Followed by Fros(55)

“Svara Idyah,” she said, her voice quivering, “forgive my interruption”—she nodded to Aamina—“but I have a son sick at home with fever, and when I saw the clouds . . .”

She stared at me for a moment before dropping her eyes. “His body is so hot; I thought perhaps you could cool him. Anything will help.”

Astonished, I glanced back to the woman’s friends, who quickly separated and went their separate ways. Had this been their discussion? I had assumed they were eager to see the back of me.

Aamina shook her head. “Terrible news—how old is he?”

“Seven,” the woman answered, eyeing me.

“I am no doctor,” I said, “but I will try my best to help.”

The woman seemed both terrified and relieved. She wet her lips and said, “This way,” and wove back through the market, leading us around tents and down a dirt road that meandered through the homes on Mac’Hliah’s north side, closer to the mountains than the rest of the city. She said nothing as she led us, only wrung her hands together and occasionally glanced over her shoulder at me. I noticed bags under her eyes. There must have been a great deal of worry hiding beneath her skin.

She stopped at a single-level brick house and led us through a door made of hanging cloth. A few pieces of wicker furniture lined the walls of the front room, and an elaborate but faded oval rug lay over the center of the floor, a few dishes scattered atop it. The woman led us into a second, smaller room filled with narrow beds. A young boy lay on one in the corner, his black hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His eyes did not open when we entered the room, and his stomach heaved with each breath. A young woman—I can only assume his sister—knelt beside him, wiping his face with a wet rag. My presence obviously rattled her, but she did not move from her brother’s side.

The woman—her name was Boani—quickly crossed the room and knelt at her son’s side, pressing her palm first to his cheek, then to his neck.

I swallowed. This reminded me too much of Bennion Hutches.

Boani waved to me. “See? His head is too hot. Come, feel.”

“I cannot,” I said at the same time Aamina spurted, “No!”

Boani and her daughter gazed at me with wild eyes.

In careful Hraric, I explained that my direct touch would do more harm than good. I noticed a dented pail half-filled with water at the bedside.

“Do you have a sack?” I asked.

Boani nodded and hurried out of the room, careful not to brush me as she went.

I neared the bed, Aamina behind me. The daughter shivered.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “How long has he been sick?”

She held up two fingers. Two days.

“It looks different.”

I whirled around at the voice, causing Aamina to start, seeking that honey-slick voice that spoke the dead tongue of Angrean. Death stood in the corner of the room, his arms folded over his chest, his back leaning against the wall.

“Smeesa?” Aamina asked, studying my face. I remembered that she and the others could not see the man in the corner.

Boani returned with a burlap bag that smelled something like chicory, and I forced my attention off Sadriel. I took the bag and placed its base in the pail, twisting it until most of the water was inside its netting.

“I do not want it to snow on Mac’Hliah,” I explained as I pulled off my gloves and tucked them into the broad sleeves of my dress. “But I will do what I can to help you cool him. Has he seen a doctor?”

Boani stared at the pail and nodded.

I knelt and clasped the metal bucket between my hands. Frost etched up its sides, and for a quarter second condensation formed along the rim of the pail, but within moments the water inside it froze, clinging to the burlap.

Death appeared beside me, blocking my view of Aamina. “It’s different. What did you do?”

“Now is not the time to talk about my hair,” I snapped quietly in Angrean, though not low enough to avoid being heard. Boani eyed me strangely, likely suspecting some form of witchcraft. “Why are you—”

The truth came to me in a sudden rush of understanding, and I ripped my hands away from the bucket and glared at Sadriel. He wasn’t here for me. He was here for the boy.

“You cannot take him,” I hissed.

From behind Sadriel, Aamina whispered, “What are you saying?”

“Just talking myself through what I’m doing,” I answered in Hraric. “Boani, take this.”

Boani hurried over to me and grasped the top of the sack while I held the pail, and she lifted the solid block of ice after a few tugs.

“Not your hair,” Sadriel said, oblivious to the mortals around him. “Your curse. It looks . . . different.”

I stiffened and glanced at him, then forced my eyes away. I did not want the others to think me insane.

To Boani, I said, “Do you have more water? For more ice?”

The word for ice was the same in Hraric and Northlander, though I pronounced it with the Zareedian accent. She nodded and nearly tripped over herself in her haste to rush out of the room.

“Are you all right?” Aamina asked, rubbing her chin.

I nodded and murmured in Angrean, “What do you mean, it’s different?”

Sadriel only shook his head and shrugged. “I can’t explain it in a way you would understand.”