She slipped in and out of consciousness. Out was better, far better, but the pain kept waking her up. She fought back screams at those times, aware enough of her surroundings to hold back, and stared mindlessly at the ceiling, practically unable to breathe from the agony. Pain that severe meant she was healing, she knew: life was returning to the broken parts of her. The knowledge was no comfort. She endured in a white haze until exhaustion took over and she passed out again.
The Forging had hurt, maybe even as much, but that had been in a clean, shining room, with the Adept to help with the worst of the pain and Sentinels-in-training bathing her brow with cool cloths. She’d been able to scream when she needed to.
Now all the world was pain and filth and the smell of her own dried blood. And the Rognozis’, possibly.
She’d been an honored candidate during the Forging, a weapon-to-be against the darkness, not a possible murderer. That had been different too.
And there’d been Yathana at the end. Branwyn hadn’t known the soulsword, then, of course. She hadn’t known what she was missing.
Nobody had ever been able to destroy the blades or the spirits in them.
That didn’t mean nobody could figure it out.
Branwyn would have wept, but she couldn’t manage tears, and she was already taking the kind of gasping breaths that went with sobbing when she tried not to scream. The ceiling swam in front of her, faded to blackness, appeared again, and vanished in turn.
Eventually, it was no longer duty or consideration keeping her alive, only her inability to act. Ending her life was not even a question. The magic of her reforging would heal her as long as she did nothing drastic, and she couldn’t have moved enough to manage that. She became pain itself, pain and shapes and light that slowly faded.
“Poram’s blood, Branwyn.”
Zelenwas her fourth or fifth thought. First she had to recall concepts like words and voices and other people—like herself as a person, separate from pain.
Slowly his features became clearer. So did the worry.
“No,” Branwyn choked out. “Mostly mine.”
How badly off was she? Zelen had seen people die. She wasn’t dying; she knew that much. She’d never thought to ask what it looked like when she healed. Perhaps it was disgusting beyond measure.
His expression softened when she spoke, and Branwyn read relief there. Her vision was getting better. “Do you know who I am?”
“Zelen.”
Relief grew stronger. Then he was holding something cool and metallic against her mouth. “Drink. Slowly.”
She recognized the strong, pine-sap taste of dragon-eye syrup, and the knowledge itself made the pain seem fainter—a little. It didn’t take the edge off, but that edge wasn’t rusty and jagged any longer.
Zelen removed the flask after a while. His face disappeared, and she felt his touch on her ankle.
“You were bloody far away when I came in,” he said from the vicinity of her feet. “I’m afraid this will hurt, but try and stay with me.”
New pain swept over her leg when Zelen lifted it. Branwyn went rigid to contain her scream. Her hands clawed at the stone beneath her, which didn’t help, as they hurt too, but then her leg was straight and resting on a board. As the fresh pain ebbed, she recognized that this was a better state of affairs. There was pressure around her ankle, then her thigh, as Zelen bound board and leg together. The immobility was soothing.
“Still here,” she whispered when she could talk again.
“Good. Good.”
The darkness beyond him spoke in cultured tones and a voice like rustling leaves. “The horses are standing, and I’m ready to assist.”
“Wha—” Branwyn said. The syrup was starting to take effect in earnest, and she wouldn’t have had the strength to be alarmed anyhow, but confusion was entirely possible. She blinked at the darkness. It became one of the waterfolk, who regarded her dispassionately out of amber eyes and folded supple legs to kneel down by her feet.
“A friend,” said Zelen, moving to her head. He slid his palms under her shoulders. “He’s not wealthy or noble—not as the council sees it—and I trust him with my life.”
“Oh,” said Branwyn. That would have to be good enough for her. Perhaps it was the painkiller or her injuries, but she had no difficulty convincing herself that it was. The waterman’s touch was soft on her good ankle. His hands had fur like a rabbit’s.
She didn’t see the signal that passed between Zelen and his companion, nor did they speak. Branwyn was on the ground, and then she wasn’t. The world was moving.
Outside was dark. For a little while it was cold. Then they lifted her again. She heard horses, shifting their weight and snorting, and she was passed onto the seat of a large carriage. Zelen knelt beside her, one hand at her shoulder and one on her thigh.
Branwyn didn’t look at his face. It would be just as painful to find faith in her there, when she herself didn’t know if she deserved it.
