By the time we emerge from the strangely quiet forest, gray pre-dawn has spread like spilled oil over the midnight-black sky. The world has taken on a strange sheen. My arm is on fire. Thirst scrapes my throat raw.
Infection has set in. I knew it was a possibility. Thought I’d cleaned the wound adequately. But fae monsters carry sickness that can fell the stoutest of humans.
This is how I die.
Hating my only friend in the world. Coveting his bride with each aching beat of my heart.
I’ve earned myself a castle, but I doubt I’ll live to set foot inside it again. I’d be the first to admit I don’t deserve to.
“Kill.”
Alistair finally seems to realize I’m in bad shape when we find the horses. I clutch the pommel and cantle, staring at the tooled leather, unseeing.
“You have to put your foot into the stirrup and hop onto the animal’s back.”
“I fucking know how to mount a horse, Highness.”
I think I’ve said it out loud, but it’s possible the words never escaped the cage of my own mind. A moment later he comes to my side, squints, and says, “Do you need help, Kill?”
“Never,” I grit out. That word definitely made it past my lips. I miss the stirrup on the first two attempts. On the third, I manage to get my toe in. A quick hop is all I need to?—
The last thing I remember is the wind whooshing out of me when I land flat on my back in the dirt.
If this is death, I have no quarrel with meeting my maker.
She’s prettier than I expected the goddess of death to be. Blinding to behold. Almost as pretty as…
Her name slips away from me.
“Killian,” she whispers. “You have to hold on. We’ve summoned a healer from the castle but it will take time for him to get here.”
Her voice is melodic and sweet. Who is we?
Strong men seize me bodily. I’m thrown into a vat of boiling water, thrashing and gasping as the people holding me try to shove me beneath the surface. Drowning. I resist everything I have in me, but my strength is gone. Hands touching me everywhere. I thrash and fight, barely getting enough air to breathe.
Pain sears up my arm when one of my attackers grabs it. I roar in protest, though I feel as weak as a kitten.
Even dying, the concept of surrender is foreign to me. I manage to fight them off long enough to get out of the water, into freezing air. Shivering, I stumble two steps before my attackers seize me again and shove me into a soft landing.
A bed.
I close my eyes and tumble into unconsciousness.
Briar
I survey the wreckage of the inn room where Prince Alistair and two strong men from the dining hall forced his delirious knight into a sorely-needed lukewarm bath, then into a soft bed, with dismay.
Water everywhere. What little remains in the copper tub is stained red. At least the infection hasn’t poisoned his blood—yet.
“Do you think the healer can save his arm?”
Alistair, haggard, turns away from where Killian moans on the bed. “Probably, if he ever gets here.”
I wanted to send a messenger to the next village, but Alistair’s argument that it would be better to send to the castle for aid instead of searching for one closer won out. A century ago, healers weren’t so uncommon. The world has changed, and I am as lost as a newborn babe.
In the meantime, we’ve done what we can to slow the infection. A cool bath. Cleaning the wound. Cutting away the worst of the putrid flesh.
I wasn’t allowed to be in the room during any of that. All I could do was pace my own room, listening to Killian rail incoherently.
