and flushed. Death stirred in her crazed eyes. A servant swabbed a wet cloth on her forehead, crying uselessly, a look of horror and panic on her face. Belesia rushed to Mara’s side and pressed her palms over her forehead and stomach. “The wound is deep…the flow of energy blocked. The fever, rising.” Belesia chanted words from a strange tongue, words sharp and shrill, words from the western islands, lands filled with the magic of the earth and the spirits. Her eyes narrowed to small slits, and the room dimmed and prickled with electricity as her chants grew louder. In the darkness, the
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