“But they do like to dip their arrowheads into dung.”

Something inside him tightened. He bowed his head. “Selanol grant me light.” Brother Qown tried to reach Illumination.

Ninavis stared at him.

He straightened as he pulled a small knife from his belt. “Well? Help me or find Dorna so she can help, but I don’t have time for you to get over your superstitions.”

Ninavis flushed. Her jaw worked, and then she turned, storming to the hearth. She began piling logs from the wood box into the fireplace.

Brother Qown began cutting Janel’s clothing away from the wound. It would have been easier—alas, so many things would have been easier—in the west, where most women wore midriff-baring rasigi. The Joratese preferred full tunics, and those with bosoms tight-laced a reed-strengthened bodice over their chests. It made cutting the fabric away difficult. Frustrated, Qown sliced open the bodice ties and ripped the garment open.

Brother Qown grimaced at the revealed wound.

Ninavis had snapped off the bolt shaft so the injury wouldn’t tear open as they ran, but now he had little choice. The moment he removed the rest of the bolt, the clotted black blood would rip loose, and the bleeding would resume.

Ninavis made a loud noise with something. Something metallic. A cook pot. He looked up.

“So was that because of the curse too?” she asked.

Brother Qown ground his teeth. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“It was never just her using magic, was it—”

Brother Qown slammed his hand down against the table. “I don’t have time for this! She doesn’t have time for this. Be quiet!”

He didn’t wait on her response. He returned his attention to Janel and once more attempted to shift his vision. He could do this. He had to do this.

This time, Ninavis didn’t interrupt.

Count Janel’s aura appeared unlike any Qown had ever seen before. It twisted and blurred, folding in on itself like smoke buffeted by swirling zephyrs.

An aura that scoffed at his attempts to twist her body back into health.

Brother Qown tried again.

Again, he failed.

He couldn’t heal her. Panic twisted his heart.

Janel had paled from blood loss and shock. If Brother Qown couldn’t find a way to heal her …

If he did nothing, she’d die. The bolt had missed her spine but not her liver. She’d die from that alone, assuming infection and sepsis didn’t claim her.

Brother Qown fished in his robe and pulled out a small metal box.

“What’s that?” Ninavis asked. She must have been watching him the whole time.

“Desperation,” he said. The priest opened the box. Inside rested a nest of small twigs and feather down. A perfect blue robin’s egg sat in the middle.

Well, it looked like a robin’s egg.

The thin clay had been painted to look like the real thing, as beautiful and fragile.