“But if this is a curse from Ishabal, and Tris finds out, I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes,” pointed out Daja. “Trader log it, I wouldn’t want to be near her. Tris certainly won’t be hoping to work for the crown!”

Sandry nibbled her thumbnail, considering what Ambros had said. “She’s the most fearsome of us, on the surface of things,” she commented slowly. “What if they just didn’t want her going with us?”

Briar shrugged. “Easiest solved. We don’t leave without her.”

Sandry agreed, but her skin crept at the same time. Tris’s injuries weren’t as simple as a broken leg. Even with a good healer, she would need time—weeks—to recover. How many things could go wrong if they stayed on here for weeks?

The clock had struck two and Daja was drowsing when the bedroom door opened. The healer emerged. She was sweaty and shaky. Her hair straggled out from under the cloth scarf that covered her head. One of her assistants had to help her to stay on her feet; the other carried her medicines.

The healer looks like she battled Hakkoi the Smith God and lost, thought Sandry, rising to her feet. Everyone else stood to see what the woman had to say.

“The last time I treated anyone so badly off, he’d fallen thirty feet down a cliff, and he died.” The healer’s voice was an exhausted croak. “Your friend won’t die. Miraculously, she has five broken ribs, and none of them punctured her lungs. None of the broken bones cut through the skin, a blessing I never looked to get.”

“A very well-crafted curse,” muttered Ambros.

Ealaga glared at him. “How bad is Tris?” she asked.

The healer had looked at Ambros when he said “curse.” “Ah,” she murmured. “Things become clearer. It explains much.” She sighed.

Sandry beckoned to the assistant who held the woman upright and pointed to her chair. Getting the hint, the young man carefully lowered the healer to the seat. Ealaga whispered to the maid who had stayed up in case anyone needed anything. The girl scampered off.

“Your girl has no punctured organs or skin. She has a broken collarbone, a dislocated shoulder, two small cracks in her skull, a broken cheekbone, one arm broken in two places, a broken wrist, five broken ribs, a dislocated hip, three breaks in her right leg, and a broken ankle on the left. She also has several broken fingers and toes,” the healer said once she’d caught her breath. “It is a miracle, or, if it is a curse, as you say, then it was deliberately constructed to save the girl’s life. There is only one curse-weaver in the empire with that level of skill, and that is all I will say on that topic.”

Sandry, Briar, and Daja exchanged horrified looks. They had all seen their fair share of injuries and healing. Never had they seen anyone who had endured the mauling Tris had.

I’m going to be sick, thought Sandry. She bit the inside of her cheek and forbade her stomach to misbehave.

“I did what I could tonight,” the healer continued. “She has been very well taught—I was able to work inside her power and around it with very little difficulty indeed. It’s always delightful to handle a mage who has been trained by good healers in the art of keeping power controlled. The hip and shoulder are back in their sockets. I was able to heal the ribs and skull completely—they are the most dangerous breaks. She is fortunate that she had no blood collecting inside her skull. I started the healing of the collarbone and jaw, and braced the broken limbs. I have safeguarded her for infection and shock. Tomorrow, when I come, I will bring two colleagues who will help to undo what healing has been done tonight on those breaks I was unable to look after, and begin clean healing for the rest of the broken bones.”

“Begin?” Ambros asked with a frown. Briar was nodding.

“This is not as simple a matter as a single broken arm or leg, good Saghad,” the healer’s male assistant replied at his most polite. “The more injuries the victim endures, the more time is needed for healing. If the healers do not take care, the repair will be weak and the bone will break again. Or scarring will take place and will put the patient’s entire body at risk.”

The senior healer nodded.

“But we were planning to leave for Emelan soon,” Sandry heard herself say.

“My dear Viymese, forgive me,” said Ambros as the maid arrived with tea for everyone. She served the healer first as Ambros continued, “This is my cousin, Sandrilene, Clehame fa Landreg, who is also Saghada fa Toren in Emelan. These are Viymese Daja Kisubo and Viynain Briar Moss. Your patient in there is Viymese Trisana Chandler.”

“Clehame.” The healer bowed her head, but did not try to get to her feet. She impatiently waved away an offer of cakes from the maid. “The girl—Tris?—she tried to tell me she was leaving soon as well. I let her know she won’t be leaving that bed for at least a week—more, if she tasks herself.”

Sandry firmed her lips, which tried to tremble and make her look like a pouting child. “As my sister, she will have the finest care money can buy,” she informed the healer.

“Hmph,” replied the woman. “Not much family resemblance. But it is as I have told you. She asks to see the three of you. She will not take the sleeping medicine until she sees you, so please, attend to her immediately, so she will sleep.”

Chastened, the three young mages filed into Tris’s room, Chime riding on Daja’s shoulder. Once inside, they all stopped to stare. One of Tris’s arms and one of her legs was bound to slats and covered in tightly wrapped bandages. Splinted fingers and toes had their own wooden supports secured with white linen. All of her braids hung loose. The lingering tracks of the healer’s magic were evident on Tris’s skull and body. None of them had ever seen anyone so badly hurt that they weren’t on their feet in a few days, given a good healer.