The quickest way to bring him to his death would be to cut him as I would any prey. A quick slice down the thick vein on his neck. My hand trembles and shakes as I press the point of the blade to the stretch of skin between his rough beard and robe. First, his skin shows resistance. The tip sinks in and warmth spills out, staining his clothing, the bed, and my fingers.
The sight turns the air in my lungs to frost. It’s too much like Enat’s death. So much so, it’s nauseating.
The energy depletes from his body like sand shifting through an hourglass, until only a few pieces remain. It’s slow at first and faster in the end. Just when I fear I won’t know the moment to begin pushing my energy into his, the loss of life slows.
His torso jolts. The weak energy pulsing from him is different than before. Less subdued. Less trapped. It’s no longer sluggish. Now the small remainder of his energy is a wounded bird, struggling for flight.
And I know: the bind is broken.
A bubble of relieved laughter escapes as I splay my fingers against his silk shirt and imagine a ghost hand of my soul reaching out and grasping his. The desire to help him wells up stronger than at any other time I’ve healed. The moments beside the well seem like nothing compared to the pull I feel now.
The hourglass has been flipped.
I slump to the bed and allow myself to rest beside him so my fingers will remain in contact. My life, tiny grains of energy, slips away, slow initially and then increasing in speed. Shortness of breath comes first. Then tingling hands, arms, legs, feet. Later sharp pain shoots through my limbs until eventually all those sensations fade into a hollow ache that spreads throughout my body as the king’s energy revives, swelling beneath my palm.
Because I mortally wounded him, his body needs to regain quite a bit of strength before his life is no longer at risk. If left too weak, his recovery could be compromised. I keep filling him, draining myself, until it’s impossible to hold my head up.
The door hinge squeals.
Footsteps click against the floor.
“What are you—?no.” Cohen’s unmistakable timbre makes me stir.
“Cohen.” A labored pant is all I can manage.
“Britta, stop. You have to stop.” I pry my lids open to gaze at him once more. I see how he winces as he lowers himself so that we’re eye to eye and my hand is wrapped in his, over his heart. He’s badly hurt. It brings tears to my eyes because I won’t be able to do anything for him.
“I’m. Sorry.” My words are punctuated by the labored breath it takes to push them out. Spots dance in my vision.
His hand tightens around mine. I can see him squeezing even if I’m too numb to feel it. “Take it from me.”
He’s already too weak. If I draw energy from him it could kill him. “No,” I manage.
“You can’t leave me.” Emotion thickens his words and chokes him. “I need you. Don’t you see?” His breath washes over my face as he leans in and presses his lips to my nose. My cheek. My forehead.
My own energy stutters.
“Please take it all from me. I give it to you. Just live.”
Though there cannot be more than ten breaths remaining in my lungs, I do what he asks. I allow the energy zipping beneath his palm to flow into mine. His energy tangles with mine; my heart, my soul, my mind gratefully absorb his gift like water to the desert ground.
I don’t know how long I soak it in, but I fear it’s too late. I don’t even have the strength to lift my head. Focusing on his face as it dances on the cloudy edges of my vision is as difficult as shooting an arrow at a spinning target.
A ragged breath sounds. A choking cough. The king stirs under our combined hands.
My vision slips in and out.
Cohen’s skin loses color. I’ve taken enough to pull me out of the pit of death, but perhaps not enough to take me from the edge of the cliff. Either way, I’ll not take his life. I squeeze his hand once more to let him know we’re done.
“Cohen,” I try to say, but only my lips move.
Blackness crowds my vision and draws me into its grasp.
Chapter
41
I’M DEAD.
It’s the first thought that comes to mind, though the pain playing mercilessly with every muscle suggests otherwise. Grit cements my eyes shut. After a few tries, I somehow manage to crack them open without the use of my hands, which I’ve discovered are helpless against an unknown weight.
A few more blinks and I’m awake, lying on a bed, smothered in blankets beside a lit fireplace. A familiar worn book lies on the stone hearth. My book.
This is my cottage. My home.
I struggle to free my arms from the mountain of covers.
“Don’t do that.” A young woman moves into view. Her midnight-black hair falls over her shoulder as she leans closer to the bed, inspecting me. I’m too weak, too worn, to mind.