Claire knelt by the cot and smoothed her free hand over his scorching hot forehead. “Shhh,” she whispered. “Shhh, little one. I’m about to make it better. Trust me.” Some small part of her could not believe she was doing this, that she was violating her oath as a healer.
But it’s not a child anymore, she reminded herself. It’s death and the sour taste of fear. It’s evil and wrong and twisted. Claire gripped that thought with all her might and, supporting Leo’s head, pressed the cup to his lips. “Drink this and everything will be better.”
♘—Leo heard her voice. That voice like his mother’s. Claire. Her name stuck out from the haze instantly. Bayard trusted her, and so would he. She would make him better. That’s what healers did. Especially magic ones. She would save him with magic.
As she brought his head up, it lolled back against her hand and the world almost winked out before he felt liquid bob against his lips. It would make him better. When he took a sip, his tongue, then his throat burned and turned his head to get away from the cup.
