Cresenne sensed him grasping for the magic again, felt him struggling to reassert his control over her, and she clung to her power with all the strength she had left. He raised a hand to strike her.
“No,” she said. Healing magic. That was the other power he had used against her. That was how he had cut her face last time. No doubt that was how he had hurt her tonight, perhaps that was how he had raped her. It didn’t matter. The magic was hers, and she would not let him have it again.
“You think that I can’t hurt you?” He slapped her across the burned cheek.
Anguish. She felt her certainty crumble. The flame jumped to life in his hand.
“No,” she said again. It was her magic. Grinsa had told her so, and she would die believing him if it came to that. The fire died again. “Perhaps you can hurt me,” she said. “But you’ll not use my magic to do it.”
“I don’t need your magic.” A blade flashed in his hand and he stabbed down at her chest.
She felt the steel pierce her heart, her back arching in agony, despair and horror clawing at her mind. But still she clung to her magic. It was all she had left. If this was to be the end, she would perish fighting him, forcing him to use whatever power he possessed to kill her. But she wouldn’t die by her own magic, not if she could help it. And staring at the knife, she saw her skin seal itself around the blade. There was no blood at all.
“He was right,” she said breathlessly.
The Weaver roared his rage, pulled his dagger from her, and lifted it to strike again.
But now she knew. It was her power. More to the point, it was her dream. “You’ll not kill me today,” she said. “You won’t kill me at all.”
He just stared at her, as if she had transformed herself into a goddess before his eyes.
“You’ll die by Grinsa’s hand,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do to save yourself. I’m a gleaner. That’s the other magic I possess. And that’s the fate I foresee for you.”
With that, she forced her eyes open.
Bryntelle was bawling, her face red and damp with tears. Cresenne’s own face felt bruised and swollen; her cheek was screaming agony where the Weaver had burned her. And her entire body ached from being brutalized. She was crying as well, and she gathered the baby in her arms, holding her until their sobbing had eased. Diverse emotions warred within her: humiliation at what he had done to her was tempered by pride in how she stood up to him; her relief at finding a way to take control of her magic and escape her dream could not overcome the terror of knowing that the Weaver would find some way to strike at her again. He had tormented and defiled her-who could say if the scars he had left on her mind and body would ever heal? — and yet, by virtue of her survival, she had defeated him. Cresenne lay there holding Bryntelle, weeping, trying to muster the strength and courage to call for a healer. And with tears still in her eyes, she began to laugh. She worried for the soundness of her mind, and yet once she started, she couldn’t stop. The child stopped crying and stared at her quizzically.
“I won, Bryntelle. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I won.”
The baby’s expression didn’t change, and at last, Cresenne’s unnatural mirth began to subside, leaving her spent and teary once more.
She must have fallen asleep again, for she was awakened some time later by knocking at her door. Bryntelle stirred but didn’t open her eyes. Careful not to wake her, Cresenne rose, covered herself with a robe, and walked stiffly to the door. She unlocked the bolt and opened the door, finding a guard in the corridor. He held a piece of parchment in his hand, but seeing her, he merely stared, his dark eyes widening.
“I need a healer,” she said. Then, remembering her encounter from the night before, she added, “I’d like Nurle. I don’t know his whole name. Can you send for him please?”
“Yes,” the guard said. “Yes, of course.”
He hurried away and Cresenne pushed the door closed before returning to her bed.
In only a few moments, another knock sounded at her door, and at her summons, Nurle entered the chamber. He winced when he saw her and crossed the room quickly to sit beside her on the bed.
“What happened?” he asked.
“The Weaver came for me again last night.”
“Your face looks a mess, but I can mend it. Did he hurt you anywhere else?”
She closed her eyes, feeling tears fall again. Had she really been laughing just a short time before?
“There’s blood on your bedding.”
“Yes. He-” She swallowed, her eyes still shut. “He raped me.”
“Demons and fire!” He faltered. “I’ve never. . I wouldn’t know how-”
“It’s all right. I have healing magic. I can see to those wounds myself.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She forced her eyes open, made herself look at him. “Don’t be. I’m glad you’re here.”
Nurle managed a smile. “Lie down. Let me start with that burn.”
The healer might have been young, but he had a deft touch. Within moments, the scorching pain in her cheek began to ease, as if cool water flowed from the man’s hands into the wound. By the time he finished with the burn and turned his attention to her bruises, the fire in her flesh had been doused entirely, leaving only a dull ache that she knew would vanish within a day or two.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “That’s much better.”
Soon, Nurle had healed her bruises as well. He sat back, taking a long breath, his face flushed and covered with a faint sheen of sweat.
“Is there anything more I can do for you?” he asked, sounding weary.
Cresenne shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She rolled away from him and opened her robe to look at her chest where the Weaver had stabbed at her. The skin was unmarked. “No,” she said, with more certainty. “I’m fine.”
He nodded grimly. “Then I’ll leave you for now. I’ll return shortly with a sleeping tonic.”
“No!” she said, panic flooding her heart.
“You need rest. I know that you won’t sleep during the night, so I want you going back to sleep now, while you can.”
I can’t sleep at all, she wanted to say, though she knew how ridiculous that would sound. Earlier she had been celebrating her victory over the Weaver. Now, faced with the prospect of meeting him again, she quailed. I’m a fool.
“If I sleep, he may come for me again.”
A gentle smile touched the healer’s lips, reminding her oddly of Grinsa. “So you’re never going to sleep again?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“All I can tell you, Cresenne, is what I know as a healer. You need rest. You have healing magic, too, so you know that I’m right.”
She did. “All right. Nothing too strong, though. A bit of betony perhaps, mixed with just a bit of sweetwort. I have to be able to wake myself. It’s bad enough battling the Weaver, but if I’m fighting your tonic as well, he’ll kill me.”
Nurle frowned, but gave a reluctant nod. “All right. Betony and sweetwort then. I’ll return soon.”
Once he was gone, and her door closed again, Cresenne removed her robe and began to heal herself, cursing the Weaver repeatedly all the while. When she had finished and put on a new shift, she felt nearly whole again, though more tired than she had been since the earliest days of Bryntelle’s life, when sleep had been a precious thing. She sat on the bed once more, and gazed at her daughter until Nurle’s knock drew her attention.
When the door opened, however, it was another Qirsi who entered the chamber, one of the older healers, a man she had seen in the castle corridors many times before.
“Where’s Nurle?”
“Another patient required his attention,” the Qirsi said, closing the door. “A man with Caerissan pox. Nurle told me to prepare this sleeping tonic for you. I believe you wanted betony and sweetwort?”
“Yes, thank you.”