Page 83 of Of Song and Scepter
I strain my hearing, but I cannot decipher her words. “What tide is it now?”
“Evening low, Your Highness. You’ve been asleep for a while. I did not want to disturb you.”
I rub the sleep from my face and grunt.
“Her heart rate and breathing are normal. Vital signs look good right now. She seems to be under some sort of magical distress, an internal war in her spirit. I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do but keep her here and react if anything changes.”
“She was twitching like a wrigglefish! She collapsed, has been comatose for a full day already, and you’re telling me there’s nothing wrong with her?” I ball my hands into fists.
“That’s right, Your Highness.”
It’s not the healer’s fault, I remind myself with a deep inhale. I just don’t understand the nature of her condition. A magical distress? From what? The only magic in that room was mine, ferried through the pendant.
Could this be my fault?
Regret slices through me, sharp and stinging. I was trying to keep her safe, and in my carelessness, I hurt her somehow. I should have warned her. Should have told her to keep quiet.
“I know it’s shocking, but we are well equipped here.” She smiles. “Get some rest. I’ll call you if there’s a change.”
“No.” I press into the side of the tank; the glass warm against my nose. “I will not leave her.”
She’s alive, at least. And stable for now. Her chest expands and contracts in a steady rhythm. In, out. In, out. I match my breathing with hers, forcing my heart to slow its frantic beating.
Enna will be okay, just as the healer said. She just needs some time, and she’ll break out of whatever this is. I have to believe that, before I fall prey to the madness.
A wash of dark color swirls in the water of the tank, darkening my view. Suddenly, Enna’s skin splits along her hip, punctured with a hundred small holes. Blood spreads from the wound, flooding the water. I pound the glass with my fists, desperate to touch her, and the healer springs to action, increasing the strength of her spell. She focuses on the emerging wound, but the membrane refuses to knit back. Her spines flare, and one snaps off, dropping to the floor of the tank. The tip of her tail knots and twists, a severed hole the size of my skull splitting the fine membrane.
Chills cover my body as blood fills the tank rapidly. There goes my heart—battering against my rib cage with renewed horror.
The healer shouts for her attendants, and several magic-wielders rush in, dipping their magic into the tank. They surround Enna in a rainbow of colors, their tendrils prodding and stitching and smoothing.
As soon as they fill the wound, the flesh splits open again, refusing to mend.
I reach into the tank, clasping her hand firmly. Her skin is hot, much too hot for her normal icy touch. I squeeze, as if I might imbue my life force into hers. Her fingers twitch, her pinky wrapping around mine.
She’s in there, still, my hopping beach dancer. My fighter. Shadow-guard of my heart.
Along her forearms, her spines lift from their sheathes. What I would give to be back on that beach, on the receiving end of those wicked spines. I would let her slice me a million times over. I would deal with that incessant itch for the rest of eternity, if it means she’ll make it through.
“Fight, dammit!” I shout at her. “You hear me, Wicked? Whatever this is, you must fight it. You will not leave me.”
Chapter fifty-one
Enna
The dredgebeast’s tongue squeezestighter, pressing the lifeforce from my breaking body. I wriggle against her death grip, to no avail. She pulls hard, and my tail splits, ripping down the seam punctured on her tooth. The pain is sharp and everywhere all at once, but I don’t have the energy to scream. A whimper escapes my lips.
You will not leave me.
A chill races down my spine as the words float down from somewhere outside myself. That voice—a deep, rumbling baritone—I would recognize it anywhere. How Soren found me here at the end, I have no idea. Maybe it’s my subconscious mind, providing me with a nugget of comfort just before the lights go out.
It’s always just been me, hasn’t it? I look out for myself. There’s no one else, has never been since the day Odissa killed my father. I’m doing it even now. How kind of me.
Dammit, Enna!
The voice is louder now. I must be close to the end.
I suppose this is true to form, dying in the fight for my life. When the beast swallows me whole, it won’t be quick, and it won’t be painless. I will pass into her belly, where a sea of acid will dissolve my flesh piece by piece. I will scream—if I still can—and no one will hear me but the skeletons in the dredge that lines her gut. No one can save me from this. I am completely alone, here in the moment of my death.
