“It’s the fever,” a voice said. “Sedate him.”
Strong hands took control, one holding his head still, others disentangling his fists from his hair, binding his hands to the bed.
When a cup was pressed to his lips, he sealed them together and tried to turn his head away, but somebody pinched his nostrils shut and when he opened his mouth to breathe, the bitter fluid poured over his tongue. It was a choice of swallow or choke and his body made the choice for him, over and over as the draught continued to flow.
A moment later, a soft warmth spread through his muscles and he slumped back into the pillows. A gray fog of silence drifted over his churning thoughts and muffled them, one by one, shrouding them in forgetfulness except for one, the last one, so real that he chewed it between his teeth even as he faded into sleep: revenge.
Hours later he surged up out of dream as though he were drowning, hands groping at his leg before he was fully awake. His fingers found a swath of bandages and an utter lack of sensation. Before he could cry out his distress and outrage a clear voice said, “Nobody will take your leg without your consent.”
Managing to get his eyes fully open, he blinked up into a face that he knew, only now the eyes were focused and keen.
“Isobel. What—how did you come to be here?”
She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Jared. Small worlds after all, yes?”
“You know me, then?” He hoped to all the gods there might be that she would not remember.
“I was crazy, not stupid. I saw you well enough.”
Isobel pulled up a chair and sat by the bed, her hands folded quietly in her lap. She was a beautiful woman, he realized. He’d never really looked at her before. She carried herself with grace and a quiet reserve that spoke of power.
He tried to smile. “I had hoped you would be my mother-in-law someday.”
“You hoped that Vivian would lock me up permanently in a facility somewhere. Don’t try to lie to me, Jared. When I say that I saw you, I mean that I saw what you try to hide beneath the looks and the money and the charm. It’s easier to see these things when you are broken.”
He swallowed, hard. “Look, Ms. Maylor—I was trying to do what was best for Vivian. You were not as you are now.”
“True. I was not. What you are, remains to be seen. As for Vivian, that is what I am here to discuss. You have done her much harm.”
“But it wasn’t me! Whatever happened here, whoever the Chancellor is, he isn’t me! Only a dream, however that works. Besides, he’s already dead. Do you have any idea what it is like to have your dream self die in front of your eyes?”
She sat and looked at him, not answering, eyes so much like Vivian’s that he felt an odd disconnect to see a different intelligence looking out through them. It was one of Vivian’s tricks, that silence, to just sit and wait until you spilled something to fill it.
“Let’s look at the evidence, shall we? You’ve met Zee.”
Yes. He had met Zee. Anger burned his throat and chest with acid. “What about him?”
“Well, he too had a dream self here, the Warlord. He saved as many people as he could, even when Jehenna tried to control him. He helped Vivian. Your dream self raped her and killed her companion out of jealousy.”
Beneath the anger, fear began to grow. A guard stood at the door to this room. He couldn’t feel his leg. They all believed he was this Chancellor, or that at least he shared the guilt for the man’s behaviors.
“He—the Chancellor—he tried to help her. He took off the silver bracelets so she had a fighting chance.”
“And left her to confront the dragon alone. The Warlord gave his life for her. At best, Jared, you are a coward. At worst . . .” She paused and looked deep into his eyes. He wanted to turn away, to close them, to flee, but he was not capable of movement. “At worst, you are the Chancellor. Now tell me, what happened to Vivian in the Dreamworld?”
“I—she—”
“You stood by while she was forced through a doorway. While Zee was attacked and overcome. And you did nothing.”
There was nothing he could say. Shame bubbled somewhere in the depths of him, overwhelmed almost at once by fear and rage. Zee again. Always the hero.
Freed from the searching, he closed his eyes to hide his own emotions. He heard the clink of a pitcher against crystal, the sound of liquid being poured.
“Drink.”
A hand behind his head, something pressing against his lips. He turned his head away, used his hands to shift himself more upright in the bed, and opened his eyes to look at the glass. Clear liquid. He sniffed at it.
“It’s only water.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I have told you it is so. You do not trust me, but I have been nothing but truthful with you. Here, does this help?”
She lifted the glass to her own lips and took a long swallow, then held the glass out to him again. “You should drink—it will help to wash away the poisons.”
Jared licked his lips, feeling them cracked and fissured beneath the dryness of his tongue. A bitter, poisonous taste was in his mouth and he was deeply thirsty. He accepted the glass and drained it in several long swallows.
“Very good. I’ll fill it again and leave it here where you can reach it. If you need anything else, or feel you could drink another glass, ring this little bell and someone will come to you.”
“I’m afraid.”
“The healers won’t harm you.”
“And the Prince?”
She smiled. “It’s not the Prince you need worry about.”
Twenty-seven
Vivian’s eyes opened on a bleak gray sky. Cold air crinkled the skin on her face and the inside of her nose, and her body felt chilled and stiff. Her mouth tasted foul. A chickadee called not far away, and another answered. Even that slight sound hurt her head, grating on her skin like a physical irritant. Still, she was grateful that she wasn’t tasting sounds this morning, and she pushed herself up to sitting. Poe stood at her feet, eyes black and unreadable as always.
Weston sat by the fire where she’d left him. He looked weary. There was still dirt in his beard from their grave-digging adventure. His face was creased with worry and fatigue, but he smiled at her. “I swear that bird is monitoring for dreams. He doesn’t blink. How are you feeling?”
She got up, moving carefully, as though her limbs were glass and might break if she set her feet down too harshly or made a move too sudden. Weston dragged a fallen log a little closer to the fire. When she’d lowered her body into a sitting position, he handed her a steaming tin mug full of coffee.
Grateful, she inhaled the fragrant steam and took a careful sip to see how her stomach would react. It remained quiescent and she gulped down a long hot swallow, already feeling her blood stir and waken, sending warmth to muscles cold and stiff. A few more swallows and she began to feel human.
“Well?” he said, back in his place across the fire, his own cup cradled in his woodsman’s hands.
The air was an affront to her skin, which felt extraordinarily sensitive, as though the top layer had been peeled away, leaving nerves exposed and vulnerable to the lightest sensation.
“I don’t suppose there’s an outhouse,” she muttered, trying not to shiver, which hurt, but clamping all of her muscles tight to stop it made her head ache and increased the pressure on her bladder.
Weston snorted. “Yeah. I built it with my bare hands while you were tripping.” He dug in his pack and tossed her a roll of toilet paper. “There’s a likely spot in the copse over there. I promise not to look.”
Despite her reluctance, the short excursion was good for her. The walk stirred her blood into warmth, loosened her muscles, reminded her of the gift of clear, untouched mountain air. Back at the fire she sat long in silence. It was difficult to find words, and Weston seemed to understand this. He silently refilled her mug and she drank the coffee black—bitter and bracing. Her eyes gazed into the flames and then flinched away; they were too bright.