Chapter 23
Along the way to the east tower, Flaron stopped at the rooms that Fel and Tibby had been given. Fel had finally fallen asleep, so Syla left him snoring without trying to wake him. Aunt Tibby was being tended by a healer but waved for her to come in.
Syla wanted to hurry to check on Vorik, but Tibby’s expression suggested it was important.
“The friend I mentioned is indeed here. I’m going to have dinner with him and his wife this evening. If you don’t have any objections, I’ll ask if he can arrange… transportation.” Tibby widened her eyes with significance.
“To town?” Syla didn’t quite catch the significance. “Or…?”
Maybe her aunt meant someone who could port them to the shielder. That made more sense. It lay within the lava tubes underground halfway up the volcano.
“Or.” Tibby nodded firmly, then tilted her head toward the young healer rubbing ointment into abrasions she’d probably received from bumping against rocks while swimming.
The girl couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but she might have orders to report what she overheard to the temple heads.
“I don’t object. If he can help, that’s perfect.”
Later, when they were alone, Syla would sum up her meeting with Jemla and Huzloron—and that they were suspicious of what she planned to do with the Harvest Island shielder.
“Good.” Tibby winced at ointment being applied to a deep wound.
Syla took the opportunity to depart, not wanting to explain where she was headed next, but called, “Let me know when we can leave.”
Tibby waved a curt acknowledgment before telling the healer that she’d lubed engines with less vigor.
Later, Syla would return to check more thoroughly on Tibby and Fel, but she hurried after Flaron, suspecting Vorik needed her most now. Even if his wounds weren’t as dire as she believed, she needed to warn him that the enforcers were coming.
Stairs wound toward the top of the tower, and Syla’s legs felt leaden, despite the many hours of sleep.
She probably needed a week to recover from her ordeal.
Or ten years. Every time her thoughts strayed to her mother and siblings, she diverted them with plans for the current mission.
Once the kingdom was safe again, she would allow herself time to mourn—to break down and weep—but she couldn’t do that yet.
On one of the landings, Flaron halted with a start next to a window overlooking the sea. He stared out it and swore.
Syla squeezed in next to him, looking past the rain forming puddles on the rocky cliff top and out to the sea.
On a formation beyond the breaking waves, a dragon perched.
The gray day made it hard to discern its color, but she suspected it was Agrevlari, waiting for his rider to find a way to reach him.
Not surprisingly, there wasn’t a red dragon perched out there, a color that she wouldn’t have missed, even under the drab sky. By now, Wreylith was probably halfway around the world, eager to put distance been her and the pesky human who’d been responsible for her being attacked.
Syla ought to be pleased that she’d convinced the dragon to help in any way, but she couldn’t help but feel wistful at the idea of a companion like Agrevlari, one who could be ridden at any time and one who felt loyalty to his rider.
It was a silly thought, since kingdom subjects didn’t ride dragons.
Never had such a thing happened, at least not that was mentioned in the history books.
She needed to be grateful for the experience she’d had and not contemplate ever touching that figurine again, even though it had, through surprising luck, remained in her pocket through the fall and swim.
“I’ve seen way too many dragons these past few days,” Flaron grumbled and resumed climbing. “People are whispering, saying the stormers might have a plan to steal or sabotage the rest of the shielders, and that those dragons are out there plotting the mayhem they’ll loose on us.”
Flaron looked at her, as if she might be privy to the plans of the stormers.
“That won’t happen,” Syla said, determined to keep it from coming to pass even if that was what the stormers were plotting.
She immediately felt uncomfortable, though, reminded that she did plan to take the shielder for Harvest Island. For the greater good, she had to. That didn’t make it easy, especially when she was on the island, and its inhabitants were helping her.
“The enforcers will question your prisoner and learn their plans.” Flaron nodded as they continued their climb.
“Yes… When do you think they’ll arrive?”
He glanced out the next window they passed. “Probably not until tomorrow morning. But don’t worry. We’ve got the rider locked in a sturdy cell with bars over the only window.”
“Sounds like a cozy place to recuperate,” she murmured.
“Too bad we don’t have a dungeon to chuck prisoners into, but this is a place of healing, not internment.”
