“Your skin’s hot.” He lifts the basket of sand. “The wound is bad. It needs attention.”
“I know that,” I say. “Commandant wanted sand, and I didn’t have time to—to—” Veturius’s face swims for a moment, and I feel strangely weightless.
He’s close then, close enough for me to feel the heat of his body. The scent of cloves and rain drifts over me. I close my eyes to stop everything from lurching, but it doesn’t help. His arms are around me, hard and gentle all at once, and he lifts me up.
“Let me go!” My strength peaks, and I shove at his chest. What is he doing? Where is he taking me?
“How else do you plan to get back up the cliffs?” he asks. His broad strides carry us easily up the winding switchbacks. “You can barely stand.”
Does he actually think I’m stupid enough to accept his “help”? This is a trick he’s plotted with his mother. Some further punishment awaits. I have to escape him.
But as he walks, another wave of dizziness hits me, and I clutch his neck until it passes. If I hold on tight enough, he won’t be able to throw me to the dunes. Not without getting dragged down himself.
My eyes fall on his bandaged arms, and I remember that the First Trial ended yesterday.
Veturius catches me looking. “Just scratches,” he says. “Augurs left me in the middle of the Great Wastes for the First Trial. After a few days without water, I started falling down a lot.”
“They left you in the Wastes?” I shudder. Everyone’s heard of that place.
It makes the Tribal lands look almost habitable. “And you survived? Did they at least warn you?”
“They like surprises.”
Even through my sickness, the impact of what he’s said isn’t lost on me. If the Aspirants don’t know what will happen in the Trials, how can I possibly find out?
“Doesn’t the Commandant know what you’ll be up against?” Why am I asking him so many questions? It’s not my place. My head must be addled from the wound. But if my curiosity bothers Veturius, he doesn’t say so.
“She might. Doesn’t matter. Even if she knows, she wouldn’t tell me.”
His mother doesn’t want him to win? Part of me wonders at their bizarre relationship. But then I remind myself that they’re Martials. Martials are different.
Veturius crests the cliff and ducks beneath the clothes fluttering on the line, heading down the slaves’ corridor. When he carries me into the kitchen and sets me down on a bench beside the work table, Izzi, scrubbing the floor, drops her brush and stares open-mouthed. Cook’s glance falls to my wound, and she shakes her head.
“Kitchen-Girl,” Cook says. “Take the sand upstairs. If the Commandant asks about Slave-Girl, tell her she’s taken ill and that I’m tending to her so she can get back to work.”
Izzi picks up the basket of sand without a sound and disappears. A wave of nausea breaks over me, and I’m forced to drop my head between my legs for a few moments.
“Laia’s wound’s infected,” Veturius says when Izzi leaves. “Do you have bloodroot serum?”
If Cook is surprised that the Commandant’s son is using my given name, she doesn’t show it. “Bloodroot’s too valuable for the likes of us. I’ve tanroot and wildwood tea.”
Veturius frowns and gives Cook the same instructions Pop would have.
Wildwood tea three times a day, tanroot to clean the wound, and no bandage.
He turns to me. “I’ll find some bloodroot and bring it to you tomorrow. I promise. You’ll be all right. Cook knows her remedies.”
I nod, unsure if I should thank him, still waiting for him to reveal his true purpose for helping me. But he doesn’t say anything else, apparently satisfied with my response. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks out the back door.
Cook rustles around the cabinets, and a few minutes later, a mug of steaming tea is in my hands. After I drink it down, she sits in front of me, her scars inches from my face. I gaze at them, but they no longer seem grotesque. Is it because I’ve gotten used to seeing them? Or because I have a disfigurement of my own?
“Who’s Darin?” Cook asks. Her sapphire eyes glint, and for a moment, they are hauntingly familiar. “You called for him in the night.”
The tea takes the edge off my dizziness, and I sit up. “He’s my brother.”
“I see.” Cook drips tanroot oil on a square of gauze and dabs it onto the wound. I wince in pain and grip the seat. “And is he in the Resistance too?”
“How could you—” How could you know that? I almost say, but then I recover my wits and press my lips together.
Cook catches the slip and pounces. “It’s not hard to tell. I’ve seen a hundred slaves come and go. Resistance fighters are always different. Never broken. At least not when they first arrive. They have...hope.” She curls her lip, as if she’s speaking of a colony of diseased criminals instead of her own people.