drooped almost immediately. When she turned to face Nic, he saw how pale she was. With her left hand, she gripped her side, and Nic realized that some of the blood on her robes was brighter red.
Fresh.
“Are you wounded?” he asked, but his voice came out nothing but a whisper.
She shrugged as if to make little of her pain, but the motion made her gasp. “It’s not lethal, but I need rest and nourishment, as do you. Are you well enough to help me carry what little food and water we have left to the trees? I know the pyres will make for poor scenery, but we’ll have cover, and we can spend the night there if we must.”
Brother help us. She can’t travel. Nic bit his lip. How can I keep her safe when I can’t predict or control my fits? What should I do?
He stumbled toward the other wagon to collect supplies, worrying with every step that Snakekiller would collapse while he wasn’t looking.
When they reached the edge of the trees, she fell.
Nic saw her hit the ground in front of him and cried out. He threw down the dry rations he was carrying and lurched to her, the lingering pyre smoke stinging his wet eyes. When he got to his knees beside her, he could barely breathe. Her color—so pale. Listless. When he lifted her wrist, it was limp in his grip.
Mumbling prayers to the Brother, he pulled aside her robes enough to see the sword slash in her side, a raw, gaping mouth of a wound, seeping blood with each beat of her heart.
The sight of it made him weep outright.
This was … it was hopeless.
He had no skill with healing, no understanding of herbs or wounds. His hands were too misshapen to stitch up the rent in her flesh, even if he knew where to find needle and thread strong enough to complete the task.
“Please don’t die,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing the cool skin. His body felt just as weak and useless as hers seemed to be, and for a moment, he was nothing but a soft, round boy again, trapped in the stifling heat of his poisoned sister’s bedchamber.
He hadn’t been able to save his father, his brothers, or Kestrel. He couldn’t save Snakekiller either. He knew that, yet his mind refused to allow that fact to gain footing in his essence. Heat pumped through Nic as he thought about what might happen to Snakekiller out in the open, helpless against soldiers and predators, and after sunset—
Manes. Maybe mockers, too.
Nic ground his teeth and forced his arms to move, demanded that his hands work enough to tear off his tunic. He thrust it against the wound, then used Snakekiller’s belt to cinch it tight against her. At least he could slow the bleeding. And if he worked hard, he could pull her fully under cover of the trees and maybe use the supplies in the wagon to fashion a sling to lift her out of harm’s way before sunset. A fire for warmth. Yes. And he could help her drink, if he could rouse her enough to swallow. If she regained consciousness, she could tell him which of her goatskins or herb pouches to use and mix. He already knew which skin held the nightshade wine mix she used to relieve his pain—
And which pouch to use if she needed Mercy.
No. She wouldn’t need Mercy. He could do this. He could save her.
It took him the better part of the morning just to get her to the edge of the trees, and by the time he propped her against the firm, wide base of a dantha, he was so cold the skin on his bare chest had gone numb. His gnarled hands shook, and his weak legs shook harder. He could scarcely work the flints to start a fire, and when he got it going, it quickly went out before he could pull enough sticks into the flames to build the blaze.
He knew he had to get her warm, and he had to get her to drink.
Nic pushed himself off the ground and left the trees once more, this time to retrieve the food and water he had dropped earlier, when Snakekiller collapsed.
His entire body ached and trembled as he staggered onto the open grasslands, and his thoughts kept going fuzzy. His perceptions wavered as he scanned the horizon, and at first the glint of light off steel