I look back to the window. The flowers are nothing but withered black stalks. The windowpane is shattered, dark blood crusted on the edges of the broken glass.
The noises of the market are replaced by screams and panic. The busy shopkeepers and their patrons become mobs of filthy, starving beggars rioting in the street. Fires blaze in the distance. Smoke curls in the air. Bodies lie in the road, stripped of their meager valuables.
Is this where the smell of death was coming from before? Now, I can only smell incense and freshly baked bread.
There’s an undercurrent to all of it, the faint sound of monotonous chanting. Black cloaks dart around the corners of my eyes, slipping behind buildings or patrolling rooftops, visible for only a split second before they slide out of sight.
The Bards are performing a Telling here, but I don’t know what is real and what is manufactured.
As I glance quickly back and forth across the street, I find myself on the bleeding edge of reality. On one side is the bustling market and on the other are riots and famine, existing at the same time independently of one another. Screams of anguish mix with the sound of vendors hawking their wares. The aroma of incense and pastries mixes with the stench of blood and smoke.
Some villagers go about their day; the others live out a nightmare and are beginning to shove past me as I become grounded in their violent reality.
“Watch it!” someone shouts, knocking into me.
Another, a peasant whose face is smeared in grease, stops in his tracks. “She’s one of them,” he hollers.
Suddenly a frenzy of villagers, all with reeking breath and open sores spotting their hands and arms, crowd in, grasping at me, trying to tear off my cloak.
I try to scream, and maybe I do, but the sound is swallowed up in the chaos of noise and shouts as I’m nearly knocked off my feet.
The ground is shifting. I can’t keep my balance as the edges of my vision grow tangled and dark.
I hear my name shouted from far away.
My knees buckle beneath me, and I feel myself falling, powerless to stop it.
“Run! Get out of here!” my attackers cry out to one another as I collapse onto the rough ground.
The violent whinnying of a horse is muted in my ears.
I feel an arm encircle me, drawing me up.
The last thing I see is Cathal, his face creased with worry.
21
My head is heavy. The rest of me is numb. Lifting my eyelids is a chore, and all I can see is a bright blur in front of me.
I think I’m lying down. Or floating. I could be suspended from a ceiling by my toes, for all I know. Nothing feels right.
“Shae?” Cathal’s voice. “Shae, can you hear me?”
I try to take a breath to respond, but all that issues is a low mumble. Cathal’s face slips in and out of focus above me. A halo of light dances over his edges.
He speaks again, but it sounds too far away to interpret. The effort it takes to listen is exhausting, and my eyes close.
I can’t be dead because suddenly I feel a sharp pain flare from my spine outward. It races along every vein, penetrating deep into my bones. It pulses there before it dies down.
I’m still not dead. Warm water surrounds me. I hear voices. Distant, but growing closer.
“… glad she’s alive.” Imogen, I think distantly.
“There are worse things than death,” another says. “Just look around.”
“Where am I?” My voice feels detached from the rest of me.
“You’re in the—”
A third voice cuts her off. “The less she knows, the better. Keep her calm so we can bathe her and get her back to bed like Cathal instructed.”
“But…” Imogen sounds hesitant.
“Just reassure her already, so we can do our job and get out of here!” the second voice commands.
I try to breathe through the building panic that sparks the pain again.
“Imogen?” I try to reach for her, for something, anything that’s familiar. I can barely move my fingertips toward the sound of her voice.
“It’s all right, Shae.” I see Imogen amid the blurry shapes moving rapidly in front of me. “You’re safe. You’re going to be fine, I promise.” Her young face comes into focus near mine. “You’re going to be fine…” Her voice is the last sound I hear before darkness swallows me.
When Kieran died, I remember him slipping in and out of consciousness like this. Is that what’s happening to me? Am I dying?
Do I have the Blot?
My eyes snap open into darkness, as if I hadn’t opened them at all. The pain is gone, replaced by searing heat. A bead of sweat courses slowly from my hairline to my eyebrow.
I’m being crushed under a brutal weight and oppressive darkness, but I can turn my head slightly. The cool touch of a pillow is at my cheek.
Somewhere ahead, I see a small square of light and the vague silhouette of a man behind. It turns and walks away. Faint footsteps recede in time with my eyes closing against my will.
“Shae?” Cathal’s voice again. The back of his fingers are cool and dry against my clammy forehead. Ma used to check Kieran’s temperature that way.
Perhaps I’ll see them soon …
“Shae.” Fingers snap in front of me.
Fiona must be waking me up so I can go to town to see the Bards …
“Shae.”
My eyes open. Not to darkness, or Fiona, but Cathal. I can see him more clearly. His brow is knit, but his gray eyes are gentle as ever.
“You are awake. That is a relief.”
“I feel terrible.” I don’t know if I’m talking about the collapse, or my current state, or both. My voice is little more than a hoarse whisper that grates painfully against the walls of my throat.
Cathal grimaces. “That is to be expected, unfortunately. You have been through quite an ordeal. I was worried you might not make it.”
“What’s happening to me?”
“You contracted a fever. Such things tend to happen when you charge off into the mountains without proper gear. I’m afraid you were pushed too far in your training.”
His tone is one I haven’t heard in a long time. Pa and Ma used that inflection in their voices when they were disappointed in me. Before Pa died and Ma went silent. The long lost affiliation is unexpectedly comforting.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“The delirium brought you dangerously close to your breaking point,” Cathal continues. “Had you remained, you would have died from the cold or gone mad. I cannot say which might have happened first.” He pauses his lecture, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “I suppose it does not matter now. I am just glad you are all right.” His chiseled face is stern, as if he is scolding me for almost dying.
“I…” My voice trails off. I have limited energy to express myself. “Thank you for helping me.”
Cathal moves out of view, and briefly, it looks as if he’s writing something. But just as quickly, he’s returned to my side.
“I only did what I had to,” he says finally. “Get some rest. I will check on you again as soon as I am able.”
I nod slowly, my exhaustion taking hold. I fall asleep to the sound of Cathal’s footsteps departing. As the sound recedes, I realize I never asked him where I am.