Potent: Book 1

Chapter 11: Gathering

Ber, Day 37 of Rhexia, Winking Moons, Year 602

"Grief is strange. I have never once been able to predict how it will manifest." —From the private journal of Colin Slager, Grandmaster Combatant and Chancellor of Craestor University

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Evin tried to open her eyes but found they were swollen nearly shut. Her nose felt stiff and full, and she emitted a strange rasping noise when she sucked in a breath.

Immediately, the memories of the day before flooded her, and her raw, red-rimmed eyes filled once more.

Wynn. Wynn. Cotter. The baby. Wynn. Oh, Calumn, Wynn.

She wanted her sister. She wanted her more than anything. She wanted to be held by her. She wanted to hear her voice, ask her what would happen next.

Perhaps it was all a horrible dream, and she would wake up to find that none of it had happened at all.

Could she pretend that it hadn't happened?

Evin tried. She would have to break herself off into different pieces to do it, but she thought she could isolate the searing pain of her current reality so that it didn't touch her somehow. It felt cold, partitioning parts of herself off like that, but when she tried to set her heart's boundaries and face the day anew, the ache simply seeped under each of her walls, drenching her irrevocably in unbelievable agony.

No. It wouldn't do. It was all connected. She could not separate herself from what had happened the day before.

In an instant, a violent flash of memory overcame her, and she saw the hand cart flying upended through the air, ringed in flame and acrid smoke.

Evin gave a deep sob and brought a hand to her mouth. Her ribs hurt.

A blurry face hovered near her bed, and someone placed a hand over hers. "She's awake," said someone. A woman.

There were other people in the room as well. She was aware of them standing about, watching her. She heard the sound of water pouring into a cup and footsteps moving toward her bed.

Evin closed her eyes and errant tears hit her cheeks. Couldn't they see she wanted to be left alone?

"Come," said the woman. The clay mug was held to her lips, and gentle hands tipped it toward her so she could drink.

Her lips were cracked. And the water tasted strange on her tongue and throat. It was hard to sip water when you were crying. After she swallowed, Evin croaked, "Please go away. Thank you for your help, but please go."

"You're ill," said the woman.

She was ill. She'd crept over to the inn just a few bells ago, begging Wynn for breakfast.

And the true pain finally hit.

She thought it had hurt before, but this—this was like a punch in the stomach, and Evin sat forward in her bed from the impact. Her face crumpled, brows knit tightly together, and she cried.

She cried for what felt like hours. Her shoulders shook. Ropes of liquid dripped from her mouth, her nose, her eyes. She buried her face in her hands and moaned. Such pain. Such pain.

All the while, the gentle hand stayed steadily on her back, anchoring her.

Someone gave her clean cloths with which to wipe her face, and occasionally someone else tried to ply her with water.

When she had exhausted herself, she fell into sleep once more.

The fever lasted for three days, not that Evin was even cognizant of time or space. She grew hot and dry and then clammy and cold by turns, and she remembered crying in her sleep.