“Yes, I’ve heard. I’ve also heard you’re teaching your tutors Serpent.” He smiles. “It’s been ratherentertainingto hear Fallon practice.”
I cannot help but bristle. “My language may be different than all the others in the realm, but it’s not any less intricate.”
Lorcan’s pupils shrink. “I did not mean to slight you, Daya. I find it entertaining because my mate is desperately trying to transcribe the sounds into syllables in order to create not only an alphabet, but also a dictionary. She’s gone through at least six trees worth of pressed pulp and forty pots of ink.”
Oh.“So that’s the reason her fingers are forever black?”
“Yes.”
“When I asked her about the stains, she told me she’s been penning a novel with Phoebus.”
A grimace reshapes Lorcan’s face. “Because she meant to surprise you with it. And now I’ve just ruined the surprise. Will you please act exceedingly shocked the day she gifts it to you?”
I rub my chest that’s suddenly full of scattered heartbeats. “Of course.”Oh, Fallon, you sweet girl.“So tell me who needs healing, and how long ago has it been since they were infected?”
“Liora,” Erwin says, his big arm wrapped around a female Crow not much larger than his limb. Liora stands at half his height and appears to be half his age. “My mate,” he adds.
I assume the match is recent. Though I’m glad for him, I cannot help the jealous twinge that seizes my wrecked heart. I will it away…will all thoughts of Cathal away.
“She was hit with an arrow yesterday when we were ambushed by that colony of jungle zealots,” Erwin explains.
I’m not certain whom he means, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. I stand and pad closer to the girl whose hair is the same color of cooked carrot as Erwin’s. If he hadn’t said mates, I would’ve assumed she was his daughter. “Where did they get you, Liora?”
She blinks up at Erwin who replies, “In her shoulder. Forgive my mate. She doesn’t speak Shabbin, Princess.”
“They got Erwin in the back of the knee,” Lorcan adds, arms crossed in front of his armor.
Erwin’s face snaps toward his king, and in Crow, he says something about how his injury isn’t important, only Liora’s and only because of the baby. Yes, I understand. Now that my oral Shabbin comprehension is impeccable, Fallon has started teaching me her paternal tongue. My grasp of it is rudimentary, but if spoken slowly, I understand. Unlike ordinary-serpent speak which I cannot figure out for the life of me.
My gaze skims the female’s abdomen. “I’ll perform the healing inside the Amkhuti so I can shift immediately afterward.”
My grandmother hasn’t spoken a word, but I don’t need her to utter any to know what she is thinking: she doesn’t approve. If she had, she’d have let me heal the first Crows that were harmed. She hasn’t, and now they’re all stone.
“Perhaps your mate can take care of both healings, Daya?” Lorcan suggests.
Although I’ve grown quite fond of Enzo, the wordmatefeels ill-suited. He’s my Serpent, the same way the two striped warriors are Lorcan’s Crows. Every day, I grow further convinced that our connection has nothing amorous about it, but the only way to prove this would be to make another Serpent, which would require taking a human life.
Though people die in Shabbe, it doesn’t happen often, and by the time I hear of it, it’s too late. I’ve come to the conclusion that the person must be on the brink of death for my magic to absorb into their blood. I’ve asked Taytah to find me a sickly volunteer. Though she promises she will, she’s yet to deliver a dying body at my feet.
“I like Lorcan’s suggestion. Enzo will heal them both. We have lodgings. You and your mate are welcome to stay in Shabbe while Enzo recovers between lickings.”
Lickings?It’s the first time I’ve heard anyone refer to my healing method as a licking. I’m not fond of the term, however fitting it is. “That won’t be necessary, for I’ll be healing Erwin today.”
My argument with the queen makes the big redheaded Crow wince and his mate cower.
“It’s either Enzo, or they both wait for the Mahananda to unseal and?—”
In Serpent, I hiss a single word. One I know she’ll understand. “Stop.” And then in Shabbin, I say, “My body. My tongue, Sumaca.”
She scowls, detesting when I call herYour Highness, which is exactly why I do it. I do love the woman dearly, but she’s stuck in her ways and often forgets that I’m not some dullard incapable of educated judgement.
“You slept for three nights in scales after you healed Cathal. Three nights!” As though she senses the reminder won’t be enough to dissuade me—she’s right—she traipses over and claps my forehead with her palms to pour the images of my listless form coiled at the bottom of the Amkhuti. “What if it takes you longer this time? What if you don’t shift back?” Her tone is bright with worry.
“Ask the Mahananda. Actually, ask it how it will affect Enzo.”
She huffs.
“Please, Taytah.”
