Page 32 of Down Comes the Night

“You see no point in senseless violence,” she repeated slowly. With every word, her hatred sparked hotter. “Is that what you believed when you slaughtered my people in the Battle of the River Muri?”

Hal looked almost surprised.

“I saw you that day.” She clenched her fists into her skirt so tight they trembled. “I stood ten feet away as you struck down my comrades without even lifting a finger. Or have you already forgotten?”

“No.” He frowned, his eyes falling shut. If not for the eerie, distant tone of his voice, she might have mistaken him for remorseful. “I remember.”

“Oh, do you? Then what a change of heart you’ve had over the past four years. And they say people never change.”

“Perhaps they don’t.” He spoke quietly, but each word was as cold and hard as steel. It raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “Regardless, my apology stands.”

“I don’t forgive you. Words fix nothing.”

Something flickered over his face, like a ripple in still water. She braced herself for a rebuttal—craved it. But he remained infuriatingly silent.

He was right, of course. People didn’t change. Once a monster, always a monster.

She forced herself to ignore him as she rolled his pant leg above the knee. At least they matched. Bruises spread like decay along his thigh, with hideous black tendrils. It must have hurt terribly, which gave her a twinge of satisfaction. When she laid her hand on his skin, he flinched. Soldiers and their dramatics.

“Relax,” she muttered.

He did not relax. But he remained, at least, as still as stone.

Repairing the muscle fibers and readhering them to the bone took only minutes, and Wren swore he did not breathe for the entirety of it. Few peopleenjoyedthe sensation of healing; magic traveled through the body like the cold creep of an injection.

Once, after a sparring match with Una, Byers came away with a sprained ankle. As Wren healed him, he puffed away on his cigarette like a goddessdamned chimney. Despite her admonitions, he insisted it helped with stress.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it,he’d said as she repaired his tendon.I feel like you should’ve bought me dinner first.

She pushed that memory far away, locked it deep behind themental wall that kept her grief at bay. As the last of Hal’s contusions melted beneath her fingers, she sighed. “I’m going to examine you now. Prolonged healing can be uncomfortable, especially in the vital organs, but I can offer you a painkiller if you’d like.”

“No.” It was firm, the kind of tone that left no room for argument.

She couldn’t help thinking of the boy with the broken arm and how proudly he’d refused the opiate. Hal’s stubbornness suited her fine, as much as it exasperated her. She’d asked as a professional courtesy, but she had no qualms about making his experience a miserable one. “Very well then.”

Wren slipped her hands underneath his shirt and pressed them against his chest. Sweat dampened his skin, and tension stiffened his entire body. Trying to keep himself from trembling as his body temperature climbed, most likely. So pathetic. So proud.

As her magic traversed his body, discomfort twitched his lips, but he did not squirm. It fanned out, tugging her gently toward the areas in need of her attention: his lungs, his heart, his eyes.

His eyes?

Curiosity won out. She pooled her magic in his skull and into the insertion of the optic nerve. Thefolain his eyes were almost completely degenerated. So little of her energy could squeeze through the hyaloid canal, it was a wonder he could use his magic at all. Or maybe he couldn’t.

She stifled her bitter laughter. No wonder he hadn’t tried to force her to look at him. No wonder he wanted to bargain. He was powerless. Overuse injuries like this didn’t happen overnight. The repetitive use of magic caused microtraumas to thefola,which, over time, swelled and tore like overstrained tendons. Hal’s magic was effectively gone—and likely had been for some time. How long had Danu needlessly lived in dread of him? How long had he been lying to his own people? Without his magic, kidnapping him was going to be far easier than she anticipated. Assuming, of course, her hypothesis was correct.

Little by little, Wren probed deeper into his system, her magic catching on diseased tissue like debris in a river’s sure course. Imagescame to her: damaged and weeping tissue, angry inflammation that ravaged capillaries, blood collecting in his lungs. The disease was an infection unlike any she had seen before. It had none of the typical signs of a transmissible disease. No bacteria or viruses that she could detect. Even his own cells seemed to be functioning normally—no autoimmune response, no cancer, no histamines. Nothing that could explain a sudden acute illness.

All her life, healing had been like breathing. Effortless. Natural. Necessary. Her magic opened the human body to her. It spoke to her, guided her. But this… This was like reaching into a void. As if her magic had turned away from her, left her blind and alone. It terrified her.

How could the etiology elude her so completely? If she couldn’t diagnose him, she couldn’t treat him systematically. She prided herself on her research, her ability to treat any disease, any injury. She couldn’t be stumped by something as trifling as a servants’ quarters illness.

“I need more time to come up with a diagnosis. In the meantime, I’ll treat your symptoms so you don’t drop dead before you’re of any use to me.” It was true enough. With his respiratory and immune systems as weakened as they were, he would die long before she could call a carriage to take them both to Danu.

“Thank you.”

Wren tried not to visibly recoil. She did not want the burden of his gratitude. “Sure.”

Bending over him, she began to heal him, sealing off leaking capillaries and soothing the inflammation in his bronchi. It was long, arduous work. The disease was aggressive and the damage profound. She feared she wouldn’t have him stable before the journey home, but she would have to manage it.