Curiosity won out. She pooled her magic in his skull and into the insertion of the optic nerve. The fola in his eyes were almost completely degenerated. So little of her energy could squeeze through the hyaloid canal, it was a wonder he could use his magic at all. Or maybe he couldn’t.

She stifled her bitter laughter. No wonder he hadn’t tried to force her to look at him. No wonder he wanted to bargain. He was powerless. Overuse injuries like this didn’t happen overnight. The repetitive use of magic caused microtraumas to the fola, which, over time, swelled and tore like overstrained tendons. Hal’s magic was effectively gone—and likely had been for some time. How long had Danu needlessly lived in dread of him? How long had he been lying to his own people? Without his magic, kidnapping him was going to be far easier than she anticipated. Assuming, of course, her hypothesis was correct.

Little by little, Wren probed deeper into his system, her magic catching on diseased tissue like debris in a river’s sure course. Images came to her: damaged and weeping tissue, angry inflammation that ravaged capillaries, blood collecting in his lungs. The disease was an infection unlike any she had seen before. It had none of the typical signs of a transmissible disease. No bacteria or viruses that she could detect. Even his own cells seemed to be functioning normally—no autoimmune response, no cancer, no histamines. Nothing that could explain a sudden acute illness.

All her life, healing had been like breathing. Effortless. Natural. Necessary. Her magic opened the human body to her. It spoke to her, guided her. But this … This was like reaching into a void. As if her magic had turned away from her, left her blind and alone. It terrified her.

How could the etiology elude her so completely? If she couldn’t diagnose him, she couldn’t treat him systematically. She prided herself on her research, her ability to treat any disease, any injury. She couldn’t be stumped by something as trifling as a servants’ quarters illness.

“I need more time to come up with a diagnosis. In the meantime, I’ll treat your symptoms so you don’t drop dead before you’re of any use to me.” It was true enough. With his respiratory and immune systems as weakened as they were, he would die long before she could call a carriage to take them both to Danu.

“Thank you.”

Wren tried not to visibly recoil. She did not want the burden of his gratitude. “Sure.”

Bending over him, she began to heal him, sealing off leaking capillaries and soothing the inflammation in his bronchi. It was long, arduous work. The disease was aggressive and the damage profound. She feared she wouldn’t have him stable before the journey home, but she would have to manage it.

Everything depended on his survival.