Chapter 7: Gods Are Cause And Cure
She filled it from the pot on
the hearth and set it in Apollo’s hand. The flavor was nearly identical to yesterday’s, scorched and peevish, no balm at all, but it cut the tremor in his muscles and coaxed a shallow warmth up his throat.
He sipped it, and Othra let the silence press in. From outside came the thud of logs splitting and the dull, wordless bellow of men at labor, but the hut itself was insulated, wrapped in a hush that made every tick of the fire seem like a clock wound down.
"You should rest," Othra said, but her words were flat, no more than the shadow of concern, spoken out of habit.
She was about to say more, or perhaps just blink away the moment, when the door burst open with a violence that scattered every loose leaf and herb along the rafters.
The man with the spear, the one who had found Apollo, stood in the doorway, sweat streaking a face gone ashen and wild.
He cradled something in his arms, something wrapped in blankets that mewled and jerked. Behind him, a drizzle of muddy water pattered onto the reed-mat floor.
"Othra," he barked, "the babe’s sick. She won’t eat and her skin’s hot as a forge." His voice, which the night before had measured and judged, was now all undiluted panic.
Othra was across the room before the word had finished. She snatched the bundle from the man and peeled back its layers with the deftness of a butcher.
The child was tiny, far too small for the world it had landed in, its face was red and puffy, lips cracked and dry. The infant’s eyes, when they opened, were blue as glacier melt and just as cold.
"She’s burning up," Othra muttered, then spat on her thumb and ran it along the baby’s gums. She turned to Apollo, eyes narrow. "You seem to know fevers as well. Tell me if this is the kind that takes them quick, or the kind that lingers."