“Do not speak,” she said in a raspy voice, careful not to jostle the crossbow bolt sticking out of my body. Stabs of pain pulsed through my right shoulder. “Here comes the surgeon.”

Over her shoulder I caught a glimpse of a man in a traditional boubou, carrying a leather bag and a small drum. I lay on a cot in a hospital tent spacious enough to house a dozen soldiers, although I was the only patient. Before the doctor could reach me, a soldier cut him off.

“Catherine Barahal. I have been looking for you.” Lord Marius stared down at me with such loathing that I whimpered. “Where is Legate Amadou Barry?”

My nurse looked up with no sign of servility. “My lord, she will do better once the arrow is out and the wound cleaned.”

“Ah.” He cut away my clothes and probed the wound in a way that made me almost stop breathing as I struggled not to cry out. “It’s hit the bone, but the bolt must have been at the end of its range. Nothing I haven’t dealt with on the battlefield.”

He fixed a hand around the shaft and pulled it out. The pain made me go blind and deaf for the longest time, oblivious to everything except the pulse of my heart, or the earth, or a drum: I was not sure what I felt. Nor did the pain ease as my body was washed and handled, wet clothes stripped from me, and a stinging poultice laid atop the red-hot center of the wound.

After an agony of time I sought with my mind along the length of my body and found my right foot. Focusing on the foot, which did not hurt, I opened my eyes. The roof of the tent billowed with odd patterns of light that made my eyes water. I was naked, a blanket tucked modestly around my body and folded under my armpits. My right shoulder had been bandaged. When I shifted, a wave of pain spilled outward from the shoulder, and I whimpered.

“Here you are,” said the gaunt woman, still seated beside me.

Two girls stood behind her with huge dark eyes a-goggle. Their striking resemblance to Vai snapped me into full wakefulness. One girl was a head shorter than her sister and as thin as a reed; she leaned on a crutch. The taller girl was robust.

The woman leaned forward. “Drink this. It will ease the pain.”

Again Lord Marius appeared, a god out of a Greek tale, ready to smite. He snatched away the cup before it could touch my lips. “I want an answer to my question.”

She nodded calmly. “Of course, my lord. But it is hard for the young woman to speak with dry lips.”

I could speak!