I drop to my knees next to him. “Dietan! What’s happening? Dietan!”
“I can’t—I can’t breathe…”
An otherworldly breeze fills the tent once more.
But this time, the Whisting is killing him from the inside. The fire in the lanterns starts to flicker and dim as Dietan is smothered by an invisible force.
“Dietan, no!” I scream at him. “Make it stop!” I cradle him in my arms as he fights for his life. “Breathe! Breathe!”
Tears burn his eyes as he thrashes. He can’t break free. My terror brings everything into focus. I feel his hands struggle, feel his magic sucking the life out of him.
Harvest Mother, he’s going to die.
And I killed him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aren
Dietan motions frantically toward his bedroll at the other end of the space, his arms flailing and his face turning blue.
“What do you need?” I ask, just as panicked as he is.
“The knife…” he gurgles.
I immediately dive for the knife by his bedside. In one swift move, he slices the blade across his palm, blood rising in its wake, and instantly, air rushes back into his lungs. With a horrible, ragged gasp, his body convulses and he curls into himself.
But he’s breathing. The relief I feel is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before—so intense, I fall to my knees beside him again, unable to stand. He’s alive.
“Dietan…” I say gently, touching his shoulder.
He lifts his head and gives me a weak smile as he holds his fist clenched tight to his chest, blood seeping from between his closed fingers. He takes several labored breaths. “I’m all right. It’s all right.”
I pull him to my chest tightly, holding him as he continues to cough and wheeze. I have no doubt that if it had gone on a second longer, he’d be dead.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, quivering as I run a soothing hand through his hair. He clings to me like I’m a life raft and he’s adrift at sea. I can tell he’s forcing himself to remain calm as he leans his trembling body against mine. I reach down to take his hand and notice he’s bleeding profusely from the fist clenched at his chest.
“Oh shit!” He allows me to pry his fingers open. The knife wound went deep. His hand is drenched in blood like a red glove.
I rip a long strip of ragged fabric off the hem of my dress.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m helping you, you dummy.”
“But your dress.”
“Forget my fucking dress!” I wrap the cloth tightly across his palm, the blood already soaking through the fabric. I keep going, winding it tighter and tighter.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says. It’s clear he didn’t expect me to come to his aid after our argument.
“I’ll fix it later,” I say. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
I scowl at him, but there’s no heat behind it. He just looks back at me, ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m a mess.”
Somehow, it takes all the wind out of my sails, and I sigh. It’s one of those dramatic, long-suffering sighs. His face twitches into a smile, and he looks away, covering his mouth with his other hand, holding in a laugh.
