Page 16 of The Shattered King

I dreamed many dreams.

It seemed I dreamed of everyone I ever knew, of my parents and Ursa, my siblings, friends, customers.

I dreamed of the Noblewights and Lonnie and Physician Whitestone, of Torr and the man who had so desperately tried to save him.

I even dreamed of Vin and Ford and Lord Fell, and woke with nightmares clouding my eyes.

I thought, at first, I was back in my room—so much of the keep had the same stone-pieced, dark-gray ceiling.

My first thought was Get up, you need to report, but I realized the smells were wrong, and the lighting was wrong.

And, when I turned my head and saw Whitestone’s profile across the room, I hesitated, wondering whether I had woken up at all.

He did not notice me, not at first. I blinked, taking stock of myself.

I lay in one of the four beds in the infirmary, though the other three had been pushed as far from my own as the room would allow, the farthest—nearly pressed against the door—held a soldier, sitting upright on it.

His uniform had markings of red on the shoulders but not the chest—a lieutenant, perhaps. Whitestone was wrapping his wrist.

Lifting a hand, I rubbed my eyes. Other than thirst, I felt ... fine. Perfectly normal. I recalled quickly the events of ... Was it the night before? I strained my mind, but my last memory was of Prince Renn in his bed, leaning forward and calling my name. Had I passed out, then?

I sat up, the bed creaking as I did so, alerting the two others in the room of my presence. I dowsed my own lumis. Everything appeared normal.

“ They healed you, ” Ursa whispered, almost imperceptible.

I considered that. “Am I the only healer at the castle?”

Whitestone harrumphed and finished with his patient before answering me.

“The only one the queen deigns to keep. You were too far gone for my medicines; they called in one from the city this morning.” He looked at me, his expression darker than usual.

Something was off, something that made gooseflesh rise along my back.

“If you’re well, then free up the bed. You’re to report to His Highness immediately. ”

I stood carefully, ensuring I would not be lightheaded. The healer they’d called had done a good job. Feeling cheeky, I asked, “Is it Prince Adrinn or Prince Renn I’m to report to?”

He scowled at me, and I left.

I looked out the window in the corridor: midafternoon.

So I’d been asleep through the night and all the next morning.

Given the healer was not there when I awoke, he must have tended me earlier, and afterward, my body demanded the sleep it had been deprived of.

I truly had not felt so well since my first day here.

And despite my restored health, that made me angry.

I was a healer . I never got sick, because when I did, I could dowse into myself and clear it away easily. Even a fast-moving illness like what Torr had shouldn’t have nearly killed me . And yet it had, because my exhaustion was so overwhelming that I hadn’t noticed the symptoms.

These people pulled me away from my home, enslaved me in their castle, and then didn’t even have the decency to keep me healthy.

To allow me proper nutrition and proper rest. Was my life worth so little, or was this some obscure means of control?

Then again, the Noblewights might genuinely not recognize the consequences of their actions.

If that were the case, ignorance was little balm.

At least they valued me enough to call in a crafter.

I also worried—if that had been the same sickness that had claimed Torr, I did not want to pass it on to anyone else. I wasn’t sure the delicate prince could handle such a disease.

I took the tower stairs up, anger fueling my steps, passing two maids as I went.

They quickly averted their eyes, unintelligible whispers echoing off the stone walls after they passed.

I frowned, then forgot them, focused on my own frustration.

Wondering what creative way Queen Winvrin might find to punish me for failing to report at dawn today.

Piecing together an assortment of vile things I might spew at her and her son for their obvious neglect.

I’d spoken truth to the prince, before. He needed me.

This torment ... it had to end. I would not allow this to happen again.

Fortunately for her, the queen was not in the suite. When I knocked, Ard answered. He nodded at me, but moved a little more stiffly. I sensed something off about Sten, as well, but Prince Renn, leaning over the danerin board, quickly rose to his feet at my arrival.

And then dropped back down, coughing blood into his palm, unable to get a handkerchief swiftly enough. Sten and I rushed to the stack of them at the same time; I reached them first and handed one to the prince. Sten brought over the washbasin and set it on the table.

I dug up enough kindness to wait for the prince to stop coughing before I launched at him. “What in the gods’ hell were—”

He grasped my forearm with his clean hand. “Sit,” he rasped.

