Page 73 of Sharpest Court

“It’s a poison,” I gritted out, my specter shriveling.

“It can be,” Stian said calmly, “which is why licenses are difficult to earn, even among the Imperial Guard. But illegal distribution is unavoidable, and when Wielders struggle with control, they sometimes seek relief in the form of dullroot. Many permanently injure themselves in the process. It’s therefore safer to rely on medical professionals to administer the doses.” He patiently pushed up his spectacles. “May I continue?”

I glanced to the dispensers again, my pulse thrumming a little faster. If I hadn’t seen the evidence on the refugee ship—or met Zeke, who’d loathed his specter enough to confine it—I might not have believed Stian’s claims.

As it was, I begrudgingly nodded. Stian chose a green-striped dispenser, and I stiffened as the pin pricked near my stitches. But only a pleasant numbness followed.

“Dullroot can cause permanent injury?” I asked quietly as he lifted the first suture with metal forceps.

“If administered incorrectly, yes. Flooding the system with dullroot over long periods can result in spectral scars—patches of power that lose physical sensation, and often cause the Wielder excruciating pain, even decades later.”

I shivered, horrified. And doubly disturbed when I thought of Goren’s expansive dullroot scars, and how his specter must still be suffering from the poison. “Is Wielding still possible?”

“Yes. But meaningful Wielding is not just about the movement of a specter; it’s about the feeling of a specter. With the loss of sensation, Wielders often lose the sense of connection to their power. Though they can still Wield . . . their quality of life is certainly impacted.” His throat bobbed with those last words, as though they pained him. “But when dullroot is administered more frequently at a lower concentration, we eliminate the risk of spectral scarring. And the physical scarring will fade with time.” His eyes flicked up. “It’s why I assumed yours was a result of self-administration rather than imprisonment.”

As Stian snipped the final suture, I remembered his cool fingers grazing my nape that first night in Ansora. Assessing my dullroot scar, I realized now.

“You mean he—” I stopped and rephrased. “You mean I was given a low concentration of dullroot?”

“Undoubtedly. And with great risk to your captor, considering how easily a low dose can be bled from the system.” Stian met my gaze over his spectacles. “Whoever administered your dullroot did not intend to cause you permanent suffering.”

I shifted uncomfortably. A kindness laced with cruelty; a cruelty laced with kindness: That had always been Erik’s way. And here he was again, returning me in an instant to the role of his prisoner, feeding from the scraps of his goodwill. Producing this obscene gratitude inside me.

You’re the last person I ever wanted to hurt, he’d said once. To some degree, he must have meant it. But why?

I was troubling over the question when Stian leaned back and I noticed another brooch—this one pinned to his waistcoat, closer to his heart. It was made of dull silver and shaped like a flower on the verge of blooming.

The back of my throat tightened.

“A penny blossom,” I breathed, eyes fixed on my province’s native flower.

Stian’s expression softened. “I was born in Vereen,” he said, one hand pressed to his chest, “under the lordship of your great-grandfather. Healing has always been my craft. And you are my ruling lady.”

My next swallow burned. Though still wary, I felt myself softening slightly, and not just because Stian was a Daradonian Wielder who’d escaped persecution, like Osana and me. But because he’d spoken about Vereen with the same longing sadness I felt in my own bones.

“Winker already lured you to the patient’s seat?” Keil’s voice drifted into the room.

I sniffed sharply, smoothing my features.

Stian shook off his own tender expression as he set down his forceps. “Don’t fear; it’s a simple stitch removal. Not a needle in sight.”

I glanced at Keil. “You’re afraid of needles?”

“I display a perfectly natural reaction to the thought of sharp objects burrowing under my skin.”

The healer chuckled. “You insult my exemplary care.”

“Someone has to,” Keil teased. “All the praise would go to your head.”

Stian huffed but was clearly fighting a smile. It was an expression a father might save for his favorite son: more charmed than exasperated.

Keil helped gather Stian’s equipment, not even blinking at the dispensers. “You’re not staying for breakfast?”

“I’ve been away too long already.” Stian reached for a leather satchel and stood, knees creaking. “Besides, Arun told me you have a voyage to prepare for.”

Keil gave a bleak smile. “Oh, did he?”

Stian cupped the back of Keil’s neck—an intimate gesture which Keil received with a fond smile. “Be careful, my boy,” he said, serious.