There was something chipper about his tone that scraped against her spine like metal on glass.
“Enough,” she said. “Start on whatever you must, but don’t tell Arthur anything other than that I am open to the idea. He should at least be the one to propose, not my father’s old advisor.”
Bertram smiled. “Quite right, quite right. Goodnight, milady. Perhaps soon you will finally have pleasant dreams.”
“Goodnight, Bertram.”
Once he was gone, she blew out her candles, returned to her bed, and tried to sleep. She couldn’t.
“Arthur Gemcroft,” she whispered, moving the word about her tongue as if trying to taste it. He would adopt her last name, as all men and women did when entering into a family of the Trifect.
“Arthur Gemcroft. Arthur…Gemcroft.”
It had a ring to it, she must admit. She’d put off marriage for long enough. It was time for her to be practical. Still, as much sense as it made, it gave no comfort, and she tossed and turned until the morning light shone through her curtains, falling upon her ragged face and bloodshot eyes.
*
T he wound in Ghost’s leg was worse than he’d originally feared. He’d returned to his squalid inn, carefully put his weapons aside, and then collapsed onto his bed. The windows had no shutters or curtains, and the light streamed in upon his face. Without much reason to join the night’s slaughter, he’d instead languished in his favorite tavern, drowning himself in alcohol to dull his pain. He’d passed out, and no one had had the nerve to wake him. The dressings on his leg, haphazard at best, had leaked through, and were now infected.
As he lay there, he felt the pain crawling its way up his thigh, as if it were a spider scurrying through his veins. If he didn’t do something soon, he’d lose use of the knee, if not the entire leg. He wouldn’t be the best anymore. He wouldn’t even be a threat. A man of his strength, his skill, was not meant to be a cripple. Surely the gods did not intend such a fate for him.
The gods…
Ghost rolled off the bed, putting all his weight on his good leg. Damn that priestess. The Watcher had been his, thoroughly beaten. He didn’t give a shit that he’d appeared wounded and weaponless. Assassinations, by their very nature, were unfair. But he’d been a fool to let her tend to the wounded Senke. He’d thought her too young to be a threat, but how wrong he’d been.
“It’s not the big snakes you need to fear,” he remembered a friend telling him once as they crossed the grasslands toward Veldaren. “It’s the tiny ones who carry the real venom. Put that on your darts if you want a sure kill.”
The priestess was the tiny snake, the insignificant one among the wizard and warriors. Stupid. Stupid!
He took a hobbled step toward the only decoration in his room, a large dresser full of clothes and outfits. Leaning against it for support, he yanked out the top drawer, letting it crash to the floor. Reaching into the gap, he pulled out a small bag of coin. It’d have to do. Retrieving his swords, he opened the door and stepped out into the painful morning light.
Twice on the way to the temple he collapsed, his knee unable to bear his weight. A black bruise swelled across it, and the puss from where the Watcher’s sword had cut him was turning green. No one paid him any attention, the crowd flowing to either side as if he were an overturned cart, or a dead body.
Reaching the temple offered Ghost little comfort. He still had to climb the many steps, and after the first few, he gave up any pretense of pride. He sat down upon them, put his back to the temple, and pushed himself up one at a time. At the top, he braced himself on a pillar and used it to keep his balance while he stood. Men and women gathered about the wooden doors, crying out for aid. No doubt the temple was swarming with people inside as well. He’d seen the fires, heard the sounds of combat flowing up and down the streets. The thieves had put up a fight this time, firing arrows from the rooftops and preparing a hundred ambushes.
He pushed his way through them, the wound in his leg meaning nothing to his enormous arms. Most turned to glare at him, then decided otherwise seeing his size and painted face. Once inside the temple, he leaned against a wall and surveyed the madness. Priests and priestesses of all ages were running about. They looked like white bees zipping from flower to flower. They’d kneel, exchange a word, maybe a prayer, and then move on. The older ones lingered, and with many, he saw them put their hands on wounds and whisper words of prayer to Ashhur. White light would cover their hands, sometimes weak, sometimes strong, and then sink into the wound. That was what he needed. Faithful or not, he wouldn’t deny that the priests had their uses. But he wouldn’t risk some juvenile treating him. He wanted a master, someone who knew what he was doing.
“Where is Calan?” he asked as he grabbed an elderly priestess, her face a circle-web of wrinkles.
“Busy,” she said, giving him a reproachful glare. She didn’t seem the slightest bit unnerved by his size or skin.
“Bring him,” he said, refusing to let go despite her tugging to break free. “He owes me one. Tell him that.”
“And who are you?” she asked as he released her sleeve.
“Just point him my way. He’ll recognize me.”
She looked him up and down, and though it seemed impossible, her frown grew deeper.
“I can imagine so,” she said, then hurried on her way. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. If he could ignore every noise, every visual distraction, he could focus on the pain, and doing so made him feel better. His temples throbbed with each pulse of pain, but he kept it under control. He felt the pain’s limits, how far it stretched throughout his leg. Time passed, and he was dimly aware of it.
“I see you’ve returned,” a man’s voice said. Ghost stirred to see Calan standing before him. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and his smile forced. “May I ask why you’ve given us the pleasure?”
In answer, Ghost pulled up his pant leg to reveal the wound. He winced when he saw it himself. The purple bruise had spread, and the green puss was filling up his bandage. Calan’s smile immediately vanished, and he grabbed Ghost’s arm.
“This way,” he said. “You need a bed, now.”
Ghost wanted to protest but didn’t. He’d hoped for a bit of healing magic, and then off he’d be. Instead, he obeyed without argument, for his head ached, his stomach continued to do loops, and he felt intensely drained. It was as if the pain were a fire burning away his energy. Calan led them through the maze of people and pews. His head swiveled, but he saw no opening, no space available. Muttering, he turned them toward the back, then through a door to a quaint room. It had a small desk, a bookshelf, and a bed, and it was that bed Calan set him upon.
“My quarters will have to do,” the priest said. “Though I fear the bed might be small for you.”
“A bed’s a bed,” Ghost mumbled.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Here.” He tossed the small bag of coins to pay for his treatment. “Save my leg, will you?”
Calan rolled the pant leg, carefully folding it over and over until it was up to his thigh. Ghost closed his eyes. For some strange reason, he didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to understand what it was the priest would do, or what its implications meant. Gods were for other people, not him. Gold and killing, that was god enough for him. He heard whispers, undoubtedly prayers, so he leaned his head back and tried to relax. The pain continued to throb, its reach growing. He felt it down to his shin, as if instead of a single cut, the Watcher had beaten and smashed his whole leg with a club.
A strange sound met his ears. It was like a soft breeze blowing past the entrance of a cave, yet deeper, fuller. Even through his closed eyelids he saw the light flare. When it plunged into his legs, it was like fire. He clutched the sides of the bed and clenched his teeth. His nostrils flared as he breathed in and out.
“The infection is deep,” he heard Calan say. “Bear with me, Ghost. I know you’re strong. You will endure.”
More prayers, and another burst of light. This time when it plunged into him, there was no feeling of fire, only a cold numbness that spread with alarming speed. He worried if it reached his lungs he’d never breathe again. It stopped at his thigh, though, and then seemed to shrink back in on itself. With its retreat, he realized he felt no pain, even when the coldness left his leg entirely.
“What did you do?” he asked, daring to open his eyes.
“What you wanted me to do,” Calan said, looking down at him. “What else?”
The priest resumed his prayers, and as his hands hovered over Ghost’s knee, the flesh began to knit itself
