“Ballybaeg?”
“No. Cluain Baile,” the shorter guard says.
My brows furrow. “That can’t be right. No one in the agriculture village could possibly have this sense of fashion or talent. Are you certain?”
“Yes, Your Highness. I collected the report. The woman claims she made it.”
“What is her trade?”
His face crumples in concentration. “Botanist, I believe, Your Highness.”
I stare at the dress in my arms. How could abotanistmake something this exquisite? “Has Lord Iywan seen this?”
“Not yet, Your Highness.”
I take a few strides toward the door, and in the silence of the depository, the clacking of my heels echoes. “This botanist… Was she arrested or… ?”
“Yes, she waws arrested, Your Highness.”
Theft isn’t treason. Moreso, this would bepettytheft. Not any business of Mainland. I hold it up the dress as high as I can and focus on the knitting needle poking out the bottom. I’ve been to Barr na Cahar numerous times and I’ve had countless dresses made for me. This dress is unlike anything worn by Grounders, but it’s not a Mainland style either. It could be common to the Outer Isles, perhaps. But I doubt the woman stole it. Whoever this woman is, she has extraordinary talent and she’s wasting it in the brig. Or worse…
I want her in my service.
Immediately.
CHAPTER 9
Durvla
Pain yanks me into consciousness.My entire body throbs, especially my face. With my first attempt to open my eyes, my skull threatens to split wide open. Beneath me, the surface is rough and a stench that I cannot decipher assaults my senses. Curiosity melds with fear, but I keep my eyes closed. Until something touches my arm.
I’m upright in no time, images of soldiers rising in my mind. My heart pounds as I scoot backward on my bottom, the coarse surface scraping my palms, the injury on my forearm pulling a cry of pain from me.
I squint against the pulsating headache that mars my vision. A woman with deep brown skin and grey-speckled black hair stares back, holding her hands up as if to placate me. Whatever she says is lost on me.
I run my hands over the surface beneath me. There are rough stone walls at my back and sides, and metal bars in the front. Shackles no longer bind my wrists, but I’m in a prison cell, no doubt. Terror wraps around my heart, squeezing until I forget how to breathe. My eyes dart back to the woman, and she rears back slightly as though I’ve startled her just as much.
Again, she holds her hands up to show she has no ill intent. Then she blinks, thrown off guard. For a moment, her grey gaze lingers, then she snaps herself out of the shock. “I’m not … hurt you,” she says.
Focus Durvla. Breathe, I tell myself. I force my attention to her full lips, willing my mind to pick up what it can in the dim lighting.
“… name is … tend your wounds.”
Wounds? The throbbing in my arm and face becomes more apparent, as if she’s summoned them. I lift my hand to my face and my fingertips meet swollen flesh. The skin is rough, as though a scab is forming.
The healer swats my hand away lightly and tilts her head into my line of vision. “Try not to touch it.” She hands me a metal tankard. “Drink.Slowly.” She makes a gesture with her hand to indicate speed.
Frowning, I take the tankard from her and peer into it. My hand is clammy as I hold it tightly. The first sip of the cool, crisp water immediately soothes my parched throat. Keeping the healer’s words in mind, I drink slowly, savoring every drop. The healer rummages through a large canvas bag at her side and pulls out a couple of clay jars and a washcloth.
She pauses in her rummaging to focus on me again and says slowly, pantomiming with the flannel, “I’m going to clean your wounds and apply some salve. You should feel much better.”
I set the empty tankard aside before pulling back my sleeve and daring to look at the arm that was branded. The skin is violently redand welted, slightly oozy. Nausea grips my gut again and I turn away, swallowing forcibly.
The healer taps my shoulder cautiously and holds up the flannel for me to see. “… prevents festering. It will sting … breathe through it.”
I nod, but as soon as the cloth touches my burn, I bite back a yelp and the taste of copper blooms on my tongue. That was quite asting.
“I know.” Her expression is empathetic. “… may sting a little less. You have a nasty … your cheek … isn’t as severe as the burn.”
