Page 52 of City of Stone and Silence

“Powerburn,” I mutter. “It’ll pass. Listen.”

“You need to rest.” We walk together to the blanket, reeling like a pair of drunks. “Here. Lie down.”

“Listen.” I grab her sleeve. “They’re bringing Thora up. She’s … hurt badly.”

“How badly?” Meroe says, then catches my gaze. “Oh.”

“I can’t … tell you to help her. I know that. But…”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Meroe takes a deep breath. “I’ll try.”

I lie down on the blanket, propped up against the wall. A few moments later, two crew maneuver Thora’s limp body in, followed by Jack. The pair look at one another uncertainly, and one says, “We told her to stay behind, but—”

“It’s all right,” Meroe says, with a glance at me. “Thank you.”

Jack is silent until they leave the room. Then she collapses to her knees, startling me. Her long, lanky frame folds up, shaking with silent sobs.

“Please.” Her voice is tiny. “You have to help her. I’ll do anything, I swear. I’ll cook your food, kill your enemies, warm your bed. Please.”

Meroe puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I don’t have many enemies,” she says. “And I don’t need a bedwarmer. But I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Jack mumbles. It feels vulgar, seeing her broken like this, without her witty persona, somehow more vulnerable than if she’d been naked. “Thank you. Thank you—”

“It may not work.” Meroe settles herself beside Thora. “It may go … wrong.”

Jack curls in on herself, rocking back and forth. Purple light engulfs Meroe, as she delicately lowers her hands to touch Thora’s bloody skin.

Meroe is a ghulwitch, an adept of Ghul, the Well of Life. That fact would be enough to get her killed immediately in almost any nation in the world. The power to heal carries with it the power to kill, or worse to change. It was Ghul adepts who created the Vile Rot, that incomprehensible blight, source of monsters and sickness. A Ghul adept could give you a virulent plague to take back to your city, or seed your body with tumors to tear you apart from within.

Meroe isn’t likely to do any of that, of course. But healing has its own risks. When she healed me, I was fortunate enough to come out of it with only blue marks on my skin. I still have nightmares about our packmate Berun, who’d bloated into a mountain of straining, writhing flesh and then exploded.

She can do it. I keep my eyes on her, as though the strength of my belief can be carried through my gaze. She can. She’s been practicing with her abilities, after spending her life trying to hide them. She can do it.

For a long time, nothing seems to happen.

Thora coughs, blood bubbling across her lips. Jack whimpers, and draws herself into an even tighter ball.

Meroe pulls her hands back, and opens her eyes.

“Just kill me,” Jack whispers. “If she’s dead just rotting kill me, I can’t take it I can’t take it I can’t—”

“She’s not going to die,” Meroe says. Her voice is shaky. “I didn’t want to try to heal everything. The risk…” She glances at me. “But I stopped the bleeding, and … well. It’s complicated.” She lets out a deep breath. “It’ll be a while before she’s on her feet. But she’ll live.”

Jack is suddenly hugging Meroe, apparently without occupying any of the intervening positions, lifting her off her feet. I let my eyes close.

Eleven. I’d taken twenty, and come back with eleven. Better than ten, thanks to Meroe. But still not good enough.

Someone is calling my name, but I’m already asleep.

11

TORI

By the afternoon of my birthday, I know something is badly wrong.

People start congratulating me from the moment I wake up. My maids make extra bows as they lay out my most elaborate kizen, intricately dyed blue-green silk with delicate silver embroidery. The formal stays are complicated enough that I can’t put it on by myself, so I stand stoically in my underthings while they putter around me, wrapping me in slick, cool fabric and arranging everything just so. They braid my hair, and accent it with gold and silver pins. Part of me wants to tear everything off and run to the trunk in the closet, dress in something that lets me move. But Isoka loves seeing me this way, and anything that makes her happy makes me happy.

After breakfast, with celebratory strips of fried honey-dough—I insisted, though the ones I get in the High Market are still better—Narago leads me through a series of prayers at our household shrine. The Blessed One looks down at me with an expression that’s supposed to be enigmatic, but I always think just seems bored. In stilted, formal language I drone through my promises to abide by his teachings and my requests to be healthy and safe in the new year. Now that I’m fourteen—an adult, by ancient standards—there’s a new set of prayers in which I ask for a kind husband and many strong children. I find myself thinking of Garo, and I hope that Narago can’t see me blush.