After a moment of holding the material against the wounds, I pull it back, noting the deep gouges, the torn flesh.
Dread finds a home deep within me. “You should have taken him to your healers.” Then they cannot blame me when he doesn’t make it.
“I brought him to you,” Luc growls. “Heal him.”
Regret pierces my veins, my bones, my useless hands. I should be more effective, different, an actual Kyanite healer. Instead, I was an errand girl in the apothecary, the one who hung on their every word. The one who listened with rapt attention as they talked in their healing tongue.
I planted herbs with the best of them. I studied until the light faded from my windows. Still, I could never wield any gifts. My magic was always useless.
“I’m not what you think I am, Luc.” Ragged breaths escape me as I shake my head. “I don’t have magic. I have never had it.”
Gabriel shouldn’t have encouraged this. I didn’t hold back the truth from him.
“You’ve been planting herbs. Yes?” Luc asks. “Go pick some.”
My posture slumps forward as I speak, my words raw, defeated. “They’re not ready.”
And even if they were, they couldn’t heal Praxis. Only an actual Kyanite healer could help him now.
“Then you’re useless,” Luc grumbles as he slams his hands against the table.
“Leave us, Luc.” The firmness of Gabriel’s tone sends surprise rippling through me, as does Luc’s compliance. After a quick look at the dying Praxis, he quits the cottage with his shoulders slumped and his face downcast.
Frustration grips me as I meet Gabriel’s gaze. “I can’t help Praxis.”
“You can.” Gabriel turns to the shelves and collects more rags. “Say the words of your people.”
Heat singes my cheeks as I shake my head and pull the cloth free, taking another glance at the gaping lacerations and the blood seeping from the wounds. Praxis has lost too much, and the cuts are too deep to sew. Even if I managed to bind the torn flesh, an infection would kill him.Ifhe lived long enough.
Gabriel places his right hand over mine. “Say the words.”
My breath escapes me as I lay trembling fingers against Praxis’ shoulder. For many summers, I have struggled to draw on my magic, and it never happened.
Now this.
I’m disappointing the one man I have tried so hard to please.
“I can’t.” The truth escapes me in a broken whisper as memories haunt me—all those summers of never being good enough.
Assurance glimmers from Gabriel’s eyes as he speaks in a firm tone. “You can.”
More warmth scours my cheeks, my veins, my heart, even the part of me that desperately wants to heal Praxis.
Say the words.
Gabriel’s determination burrows deep within me, to the inadequacies, to the failures, to the incompleteness. I draw on his determination the way fire inhales air, whispering in the tongue of my people, chanting those healing verses. Bringing life to dying weeds, decaying deserts, barren oceans. Calling forth Olah to aid me on this quest, to heal, to renew, to bring back what was.
By the time I finish, my pulse thrashes in my throat, and my fingers tremble. I clasp them together as Praxis inhales, and I cringe, waiting for it to be his last breath. He exhales, and the walls spin. The floor tilts.
Fire scorches my wrist, traveling downward to wrap around my hand, my fingers. I gasp as pain sears through my serpent mark like tiny needles stinging my flesh. I stagger forward, catching myself against the table.
“You healed him,” Gabriel says, his tone low, hoarse, awestruck, as if he can’t quite believe it happened.
“That’s impossible.” I inhale and exhale quickly, breathing through the throbbing, willing it away, willing the walls to stop spinning and the world to soften around me.
The pain ebbs as Gabriel moves to the washing stand and wets a cloth. He returns and wipes the blood covering Praxis’ chest. On his second pass, the wound disappears, leaving behind a faint scar. I step back and shake my head.
“This is impossible.” Weakness overtakes my limbs. My arms. My ability to stand. I lean against the wall, using it for support. “I don’t heal with magic. I have never healed with magic.”
