Page 64 of Jailer to the Death God
I renew my hold on Vale’s hand. Her grip has relaxed, along with her features. Her eyes are closed, lashes painted dark against her pale cheeks. She’s beginning to breathe easier.
Mesmerized, I watch the golden lines of light dance over her body, weaving tissues together, linking severed blood vessels, smoothing the layers of skin. The boy repairs everything, from her lacerated stomach to her clawed breasts, with an air of compassionate calm. He is highly gifted, to be this skilled at his age.
The little Queen is whole again, and practically naked from hips to collarbones. I leap up, taking a blanket from a basket in the corner and draping it over her. She seems to be sleeping.
“She will be well now,” says the boy healer, with a contented expression.
He doesn’t seem frightened of me, though he saw me threatening his father. I feel—not guilty, exactly—but a little uneasy that he witnessed my wrath.
“And you?” I ask him. “Are you tired?”
He nods, looking up at me with clear eyes and a bright smile. “A little, my lord. But I am pleased I could help. My mother hasn’t let me perform a healing for months.”
“She feared for your safety, with good reason. You are fortunate to have her.”
“I know.” He shakes his head, still smiling. “But she worries a lot. I suppose all mothers do.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t have one.”
His eyebrows rise.
“I’m grateful to you,” I continue. “I cannot express how grateful, or why, but—”
“You love her,” says the boy cheerfully. “I understand.”
“What?” Shock flashes through my body.
“You love the Queen. This morning I heard my parents saying they’d received word of her engagement to you. You’re to be married, yes? So you must love her.”
“Oh… that.” I clear my throat. “Sometimes people marry for reasons other than love.”
“But not you.” The boy tilts his head, eyeing me shrewdly. “You held her hand while I healed her. I saw how you looked, my lord. Like you could not be happy if she died.”
Because my life is bound to hers, because I love myself, because I don’t want to die.
That is all. There can be no more.
I must redirect this child to safer topics. “When did your gift manifest?”
“Last year. We did not speak of it then, either, because my mother wanted to spare me the pressure of a healer’s life until I was older. I practiced on my family, whenever someone had a cut or a scrape. I healed my father’s broken arm once, and when a horse trampled one of the maids I repaired the crushed parts. Then when the plague began, secrecy was even more important, so I couldn’t use my gift at all.”
I nod. “I’ve heard that the healing of a single person from the plague drains all the healer’s energy.”
“And even then it doesn’t always work,” the boy says soberly. “We heard about the palace healers, how they tried to save the King, the Queen, and then the Crown Prince. The healers died trying, and it still didn’t work. The royal family died anyway, one after another. Except her.” The boy pats Vale’s shoulder. “She survived. And that’s good. We need her.”
A dark ache gnaws at my heart. “I was supposed to protect her this evening,” I tell the boy. “I failed.”
“But you tried, didn’t you? That’s what matters. My mother says everyone fails sometimes.”
“Not me.” My fists clench. “I am a god. I should have been stronger, quicker.”
The boy rises, making a thoughtful face. “I don’t think she’s mad at you about it. She held your hand very tightly.”
“She should be furious,” I mutter. “I’m angry at myself.”
“Maybe you’re hungry. Sometimes when I’m angry, I’m also hungry.”
His matter-of-fact suggestion startles me. I almost laugh.
