The flames spread quickly over his cloak, and he yelped. Ran outside into the rain. Within seconds, an arrow found its way into his back. He collapsed, dead.
Great gods, I nearly collapsed too. I breathed in and out, recovering from my shock. Then I remembered—Takkan was awake! I crawled back to him, terror clutching my heart when I saw that his movement had opened his wound further. Blood spilled onto the floor, and as I rolled him back into my lap, he reached for my hand, grasping my fingers weakly.
“Close,” he whispered. “Close it.”
His eyes shut again, and I choked back a silent cry. The blood wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard I pressed on his wound.
Demons take me, what should I do?
I whirled, scanning my surroundings for some way to help him. Swords of all sizes, a whetting stone, a small jug of rice wine under one of the blankets. What was a guardhouse without medicine or supplies? I searched his pockets. Nothing.
His knapsack, Shiori!
His knapsack—the bag I’d searched when he came to Sparrow Inn. Had there been a needle and thread inside?
My shaking hands grew slippery with sweat. The copper tinderbox, his canteen…I tossed those items behind me. There! I almost missed it—a bone needle, tucked into a roll of muslin. For once in my life, I threaded the needle on my first try. Then I held it between my fingers, my heart racing as I brought the two ends of Takkan’s torn flesh together.
Rain dribbled from the cracks in the wooden roof, pattering against my head as I rolled up my sleeves. At the last minute, I stuffed my apron into Takkan’s mouth.
I had no idea what I was doing, but I had to clean the wound somehow. I opened the jug of rice wine and poured it over his wound, squeezing his fingers as he jolted. I was sure I’d just hurt him like mad, but he barely let out a whimper. Like me, he knew how to be quiet.
I didn’t know what I was doing, other than closing the gaping wound before me. I’d never had the steadiest hand, and my fingers were even less deft now, after my weeks of battling starstroke nettles. But I doubted Takkan would care about the beauty of my stitches.
The first stitch was the hardest. Poking through skin was nothing like embroidering silk. Skin was thicker, more slippery, more tender. Takkan’s fingers twitched, a comforting sign that I wasn’t killing him.
I sang my little song in my head as I worked.
Channari was a girl who lived by the sea,
who sewed with a needle and some twine.
Stitch, stitch, stitch, the blood away.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, the night to day.
My spontaneous lyrics weren’t very good, but the rhythm helped calm me and kept me going, even when my fingers shook and fumbled the needle. I lost count of how many times that happened.
At last I was done. Blood stained the thread, and some still oozed out between the stitches, but I’d stopped the worst of it.
Takkan’s heart thumped under my palm. Beat by beat, it steadied.
Thank Emuri’en, I hadn’t killed him.
I leaned back, my body sagging with relief. Outside, the rain had abated. The battle seemed to be over, and a spell of quiet had fallen upon the fortress. I finally released the breath I’d been holding, only to gasp a new one a few seconds later.
Footsteps were approaching.
“A’landan assassins,” reported a gruff voice from outside. I stilled so I could listen better, my gaze fixed on the armored figure unfurling from the shadows. “They followed Takkan and Pao into Iro.”
Shiori, is that—
Kiki didn’t have to finish. My stomach curdled with dread.
Rounding toward the guardhouse, his face bathed in torchlight, Hasege appeared.
“One was captured,” he continued, flicking his blade free of blood, “but he has committed himself to Lord Sharima’en rather than speak. Where is my cousin?”
I stopped listening. I was already gathering my satchel. I couldn’t risk anyone seeing me with my starstroke, least of all Hasege.
