“Your Majesty!” the mother gasped. She stumbled forward, cradling her daughter, a child of no more than five suns. The girl’s skin was flushed, her eyes hot and feverish. “Please, tell them to treat my daughter. She is burned and hurt. That Sesharian boy has nothing but a broken finger—”
“A Jantari soldier smashed his arm!” the father roared.
The mother whipped around with a sudden, vicious jerk. “Then your son shouldn’t have gotten in the way! You Sesharians are always where you’re not wanted. Your son is a man. My daughter is a child. ARavani,” she said, looking pointedly to the doctor. “And you need to treat her first. Please, Your Majesty. Please, I beg. Help my daughter.”
Around them, Elena could see other patients and their families begin to turn, to listen. Almost all were Ravani.
“Ma—” Elena began.
She stilled as she felt Samson and the others approach. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Black Scale soldiers file into the tent, and the mother noticed too, because she shrank back, her eyes darting from Elena to them.
“Is there a problem?” Samson said.
Emboldened, the father stepped forward. “This woman is refusing to let them treat my son.”
“There’s just been a misunderstanding,” the doctor said, looking to the soldiers. “Please, tell your men to stand down. We already have enough injured patients.”
“My daughter is dying and here you are treating a broken arm,” the mother said.
“I will treat your daughter, ma, but you cannot kick out a patient from their bed—”
“Do you hear that?” the mother called, turning to the entrance of the tent, where more people were beginning to gather. She raised her daughter for them to see. “They refuse to helpusfirst. We Ravani are not being treated justly here.”
The crowd began to push forward. One man shoved a Black Scale, who tottered back, then fell. Another soldier shouted, telling the onlookers to stand back, and beside her, Samson bristled. Elena felt the air sharpen, smolder, just before the summoning of Agni.
“Stop, stop!” Elena cried. She blocked Samson’s path. “Stand down. Now.”
He looked at her, the anger so clear and alive in his eyes that it felt like a blow. She placed her hand on his chest, her touch light, pointed. “Stand down and let me deal with this.”
He hesitated, but Elena used that moment to turn to the mother. “Come. I will treat your daughter.”
The mother cradled her child closer. “But you—”
“Bring me a salve. And whatever clean sheets you have,” she told the nurse and doctor. “She has a fever, so find something to bring it down. You, treat the boy’s arm.”
“Your Majesty—” the mother protested.
“He is a child too, ma,” Elena said. Her voice softened. “Should we treat your daughter only at the expense of another sick child? Do you want his fate on her head?”
The mother looked at the Sesharian teenager, her face a war of confusion and grief, of bitter injustice. But Elena could see her hurt too, her aches, her misguided love that pushed her to threaten another child simply to save her own. Her daughter gave a soft whimper.
“Please,” Elena said, offering her arms.
Slowly, carefully, the mother lifted her child, and Elena took the girland cradled her to her chest. She was so light, so small. Elena could feel the fever on her skin, see the molted burns on her legs. The nurse dumped out dirty sheets from a box and turned it upside down, creating a makeshift table.
Elena turned to the crowd, raising her voice. “This girl needs medical attention and rest, but she can’t sleep if you are all here. Please. I will see to her—you have my word as your queen. Go and let us do our jobs.”
Chandi stood at the entrance of the tent now, and she turned to the crowd. “You heard your queen.”
But no one moved. Around them, Elena could see more people gathering. She glanced at the Sesharians and saw how the father protectively stood by his son’s side, his hands fisted, as if ready to fight.
She did not want another bloodbath on her hands.
Elena lowered the girl onto the box, calling for the nurse. Better to start treating the child now to mollify the mother. The nurse knelt beside her, unscrewing an ointment bottle, when suddenly Elena felt a tightening in her stomach, a rush of heat up her spine, and she turned to Samson, crying out, but it was too late.
With a crack, blue flames rushed down his arms. The mother gasped. The nurse shrieked and people outside shouted in alarm.
“Samson, wait—”
