“My lord . . .” His voice was hoarse, breath shallow. “I’m sorry. They came . . . out of nowhere.”
“Hush, pup.” Alexander pressed a hand to his shoulder. “I can hardly accuse you of planning to get attacked, can I?”
The words had left his mouth before he realized they mirrored Princess JingYi’s.
“I should’ve done . . . more?—”
“You’ve fought well. I know you have.”
“The princess . . .”
“She’s unharmed.” Alexander kept his voice firm, solid. “If you’d just focus on getting yourself well, you can see for yourself soon enough.” His gaze lifted. “Here she comes now.”
The princess moved toward them, her gait uneven on the forest floor. She’d been injured after all. Enough to alter her balance.
Instead of finding rest, she carried a small, lacquered chest—no larger than a soldier’s field kit—in her right hand, her grip steady around the handle despite the pain she must be feeling.
“I have some knowledge of the healing arts, my lord,” she said. “May I have a look?”
Beside him, Darion told her, “This will be bloody, Highness. You may want to stand back, or retreat to the tent?—”
“Sir.” Her single word wasn’t loud, but the certainty behind it silenced even Darion. “I assure you, I know what I am doing.”
She turned her concealed gaze to Alexander. “My lord. Please.”
His jaw worked. Darion’s warning was sound. But Conrad’s breath was ragged, wet, and the scent of blood hung thick in the air. The boy would be dead before they reached the closest healer.
Relying on her went against every instinct as a leader and protector. But the steel in her voice was a lifeline.
He grabbed it.
“Do what you can,” he told her.
She wasted no time. Setting her wooden box down, she knelt beside Conrad, her hands deft as she peeled away the torn, blood-drenched shirt. The torchlight illuminated the deep gash just shy of his heart. A web of dark veins spread outward from it, like cracks on porcelain.
The princess inhaled sharply. “I cannot see with this veil,” she muttered in Isseric.
Alexander turned, ready to order more torches when she reached up and tore the wide-brimmed hat from her head. A tumble of glossy black hair spilled free, catching the light. She was positioned in such a way that he couldn’t see anything beyond that glorious mass of raven hair. Barely pausing, she ripped a swath of the fabric from her travelling hat and tied it around her head, fashioning a half-veil that concealed her face beneath her eyes.
Alexander forgot how to breathe. Her eyes—black as obsidian, sharp as tempered steel—had met his only briefly, but it seared him.
“Poison,” she confirmed, more to herself than to him. Her finger pointed to the livid, branching pattern. “A cold venom. It seeks the nerves. We must draw it out before it reaches his heart.”
His stomach churned, but he forced himself to speak. “I’ll fetch a lancet. We’ll bleed him straightaway.”
“No,” she said quickly.
Darion’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”
As gentle as he could, Alexander said, “Princess, the poison must be drained out of his body, lest it spreads to his organs?—”
She shook her head. “Conrad has lost a lot of blood already. Losing more will not benefit him. It may kill him.” Her dark eyes beseeched him. “Please. I am ignorant in many things, but inthis,I am certain.”
Alexander hesitated, torn between his own limited knowledge of the healing arts and the princess’s request. He looked down at Conrad. The paleness of the boy’s pallor told him she was right.
He took a deep breath and nodded.
They moved Conrad into a tent and laid him down on a makeshift cot. She worked with a healer’s grim rhythm: assess, irrigate, debride. Her fingers, stained with Conrad’s blood, located the blade’s path by touch, seeking the poisoned tissue beneath. She retrieved a small jar of dark green powder from her wooden chest and sprinkled a fine pinch over the wound.