The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [78]
She started to laugh, high and shrill. Then Adam touched her hand and she passed out again.
Consciousness returned swift and cruel while they circled the canals of Straylight, making sure they weren’t pursued. When Adam and Vienh were satisfied, they set out for Merrowgate, and the narrow waterway behind an inn. Not the Bride—Isyllt couldn’t fault Vienh for that; she didn’t trust her luck either.
Adam draped his cloak over her to hide the blood as they docked, held her steady up three flights of stairs to the room. The bleeding had slowed enough that she didn’t leave a trail up the steps, at least.
“I need bandages and needle and thread,” Adam said as Isyllt fell into a chair. “And clean water.”
Isyllt bit her tongue while Adam cut away her ruined sleeves; when half-clotted scabs peeled loose she hissed. Her right arm was still bleeding, but it was nothing compared to the left. She could only stare at her curled hand, at the naked skin where her ring should be. Vienh returned with the supplies and Adam scrubbed his hands.
The water was tepid but burned like vitriol in her wounds. Adam cleaned her right arm first and opened a tube of ointment, nodding thanks to Vienh.
“I don’t need that.”
His eyebrows rose. “Humor me.”
The cream smelled of tea-tree oil, sweet-sharp and faintly resinous. It also stung, and she glared at him while he smeared it on. The needle was a proper surgeon’s tool, curved and razor-tipped; light gleamed and splintered off the tip. She wondered how many patrons the innkeeper stitched up. Adam’s hands were steady as he threaded it.
Isyllt braced herself and swallowed. Her head ached, the edge of her vision too dark—more magic would only make it worse.
Her resolve lasted till the third stitch. Then the cold came, sweet and soothing. The throb in her temple became a spike, but instead of fire and wasp stings in her arm, she felt only the soft pop of skin, the slide and tug of the thread.
When he clipped the last knot, she tilted her arm to look. Ugly, thread black and stark against her skin and the red edges of the wound; at least the stitches were neat. Adam dabbed on more ointment, then bound her arm in bandages.
The pain had dulled to a queasy red blur by the time he was done. She stank of blood and sweat, and breathing ached where Li had landed on her ribs. All her luggage was at the Khas.
“Now this,” Adam said softly, reaching for her left hand. The concern in his voice was no comfort. “Have you numbed the pain?”
She shook her head and quickly regretted it.
“Good. I need to know where it hurts.”
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as he tested each finger, put gentle pressure on her palm. She could move her thumb and her first and last fingers, but the middle two curled uselessly, and she whimpered when he touched them. The nearly healed cut from the exorcism had torn open again, a four-rayed star cupped in her palm. Her hand felt too light without the diamond.
“I think a bone is cracked,” he said at last. “And the tendon’s severed.”
She swallowed, lips pressed tight; for a moment she thought she would be sick. She’d seen enough dissections to understand the worst of it. The physicians at the Arcanost might repair such an injury, but it had to be done quickly. Nearly a month of water lay between her and Erisín. And she still had work to do.
“Pack it,” she said at last. “Pack it and splint it and wrap it tight.”
Adam nodded and reached for the ointment again.
The markers didn’t entirely lie. Traces of ghost-blight lingered in the woods: barren patches of earth and withered trees, patches of sickly grass. Xinai felt spirits flittering through the jungle around them—curious, cautious, but not malevolent. Whatever evil had happened here, it was long cold.
The worst scare came when they finally crossed a kueh trail before the bird had left it. Xinai looked up, and up, and found herself staring at a sharp, curving beak. A male, by the brilliant blue neck and crimson wattle. A dark bone crest curved from the top of its beak to the back of its skull. It rasped