Galacia hesitated, then said, “No. That is a separate issue.”

Tildy looked up sharply. “A separate issue? What sort of issue? What else ails him beside the wounds and poisoning?” She frowned as Khamsin and Galacia exchanged glances. “If you expect me to heal him, you must tell me everything you know about his condition. The smallest detail might be the key to saving his life.”

Once, not so long ago, Khamsin would have answered Tildy without a second thought, but these months in Wintercraig had changed her. Her heart—her loyalty—lay here now, tied to the man she had wed. No matter what his feelings for her, no matter what the outcome of their marriage, she would not betray his secrets.

“Galacia is right, Tildy. The color of Wynter’s blood has nothing to do with the infection. If anything, the cause of it has probably done more to keep him alive this long than all our potions and poultices. For now, just focus on curing the infection. If he does not soon show signs of improvement, we can talk again.”

Kham knew Tildy wasn’t happy to be left in the dark, but except for a slight tightening of her lips, the Summerlea nurse was careful not to show it.

“Very well, I’ll work with what I can see and what information you feel comfortable in sharing. You were wise to leave this wound open.” Tildy gestured to the hole in Wynter’s abdomen. “Whoever stitched the torn intestine has a fine hand, but once the intestine is ruptured, controlling the putrefaction is nearly impossible. How often are you irrigating the wound?”

“Every four hours.”

“Make it once an hour. I will mix up a special wash to use, as well as poultices to draw out the poison. If he doesn’t improve within four hours, I will need to cleanse the entire cavity.”

“Tildy.” Kham laid a hand on the nurse’s shoulder and waited for her to look up. “Can you save him?”

Tildy met Khamsin’s gaze with unflinching directness, and admitted, “I don’t know. I won’t pretend his condition is anything less than dire. But I promise you I will use every bit of knowledge and skill I possess to do so.”

The tireless efforts Galacia and Khamsin had been making the last week were nothing compared to the relentless regimen Tildy instituted. In no time, she had Khamsin, Galacia, and every Winterman in the lodge jumping to attention whenever she spoke. They rushed to and fro at her command, fetching whatever items she requested, stoking the fire, assisting whenever she needed another pair of hands.

Valik watched Tildy like a hawk. His suspicious gaze followed each move Tildy made, but the Summerlea healer just bustled about with her usual, focused efficiency, whipping up potions and poultices as if she were safely ensconced in her own apothecary.

She set four great pots boiling on the hearth, each containing a different concoction of herbs, crushed minerals, oils, and various ingredients from the satchels she’d brought with her, as well as other fresh items she sent the men to fetch from the forest and nearest village. She added long strips of linen to one of the boiling pots, handed Galacia a stick, and told her to stir.

“The antiseptic solution must soak the linen fibers completely.”

While Galacia stirred, Tildy handed Khamsin a mortar and pestle and ordered her to crush a cup of linseeds, and a dozen cloves of garlic into a paste. Beside Kham, Tildy busied herself grating the bark of a slippery elm into powder.

“I had hoped to find you with child,” Tildy murmured as they worked. “You have been here five months, newly wed. As a daughter of the Rose, your fertility is guaranteed. Has your husband failed to attend you?”

The question made Kham’s jaw drop. “No, of course not! He has ‘attended’ me very well—” She broke off, blushing. She glanced over at Valik, who was talking quietly to one of the guards, and lowered her voice. “If you’re looking to cast blame for my lack of quickening, look no further than Verdan Coruscate. On his command, the Summerlea maid who accompanied me to Wintercraig was secretly dosing me with tansy. We only recently discovered the truth.”

“He wouldn’t . . .” Tildy breathed.

“There was a child, Tildy. She killed it.”

Horror filled Tildy’s eyes. “Oh, dearly, no.” She caught Khamsin’s arm. “Oh, my dear. I don’t know what to say.”

Her news about the child she was now carrying was on the tip of her tongue when Valik noticed them whispering and came over.

“Is there a problem?” Valik stopped near the corner of the hearth, one hand resting on the sheathed sword at his hip.

“No,” Kham said, as Tildy turned her attention back to the herbs she was preparing. “No problem. Tildy was just asking after my health.”

“This is ready,” Tildy announced. She took the bowl of garlic and linseed paste from Khamsin and added a measure of castor oil and the slippery elm bark she’d just grated into a fine powder. After mixing the ingredients, she smeared a thick layer of the gooey paste on a square of boiled cheesecloth.

“Fetch your men,” she ordered Valik. “You must hold your king down to keep him from struggling. This next part will not feel pleasant.”

Valik and five tall, muscular Wintermen ringed Wynter and gripped his limbs. Once they were in place, Tildy poured a steady stream of hot, pungent liquid into the suppurating wound in Wynter’s belly. With a roar, he surged up against the hands holding him down. He writhed, muscles bulging, shouting curses and threats while Valik and the others gritted their teeth and fought to keep him down, their own bodies straining with the effort to keep him under control. Wynter’s head thrashed, strands of sweat-soaked hair whipping about. The bandage tied over his eyes slipped free and fell to the floor. His eyes opened. The irises had turned a cold, deadly white.