The Royal Thief

Chapter Forty-one: Premonition

"Nemia," I called, burying my face in my pillow, and when she didn't answer immediately, I yelled louder, "Nemia!"

Still no answer, and opening my mouth made the nauseous feeling in my stomach squirm sickeningly. I pressed an arm over my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut until it passed. 

Okay-- I was okay. Fine. Nothing wrong. Everything was fine.

I took a deep breath and pulled the blankets tighter. It was freezing. How could it be so cold in the middle of summer?

Another deep breath. 

I had to be sick, although I'd never been sick like this before. Every waft of air that passed through my thin summer blankets felt like frost. My stomach was sloshing and my muscles were aching and my head felt worse than any hangover Nick had ever had.

I tried calling for Nemia again, but all I managed was a squeak into my pillow. My head felt too heavy to move. Finally, drifting back into a fitful sleep, I remembered that she would have left for training already, and might not be back until nightfall.

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"Sam wants to know if you're going to get out of bed today, or if you don't need to eat after all."

For a moment, waking up to Cara's blurry figure and loud voice, I almost believed I felt fine. And then I shuddered in a violent burst of shivers and without thinking I threw myself out of bed and ran for the washroom.

"Wha-- Where are you going?" She hurried after me, only to meet a slammed door in her face.

"Get Sam!" I yelled.

"What the hell! What's going on?"

I was too busy trying not to throw up to answer. Not that I could have anyway. Even when Sam got there, out of breath from sprinting up the stairs, all I could whisper was that I didn't feel good.

I was hunched over the waste pot, the cracked floor tiles hard on my knees, sweat rolling down my back even as I shivered uncontrollably, arms clenched around myself, fingers digging into my own skin. "I-- I can't--"

"Shh, it's okay. Don't talk." His voice was soft and comforting. I could have been twelve years old again, sobbing into his shirt as the healer set my broken arm. He brushed loose strands of hair from my face, pressed a hand to my forehead. After a moment, from the corner of my vision-- I had not straightened up-- I saw him sit back and glance up, sharing a look with Cara.

"You don't have a fever, I think. Maybe it was something you ate?"

I took a moment to make sure my body knew I was about to open my mouth, before I said, "I've only eaten what everybody else has."

"Well, okay. Then I'm not sure you're sick. Maybe it's just that you're really hungry. Do you want to come down and have breakfast?"

At the thought of food, my stomach turned over and then I was sick.

Cara quickly retreated and Sam held my hair back, wincing and waiting until it was over. Finally, hunched over the waste pot, eyes stinging, I muttered, "I don't think so."

A wooden cup was pressed into my hand and I rinsed my mouth, water slopping down my chin as my hands trembled. The comforting weight of his hand on my back lifted for a minute, and then he was back with a bundle of clothes.

"Should I get the healer?"

I flinched. By the healer he meant the healer of the castle guard, a grizzly old man with rough hands and a twisted scowl. "No, nothing's broken and I don't have a fever and I'm not unconscious, he won't care."