“She died here in camp, which means you broke the truce. You cut her with the dragon’s scale and now she’s dead.”
“The hell with that! The cut happened during the trial – I didn’t break any rules. We don’t even know if it was the dragon’s scale.”
“Maeve,” someone says. I recognize Savannah’s cool tone. Her face is warped in front of me, all sharp angles and squished features. It makes me want to giggle. “Maeve, what makes you think it’s the scale?”
“B-because…” I slur.
“She’s also been cut,” Taron declares. I feel his hand on my forehead. “Where is it?”
I lean forward. “My back. It feels w-warm.”
Taron curses.
“Is she going to combust, too?” Kara asks, still with her hand in front of her mouth. I know I should panic, but all I can think about is how much her fine hair looks like gold. The amount of milk buns I could buy with only one strand. The amount of cakes Elara could bake…
Something tugs at my utility belt, and I realize it’s Taron retrieving both healing tonics I brought. “Which one is better?” he asks. “Are they both the same?”
My mind feels muddled, like it’s wading through mud. My fingers graze the vial of the grade-three healing tonic. If a grade-one tonic can heal broken ribs, thenmaybe, hopefully, a level three can counteract a poisoned dragon’s scale.
He tilts my head back, and I swallow the potion in a single gulp. I don’t bother wiping away the trail of liquid running from the corner of my mouth.
“Come on,” Taron says. He grabs me by the waist and hoists me up on to his shoulder. The world is a dizzying blur around me.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To get you under a cold shower.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I haven’t combusted yet, so that’s good. We burst into the shower house, and Taron carries me to one of the cubicles. His grip is tight. His jaw is clenched. He pulls open the curtain, and sets me inside.
“I’ll wait outside,” he says, “in case you fall.”
He closes the curtain, but his silhouette doesn’t move away. I manage to shed the top layer of my uniform. The vest underneath clings to my searing skin. I can’t get my boots off. My limbs feel like lumbering weights, and I keep losing my balance.
“Um,” I say, “can you help?”
“I’m not sure that’s…”
“HELP!”
The curtain flies back. Taron’s eyes are wide, his breath caught. He scans me as if bracing for the worst. Then he sighs with relief, and the tension leaks from his shoulders.
“Thanks.” I reach for his shoulder to steady myself, and I’m surprised when a firm hand grips my waist.
“Is this OK?” Taron asks as he eases off my boots.
I nod, feeling childish.
“What’s so funny?” he asks when I smile.
Before Taron can escape, I reach behind me and turn on the tap.
“Hey!” he shouts, jumping back as the cold water hits him. Too late. He’s completely drenched.
The water feels good. I lift my face towards it and close my eyes. When I open them again, Taron has kicked off his boots, too, and his jacket, and he’s standing in front of me in his vest and trousers.
The water cascades over his face and glossy rivulets trail down his neck, mingling with the crimson stains that mar his shirt.
