6. Bromelene and Arnica #2
While he let the tonic cool in a mug, Rerdas set a chair beside Uralta.
He lifted his aunt's hand, unnaturally cool and dry beneath his touch, and squeezed her fingers gently. “Auntie,” he whispered, “we need you back. We’ve done something... we’ve done something very wrong.
We’re hurting someone. There doesn’t seem to be any other way, but we need you back so it can stop.
I don’t want to hurt him. Please come back. ”
He pressed his aunt’s hand to his cheek.
Her bones jutted through her papery skin, and her pulse was sluggish.
They couldn’t lose her. It couldn’t happen.
And yet... What if it did? None of this would be worth it if Uralta faded from their grasp entirely.
He swallowed painfully and laid her hand back on the bed.
Scowling at the purging tonic, he set the mug on the nearest table to the bed and lifted a spoonful of the spicy liquid to his aunt’s slack jaw.
“You will not die.” He tilted the medicine down her throat and dipped the spoon back into the mug.
“And I will not give up.” Another spoonful slid out of sight. Rerdas refilled the spoon, still muttering aloud to the silent room.
“And neither will Etiana.” He wasn’t sure if it was the smell of the tonic making his eyes water, or whatever nameless emotion consumed him.
“And the gods already know he won’t ever give up, either.” Rerdas jerked his chin toward the room where Imalroc lay.
“We are all fighting for you, Auntie. You must live.” A droplet fell from the spoon in his hand. He steadied himself and lifted it to her mouth again.
Uralta inhaled sharply, coughed, and sealed her thin lips.
Rerdas jerked back so quickly he sent tonic splattering all over the carpet and nearly knocked the mug over. His heart pitched into his throat. He refilled the spoon, trembling.
This time, he could see her nostrils flaring as the spoon drew close. A muscle in her cheek twitched, and then her head flopped away from him. He shifted her back and pushed the spoon above her lip, accidentally tapping the edge against her teeth. She swallowed and coughed again.
Painstakingly, he forced every drop of the tonic down his aunt’s throat.
Then he sped down to the kitchens for a bowl of soup and repeated the process, although Uralta was a good deal more receptive to the broth than she was to the disgusting medicine.
But it seemed, at long last, that the medicine was working.
He would have risked kissing the Sultana of Draal had she been there, no matter what her guards and Optologicians would have done.
He went to leave the empty bowls in the hall and spotted a heavily loaded tray left on a skinny little table outside his own door. Food, surrounded by an army of flasks, jars, and stacked round tins. He unfolded the scrap of paper stuck between them and read a few sparse lines.
Blue tin is bromelene; apply liberally to new scarskin. Yellow is arnica; apply immediately to bruises; do not employ for open wounds.
More directions hung in tags off each flask and were stamped across the tops of the jars. Rerdas balanced the tray across his forearms and grabbed for the handle on the door to Imalroc’s room.
He called out gently as he entered. “Imalroc?”
The covers were thrown back, and the bed was empty. Rerdas left the tray on the bureau nearby, letting the door click shut behind him.
“Are you here?” He turned in place to look around. A breeze pushed against his hair, and he started when he spotted Imalroc curled on the windowsill, half-hidden by the thick drapes.
“Unfortunately,” Imalroc answered, his voice warped and barely audible.
Rerdas eyed the darkness beyond the open window. “Come... come away from there, will you?”
He couldn’t see Imalroc’s face fully, but just enough of his profile to recognize the bitter smile he wore.
“You sent me—” Imalroc’s words were halting, but furious. “To kill. Or drown.” He coughed. “Now… you worry… about a window?” It felt like an accusation, and Rerdas couldn’t deny or try to defend against it.
“I received the medicine. We should apply it right away, I think.”
Imalroc did not move from the windowsill.
Rerdas retrieved the tray and brought it to the low table in front of the couch.
He eyed Imalroc. Part of him wanted to go to him and offer comfort.
Or plead for forgiveness. He didn’t think Imalroc would welcome either, so he sank down onto the couch, twisting so he could face Imalroc’s position at the window.
The silence was intolerable.
“Something good happened,” Rerdas said at last. “I think the purging tonic is working. Aunt Uralta finally had a reaction to having it administered and kept a whole bowl of soup down, too.” He fumbled his words as Imalroc turned slowly to look at him.
But he said nothing, and Rerdas tried again. “If she survives this—and I swear she can—it’s because of you. We couldn’t have gotten her this far without you. I know it, Etiana knows it, our debt—”
“Our agreement,” Imalroc rasped. He looked back out the window for a long moment. “Improvement… is good.” Slowly, he unfolded himself from the sill and circled around the couch toward the opposite end. He was favoring his injured leg a little, Rerdas noticed.
But that was nothing compared to his neck. The long column of Imalroc’s throat was mottled with angry red.
Rerdas made a faint, horrified sound, and his hand went to his own throat. “You almost died,” he whispered. “We almost killed you.”
Imalroc, sinking into the opposite corner of the cushions, curled his upper lip. “It’s a battlebox, handler.”
Rerdas couldn’t meet his gaze. Miserably, he shifted through the tins and tinctures, groping for something that could heal. “There’s… some of this should help…” He offered the blue tin to Imalroc.
Popping the lid free, Imalroc sniffed it, nose wrinkling. “Bromelene.”
“You recognize it.”
“For my leg. But not yet. Arnica?”
Rerdas retrieved another tin quickly. “They sent three tins, I think. You’ve used that one too?”
Imalroc examined the waxy yellow paste. “Rarely.” He looked up, studying Rerdas for an uncomfortably long time. Whatever he was considering, it took him some time to decide to say it. “What did the booker say?”
That wasn’t anything close to what Rerdas expected. “What?”
“At the medic. She—A problem?”
“I’m not sure I caught it. Something about guards and a few battleboxers, maybe. Why?”
Imalroc smiled down at the arnica tin. A full smile, flashing teeth, but something about it was unsettling.
“Why?” Rerdas repeated.
“Freedom traders,” Imalroc said hoarsely. “In Navona.”
Rerdas twitched upright. “What? Where did you hear that?”
“Another fighter. Took him south.” Imalroc’s wolf-smile grew, and he pushed out more words despite the pain it clearly cost him. “Going to fight for the Advocate.”
The Advocate was a child’s story. It worried and saddened him to see Imalroc cling to it. The last thing this man needed was false hope. “Do you believe him?”
There was a heartbeat of silence. Imalroc lifted his gaze, his smile vanishing. “Yes.”
“It sounds...” Rerdas shook his head. “Even if they did come, how do you know these traders are doing what they say they will? They could do anything with stolen battleboxers.”
He wished he hadn’t spoken. Imalroc said nothing, but his expression froze over, his gaze accusatory.