Chapter 21: The Saint's Hands

Odette put both hands flat on the King's chest.

She shut her eyes and bent her head, and the whole Hall waited.

Nothing happened.

The King's lips were blue, and a thread of blood ran from the corner of his mouth into his gray beard.

"Majesty," she said. "Majesty, wake. It is your Saint."

"Lady," the royal physician said from the wall, in a whisper. "You have no gift. You never had one."

"Be quiet!"

She tore at her belt for the crystal vial, and found only the empty clasp.

The wardens had taken it with her seal.

Her head whipped around.

On the clerk's table stood the open chest, with forty vials in straw.

She ran for it.

She snatched the nearest stoppered vial and broke the wax with her teeth.

"Stop her," Doran said.

He was moving already, but she was quicker.

She knelt, forced the King's jaw open and tipped the vial into his mouth.

It was old blood, kept three years in salt and spirit.

The King choked.

His whole chest heaved, and his eyes rolled up.

"You are killing him!" a lord shouted.

Two wardens dragged Odette off the King's body by her arms.

She kicked and screamed, and her curls came loose.

"It works! It always works! He needs more!"

I was already on my feet.

I do not remember crossing the floor.

My braces cracked with every step, and my crutch was somewhere behind me, and Doran was at my side with his arm under mine, taking my weight.

"You'll wear yourself out," he said low. "You've given too much already this week."

"He's dying."

"I know."

"Then lift me."

He did.

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