The next landing had a blue rug, two plush chairs, and a small bookcase filled with tomes on healing, making it an appealing spot to sit and read while gazing out to sea. A young guard stood dutifully in front of one of two doors presumably leading to rooms.
“He’s awake, sir,” the guard reported to his superior.
Flaron nodded to Syla and rested his hand on his sword. “I’ll go in with you.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “If Captain Vorik wanted me dead, he’s had numerous opportunities to kill me. Besides, he’s injured. I’m planning to give him medical attention.”
“As far as we know, you’re the only direct heir to the throne. Keeping you safe is of paramount importance.”
“Come in if you like, but he’s got internal injuries as well as external ones. I may have to remove some of his damaged organs. Do you have a surgical kit?” Syla made snipping motions in the air. “Are you, by chance, trained to assist with a cholecystectomy or a nephrectomy?”
His face went pale.
“I trust as a trained temple guard, you’re not bothered by the spurting and gushing of blood. I’ll probably need some cautery irons. Oh, and that arrow. Is it still in his shoulder? I’ll need an arrow extractor. Do you keep leeches on the premises? You must.”
“Maybe I’ll wait out here,” Flaron said, eyeing his colleague. The younger man’s eyes had grown a little wide too. “Or fetch you someone who can assist with, uhm, spurting.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Syla smiled, patted him on the arm, and opened the door, then closed it behind her.
Inside, Vorik sat on the edge of the lone bed, his tunic off as he hunched over and examined a long gash curving around his side.
Beside the bed stood a nightstand with a couple of unlit candles, a jug of water, and a plate of crumbs that might have held bread or crackers.
Not the delicious spread the healers had shared with Syla, and she felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn’t wrapped up some fruit to bring.
At least they had given Vorik food of some sort.
Her gaze snagged on an armoire against the wall opposite the window, with two huge green Candles of Serenity perched atop it, her nose picking up their distinctive eucalyptus and dragonquell scents even without the wicks lit.
Of course, if the wicks had been lit, Vorik would be unconscious.
Back home, she often used similar candles, the dragonquell oil mixed in a sedative helpful for patients undergoing surgeries.
Like many healers, especially those moon-marked, she’d developed a tolerance for the scent, and could stay alert while her patient dozed off.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Your Highness.” Vorik beamed a smile in her direction.
When she turned her gaze back to him, Syla realized he was doing more than examining his wound.
He’d talked someone into giving him a needle and suture—or maybe he’d found medical supplies in the armoire?—and was stitching it himself. That had to hurt. And was that bloody chunk lying next to the plate the arrowhead that had been in his shoulder? How had he pulled it out without passing out?
“Vorik.” As Syla rushed to the side of the bed, she almost tripped over an iron chain snaking out from a sturdy eyelet bolted to the stone wall. A shackle around Vorik’s ankle ensured he wouldn’t go far.
“Your Highness.” He tied off his stitches, snipped the end of the thread, and set the needle and scissors on the table. When he shifted toward her, the chain clinked on the floor. “It’s good to see you, but what is a cholecystectomy? And a… nephrectomy?”
“Your hearing is excellent.”
“I think you’ve learned that already.” Vorik looked at his hand.
The black gloves that had covered the dragon tattoo lay on the table.
“I have, yes. Those refer to surgeries, the removal of the gallbladder and a kidney.”
Vorik’s eyebrows rose, and his hand strayed to his lower abdomen. “Is there something wrong with them?”
She snorted softly. “I hope not. I was trying to convince the guard to stay outside.” She tilted her head toward the door. “They think you’re a prisoner.”
Vorik lifted his leg enough to rattle the chain. “I gathered. I trust they didn’t put a shackle around you.”
“No.” Syla turned up the lanterns in the room and sat on the edge of the bed to look him over.
Fortunately, he’d only stitched one wound so far, a deep gash that probably had threatened his kidney.
And he’d pulled out the arrowhead, leaving a deep puncture weeping blood down his torso.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep and didn’t come sooner.
A man shouldn’t have to stitch his own wounds.
” She refrained from commenting on how lopsided and awful the sutures were.
“You were understandably tired.” Vorik offered a half-smile. “I woke briefly a couple of times on the way here. Once in the water and once with you helping carry me on a stretcher of sorts.”