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I was shocked. Iron shavings.
Folklore claimed the fae were said to be averse to iron but more than one source I had read said that was superstitious nonsense.
The metal had never hurt me before. I’d handled axes made of iron. Helmets. Gauntlets. Why, the horses’ shoes were iron.
“Iron doesn’t... hurt the fae-blooded...that’s a myth.” My words emerged slowly, my voice a parched mumble.
For a moment I wondered if Draven had heard me. Then he turned towards where I lay, breathing heavily. The veins in his neck stood out like thick cords. His emerald eyes flashed with fury, glowing like the exmoor’s.
“Drinking pure iron would hurt anyone. Fae or not. It would kill a normal human to ingest this much.”
So I should already be dead, I wanted to say. What a miracle I was not. My eyelids flickered. My eyes longed to close. I refused to let them. I wanted to know what would happen next.
“Why would the king give me something that would kill her,” Whitehorn said sullenly. There was a pause. “Unless that’s what he intended.”
“I doubt it. It’s possible he wished for her to be like this for the remainder of our journey. Ill and immobilized.” Draven dumped the scoop of medicine back into the bag. “But if so, he should have told me what he had planned. She’s in no state to ride like this. Either way, this ends now. A corpse can’t get the king what wants.”
Then he looked across the fire. Our eyes met. I watched as he held the bag aloft a moment, then tossed it up into the air.
Whitehorn let out a furious shout, his arms darting out, but it was no use.
The bag flew through the air and landed in the fire.
A sharp odor of burning herbs and a metallic tinge filled the air. The burning concoction smelled potent and powerful andwrong. I tried to hold my breath.
In a few moments the air had cleared.
Whitehorn stood across from the fire, his face red with frustration as he stared into the flames.
“She won’t be drinking any more,” Draven said quietly. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
I heard the warning for what it was. Whitehorn’s eyes narrowed.
Draven nodded towards me. “Now go to sleep, Princess. In the morning you may find you’ve recovered some of your strength. If not, we’ll camp here until you do.”
I struggled to push myself up on my elbows, to answer him and say I was fine, but it was no use.
And besides, the truth was clear.
I was not fine.
What had Draven said? That I was dying? Was this what dying felt like?
His words rang in my ears long after the two men had gone to sleep.
“If she dies on our watch, this mission is over.”
“A corpse can’t get the king what wants.”
Was that all I was to him? A tool to be used? And when that tool was broken and slowing him down, Draven took decisive, brutal action because that’s what a man like him did. It was only a coincidence that this time it had worked somewhat in my favor.
I told myself not to let it mean more than it really did. Draven didn’t care about what happened to me. He only cared about fulfilling his contract to the king and getting the sword back to Camelot.
Still, when I closed my eyes I pictured over and over again the bag of medicine flying through the air and into the fire. I smiled. And I slept.
Iwoke to a hand clappingover my mouth. It was clammy and dank and smelled of old sweat.
Not Draven.
