He's not screaming.
"Varen. How long ago?"
His mouth works. "Just now. I think."
My hands are on him, checking. I already know, but hands check anyway.
Too deep. Too wide. Even if I could stitch him closed, the infection would kill him in hours.
He knows. I can see it in his face. His eyes drift to my hands, back up. Looking for the lie.
I won't give him one.
"Dara."
She's beside me. I don't look at her but I hear her breath catch.
"Make him comfortable."
Dara's face goes white but she nods. Guides him to the side. Gentle hands.
"Hey." Varen's voice. Cracking. "Is it—will it—"
"It won't hurt." Dara's hand on his shoulder. "I promise."
I'm already turning because they keep coming and Ican't stay here, can't look at his face—there's blood under my fingernails, in the creases of my knuckles, and the paste jar is running low, where's the second one?—there, behind the bandage pile—
Dara goes still.
Her head is tilted. Listening.
"What."
She doesn't answer.
"Dara. What."
Her eyes come back to mine.
"There's a man shouting."
"Out there?"
She nods.
"What's he saying?"
I can tell she doesn't want to say.
"Dara."
"He's calling for the traitor."
What? Traitor?
"What traitor?"
"The healer. He's calling for the healer to be sent out."
