“A sickness?”
“Never had a name for it, and now it’s so tangled with this cursed spell…” The spell that had me yearning for boiling oil to scald my feet or a hook blade to tear my skin. “Please, Brother, I beg you tell me you’ve brought it.”
“I found a bit in the priory kitchen. Not much. I didn’t know how much you needed. What must I do?”
To hear that Gildas was willing to help had me sniffling like a maiden. I’d not been able to think beyond the possibility of obtaining the nivat. I’d known naught of how I would manage the using, bound as I was. I tried to concentrate on the task. “At my waist…the green bag.”
Gildas dug through the layers of blankets and clothing. “The Sinduria said you hold the book of maps. I should take it out when I go.”
“You can’t. Caphur…the Registry man…he’ll sense its magic. Think you’re stealing. He’ll take it. Lassa must retrieve it. I can’t—Sorry I can’t help more. Tell Luviar I would if I could. Willing.” I could not examine my growing resolve to aid the cabal, only regret that my damnable weakness and blighted future left me useless to them. Beyond such fleeting concerns lay only pain and need.
“I’m glad to hear you’re willing. This devil prince must not have you.” I fought not to scream as his fingers fumbled at my waist. “I know people of influence in this city. We’ll see you safe with us by midday.”
Even as I despaired of its fulfillment, his ferocious declaration warmed me beyond measure.
He drew out the little green bag I had so painstakingly kept hidden through the past weeks. “Now tell me what to do.”
“How much did you bring?”
He unwrapped a scrap of cloth and showed me a generous mound of seeds, enough for at least three or four doulons. Amid mumbled prayers and thanksgiving, I told him how to crush the seeds and that he must free two of my fingers so I could work the magic. “…only twenty seeds. No more.” Only enough to ease my sickness.
As a youth, I’d seen the doulon-mad wallowing in refuse heaps and filthy hovels, scarred, starved, and forever shaking, tongues thick, unable to articulate a clear thought. One old man had scratched his skin off, trying to rid himself of invading “beetles.” Even enduring the pain of giving up the doulon would not have healed his broken mind at that late stage. I’d always been careful.
“And the rest of the seeds?”
“Into the green bag.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to free your hands entirely?” he said, a few moments later, looking dubiously at the two fingers of my right hand he’d wrestled out of the tight silk bindings. “We could rewrap them after.”
“Too slow. Won’t take long for Silos to detect spellmaking.” I would not have my savior compromised. “Now, p-prick my finger. Draw blood.”
He jabbed the silver needle into my fingertip, and I managed not to scream. He had to grip my bundled hands and hold them over the crushed nivat so the blood could drip, as I was too unsteady and too awkwardly positioned to do it.
“D-don’t t-touch the stuff,” I said, as he squeezed my two trembling fingers together to hold the thread steady. “The instant the fumes stop rising, when the scent fades, help me get it to my mouth. Then get out.”
He nodded, his expression curious, but not disgusted as I’d feared.
“Bless you forever, Brother,” I whispered, as I released magic to flow through my fingertips and bind the nivat to my blood.
Gildas fixed his gaze to the mirror fragment. I could see neither mirror nor fumes nor even the mound, but only glimpse a distorted reflection of the bubbling mess in his clear eyes. It looked huge and evil. I closed my eyes, ground my wrists against the rope to sharpen the pain, and tried not to vomit into my friend’s lap as he crouched beside my bed.
“Now,” he said, in what could have only been moments. Or perhaps I merely lost sense in the meantime. “It looks black and thick, as you said. No fumes rising in the reflection. Shall we?”
I nodded, unable to speak. He used my own fingers to scoop up the reeking glob and put it to my mouth.
I convulsed. Howled. Drowned in fens of pain and pleasure…of guilt and shame and joyless rapture.
“What have you been up to?” The flower-scented Silos burst through the murk of my perceptions. He tugged at the ropes. Spent an inordinate time checking my hand bindings and fussing over the bloody marks about my wrists.
I raised my leaden eyelids to a glare of cloudy midmorning streaming through the open door. Gildas was nowhere in sight. I hadn’t noticed his going. Neither had I felt him tuck my fingers back into their shroud nor seen him pack away the guilty evidence that now poked reassuringly into my hip.
“Nightmares,” I said, my tongue thick. Had the world burst into end-times flames before my eyes, I would yet sink into blessed sleep, burying the remnants of my shame. I had never felt so drained. So heavy.
“You work spells in your dreams?” Silos dropped my limp appendages heavily onto my belly. “A good thing I came and not Caphur. Your clerical friend did not tuck the extra cord about your fingers. What has he done with you? He looked smug as an adder as he left.”
I closed my eyes and smiled. “Brother Gildas cleansed my soul. When the Bastard Prince eats it, he will suffer a flux.” As I’d learned on the journey to Palinur, Silos’s skills at detection were less impressive than his lightning bolts.
“You are a fool, plebeiu. And the Sinduria is a greater one to indulge you. Perhaps when I tell her you’re working magic with the Karish, she’ll reconsider. Last night she petitioned the Registry for your transfer to her custody, saying this contract your father has arranged is evidence of madness in the Cartamandua line. Her petition was refused.” He sniffed the air and poked about the bedcovers.
Shadows chilled my comfortable warmth at his mention of the future. “She’s wrong”—my father was not mad, only soul-dead—“but I’ll not tell anyone that. Tell her I can keep secrets.”
Secrets. Only as I said the word did it penetrate my iron skull that Thalassa had unraveled her tongue-block. I had talked with Jullian and my grandfather of Danae, even speaking the word lighthouse to the boy. I dragged my heavy arms across my face and whispered the word into my sleeve just to make sure.
Surely this meant my sister trusted me; Abbot Luviar trusted me. Blessed Jullian had sent Gildas to succor me. And Gildas had promised they’d come to my rescue. Perhaps they did need me for their plan. In a wash of unreasoning euphoria, I smiled into my sleeve and mumbled louder, “Need to sleep now.”
Silos unknotted the ropes and tossed them aside. I giggled like one of my little sisters.
“Too late, plebeiu. Prince Osriel’s man has arrived earlier than expected.” He shook me again.
Eventually his insistent prodding stole my good feeling. Dully I dragged my cold, heavy body to sitting. As my hands were yet cocooned in silken cords, I persuaded Silos to help me take a piss in the jar. He refused to wipe the crusted drool from my face.
“You should not have frightened off your valets,” he said, his mouth curled in distaste. “Though I suppose you’d best learn to groom yourself anyway. I doubt the Bastard Prince will provide you a bodyservant.”
Stupid Silos. What did he think I’d been doing for twelve years? Of course, I’d had my hands to use. Perhaps this prince would just cut them off. I pressed my wrist against my mouth to contain my rising gorge. No, no, the Bastard wanted my magic. He was paying for it.
Scarcely able to stay upright, I straightened my garments with my elbows and wiped my face with my sleeve…three times before I realized the offending substance remaining on my face was merely my skin. The open-necked purple and black tunic hung loose over my wool shirt, and they had provided me no belt.
When Silos held up the silver half mask, I could not summon control enough to disguise my loathing. And pride seemed unutterably foolish at the moment. “Ah, domé,” I whispered, begging, “not that one. Please, I cannot breathe in it.”