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"Here, Faith. Drink this."
A wooden cup was placed against her lips, and she opened her mouth, grateful that someone had heard her voiceless plea for water. But the liquid that sloshed from the cup into her mouth, making her splutter and cough so that it dripped down her chin and cheeks, was hot enough to be almost scalding. It smelled like chamomile and valerian.
"Oh Faith," someone said mournfully. "Please try to get some of it down. It will help, I promise."
She opened her eyes, and Celerity's pale face swam into focus. A fresh wave of pain stabbed at her fevered body at that sight, as her mind woke up enough to remember where and when she was, remember the arrow hitting her belly with a bone-shattering force. Remember her father and older sister stretched out on a large funeral pyre that had been the only farewell the Duchess of Bearns had been able to give them and those who had fallen with them before their desperate flight to the Hungry Glacier.
The fabled Ice Caves were now their final fortress, where they had gathered their remaining troops and the homeless refugees of their lands. She remembered begging her father to take her there, once, when they had been little. He hadn't been able to, not then, but had promised to do so later. He never had, and now he was dead, and she was going to die here. Their soldiers were talking to each other, a respectful distance from the corner Celerity had claimed for her, and she heard the fear in their voices. The Raiders were closing in on them.
Celerity's hands steadied her against her convulsion against the pain, and she bared her teeth in sympathy when Faith let out a long, low keen of pain, curling around her burning stomach protectively.
"I know," she murmured, her fingers carding through Faith's dirty and fever-shorn hair. "I know, Faith. Hold on, just hold on."
When the pain abated slightly, leaving only a relentless shivering running through her, shaking her entire body, Faith allowed her sister to cradle her head and help her sip her tea. It warmed her going down, easing her sore throat, and soon enough she felt the valerian tugging at her consciousness. Fevered dreams licked at the edges of her mind, and she gave her little sister a miserable look, begging her to keep her anchored. In her dreams, her body kept burning with fever, and it smelled like the bodies of her father and sister burning on a pyre.
She licked her cracked her lips and managed a thin whisper. "Are you going to burn me?"
Celerity looked down at her, trying to form a light-hearted smile and managing a worn expression that was more a grimace than a grin. "Don't be silly, arrow wounds are not contagious," she told her gently. "Now sleep, Faith. You'll feel better when you wake up."
She tugged her cloak, her only blanket, more securely over her, tucking her in like a child. Faith wanted to protest, to say that she should be alert and ready to take up arms if – when – they were attacked, but she knew it was a losing battle. Both her fever and the tea were already pulling her under, and Celerity had recently discovered that she could be quite bossy when she wanted.
No, she corrected herself ruefully, watching her sister through the haze of drugged sleep and burning fever as she gave her another worn smile and then turned to keep guard at her bedside. Not bossy, something you might call an annoying little sister. Commanding. Something you might call a leader.
She looked at her sister and abruptly knew that she was also her heir, that even if she survived, she would never carry children. The arrow had cut deep. Little Celerity, always the smallest, always at her heels, her dark blue eyes large and round in her childish face. There was nothing childish now about the young woman who sat guarding her, worn and tired but with her head held high, a slender sword laid bared across her knees. She too had cut her hair for mourning, and it stood now in dirty tufts at the back of her head, black and feathery. Together with her sharp features and bright eyes, she looked like one of her hawks, fierce and proud.
She opened her mouth to say something, but abruptly a shout came from the mouth of the caves. They were under attack.
Celerity surged to her feet, sword already half raised, and had taken a step before she turned to look at Faith. Her heart was in her eyes, and time stood still for a moment as Faith held her gaze with her own burning eyes.
"You should go," she whispered. "They'll need a leader. Leave me my sword, but not a guard. You can't afford to leave one."
Celerity inhaled shakily, her dry lips a thin line to keep them from trembling, and then nodded, quickly and jerkily. She crouched, picking up Faith's sword and handing it to her, wrapping her older sister's shaking fingers around it with both her hands. Faith held on to it as tightly as she could, determined that she would die holding it if she must. Celerity's fingers touched her burning forehead for a moment, and then she straightened, her own sword once more in her hand.
"Long live the Duchess of Bearns," she said in a clear, ringing voice, gave her sister a final look, and was gone, already calling orders for archers and healers as she strode toward the mouth of the cave.
Faith watched her go, watched their soldiers answer to her commands and her presence. "Long live the Duchess of Bearns," she whispered back.