Keir was dead.

It felt like I’d been struck in the chest, right between my breasts. I covered my heart with my hands, and bent over, moaning as the pain and memories washed over me, over and over. As the memories spilled out and re-played before my eyes.

Just when we’d sworn ourselves to each other. Just when we’d learned to trust and have faith . . .

My chest was so tight, I could barely breathe. I rocked back and forth, sobbing until exhaustion silenced my tears.

Something nudged me. I looked up to see Greatheart standing over me. He lowered his head, and sniffed my neck.

“Oh, Greatheart.” I reached up, and hugged him. He waited patiently as I clung to him, trying to get my tears under control.

When I could, I let go and tried to struggle to my feet. As I shifted to stand, I realized that my satchel was still on my hip, the strap between my breasts. I eased the strap over my head and just sat for a moment, trying to get my bearings.

I was a mess. My tunic was stained and wrinkled. My head was pounding something fierce, and my stomach was empty and growling. My hands hurt, and I opened them to see they were swollen, hot and raw. There were sharp cuts where Greatheart’s mane had sliced into my palms.

The goats were gathered at the bank of the stream, drinking and eating and chattering like old women on laundry day. Greatheart took a step and scattered them, so that he could drink, noisily sucking in water. The goats scolded with their odd sounds, but splashed through the water to the other side of the stream. I got to my feet and staggered over to kneel by the water, upstream of Greatheart.

I thrust my hands in first. The touch of the water made me hiss as it cooled my heated skin. I cleaned them as best I could, then cupped them and drank the cool sweet water. Only then did I splash my face, drying it on the sleeves of my tunic.

That done, I got to my feet, to look around in the light of day.

Grass and horses. No people. No tents. No enemies.

No ghosts.

I was just as grateful for the last.

I didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel. My hands still hurt, so I decided to think about that for now. I walked back to my satchel, sat next to it and opened it wide. There was a salve that would help, somewhere in the mess.

The first thing I pulled out was bloodmoss. Carefully, I used a bit to close the cuts. They were still raw, still swollen, but some of the pain was gone.

The next item was my vanilla soap, dried and wrapped in cloth. I held my breath, not wanting to inhale the scent. Not now. I couldn’t think about that now. I set it in the grass, as far away as possible.

I rummaged further, surprised to see nothing broken, even the jar with the ehat musk. I wasn’t really sure what all was in the satchel. Gils had made it from an old saddlebag and a wide leather strap. He’d told me that he was putting in pockets for ‘useful things’. I could see him seated on the floor of my stilltent, looking up at—

I wiped my nose on my tunic, and tried to force myself to think about other things. But the images flooded into my head.

Gils convulsed, limbs jerking in spasms, his head thrown back, gasping for air.

Yers staggered, almost dropping the lad in horror. But Isdra stepped closer to Yers, taking more of Gils’s weight. They both managed to hold steady as Gils stopped thrashing as quickly as he had started.

My head came up, my eyes popped open. I looked out over the grasses, but I didn’t see them. Instead, I went over that horrible moment again and again, with the eye of a healer. A cold, unemotional eye.

Gils convulsed, limbs jerking in spasms, his head thrown back, gasping for air.

The patient had convulsions.

I moved then, my hand on his forehead. Gils was warm, but not extraordinarily so. “Gils?” I called his name, but there was no reaction, no indication that he was aware. I placed my fingers at his neck, feeling a slow, weak pulse.

The patient had not had a fever.

Quickly, I checked for any kind of head wound, or perhaps he was choking. But his head showed no sign of injury and his throat was clear. There was no sign of other injury, it had to be the plague, and yet there was no odor, no real sweat on his body. But the headaches could cause these kinds of problems, if they were severe enough. Gils’s breath was rapid and labored, perhaps ...

No head wound. No odor, no sweating. Breathing was rapid and labored.

Again, Gils jerked in spasms. His breathing was slowing, as was the beat of his heart. I looked around, finally focusing on Keir’s face, a question in his eyes. I met his gaze, and let my tears fall, answering with a shake of my head.

His heart had slowed, his breathing had slowed. My throat was as dry as a bone, my heart was racing. Seen now, with a cold eye and distance, I knew—

I swallowed hard, and faced the truth. Gils had not died of the plague.

But the only thing that I could think of that might cause those symptoms was poison.

I stared at the satchel, numb.

Iften spun on his heel, and glared at me with eyes filled with hate. He paused as he stepped past me. “You and your poisons made it to the Heart. But we of the Plains can learn to use poison, too. Remember that, Xyian.”

I remembered, all right. I also remembered that Iften had been alone with my brother at one point, when Keir had used him as a messenger. That attack in the market, they’d used a lance fletched with Iften’s pattern. Keir had no proof, but...

Monkshood caused convulsions. Monkshood, the poison my brother had offered me, to ‘preserve my honor’. I’d left it behind in my room when I’d given myself to Keir.

Left it in my room for my brother to find.

Was it possible that Iften had poisoned Gils?

I sat staring for some time, before the stinging of my hands brought me back to my task. I forced myself to concentrate on the tasks at hand.

I dug deeper into the satchel’s depths, pulling out all the contents for the first time. My medicines were there and I set them out by my feet. When I found the jar with the right salve, I stopped for a moment to rub some into my hands. I bit my lip as the medicine stung. That meant it was working.

At least, that’s what I told my patients.

I stoppered the jar, and continued to empty out the satchel. Clean cloths for bandages. A small leather pouch with . . . could it be?

The gurt spilled out into my hand, the familiar white pebble cheese of the Firelanders. My stomach rumbled, but I winced at the idea. It was so dry ... my stomach gurgled again, and I shrugged, popped one into my mouth, and chewed.

It tasted wonderful.

I crammed in another piece. Of course, it was only the hunger that made it taste good. Or maybe that my nose was so stuffed that I couldn’t smell it. I kept eating as I continued my hunt.

More of my familiar medicines, and the scrap of leather that held the bit of mushroom that Iften had spit out. I set them all aside and kept digging.

An unfamiliar jar proved to be sweetfat. I recognized the smell. I wondered what kind of grasses they used to make it, even as I set it down.

A small wooden box, with flint, steel, and tinder. Bless you, Gils.

Another small pouch, with leather working tools. A battered tin pot. Another small pouch, with ... kavage beans!

Dried meat, wrapped in a few folds of leather. A wooden comb. I started to cry over my riches when my fingers closed over a last item.

The spring knife that Marcus had given me.

I’d thought my tears had gone dry.

I’d been wrong.

I crushed the kavage beans between two river stones. They boiled in the small battered pot, over a tiny fire that I managed to get started on the third try with the flint and steel.

I drank the first bowlful before it really cooled, and set the crushed beans to boil again as I worked at the dried meat. Tough chewing, but my belly didn’t care.