Tainted

Chapter Eighteen

The same drop of water is dripping against my forehead. The healer hasn't bothered to move me in the two days I've consciously lain here. Then again, I haven't asked him to.

I've tried timing the water drops, but they're inconsistent. I don't know which rooms sit above the healer's, but I have an unfortunate feeling they may be bathrooms.

The healer stands against the thin, wooden counter. He's grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle, the pungent smell of basil filling my nose. My mother used basil to fight infection.

"What did you do to me?" I ask him, breaking the silence.

"The arrow hit to the left of your right scapula. It passed between your ribs, only puncturing your right lung. I sutured your lung tissue and stitched up your skin. You will have a scar, but you will be alive because of it. It was a lucky shot," the healer says, still looking over the mortar and pestle.

A lucky shot, I think. Could Binks have aimed for that spot? Could she have wanted to cause the least amount of damage and...let me live? I mull over the thought, the healer grinding away.

The smell of basil grows stronger, and I have to ask. "Has anyone died?" My voice cracks against my tongue.

The healer's shoulders stiffen.

"Yes," he says, but he doesn't elaborate.

I trace the grooves and pits of the stone ceiling with my eyes. No sound has filtered down through it, so I don't know what's going on overhead, or even what time of day it is.

"From battle or infection?" I ask.

The pestle scrapes against the mortar's side.

"Infection," the healer answers.

I wonder who amongst us has fallen, and who's still left standing.

There's a knock at the door. The pestle falls from the healer's hand and smacks against the side of the mortar. In one quick move, the healer throws a blanket over me and piles bandages unceremoniously atop my chest. Each roll of linen sends a shock through my barely-healed wound. From the outside, I must look like a simple pile of wrappings. The disguise has already worked twice before.

"Yes?" I hear the healer's voice say through the heavy, musty-smelling blanket.

"He needs help," a voice answers. It's unfamiliar to me.

Footsteps shuffle against the flagstones as two people walk into the healer's room, followed by the whisper of the healer's long cloak against his ankles.

I can't see through the fabric, the torchlight is too dim, so I listen, keeping my breaths shallow.

"How did this happen?" the healer asks.

A heavy weight tries to sit on the surgical table, pinning my legs to the wooden surface. My eyes water at the pain of having my kneecaps buckle backwards.

"No, sit in the chair. I need to examine your arm," the healer says.

The weight leaves immediately, and a wooden chair leg scratches against the floor as it's pulled away from the wall. I bite my lip to keep from crying out with relief.

I can hear the groan of the chair's wooden slats as one person takes a seat. Another person's feet drag against the stones and come to rest just beside the first.

"Weapon?" the healer asks.

"Long and hard, if you know what I mean."

I almost gasp. It's Camden's duel voice. It's snarky and deeper, and unmistakably Camden. He only uses that voice when he's around his patron.