“And how are things at Dara? Your village is expanding their crop terraces, is that right?”

“Yes, sir. It will require extra work, but the additional harvest will help in lean years.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. He puts down his bread and looks straight at me. “Seems like you may have a lean year coming, if the Shidadi keep raiding your village.”

It’s all I can do not to drop my bread. “I’ve heard of a raid or two, but we don’t see much of the nomads.”

“That’s funny. My people have reported increased nomad sightings around Dara.”

It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, and I can’t help but feel that his eyes can see right through my skin. “I’m afraid I’m only a healer, and a rosemarked one at that. Everything I hear is secondhand.”

He’s still watching me. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Is he toying with me? My breakfast sticks to the roof of my mouth. “I must thank you again for inviting me here, Commander,” I say. “I’m looking forward to being able to work again.”

He brushes some crumbs off the table onto the floor. “I’ll be curious if you still feel the same way after seeing the hospital. Jesmin is in charge there and expecting you. You can have one of the guards at the manor door guide you there.”

It takes all my willpower to walk calmly out into the courtyard. I ask a guard to lead me to the hospital, and my mind is awhirl as I follow him. Was Arxa sending me a warning? Am I jumping at shadows? Again I wish I knew where Dineas was.

We’re almost at the gate to the compound when the soldier stops.

“The hospital,” he says, indicating a door. And then he leaves me.

I linger outside for a moment, taking in the building. It’s not particularly impressive—one story high and constructed of irregular bricks, though it’s not falling down, which is already better than many of the structures nearby. There’s no sign on or above the door. The shutters on the few small windows are open, and I see some shadows moving inside.

When I push the door open, the sight makes me stumble back. In the dimly lit first room, laid out all along the wall on frayed grass pallets, are patients in the active throes of the rose plague. The air is thick with disease. It’s exactly like the outbreak back at Dara—the cries of delirious patients, the blank stares, and the acrid smell of sweat. But unlike at Dara, there’s no one here tending the sick.