Grinding my teeth, I turned, but my stool was not available.

“On the sofa,” he added, pulling me down.

My rage puffed, a lid taken off a boiling pot, steam dissipating into the air. I had been in the castle for a month and a half and had never sat on this sofa, save that first day, and then the queen had immediately barked at me to get off.

It felt peculiar, sinking into it. As though my body had never before known a cushion. “Why?”

Folding the handkerchief and setting it aside, Renn washed his hands. “It’s more comfortable, is it not?”

I gawked at him. Who was this man, and what had he done with the prince?

I lifted my hands to dowse into him, then pulled back. “Why are you acting like this?”

A soft flush crossed the bridge of his nose. “I just ... I realized ...” He glanced away. Rubbed the back of his neck. Exhaled, the breath clipping twice in his chest. Softer, he managed, “Last night. It won’t happen again.”

That ... that was almost an apology. No nobleman had ever apologized to me. Even after the accident in Grot, no one had apologized to me.

A fleeting thank-you, my given name, and now a near apology. I wasn’t sure how to decipher them.

He looked at me, tense and unsure, and I wondered if he realized his mask was down.

If he wanted me to see him like that, or if he’d slipped.

And then I recognized his mother was not in the room.

Neither was his brother or sister, or any other noble or servant.

Only his guards, and they were just as much shadows as I was.

We were, in a sense, alone. Perhaps that was why Renn was able to make this clumsy, limited confession of wrongdoing.

There was no one nearby to correct him. To judge him.

I cleared my throat. “May I?”

He glanced at me, gestured weakly to himself. I touched him just under the jaw and dowsed.

His lumis was more or less how I’d left it—I repaired the cluster representing his legs first, then tended to the other half-formed pieces of him, soothing angry spots, lifting a few baubles that had fallen.

I noticed a small pooling of charcoal gray on the far edge of the pile—Torr’s ailment, I guessed.

I was often in close proximity to the prince, and I’d used one of his water cups yesterday.

Sickness tended to spread in such manners. I cleared the illness away.

Returning to reality, I heard Renn take in a deep breath, as though I’d lifted a weight from his chest. “I would like to check your guards,” I said, “to ensure my illness did not spread to them.”

Ard tensed at this.

“Please do.” Prince Renn met Ard’s eyes with a hard glare of his own, something undecipherable passing between them.

I hesitated. “Is there something I should know?”

“No,” both Ard and Prince Renn said at once.

Assuming odd talk had transpired about me in my absence, I went to Sten first. His lumis was a great pyramid, a little taller than me, and hale.

Retreating from him, I went to Ard, whose lumis was a pattern of knots, almost like a pinwheel made of nets.

I found some softness in one of the knots and banished it, then soothed something I thought might have been bladder pain before snapping back to the suite and returning to Renn’s side.

On the sofa. That would take some getting used to.

“Thank you, for calling on the healer.”

He nodded. “We knew where to find him; he was one of the first to work with me.”

I need not wonder why the Noblewights struggled to find a healer to help the prince—so few of us had any means of honing our abilities even when the ban on crafters was lifted; the residual stigma kept us from trading experiences or opening schools.

I did not point this out, however. “The war meeting—”

“I did not attend.” His shoulders slumped.

“You are not terribly ill.” I looked him over like a doctor might, despite having just dowsed into him.

He glanced up, at Ard again, and the guard stepped out of the salon with the silence of a cat. Sten remained.

“I did not wish to be publicly ill,” he confessed, quieter.

I searched his face, waiting for more. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Your Highness, but the public is quite aware you are sick. The draft letter was no surprise to me, and I live all the way out in Fount.”

“I am a prince of Cansere,” he stated, as though I had forgotten. “I do not want to look weak among the strongest of our men. This illness”—he looked at his hands—“even with your administrations, it is unpredictable. I never know when, or what, will strike.”

I considered this. “If I may speak freely.”

He scoffed. “ Now you ask?”

A smile tempted my lips. “Unfortunately, being ill is part of who you are. It has been a part of your life since the beginning. You have to accept that. I cannot promise you’ll ever be perfectly healthy, no matter how diligently I work with you.”

His spine bent.