Read The Diatous Wars 1: Rebel Wing for Free Online

consciousness and will make a recovery; her menders have not spoken with the press since shortly after she was admitted.”
    Elom tapped the digitablet screen, cutting off the reporter’s voice. The room was silent, save for the faint beeping that echoed her heartbeat. The tall man stared down at her; his dark eyes held all the condescension of royalty, but his broken, pugnacious nose spoke a rougher language.
    “My husband?”
    “No visitors yet.” Elom turned away.
    Galena cleared her throat, and the world tilted, the black specks swirling up to blur her view of Elom’s broad shoulders. She waited until her vision steadied, horrified at her own weakness. “So I am in an Atalantan clinic? And you are my mender?”
    Elom nodded.
    “Tell me then, Elom,” she croaked. “What illness do I have? What is wrong with me?”
    Elom didn’t answer. When he returned to her side, she flinched without meaning to.
    “You said no visitors. Why?” she asked. “Am I contagious?”
    Elom didn’t respond.
    Beneath the restraining sheets, she squeezed her hands into fists. She still felt weak, fuzzy-headed, but not particularly ill. She cast her thoughts back . . . had she been feeling poorly the day of the Council?
    She’d been nervous, yes. The night before the first meeting she’d paced more than she’d slept, gone over her argument for sanctions, and reread the reports her spies in Safara had provided her. That morning, she’d been tired when she’d brushed her hair back into a sleek knot and drawn on her heavy, ice-blue robes. But by the time the meeting had begun, the fire of anger at the other Wards’ ignorance had fueled her.
    She’d heard of diseases that struck quickly, painlessly . . . death sentences for which there were no cures. Was that the reason Elom didn’t reply? Was he trying to spare her the knowledge a little longer?
    “I would like to invite that reporter to my room,” she tried again, “so I can provide a statement now that I’m awake. Surely something can be arranged?”
    Elom ignored her, touching her forehead with something shockingly cold and slick; in a short time he had placed small discs all over her body.
    He turned to the monitor beside her bed. “Don’t move.”
    She tried to watch him from the corner of her eye, but the strain made her head ache. In quick succession, she felt a little
fizz
under her skin where each electrode touched her.
    The strangeness of the procedure made her notice other oddities: the lack of windows in her room, the silence outside the door. Where were her advisors? Assistant menders? If only for the sake of appearances, her husband would visit her, wouldn’t he? But . . . Elom had said no visitors.
    Was she
dying
?
    Had anyone told her son?
    A shiver of panic skittered down Galena’s spine. “Please, Elom,” she whispered, “tell me the truth.
What is wrong with me?
”
    Elom clicked his tongue as he watched the monitor. Why didn’t he answer her? He had to have heard . . .
    The lack of movement, the sense of confinement . . . she could stand it no longer. She struggled, working her hands up along her belly and bent her knees, a little at a time, in an effort to loosen the tight fabric. If she could just get
free
. . . .
    Finally, she fought against the sheets until both arms protruded above the fabric. Without thinking, she peeled off an electrode and held it toward him.
    “What are these for?”
    He turned to her. “You mustn’t touch those, Ward.” He took the small metal disk from her hand, affixing it to the hollow place just above her collarbone. He said nothing more, blank eyes passing over her as if examining a specimen of some sort, not a person. Not as if he was her mender, concerned for her health and comfort.
    The panic shifted, intensified.
    She was Ward of her dominion. She should
not
be alone in this room with a stranger.
    Her heart pounded faster within her chest, as if it, too, were anxious to escape. She could hear