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Massi narrowed her eyes. “You think Ava’s here and she healed you?”

“I know Ava’s here, I spoke to her, she healed me, and she’s healing Baclar right now.”

Massi looked over at Baclar.

The shadow that was Ava was still bent over the high-general.

Massi looked back at him, worry in her gaze.

She thought he was hallucinating.

“Let’s say I’m right, how would Ava have gotten here? Has a new unit arrived?”

“No.” Massi shook her head, glanced at the slowly recovering Jatan, looked back at him again. “She’s here?”

He nodded.

“How do I not see her?”

He wiggled his fingers, and she snorted out a laugh.

“Is that your way of saying spell craft?”

They had kept their voices pitched to the low, almost inaudible level they had used when they were in the Chosen camps together, where talking to each other could get them punished.

“What’s going on?” The shout came from Bartholomew.

Luc stepped in front of Massi and gestured to the Jatan officer to approach.

“I won’t get an arrow in my foot?” Bartholomew asked, gaze flicking over Luc’s shoulder.

Massi smiled, cold and sharp. “If you were going to have an arrow in your foot, it would already be there.”

Bartholomew walked forward and Luc met him halfway, barring the captain’s access to his boss, but letting him get a closer look at him.

“I have to say, this has all the markings of jura poisoning but I’ve never known anyone to recover from it.” Bartholomew studied his face, as if looking for some reason for his recovery.

“I saw the boy’s nerves, the one serving the ale, and I barely took a sip of my drink, watching to see if he went for a weapon.” Luc lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t realize the weapon was already deployed.”

“Still,” Bartholomew shook his head. “Even the smallest amount is deadly, it just takes the recipient longer to die.”

Luc didn’t respond, refusing to offer any explanation as to his survival. “We all seem to be recovering. Those of us who aren’t already dead.” He paused, decided to distract the captain. “Do you Jatan carry around poison as a matter of course?”

Bartholomew glowered. “It’s a common root found in the mountains. Anyone could have picked some, if they were intent on mischief.”

Intent on murder, more like, but Luc didn’t correct him.

Tuart began coughing again, and curled in on himself a little tighter.

Fallacia’s eyes were open now, and she had rolled herself over onto her side, panting.

Baclar’s breathing was audible, a deep sawing in and out of air, but he was still unconscious.

Two other councillors were starting to recover, another was dead, like Didier. Ava hadn’t reached the final one, yet, although he still seemed to be breathing.

“You question the boy,” Luc invited. “He won’t speak to us.” He turned and motioned to Eduard, who dragged the boy forward.

“What’s your name?” Bartholomew asked.