For the first time, I get a good look at this healer. In the daylight, her rosemarks stand out like pools of blood, and I wonder how I could ever have missed them, even in the candlelight. In other ways, she looks the typical Dara maiden. Long black hair pulled back in a braid, homespun drab dress worn under a bright blue apron. She’d be attractive if not for the plague marks—she’s tall for a girl, with full lips and large eyes. But when I look at her now, all I see is death.

She catches me looking at her, and a flash of annoyance crosses her face before she addresses Gatha. “My snake, Diadem, does what I ask,” she says. “If you look inside, you will see the rest of the creatures I keep.”

Gatha pulls her arms close as she comes in, careful not to touch the doorway. “I’ll congratulate you, young Zivah. There are very few who have bested Dineas one-on-one.”

Bested by a Dara maiden. I’ll have no peace at the campfire tonight.

“With all due respect, Warlord,” I say, “the snake made it two-on-one.”

Gatha snorts. “Are you injured, Dineas?” She’s peering with interest over my head at the cages beyond.

“A twisted ankle and a few scrapes.”

She steps over me for a closer look at the blackarmor scorpion. “Thirsty? Hungry?”

“Yes, Warlord.” Even the act of forming those words pulls uncomfortably on my parched lips.

“I imagine you would be.” Gatha looks at each cage in turn, taking her time now that she knows I won’t drop dead. I know better than to complain. Finally, she crosses her arms over her chest, looks down at me, and sighs. “Well then, let’s get you free.”

“Let me get his ropes,” says Zivah. She takes a knife out of her apron and cuts through the twine with several deft strokes. I hiss, and flex my fingers as blood rushes into my hands. Zivah dips a bowl of water from a nearby barrel and passes it to me, eyeing me like she’s afraid I’ll haul off and punch her. The thought does have its appeal, especially since she’s not wearing her snake anymore. But thirst wins out, and I content myself with gulping down the contents of the bowl. By the time I finish, Zivah’s untied my legs. I pull myself onto numb feet and limp outside like a drunkard.

As Tal and Zivah make their way toward her cottage, Gatha holds out an arm to support me. “One messenger and three soldiers?” she asks under her breath. “Regular fighters?”

“They struck me more as hired bodyguards. Nothing special.”

Gatha frowns. “And they caught you by surprise?”