Page 60 of A Game of Veils

A lantern is glowing on the vanity, my nightgown laid out on the bed, a fresh carafe of water on the side table. Melisse arranged everything for my arrival but must have assumed I’d have returned earlier if I wanted her direct help.

I can’t blame her for thinking that way. I’ve dismissed her early most other nights, preferring to prepare for bed in privacy.

More chills and searing heat sweep through me in waves. My legs wobble, but I push myself off the door toward the bathroom.

A dip in the tub might help settle the strange sensations surging through my body. Bring me back into proper equilibrium.

I’m halfway across the room when my stomach lurches even more emphatically than before. I race the last several steps and throw myself over the toilet just in time for it to catch the mushy remnants of my dinner coming back up.

My stomach heaves again and again until I’m sputtering nothing but saliva. My throat burns with acid and the rest of me with the prickling hot fever that seems to have won over the chills.

This is more than just a struggle to recover from my trial. I’m outright ill.

Even though my limbs feel as though they’re on fire, shivers keep coursing through them. I slump over on the floor, fighting for focus, for clarity of thought, for steadiness.

My hand presses against my sternum over my godlen sigil. Elox, help me through this, give me the strength to recover. The focus to use my gift…

First, I need to drink something. Hydrate myself after all the fluids I just lost. I need?—

My mind flips over on itself and sends me crashing into darkness.

In my faint, I must knock my head against the floor. When I surface back into consciousness an uncertain amount of time later, a sharp ache is pulsing through my skull—and the side of my forehead that’s pressed against the tiles feels particularly tender.

Fever still crackles beneath my skin. My stomach has settled into a slow boil of nausea, nothing left in it to expel.

I inhale and exhale in ragged breaths, holding on to the locus of calm at the center of me.

I haven’t come this far just to die on a bathroom floor. I can heal myself.

Gritting my teeth, I reach out to my gift and train it on the symptoms raging through my body. How can I fix whatever’s wrong with me?

Images waver through the haze of my thoughts, but they drift away just as quickly. Swallowing makes my throat sting. I grimace at the sour flavor.

Water first. Then medicine. I won’t accomplish much if I faint again in the middle of the concocting.

Cool resolve gathers in my chest. It takes enough of the edge off the fever for me to ease myself onto my hands and knees.

With every step I crawl across my bedroom, my head throbs in tandem. I let my awareness sink down into the center of me, into that one small still place like a tiny temple within.

Find your peace, and anything is possible, the devouts of Elox like to say.

I don’t register that I’ve reached the side table until my head bumps into one of the legs. After a minute or two gathering myself, I sit back on my heels.

I spill more water than makes it into the cup, but the liquid feels gloriously cold against my scorching flesh. I swipe a damp arm across my forehead and sip.

Three shallow swallows, and my stomach starts to cramp. I clench my jaw and my fingers around the glass.

Should I yell and hope a guard will hear me who can bring one of the palace medics?

That thought provokes a series of more unnerving questions: What will Marclinus think if I turn into an invalid after his trial? How will the emperor evaluate me?

Will Tarquin decide I mustn’t be hardy enough to stand beside his heir after all? They executed one of the other ladies for simply dropping a dish.

I manage to tamp down my nausea and take another sip of water. The fever blazes on, but in this moment I feel as if it’s burned away everything but my path forward.

I can take care of this setback on my own. I don’t have to appear weak in front of anyone other than myself.

If Their Imperial Eminences never find out, so much the better.

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