Page 92 of A Reign of Embers

When I’ve opened the door to my chambers, I veer not toward my bed but to my trunks.

“Your Imperial Highness?” Evando asks, wavering uncertainly on his feet as I shove open the lid.

“I can reduce my symptoms myself,” I tell him, grabbing my tea box and brewing apparatus. “And then I need to see what kind of cureIcan make. I’m not letting Coraya suffer if I can help her.”

It might be more than suffering. The medic said even the usual camp pox can kill those with a weakened constitution. How hard will it hit an infant?

A hot rush of tears blurs my vision. Godlen or no, I’m not letting Sabrelle take my daughter from me. How dare she eventry?

My arm wobbles, and Marc leaps in to steady my small cauldron before I drop it.

“All right,” he says in a tight but even tone. “Let’s see you use that gift of yours. Just tell us what you need.”

He shoots a look much too imperious for his current station at Evando, but the captain is too out of sorts to react.

Yes. My gift. But first I need to be able to concentrate.

I detach the upper portion of the tea box to get at the medicinal supplies underneath. Dried waneberry leaves for fever. Vitch bark for the aches. I suppose I should be glad my stomach isn’t churning as well. I might actually be better off than when Bastien inadvertently left me deathly ill.

Gods, if only he and the others were here now?—

No, it’s better that they’re not. The princes would never have encountered this pox before. They’d fall ill too.

I can do this on my own.

I’m not entirely on my own, besides. As I chew the herbs, Marc studies my apparatus and does an impressive job of figuring out how to assemble the various parts. He crouches beside me, his gaze avid.

Behind him, Evando paces on my rug. “You shouldn’t push yourself too hard. The medics will be here any moment.”

“The medics don’t know what to do.” The fever is retreating, letting my thoughts sort themselves into better order. I inhale deeply and press my hand against my godlen brand in an appeal to Elox. “Let me see.”

How would I cure this sickness afflicting me? What ingredients do I need, and what should I do with them?

To my relief, images start swirling behind my closed eyes almost instantly. There’ssomethingmy gift can tell me rather than the blankness of impossibility.

Iffling root. Garlic. Oduna powder. A little wervid tincture. And…

In my mind’s eye, delicate blue petals unfurl and drift in bubbling water. I can almost taste their tartly sour scent.

My stomach sinks. Opening my eyes, I paw through the lowest layer of my tea box.

I come up with one small vial of whole persinam petals, preserved in a clear gel, and a packet of dried ones. Even though I know the properties change with drying, I prod my gift again.

All I can see are the softly pliant petals amid the boiling bubbles. My gift wants them fresh, or as close to that as I can offer.

I only have maybe one flower’s worth.

I sit back on my heels, rocked by a rush of despair. Fresh prickles break out over my skin. The curatives I took can only hold off some of the discomfort.

I’m going to get sicker, and I don’t know what to do.

Marc takes in my expression and frowns. “What’s the matter?”

I wet my lips against the growing dryness of my mouth. “The remedy I can see… It needs persinam blossoms. Fresh ones. It’s not a very common ingredient—I only have a little. Not enough to help more than a few of the people who are sick.”

Captain Evando makes a disgruntled sound. “You don’t need to heal everyone. That isn’t your job. If you can ensure your own and your daughter’s safety?—”

It takes all my will not to give in to the returning urge to lie down. “Curing the two of us won’t ensure our safety. We need every soldier who’s still on my side. A third of them are already laid low… If the new pox turns out to be fatal…”

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