Prince of Traitors

Jasper

"Owin!"

I rip the blanket from her so she doesn't get tangled up in it. Her whole body convulses in constant twitches atop the cot where she lays. I put a hand gently on her shoulder, turning her on her side. My pulse drums too quickly, my hands trembling. Bloody foam falls from her parted lips. Her eyes flutter, but they're rolled back in her head, showing only the whites.

Finally she goes still. Foam still drips from her mouth. I lower my ear toward her mouth, listening for her breaths. They're shallow and wheezing, but she's breathing.

"Owin," I say, softly shaking her shoulder. "Owin, wake up." My hand moves up to her neck. I probe gently for her pulse and find it under the curve of her jaw. It's fast, but steady. Her skin is sweaty and clammy under my hand.

She's still for a very long time, but then her eyes begin to flutter open. She wheezes and retches. Nothing comes out but spittle and more foam, and she gags as she wakes.

"Saints," I say as she coughs. "Are you okay? What was that?" I help her sit up, and she slumps forward, breathing hard. She coughs once more. Her hair spills over her shoulders, only half dry. She's sweating, her face pale as snow. She shivers. Her mouth tries to form words, but no sound comes out.

"Owin, do you know where you are?" I ask. I try to keep my voice steady, though my nerves make my heart jump in my chest. I kneel in front of her as she sits mostly upright on the cot.

She nods slowly. She stammers as her breathing slows. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, rubbing away the foam on the corner of her lips.

"Are you sick?" I ask.

Owin shakes her head. "D... Dunno," she mutters. She sucks in a breath through her teeth. "Mm... Leg... Burns." She tries to grip the waistband of the pants she wears, but her fingers fumble on the soft fabric.

"Y-Oh. Oh!" I put my hands over hers and help her to grip the pants and gently ease them down. She grits her teeth and wiggles the pants off her hips. My knuckles brush the bandage on her left thigh and she flinches.

"Shit," she growls. "Care... Careful."

"Sorry," I mutter. I feel my cheeks redden at the sight of her bare legs stretched out in front of her. The too-big shirt she wears covers her underthings.

I peel away the bandage from her thigh, and she curses again at the pain. The muscle in her thigh quivers, and I see why.

The cut on her leg leaks pus, the skin around it red and inflamed. The veins that spider out from the wound are black. They stand out starkly from her pale skin, reaching their spindly fingers up and down her thigh. Fear sparks in me, making my breath catch and stomach roil.

"Saints," I breathe. My hand hovers over her wound. Owin curses and her muscles clench. "What is this, some kind of infection?"

She hunches over and inspects the cut, her fingers trembling. Her chest rises and falls with quick breaths under her shirt. It takes her mouth a long moment to form the words she wants to speak.

"N-no," she stammers. "Poison." I gape at her. She weakly inclines her chin across the room. "My—bag. In... inside."

I hurry to where her satchel sits in front of the fire. The leather has dried, leaving it stiff. I grab it up and kneel in front of her again to dig through its contents. My hand finds a hard leather bundle and I pull it out. It's a rolled pouch, tied with a thin strap. I untie it and it unfolds flat.

The sheet of leather has two rows of a dozen loops stitched into it, each occupied with a tiny glass vial. They clink as I unroll and flatten the bundle on the cot beside her leg. The vials are filled with ground leaves and petals, powders and dark liquids.

"Which one?" I ask. Owin pores over the vials. Her fingers finally rest on a vial filled with a dark liquid. I take the vial out of its little loop and hold it up. "This one? This is the antidote?"

She nods. She looks even more exhausted than before. There are dark smudges like bruises under her eyes, and she is still sweating and pale. Her breaths come in labored bursts. Her eyes fall closed and she begins to tip forward. Her head lolls, her hair falling over her shoulders. My hands dart up to catch her. She slumps into my arms.

"Owin, Owin, hey," I mutter. She groans, and one of her hands grasps my arm, her nails digging crescents into my skin. I sit her upright again as she blinks back into consciousness. I hold her shoulders gently. "Look at me. Don't fall asleep." Her eyes open, but they're glassy and don't focus on me. "Can you speak?" I ask.

"I... Yes," she says quietly. I uncork the vial. I press it into her hand and guide it to her mouth. She downs the liquid in the vial in one gulp, tipping her chin back.

"Tell me about your family," I say. "Your tribe."

"Why?"

"You need to stay awake," I tell her. "Tell me about them."

Owin takes a breath to steady herself. "My mother is... a shaman. Father is the... the chieftain," she slurs shakily.

"What are they like?"

She huffs a small chuckle. "They can kick your ass," she says.

Her response surprises a grin from me. "Now I know where you get it. Who else? Tell me about them."

She blinks slowly, starting to come back to herself. I need to keep her talking, keep her conscious while the antidote does its work. I can't let her pass out again. "I have three sisters," she mutters. Her speech is less slurred, her eyes a little less glassy. She's still pale, but starting to gain a bit of color in her cheeks. Her skin has a slight sheen to it from her sweat. She lets me feel for her pulse at her wrist; her hand is still clammy but her skin is beginning to warm.

"How old?" I press.

"Younger," she says. "They can kick your ass too."

I grin at her. The smile she gives me in return is small and weary.