I feel her muscles tense as she weighs my words. Slowly, she lifts her candle until it illuminates both our faces. She’s younger than I expected, and I see the telltale rosemarks on her skin. Her gaze sweeps across my face and hands as well. The surprise in her expression likely mirrors my own.

“You’re a Shidadi tribesman,” she says.

I don’t reply. Shouts echo in from outside. The words are muffled, but it’s clear enough there’s a search going on. A shrewd look crosses the woman’s face, and it makes me uneasy. If she decides to call for help, I don’t think I could actually cut her throat. I despise this healer as much as any of her fellow villagers, but I’m not a murderer.

“You’re immune to rose plague,” she says.

Why is she repeating the obvious? I may not kill her, but I decide I have no problem with giving her a solid knock on the head. I shift my knife to expose the hilt.

Her eyes flicker to my hand. “Are you immune to snakes?”

By the time I make sense of her words, something long and muscular is already wrapping itself around my arm. I look down to see a reptilian head topped with a triangle pattern my people have long since learned to fear. A layer of cold sweat erupts over my skin.

“Drop your knife,” the healer says.

The snake winds its way up my arm, then anchors its tail on my bicep. It flicks its tongue in the direction of my face and I turn away. They say that the bite of a purple-crowned serpent feels like being burned alive.

I drop the knife.

“I wouldn’t really have killed you,” I say through gritted teeth. It occurs to me that I may be less than convincing under these circumstances.

She sets her candle on a wall holder. “Diadem is gentle. She only bites if provoked, or if I ask her to. Stay still.”

The snake bobs its head back and forth as the healer runs her hands over my body. Word around the Shidadi camp is that Dara maidens are modest, but this one’s not shy at all about where she puts her hands. I’d enjoy it more if there wasn’t a snake bobbing within kissing distance from my face. It’s not long before she discovers the daggers at my waist. I remain silent as she removes them, but I can’t help sucking in a breath when she presses on my injured ankle.

“Are you hurt?”

“Zenagua take you,” I snarl.

She runs her hand over the swelling. “It’s not broken, but you’ll risk much greater harm if you run any farther tonight. Put your hands behind your back. Move slowly, or you’ll startle the snake.”

As if she needed to remind me. Rough twine digs into my skin.