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At the stair, Briar transfers the remedies to me. “I will bring the herbs after I secure the room.”

“Come quickly.”

She turns back toward the solarium.

I carry the bowls, clean cloth, and basin through the cold corridors. Each step threatens to spill the water. I slow enough to protect it, though every part of me wants to run.

Two guards stand outside Rhysandir’s chambers. The poisoned salve waits beneath an iron cover on the evidence table. Both soldiers bow and move aside.

I set the basin on the floor, balance the remedy against my hip, and pull the heavy door open.

Cold wind moves through the chamber from the raised window. Rhysandir lies where I left him, his powerful body unnervingly still upon the chaise. His dark skin has taken on a gray cast. His black eyes remain open, fixed on the door without the smallest movement of recognition.

The house ring waits beyond his motionless right hand.

I carry the completed remedy to his side.

It is ready.

He is still alive.

I have not yet placed a single drop on his tongue.

28

RHYSANDIR

Fiona’s exhausted presence reaches me before her hands do.

The connection has collapsed to the faintest trace, but I recognize her at the edge of awareness. Determination, fear, and fatigue press together until I cannot separate them. She is beside me again.

I cannot turn toward her.

My eyes remain fixed on the chamber door. Cold air crosses my face. Somewhere near my shoulder, ceramic touches wood.

“Rhysandir.”

Her voice comes from above me.

One hand slides beneath my neck. The other supports the back of my head. She lifts me slowly, pausing when my breath catches against muscles that barely answer. My head rests against the curve of her arm.

The position would be intolerable if anyone else held me this way.

With Fiona, humiliation has no strength left beside survival.

“I have a cold fylvek restorative,” she says. “The first dose is weak. I will increase it only if your breathing tolerates it.”

I cannot blink.

“I know you understand.”

The rim of a narrow cup touches my lower lip. Pungent bitterness reaches my nose. Beneath it lies rirzed’s mineral scent and the cold purity of mountain water.

Fiona tilts the cup.

One drop touches my tongue.

Taste arrives with cruel clarity. Fylvek floods my mouth, bitter enough to resemble smoke without heat. A second drop follows. Fiona waits until my throat completes an uncertain swallow before allowing more.