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I look at him.
“The timing is convenient,” he says.
“The injury was not planned.”
“I noticed.”
I retrieve my coat and slide my uninjured arm into it. The right sleeve remains loose around the bandage.
The political trap is still incomplete. I have a frightened debtor, a compromised merchant, a missed portion of an exchange, and a Varrus agent arriving afterward. I lack the precise demand, the object passed in the rear room, and the target of the larger plan.
Nothing in the report connects the threat to the herb bundles Fiona purchased.
They may be ordinary rirzed, medicine for her solarium, or another market supply with no political value.
I will not accuse Nessa or alarm Fiona without evidence.
But I will ask what occurred.
Joran opens the practice-hall door. “The solarium?”
“Yes.”
Cold air follows me into the corridor.
Blood warms the cloth around my forearm as I walk toward Fiona with the injury that will place me beneath her hands.
23
FIONA
The blood has soaked through the cloth around Rhysandir’s forearm by the time we reach his chambers.
He refuses my hand at the door. He does not refuse because he needs no help. His right sleeve hangs loose, his coat is draped over his left shoulder, and each beat of his heart sends another dark stain through the linen. He refuses because two Zagfer servants are watching from the passage, and Lord Morwen’thir will not display weakness before his household if pride can keep him upright.
“Inside,” I tell him.
His black eyes narrow. “I know where my chambers are.”
“Then demonstrate that knowledge quickly.”
Joran coughs into his fist. It might conceal amusement. Rhysandir gives him a cold glance and crosses the threshold.
I follow, carrying the healer’s case Briar brought from the solarium. Joran remains outside at Rhysandir’s order. The doors close behind me, shutting away the corridor and its curious silence.
Rhysandir’s chambers are as severe as the rest of his private rooms. Black stone, dark wood, iron fittings, and heavy green hangings turn the mountain cold aside. A fire burns low on the hearth. His bed stands behind carved screens, untouched since morning. Near the windows, a long chaise offers enough light for me to see the wound.
“Sit,” I say.
“You have become comfortable issuing commands.”
“Only when someone bleeds on clean floors.”
He sits.
I set my case on a narrow table and unwrap his forearm. The practice blade has opened the flesh along the inner arm where the bracer failed to cover him. The cut is clean, deeper near its center, but his fingers answer when I ask him to move them. No tendon has been severed.
“Joran said it was a minor wound,” I say.
