Oh so carefully, he sets me down in the beaten copper tub, and when a fresh stream of blood rolls out of my chest, he flinches, his eyes tormented. "I'm okay," I manage. His pain is tearing me apart. It actually hurts more to see him so upset than my wound does. "Really."
"You are not okay," he growls back, even as he tenderly pours water over my shoulder. "I let this happen to you. I am your husband and I promised before the gods—before your mother—that I would watch over you and keep you safe. I have failed you." His eyes widen and he looks around. "Where are the conmac?"
Is he looking for someone to blame? The thought makes me tired. I know Kassam doesn't like dealing with his feelings. "You sent them away earlier, remember? When we were in bed together."
He looks stricken. "I did not call them back." He clenches the water jug in his hand, his jaw working silently. "I hate this. I hate all of this, Carly."
"It's not my favorite either," I point out. "But it's done. Just help me clean up, all right?"
Kassam makes another unhappy sound, but he helps me wash up, avoiding the wound in the center of my chest. I'm not sure what to do with it either, but it keeps bleeding. When he takes a fresh hand towel and places it over it, I shove it inside the gash and then laugh hysterically as tears bubble up.
"Please don't cry, little light," Kassam whispers, brushing a finger over my cheek. "I hate the anger I am feeling, and the grief, but more than anything, I hate the way it feels when you are sad. Please don't." He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek and then just wraps himself around me, hugging me. "We will figure this out. It changes nothing. We will still go to the gods and ask them to leave you at my side, always. You are still my wife and my anchor. Do you hear me? This changes nothing."
He squeezes me tightly, and I don't know if he's trying to convince himself or me. Easy for him to say it changes nothing when he's whole and I have a gaping hole in my chest and I've lost more blood than I thought was in the human body.
41
“Who did this to you?” Kassam demands.
I shake my head, too tired to answer, and push against the wound between my breasts as if somehow I can close it shut with sheer determination. He doesn’t press me for an answer, but I know he’s not going to let it go.
For the next while, Kassam fusses over me. He bathes me with tender motions and sets me gently back into my chair again, wrapped in a fluffy towel. The god strips the sheets off the bed, and when he sees the pool of blood that's soaked through on the other side of the mattress, it snaps something inside him. Gone is the easygoing, smiling Kassam. In his place is a god full of rage and fury. He calls for the vizier and the servants and bellows at them.
The vizier, he yells at for allowing an assassin to make an “attempt” on my life (it was not attempted, it was succeeded).
The servants, he snarls at because he wants fresh blankets and food for me yesterday and everyone's still half-drunk from the orgy-slash-party downstairs. They stumble through the room, eager to please Kassam, bringing fresh linens and trying (unsuccessfully) not to stare at me. Two of the conmac slink into the room, shooting us reproachful looks as they settle on either side of my chair.
"No one is to get near my wife," Kassam growls at the quaking vizier. "If I so much as get a hint that her life is in danger again, I will raze this city to the ground and let my army devour its inhabitants. Do you understand?" He paces angrily, his movements jerking with the fury that boils through him. "Now, where is the healer I asked for?"
"Of course, my Lord Kassam." The vizier looks visibly distressed, glancing back and forth between myself and Kassam. "We are ashamed such a thing would occur here, when we have welcomed you with our arms open. We beg your forgiveness—"
"Just get the healer," Kassam bellows, looming over him. "She is yet bleeding, you fool!"
The vizier drops to his knees. "Of course, my lord. Of course."
When Kassam gestures at the door, the vizier scurries for it, and Kassam storms back to my side. The moment he's near me, his movements change to gentle, courteous. He pulls my damp hair back off my shoulders and strokes my arm. "Hurting?"
"Not at all," I lie. Truth is, my chest feels hollow and cold and awfully, awfully still. Like something vital is missing, but I don't want to worry him more than he already is, since I seem to be (mostly) fine.