Kestrel’s heart seemed to hatch inside her and let go something that soared. Her father must be well. His injury couldn’t have been bad, or he would have been borne to the palace on a litter.

Kestrel no longer cared for dignity. She ran for the stone steps leading down from the battlement. She raced down the staircase, tripping over the hem of her dress, catching at the railing, cursing her heeled shoes.

She burst into the yard just as brass horns sounded their fanfare. The barbican gates heaved open, and the battalion marched in.

The general rode his horse straight toward Kestrel. That winged feeling inside her faltered. Her father’s face was gray. A wide bandage wrapped around his lower torso leaked blood.

The general halted his horse. The battalion stopped behind him, and the walls of the yard rang silent.

Kestrel stepped toward him.

“No,” said her father. She stopped. He dismounted. It was agonizing to see how slow he was. Blood streaked his saddle.

Again Kestrel would have gone to him. Once he stood on the paved ground, she would have offered her arm. Not in an obvious way. Couldn’t a daughter walk arm in arm with her father? But he raised his gauntleted hand.

She came close anyway. “Let me help.”

“Don’t shame me.”

The general’s words were said low, through clenched teeth. No one heard their exchange. But Kestrel felt as if everyone had, and that every single person gathered there knew everything there was to know about her and her father as he led the way inside the palace, and she was forced to follow behind.

26

He refused medicine. “There’s a fine line between medicine and poison,” he said.

The cup was in the healer’s hand, not Kestrel’s, but she reacted as if she had been the one accused. “No one would poison you,” she told her father.

“That’s not what he means,” said Verex.

Everyone looked at him, including the emperor, whose expression was like when Verex had comforted Kestrel on the battlements. The face of the imperial physician, however, showed a clear respect for the prince. Kestrel’s father simply squinted and looked worn, and leaned back on the bloodied bed. Kestrel had no idea what her face showed.

“Almost anything that heals can also hurt … depending on the amount,” said Verex. “Even in the right amount, the general might not like the side effects.”

“It’s only to fight infection,” said the physician, “and to make you sleep.”

“Exactly,” said Kestrel’s father. The way he looked at the cup made clear what he would do if it came any nearer.

“I need to clean the wound.”

“You can do that just as well while I’m awake.”

“Please, Father,” said Kestrel. He ignored her.

“Old friend,” said the emperor, “you’ve proved yourself a thousand times over. There’s no need for this stubbornness.”

“It could be forced down,” Verex suggested. Everyone gave him a look of horror.

“You’ll drink it,” the emperor told General Trajan. “I order you to.”

Kestrel’s father sighed. “I hate being outnumbered,” he said, and drank.

He blinked heavily. He turned his gaze toward Kestrel. She didn’t know whether he meant to speak or only to look, and if it was to look at her, she didn’t know what he wanted to see, or did see. But she held her breath, waiting for a word. A gesture. A gesture would be enough.

He closed his eyes. His face seemed to slow. He slept.

Kestrel realized that she had never seen her father sleep. Somehow that was what made the tears finally fall.

“It’s not so serious,” said the emperor, but the expressions on the physician’s face—and Verex’s—disagreed. “Come. No more tears.” The emperor offered her a handkerchief, and his voice was gentle.

Verex looked away.

When the emperor had left, the physician said to Kestrel, “You should leave, too, my lady.”

“No.”

The physician tried to hide his impatient disapproval.

“I won’t faint,” she said, though she didn’t trust her own promise.

“Would you mind if I stayed with you?” Verex asked her. For all that the question was meek, it managed to decide things. The healer went to work.

Verex talked to her the entire time. He described what each of the healer’s tools did, and the antiseptic properties of the wash. “Abdominal wounds are dangerous,” he said, “but the blade didn’t damage any internal organs.”

“How do you know?” asked Kestrel.

“He’d be dead by now,” the healer said shortly.

It was a gash, long and deep. It exposed pink layers of flesh and went down right to yellow fat. The healer’s antiseptic fizzed in the wound, and blood ran out.

Kestrel felt sickeningly light. She was going to faint after all. Then she looked at her father’s sleeping face and wondered who would protect him while he slept, if not her. She kept her eyes open. She kept her feet on the ground.

“Too deep for stitches,” muttered the physician.

“He’s going to pack it with wet, sterile gauze instead,” Verex explained. “It will heal slowly, from the inside out.” The prince’s voice was strong and sure. He was turning the grim words of the physician into something hopeful. “Really, that’s the best way to avoid infection, because the wound can be cleaned out daily.”