Finally I make out the lines of Dineas’s face. His forehead’s damp with sweat, and his hair is plastered to his temples. My limbs go soft with relief.

“Thank you, sirs. Please lay him on that empty pallet.”

I manage a show of composure until I see the soldiers out. Then I rush to Dineas’s side. He stirs at my approach, but his eyes don’t focus on me. His skin is warm to the touch, and his pupils are dilated. I lift a corner of his blanket and take his wrist. His pulse is fast, but he’s alive, and I cling to that knowledge. Though I’ve only known him a few weeks, finally having him in the compound with me is the closest thing to having a bit of home.

The fever-inducing root I gave him has clearly taken hold. He’s sick and distressed, as he should be, though I can’t dispel a nagging guilt for having done this to him. I find the brand he’s given himself underneath a bandage on his left forearm. It’s no longer an obviously new burn, but it’s raw enough that it would catch a seasoned healer’s attention. I wrap it up carefully. Better to keep it out of sight a few more days.

And then there’s the umbermarks. I look around to make sure no one’s watching, then check the skin of his torso and legs. The dark splotches are now a reddish color—not as bright as true rosemarks, but the hospital is dimly lit, and I’ll just have to hope nobody looks too carefully.

This is the state of his body, but what is the state of his mind? As if in response to my thoughts, Dineas’s eyes suddenly focus on me. He reaches for my hand, and when I take it, he grips me with surprising strength. His gaze is frightened, and he struggles to form words with his lips.

“Zi…Where…”

A bolt of panic shoots through me. “Be calm,” I interrupt before he can say anything more. “You need rest.”

He stares at me, and his eyes crinkle as if he’s trying to remember. My heart lodges in my throat. He’s not supposed to know me.

A new voice speaks from behind me. “Just one brought in this morning?”

Jesmin stands at the foot of Dineas’s pallet.

It’s a wonder I don’t burst from nerves. “Just this one. The fever’s gripped him tight.”

Jesmin kneels across from me and gives Dineas a cursory examination. I pray he doesn’t notice the strangeness of his rosemarks.

“What is this?” Jesmin asks, pointing to the bandage on Dineas’s arm.

“A burn scar,” I say. “I think he got it before the fever.”

Jesmin lets out a heavy breath as he pushes himself back to his feet. “It’s a pity when the young fall ill,” he says.