toll. But this, now, was my chance.

No one, not even Threllian Lords, could have that much Chryxalis on-hand without a Wielder available who knew how to make it. And that Wielder likely would have been a healer—someone who knew how to manipulate bodies.

The potions in Merick’s bag only confirmed my theory.

And this moment, now, the next step in my plan, was worth my self-inflicted injury, was worth the fever.

“Hello,” I rasped, my voice dull and scratchy. “I need to ask you something.”

* * *

I didn’t knowhow many days passed. My fever faded as a result of Merick’s care, but they kept me so drugged that I was nearly incoherent, dreams and reality and pain blending together. I continued to meet with Merick, the gears of my plan continued to turn, and time passed.

One day, I felt a little clearer. I was able to actually get up. I ate the bread and soup I was given, and still had an appetite after. My fingers had been set, and while they ached, it was manageable. My back was painful, but no longer nursed a raging infection.

After I ate, the door flew open and three maids, Laron included, entered. One bore a wheeled rack of fine clothing, another carried a box of shoes, and Laron was armed with hair and face brushes.

“What is this?” I asked.

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