The Winner's Crime(59)

“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.”

The physician gave him a sidelong look. “I’m not sure I need the commentary.” But Kestrel did, and Verex knew that she did.

When it was finished and the gore was cleaned away, the wound hidden below swaths of gauze, Kestrel’s father looked both larger and smaller than he ever had to her. His face had always seemed to be cut from stone. It was softer now. The sun lines that fanned from his closed eyes were as white as thin scars. His light brown hair held no trace of gray. He had been young when she was born. He wasn’t old now. Yet he looked ancient.

The physician left. He would return, he said. Verex brought a chair so that Kestrel could sit by her father’s bedside. Then he became awkward again. His stooped shoulders hunched a little more as he asked whether she needed him to stay with her.

She shook her head. “But … thank you. Thank you for helping me.”

He smiled. There was a touch of surprise in his smile. Kestrel thought that he was probably not used to being thanked.

Then she was alone with her father. His breath was slow and even. His hand lay palm up on the bed beside him, fingers slightly curled.

Kestrel couldn’t remember when she had last held his hand. Had she been a child then? Surely she had held his hand before.

She hesitated, then she let her palm rest upon his. With her other hand, Kestrel made his loose fingers hold hers close.

*

He woke during the night. The lamp had been turned down low. His eyes opened just slightly, and gleamed in the feeble light. He opened them wider. He saw Kestrel, and didn’t smile, not exactly, yet the set of his mouth changed. His hand tightened around hers.

“Father.” Kestrel would have said more, but he closed his eyes briefly in the way of someone who wants to say no without speaking, yet hasn’t the strength to shake his head. Softly, he said, “Sometimes I forget that you aren’t a soldier.”

He was thinking about when he’d entered the palace yard, and the way she had greeted him. Kestrel said flatly, “You believe I don’t know how to behave around you.”