She reached for her water basin and almost knocked it over. With shaking hands, she drew water and splashed it between her legs, desperate to wash him off, to cleanse herself, and her heart beat madly and blackness spread across her eyes. She felt ready to faint, to collapse.

Breathe.

She drew a shaky breath.

Exhale.

She blew out the air.

Be strong. Be a leader.

She doubled over, and she fell to her knees, and she was sorry, she was so sorry, and she missed him.

"Come back to me, Tanin. I'm so afraid." She raised her voice to a hoarse cry. "Tanin!"

She opened her palm and stared at the amulet. It was cold and hard and emitted no light.

LAIRA

 
LAIRA

The sun rose and fell. Rain washed the world. For days they lingered, tied to the boulder in the valley of the Cured. For days they watched the sun and moon and stars, the grass swaying, the inuksuks upon the hills sending their shadows across the valley.

"Drink," Auberon said every day, offering them the jug.

Laira always shook her head. Maev always cursed and spat and thrashed.

"I will not force you," Auberon said, "for you must choose to be cured. I will return tomorrow."

The days went by.

They remained upon the boulder, the rain washing them, the sun baking them, the wind cutting into their skin.

On the sixth dawn, vultures began to circle above.

"We're going to die here," Maev said, voice hoarse.

Laira shook her head. "The druids will keep us alive. They offer us food and water." She sighed. "We'll grow old upon this boulder until we drink their elixir."

Maev managed to growl. "I won't grow old here. I'd sooner die."

As the sun rose, the druids emerged as always from their huts. They chanted in the valley, spears raised, praying to the inuksuks upon the hills. They tended to their campfires. They traveled into the forests to return with nuts and berries. And like every dawn, Auberon walked toward them.

As always, the old man wore his blue robes, the hems stained green from the grass. As always, mist floated around his feet, and the charms hanging from his staff chinked. As always, he held two vessels—one bowl of stew, one goblet full of the green elixir.

"Eat," he said, offering the clay bowl to Laira.

The smell of stew tickled her nostrils. Today the stew was thick with wild hare, mushrooms, and onions. She wanted to refuse him. She wanted to spit the meal at his face. But Laira's belly rumbled and her mouth watered, and she guzzled down half the bowl.

"Drink," Auberon said next, offering Laira the goblet. The tillvine swirled within, green like her eyes. "Drink and be cured."

She shook her head. "This drink I refuse. This is poison." She looked aside. "I will not drink."