Chapter 12 The Infirmary
THE INFIRMARY
When she opened her eyes, Hazel was deep in the bowels of the castle again, the telltale scents of death and rot and decay near suffocating.
She stood in an arched doorway, iron dragon-head sconces lit on either side, casting eerie shadows on the walls.
The room before her was dark, whatever secrets it held hidden in the shadows.
Behind her, a winding stone staircase twisted up and out of sight.
The sconces continued down every three or so stairs, likely lit by whoever or whatever had come before her.
Hazel looked at her hands and recognized she was in the body of the mystery person once again. She wore the skin of someone with dainty hands, whose slender, manicured fingers bore splendid rings. But Hazel immediately noticed something different. Her hands were shackled in iron manacles…
Her observations were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps up above. A jingle of keys and the click of a lock being turned was followed by a sharp squeal of the door on its hinges as someone entered the stairwell. And she was somewhere she shouldn’t be.
She needed to move. Fast. Needed to find cover.
And of course, her only option was to press onward into the darkness before her…
and whatever else awaited her there. She cast one last glance over her shoulder to see the glow of a torch as its bearer descended the spiral stairs.
She glimpsed a hulking shadow on the stairwell wall just before fleeing into the gaping maw of the chamber.
Hazel couldn’t see a thing. She fumbled her way into the room, tripping and stumbling over obstacles she couldn’t identify.
She decided she would not get out of this alive by making so much noise and slowed herself down, giving her eyes—or whoever’s eyes they were—time to adjust to the blinding blackness.
As they did, she wished she could erase all of it from memory.
Both sides of the room were lined with makeshift cots.
Some were completely soiled, the linens soaked with what she could only assume was blood.
In some areas, the stains were darker… too dark to be blood.
At least, too dark to be human blood. A chill ran up her spine.
Footsteps approached, the time between each stride an eternity.
She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t dare.
She was completely exposed, too. There hadn’t been enough time to orient herself to the strange room to know where she could hide. Hazel steeled herself against the fear within her, now bubbling to a primal level. But if she panicked, there would be no escape.
She heard the snap of fingers in the darkness.
The hallway burst to life with blinding light as the sconces re-lit themselves spontaneously. Two large braziers in the room followed suit.
Her company had arrived as a foreboding, godlike silhouette framed by raven-black wings, each tipped with a single, razor sharp talon. An angel, but so much worse. No, an angel of death.
The male figure relit his torch and held it before him, examining the room. Hazel took a few quiet steps back, taking in this creature before her.
Torchlight illuminated his body, revealing a bare torso and muscled arms riddled with scars.
Was he a warrior? Or were those scars the memories left behind in his flesh from being whipped or tortured himself?
Her eyes were drawn to his side, which looked to have been recently bandaged, blood seeping through the layered cloth.
He locked eyes with her then, and Hazel could not break free from her gaze. Where hers went wide, revealing the whites in her fear, his were solid black, endless, soulless orbs floating in the night.
The beast reached for her, and she found herself unable to move. A single, claw-tipped finger came nearer… nearer… so close to touching her.
She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.
Hazel’s eyelids fluttered, fighting against her will to open them. Brain foggy and vision blurred, she struggled to bring the world around her into focus. Lolling her head to one side, she closed her eyes and groaned from the pounding throb rattling her skull. But then…
It all came back to her in a blinding fury, her last waking memory assaulting her with a barrage of terror. Hazel thrashed, fighting the last enemy she remembered seeing. But her efforts amounted to nothing, as she found her hands were bound, restraining her from moving more than a finger’s length.
She was completely tied down to a bed.
Hazel pushed up as much as her restraints would allow and pain seized her.
It was a jolting sensation, the likes of which she’d never experienced.
Her ribs were on fire. Lying flat once more, she tried to control her breathing through the intense throbbing between her ribs.
As she attempted to wiggle her legs, Hazel discovered her ankles were bound in a similar fashion.
Her pulse quickened, panic threatening to take hold of her senses.
Calm yourself. Learn as much as you can about your surroundings.
Then it hit her. She recognized this room.
No, it can’t be. But it was. From the chandelier above, to the braziers burning at either end of the chamber, this was the room from her recurring nightmare.
She may not have ever experienced it physically, but there was no mistaking this place for the same one she’s been in half a dozen times now.
The domed ceiling, the windowless walls, and, worst of all, the infirmary beds all around the room.
With a deep breath to refocus, she recognized the room was cleaner, more sterile—devoid of the blood and gore of her nightmares.
Perhaps there were multiple chambers akin to this one.
Maybe this isn’t the torture chamber from my dreams. It was more of a healer’s ward than the horrible place she was used to seeing.
At least, she hoped it was. Hazel rested her head briefly, relaxing against the restraints and allowing her eyes to close.
Something moved by her feet, and her eyes shot back open.
