Her lungs are drowning her from the inside in blood. I did that to Zenevieve. Me, who was so disparaging about Alphas who caused harm to Betas. I lean forward, my head in my hands. I can feel Mother Linnea’s eyes on me, judging me for my self-pity and weakness.
“Over the years, I have cared for dozens of lavishes who’ve suffered after callous and heartless Alphas used them and walked away. As a Temple Mother, it is my duty to care for the sick and pass no judgment. And I don’t, on the Betas, but I have a short list of Alphas that I hold in the very lowest regard. I never imagined I would add you to that list, dragonmaster.”
“I never meant to—”
She holds up a hand. “Of course you didn’t mean to. I’ll go and tell Zenevieve that as she coughs up blood.”
I swallow hard. “May I please see her?”
Mother Linnea gets to her feet. “No, you may not. You’ve done enough to that poor girl. Do not come to the Flame Temple, or you may kill her. Betas who suffer lavish sickness have little reason to want to get better.”
“Can I do anything?” I ask desperately. “Replenish ingredients for her medications. Pay for supplies. Please let me help her.”
“You can stay away from Zenevieve and allow her to heal.”
“For how long?”
“If you want her to live? Forever.” She walks away from me, heading for the temple.
The weight of the skies is on my back as I leave the castle and walk back to the dragongrounds. Minta is on the dragon bridge, gazing in the direction of the Flame Temple and uttering cries of distress. I gaze at her helplessly, adrift in a sea of guilt and worry.I have never felt worse in my life, and I deserve every drop of this misery.
Three times a day, I go to the corridor outside the Flame Temple and ask after Zenevieve. I don’t try to enter, but a Temple Maiden comes out and tells me how she fares. For weeks, Zenevieve coughs up blood as Mother Linnea coaxes her to drink potions and drafts to replenish it. They dare not give her anything that will suppress her coughing, or she will choke and die. Several times, the maids warn me that Zenevieve is near death, and they have little hope for her recovery. On those days I remain outside the temple, praying on my knees long into the night. I make stupid, pointless bargains that fall on the deaf ears of the gods. If Zenevieve lives, I’ll devote my life to her from afar. I will live with no comforts. I will work with no respite. I will serve the dragons that Zenevieve loves.
I expected Mother Linnea to tell me when Zenevieve was strong enough to leave the Flame Temple, which is why it comes as a shock several weeks later to see Zenevieve at the dragongrounds with Minta.
I approach her, feeling as though I’m in a dream. I can’t believe it’s really her. There are dark circles beneath Zenevieve’s eyes. Her face is chalk white, and even her lips are bloodless. There are painful-looking sores around her mouth. She’s so thin that her cheekbones stand out starkly in her face, the thin flesh stretched over her skull. She moves as though everything is painful, and her breathing is labored.
I did this to her. I turned her into walking death.
I swore to her dying father that I’d protect her, and then I swore an oath of my own that no harm would come to her, but I’m the one who’s nearly killed her. A sword through the guts is what I deserve. She wears the shift of an invalid beneath her open cloak. A horrible thought occurs to me, that she has left thetemple only so that she may see Minta one last time before she dies.
I take a step toward her. “Zen…”
When she sees me, loathing fills her green eyes. “Did you enjoy our moments together?” she rasps, steadying herself with one hand on her dragon. Minta glares at me. “Was it fun for you up on that mountain?”
I swallow hard, not knowing what to say.
She turns toward me, opening her stick thin arms. Inviting me to get a good look at her. “I hope it was worth it for you. Did I give you enough of myself? I apologize if you’re still not satisfied, but this is all that’s left of me.”
Zenevieve has never looked at me with so much hatred in her eyes. She’s never looked at anyone like this, not even Emmeric. I’m worse than Emmeric.
“I’m so sorry,” I choke out.
“Just tell me why. I want to understand.”
I’ve had months to think of a good reason for why this happened, but I have nothing. “I don’t know.”
Her eyes cut away from me, and they’re glittering with tears. “Mirelle is dead. Onderz is dead. Their dragons are dead. Emmeric has betrayed us all. Shar is gone. They made my heart an empty cavern, and you have filled it with pain.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, hating myself for the pitiful, insufficient words.
“You have a heart of ice. You are frozen from the inside out.”
If my heart is made from ice, then it is presently shattering into a thousand pieces. “Zen, I’m sorry.”
I reach for her hand, but she pulls away, and shrieks, “Don’t touch me. Everything hurts.”
Zenevieve climbs up onto her dragon, slowly and painfully, as though she has aged a thousand years and all her bones haveturned to dust. The young woman who once bounded happily up onto her dragon is gone because of me.
