~ 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.
I lay there, looking around the room. Her room, the one she’d shared with Hugh during their short marriage, and the one she’d given birth to the twins in, but not the same bed. That one had been a fancy of gold leaf, trailing ribbons, lace curtains, and pink roses. This one was plainer, though still high quality, carved from dark wood to look like the polished limbs of a tree. It made me wonder when she’d changed it.
Sitting up a little, I drank more water and the fever tea, hoping they’d stay down this time. Then, while she was gone, I felt around for the pieces of the minor arm bone. Splintered all right, and I couldn’t set them. By the feel of it, there wasn’t enough of it left. I should be grateful the major bone was intact. If I lived through this I’d have to train myself to wield a sword with the other arm. This one would never have the same ability to grip again.
The door opened and Ami entered, a basket over her arm. “I brought broth and bread, too, in case you can keep it down,” she said.
I’d need the strength. “If you don’t mind, I’ll eat that first.” I should be honest with her. “It’s possible I’ll pass out when you hit it with the alcohol. Don’t stop. Douse all of it.”
Pale, she firmed her lips and nodded. She poured soup from a tall container into a bowl and handed it to me. I cupped it in my hand and drank, the warm broth salty and intense with marrow, my bones feeling as if they drank it up.
“Should I stitch it up again?” she asked.
I shook my head and held out the bowl for more. Pursing her lips dubiously, she refilled it. “Not unless anything is really gushing blood. Just, if you can stomach it, try to line up the loose flesh again so the edges match. Then loosely wrap up the whole thing and let it seep.”
“I wish I was better at this.” She studied me. “It feels so wrong that you’ve healed so many people—saved their lives—and there’s no one to help you. I tried to send for someone, but…”
“Snowed in?” I cocked my head at the howling wind. “You got your Mornai storm.”
“Don’t laugh about this.” She clenched her fists. “I know how stupid I am that I caused this. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”
“Ami,” I tossed aside the empty bowl and caught the sleeve of her robe before she could flee. She looked surprised that I moved so fast. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
She firmed her pretty mouth. “Maybe not for you, but I have a great deal to reconcile with myself. Anything else before we do this?”
“A couple of shots of the alcohol might be good.”
“On a virtually empty stomach and you with a fever still?” She frowned at me.
“Hard to screw myself up any more at this point,” I pointed out. “And it’ll dull the edge, at least a little.”
She poured some of the liquor into the empty mug and I tossed it back, hissing at the harsh burn. “Branlian whiskey?”
“The closest thing we had to what you asked for.” Ami shrugged. Then poured herself a draught and drank it. “For courage,” she said with a grimace.
“You don’t have to do this,” I told her.
“Yes, I do.” She handed me a wooden spoon for stirring stews and I took it. Paused before setting it between my teeth.
“No matter what, don’t stop,” I said.
“I know.”
“I mean, even if I’m screaming.”
“Oh.” She considered. “Even weakened you’re so much stronger than I am—should we tie you down again?”
Much as I hated the thought, I grimly agreed. She retrieved the rope and secured the upper part of my wounded arm to the bed post, then tied my good hand to the headboard. I wrapped my fist around the binding rope, hanging on. That would help, too. She picked up the spoon and I opened my mouth to bite on it, but she hesitated, eyes a stormy blue.
“Last chance to back out.” I said it as gently as I could.
She gave me a long look, then smiled. Not all that nicely. “If you scream, I’ll just consider it payback for all the times you’ve pissed me off.”
That’s my girl. I clamped my back teeth on the spoon and lay back.