“I’m sorry,” I managed. She sat beside me again, laying a cool cloth on my brow that felt like heaven.
“The acquired skills of motherhood,” she said. “I can see a puking coming from a league away. And stop apologizing. You took care of me when I was hurt.”
“I wasn’t kind to you, though.” I’d been cruel to her. Snarky and deliberately crude, so busy fighting my lust and longing that I hadn’t even tried to be gentle.
“True,” she replied, brows arched. “You were awful—and exactly what I needed, spoiled, bratty princess that I was.” She laid the cloth over my eyes. “Now lie still while I wrap this up again.”
“No.” I dragged the cloth off, struggling to sit up.
“Ash…”
“I need to look at it.”
“Oh, because that was such a great idea,” she snapped.
“Keep the puke basin handy.” I tried for a smile, the scar tissue on my face pulling. The fever had me stiff and sore all over, even the old wounds I’d thought long since forgotten.
“You can’t heal yourself, so what good does it do? You’re only tormenting yourself.”
I didn’t reply, forcing myself to study the rent muscle and torn ligaments, stitched together with black thread. I had to know how bad it was. Also, though I couldn’t heal myself the way I could others, the shapeshifter blood from my father did allow me to heal faster. Pus oozed out between the stitches, fresh blood, too, here and there, where removing the caked bandages had broken the scabs. The main forearm bone seemed solid, though the minor one had likely snapped in a few places.
“Who did the stitches?” I asked.
Ami lifted her chin, the set of it defiant. “I did.”
I’d figured. “Is Windroven empty of staff?”
She dipped her chin reluctantly. “Not entirely empty, but nearly so. You were right. I was a prideful fool in insisting on coming here.”
“You had your reasons, Ami. Don’t upset yourself.”
Her mouth dropped open. “How can you say that? I nearly got us all killed! You almost died, Ash, and it would have been all my fault.”
“No, it would have been the fault of those Deyrr creatures. Now hand me that knife.”
8
“When Danu grows pink roses!” she exclaimed, using the High Queen’s favorite curse, and making me laugh. “Don’t you laugh—you’ve been trying to get your hands on that knife for three days. I was sure you were going to try to kill yourself with it.” Her eyes welled with unshed tears and she looked away, swallowing hard.
“I need to release the stitches, to let the infection out,” I told her gently.
“Oh.” She sounded small and sad. Then got up and fetched the knife. “Maybe I should do it.”
I eyed her, but she looked steady enough. “All right. But do a tourniquet on my upper arm first, if you would.”
“The easy part,” she sighed, then followed my instructions, tying and tightening a piece of rope above my elbow.
She laid a cloth over her lap and eased my mangled arm onto it, then dragged the lantern closer. Picking at the stitches, she cut them, then dragged them painfully free. I lay back, glad she’d offered as I might not have gotten through it on my own.
“I tried to get it clean,” she said. “I did my best.”
“You did well,” I told her, staring at the ceiling and taming my churning gut. “The ichor in those creatures is toxic. I saw it back in Ordnung after we defeated Illyria. Even a trained healer—one without magic—couldn’t have done better. We just need to drain, clean and disinfect it. Did you set the bone?”
“I wasn’t sure how and I was afraid I’d do more damage by trying. Mostly I wanted you to stop bleeding.”
“I’m sorry, Ami.”
“Would you stop apologizing?” She rubbed away some tears with her forearm, and continued working. “I wanted to do it. It was the least I could do.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” I hissed as she pulled hard on one of the stitches.
“Serves you right, you ass,” she muttered. “There. Shall I help you wash it or are you determined to do that all yourself, too?”
“You could hand me the puke basin.”
She did, brow creasing when I laid my arm over it and moved the lot to put in my lap. The blood and pus—along with some thrice-cursed black ichor—flowed more freely, but not enough. We had no evidence the ichor could make undead without Deyrr rituals to power the transformation, but it did create infection and I needed it out of me. “Knife, please.”
“What are you doing?”
I set my teeth, wishing I had a stick to clench in them, but it might upset Ami too much if I asked for that. “I need to cut it open more.”
“Oh, Ash.” She looked a little green.
“Don’t look.”
“I don’t think I can.” She stayed where she was, steadfastly staring at the fire.
Fortunately—though I might not think so in the future—my arm was mangled enough that more pain didn’t make an appreciable difference. I cut some slices, letting the blood, pus, and ichor drain out, feeling lightheaded, but thankfully I remained sharp enough to avoid cutting open any major blood vessels.
“I finally understand how you could have cut the brand off your face and set it on fire,” Ami remarked, sneaking occasional glances. “Though I don’t know where that kind of will comes from.”
“From the fires of hell,” I commented without thinking. It hurt considerably. At least some nerves were still alive, right? Then I caught Ami’s stricken expression and wished I could unsay it. “That was a joke.”
She regarded me steadily, gaze fixed on mine. “I know it wasn’t.”
I had said things then. I couldn’t face the pity in her eyes, focusing instead on the chewed mess of my arm. It said something, that facing it was easier. “I need to pour water over this.”
“I can do that.” She came around to get the wash basin. “Ash—you’re really pale.”
Sheathed in cold, stinking sweat, too. “Gotta get this done or I’ll lose the arm.” Or die. Still a distinct possibility, but I didn’t want Ami to worry.
“Lie back and let me wash it.”
I might have to let her do it. I was getting dizzy. I lay back on the mounded pillows. “Then pour alcohol on it,” I told her.
“What?”
“Do we have any—besides the Feast of Moranu wine the duchess sent?”
“Yes, but won’t that hurt?”
Oh yeah, speaking of the fires of hell. “A stick to clench in my teeth would be helpful,” I admitted. Better that than for her to hear me screaming. “Better yet, get Graves to do this. You go get some sleep.”
“I’m doing this.” She sounded terse, her face averted, but also dug in. I wouldn’t change her mind.
“The clearer and less flavored the alcohol, the better,” I said.
She nodded, pulled on a robe, and taking the lantern with her, went out the door.