Page 92
The window has begun to grey when I slip out from under his arm. He is asleep at last, truly asleep, the deep and defenceless sleep of a man who has not let himself rest in far too long. I pull the coverlet over his shoulder. I gather my scattered pouches, my fallen comb, the small wreckage of my careful self. But at the door I look back. He looks younger, undone by sleep, the sharp lines of him softened. Whatever we were before tonight is finished. Whatever we are now does not have a name I dare to speak in the cold light coming.
The curse has retreated beneath his skin, but it has not disappeared. I wash, change, and prepare another dose while the room slowly pales around me. I should return to my own chambers. Instead, I gaze at him once more.
His breathing is even now. The black veins have faded, but I know better than to mistake relief for a cure. I choose to lower myself into the chair beside the hearth. Only until I am certain the flare will not return. I mean to remain awake. Exhaustion decides otherwise.
16
RHYSANDIR
Iwake before dawn to Fiona’s scent and crushed rirzed on my pillows.
The chamber is nearly dark. Embers glow beneath the hearth grate, casting a narrow red line across the stone floor. Wind carries loose snow against the windows. Each strike makes a faint hiss against the glass.
Three covered cups wait beside my bed. A clay bowl, stained cloths, and Fiona’s stone mortar stand near them. Rirzed petals cling to the pestle. Their blue has darkened beneath the pressure of her hand.
Fiona sleeps in a chair beside the hearth.
She must have left the bed before dawn to wash and prepare more medicine. A basin of clouded water stands near the dressing screen, and she now wears a wrinkled green gown. Exhaustion claimed her before she could return to her chambers.
She has drawn her legs beneath a wool blanket and turned her face toward the fire. Her chestnut braid rests across one shoulder. Several loose strands curl against her cheek.
Without movement or argument, she appears younger.
Freckles cross her nose in an uneven sweep. I have seen them every day since she entered the stronghold. This morning, I notice how one disappears beneath the curve of her left cheek and another rests near the corner of her mouth.
I look away.
The old curse has receded to a manageable ache.
Cold pressure remains beneath the puckered scar on my side, but I can draw a full breath without pain tearing through my spine. The black veins that spread from the wound have faded beneath my dark skin. They will return. They always do.
Fiona has not cured the curse.
She has accomplished something my chaos magic could not.
My power recoiled from the necromancer’s mark. Every attempt to attack the wound strengthened its hold. Fiona used heat, rirzed, fylvek grass, bitter roots, and the knowledge her grandmother taught her in Lowtown. She approached the curse as a healer approaches an injured body rather than an enemy.
She eased it.
Chaos has always been sufficient. Political threats, military attacks, sealed wards, and even Varrus’s insults can be answered through power or calculation. The curse rejects both. Fiona answered it with patience and an understanding I do not possess.
She also remained when she could have left.
The marriage contract does not require her presence in my bedchamber. The royal edict demands a legal union, not care freely given. Even the household rite beneath the Arbiter’s chain established duty rather than tenderness.
Last night carried us beyond those boundaries.
I do not examine the details. The memory remains close enough without deliberate attention. Warmth. Choice. Fiona’s hands against skin I permit no one to touch. Desire accepted from each other rather than demanded by law.
Our marriage is no longer only a political arrangement.
That does not make it love.
Love is an uncontrolled variable dressed as virtue. What exists between us is trust formed under pressure, joined with desire and the dangerous knowledge that she has seen me without strength.
It is already more than I planned to give.
I shift against the pillows.