What was that? She lifted her head up again to see an enormous orange cat doing circles between her feet, kneading the blanket into the perfect bed.
He plopped down and began grooming his paws.
Well, at least there was one familiar face.
Somehow, that brought her comfort, and she laid her head back down, feeling calmer than before.
Her moment of peace was interrupted by the thud of the hall’s doors opening, the sound echoing across the large chamber.
Soft footsteps padded across the floor as the visitor approached.
A sense of foreboding washed over her, a bucket full of melted snow setting her nerves alight.
She chanced a glance in their direction and found a plump, bald man bent over a workbench across the room, tinkering with something.
A cork popped out of a bottle, and the sound of pouring liquid followed suit. Followed by something being stirred.
He stopped working and turned slowly to face her.
Hazel slammed her eyes shut, hoping he hadn’t noticed she was awake. She heard him set the glass he’d been working with down and close a drawer. Her heart lurched to a gallop as his steps drew near. If he came any closer, pretending to be asleep would be futile. Maybe I can talk my way out of this.
She could sense the man at her side before he cleared his throat.
“Miss?” His voice was rugged but surprisingly soft. Almost gentle. “Are you awake?”
Hazel allowed her eyes to open slowly, hoping to create the illusion she was just regaining consciousness. “Hmm?” she mumbled.
“Ahh, shh. Shh.” He comforted her. “It’s alright, miss. I will not harm you.”
“Wh-where am I? What happened?” she stammered.
“You were in quite the scuffle, young lady. Took a right beating, you did. Though, if I understand correctly, you put up a good fight.” He smiled softly.
It was disarming, his kindness. Hazel wasn’t sure what to make of it, but his smile faded.
“They were going to kill you for attacking an officer of the crown. You’re lucky you aren’t dead. ”
She tried to smile back and was met with more pain, turning her smile to a grimace. At the moment, she didn’t feel lucky.
“Aye, suppose you’re in a right bit of pain still, eh? Let me step over to my bench and get you something—”
“No—I mean, wait,” she sputtered. The tang of blood indicating she’d broken open a wound of some sort in her mouth.
“How long have I been here? Where’s Ag—my aunt?
” Her head was spinning, the pain growing more severe by the second.
But she’d remembered poor Agnes piled into a lifeless heap on the ground in her tent.
No, not lifeless. She recalled Agnes’s shallow breaths before the armored guard had kicked her into oblivion.
“You’ve been out for a few days, miss. I’ve had to keep you under while the most severe of your wounds healed.
But I assure you, it was for your own safety.
Waking up before you were ready, well… you can see how much pain you’re in now.
It would have been tenfold, and quite dangerous, had I not provided you with a sleeping draught.
And I give you my word, I have been the only one to attend to you.
These are my chambers, and no one enters without my knowing.
” Whatever that is supposed to mean. What good is the word of a stranger who keeps you tied to a bed and drugged?
“I see,” Hazel managed before breaking into a terrible coughing fit. By the gods, it was so painful she couldn’t breathe. The cat jumped up and raised his hackles, alarmed by the commotion.
The stocky healer waddled over to his workbench again and gathered something from the cabinet beside it. He returned moments later with a dusky liquid-filled vial.
“Please, miss. Drink this for me.” The cat hissed at him as he approached.
Hazel eyed him warily between coughs. Why should she trust him? Her body heaved, her abdominal muscles cramping with the exertion of each barking hack.
Wordlessly, he offered her the vial. She accepted it and, against her better judgment, tipped the whole thing back. It was surprisingly warm, quite viscous, and only slightly bitter. Her coughing subsided almost immediately.
“There now. That’s better, isn’t it?”
She nodded, half expecting to fall over dead any minute.
“It was just for the pain. I promise.”
Judging by how he recoiled, Hazel knew her distrust was written all over her face, which was smushed into an accusatory scowl.
“Now,” he continued, wiping his hands on a towel, “As for your aunt, you say? Yes. Well, I have little to report. She was brought to me the same as you but was released from my care within a day. I can’t say for certain, but I believe she may be in the dungeons now.”
The dungeons. My poor, frail Agnes. And it’s all my fault. Hot tears welled in her eyes. “Take me to her, please,” she begged, her strained voice barely more than a whisper.
“Oh, my dear. Would if I could. But I am afraid you won’t be going anywhere for a while. You need to rest.” He rested a hand on her arm and looked down at her. Warning bells pealed in her mind.
“It’s time to go back to sleep, miss.” His grip tightened around her forearm, and with his other hand, he drew another vial of clouded liquid.
She tried to turn her head, but she couldn’t feel…
anything. Her eyes flared in panic, and she opened her mouth to scream, but the healer grabbed her face in his sweaty, meaty hand and dumped the vial down her throat. She swallowed involuntarily.
In an instant, a calmness overtook her.
He smiled at her. “That’s a good girl. Get some rest, miss. We’ll wake you when it’s time.”