Over the next few hours, Donil and her team administered aid to the injured.
"How is Veralosa?" Lindsay asked from her mat as Donil came by. "And Nol?" She couldn't stop thinking about the siblings. She wanted to rest but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Nol's terrified face as she stabbed herself, or Veralosa standing, covered in his own blood, swaying back and forth as his wrist gushed golden.
Donil looked at her dispassionately. "Turn over, let me see the burns on your back."
She did as she was told, wincing as Donil's gentle hands applied the salve. "They aren't ok, are they?"
Donil shook her head, adding more salve to her hands, and rubbing it over the backs of Lindsay's legs. It felt so cool on her burns. They weren't bad, not as bad as they could have been. She hadn't even noticed when they happened. But Donil insisted she get treatment.
"Nol... will probably make it through the night. She's strong."
"But Veralosa...?" She was afraid to hear the answer.
"He'll live, but I had to take his arm. If we'd just been closer to a medical unit, I could have saved it, I'm sure."
Lindsay reached for Donil's hand but only found her ankle. "You did the best you could. He's alive because of you."
"I know, but there are so many. There, you're done." Donil stood.
Lindsay was up a moment later. She rubbed her cheek against Donil's, softly, reassuringly, before looking her in the eye. "How many did we lose?" Lindsay asked.
"One hundred fifteen, but there's another thirty I don't think will survive the night," Donil answered.
"And them?"
"Eight hundred thirty." It was clear from Donil's face the high numbers brought her no joy.
"That's most of their forces," Lindsay remarked.
"I don't think they were fighters. At least half of them were true Nobillo."
Lindsay shook her head. It was a massacre. She couldn't feel proud of that. "How many did the prince kill?"
"Six."
"Only six?! But we saw him! He made them attack themselves! He cut a swath through us!"
Donil shrugged. "The wounds were bad, but most weren't fatal, blood loss has been the main killer. The majority of wounds were to the central chest area, where the Nobillo heart would be. I suppose he must not know Bonat physiology."
"I guess not. Lucky for us." But even as she said this, she remembered something Carak had said.
He'd told the prince Kadax's heart had failed, and the other would soon follow it. No, Rivuk knew about the two hearts of the Bonat. He must have! Then why didn't he make them kill themselves? Her mind swam with questions and theories, but none made any sense.
She walked down to Prince Rivuk's tent where Northeastern soldiers stood guard out front. "Has it been cleared of traps?" she asked.
"Yes," the guard answered.
"May I go in?"
An old Bonat man in Southeastern Shore orange and yellow clothes with long white braids that flowed from a knot at the back of his head poked his head out. "Of course, my queen, come in. We're just logging the items for transport, though, you'll find, there isn't much here."
"Thank you."
She entered the tent and was surprised to see how Spartan it was. The floor was mostly dirt and grass except for a large, circular white fur rug on which a wooden table sat, papers and maps covering the surface, a lamp that had the appearance of ivy with large fluted purple flowers on moveable stems sat in the corner.
She'd expected computers like in the palace. She smirked. "I guess they don't have Wi-Fi here," she joked to herself. In another corner was a round bed. It looked soft and was at least three times as large as the cots she'd gotten used to. They'd have to figure out who got it. She could, of course, claim it for herself, but she wasn't sure how she felt sleeping in his bed.
She noticed something directly behind the desk. It was a low wooden bookshelf painted a dull red. On it rested a few knick-knacks and a small vase holding yellow and white flowers. She'd never thought of Prince Rivuk as the type who would enjoy flowers. A wooden box on the second shelf caught her eye. She pulled it out.
"What is it?" the old Bonat man asked.
"It looks like a lock box of some kind. But it doesn't look like it has a lock..." She shook it gently. "It sounds empty." She placed it on the table and lifted the little metal flower-shaped latch.
"Be careful, my queen, it might be a trap."
She pulled on a pair of gloves and steeled herself, holding her breath. She opened it.
Inside, a small rectangle of parchment sat on dusky red velveteen. Written on it, in the finest English lettering, were the words: May I have this dance?
