Stellan gripped her shoulders and pulled her forward. She gasped as he yanked her dress halfway down her back. His fingers probed her skin, searching for what, she didn’t know. One spot in particular ached horribly. “What do you see?”
“Exactly as I thought,” he muttered, releasing the material and gently coaxing her back into the water.
“What’s wrong with me?” she asked, her voice sounding like an ugly croak to her ears.
“Imp’s Kiss,” he responded. “One of them was on your back. It bit you.”
Clarysa struggled to speak through chattering teeth. “W-what’s Imp’s K-k-kiss?”
Stellan knelt beside the tub. He pulled one of her arms from beneath the water. The healthy glow of her skin had dissolved into an unnatural pallor marked by dark blue veins. “You’ll freeze to death if we don’t keep you warm,” he said grimly, lowering her arm gently back under the water. “I’ll be right back.”
Stellan disappeared from view. After Gretchen had filled the tub with two more buckets of water, he returned. He raised a small vial to her lips. “Here. Drink this antidote. It will destroy the poison.”
Clarysa gagged; the concoction he had hurriedly tossed down her throat tasted horrid. It smelled of rotten meat and had a slimy, viscous feel as it slowly slid down her throat. Is this some kind of sorcerer’s trap? For the first time, she wondered if she had made a mistake in coming. Was that Edward’s gloating face staring up at her from the water?
By reflex, she tried to spit it back up, but Stellan clamped a hand roughly over her mouth. “Swallow it,” came his command. “Now!”
Tears sprung to her eyes, but she complied. No strength remained for any other response. Only when he was sure she had drunk the entire concoction did he release his hand.
Stellan grabbed a bucket from Gretchen’s hand as she approached the tub. He dumped it in quickly and tested the water. “It’s getting cold already. Have Ghyslain help you.”
Gretchen nodded and hurried away.
Stellan looked thoughtful. “The potion’s full effect will take time. You will stay here and recover. I’ll prepare a follow-up treatment for Gretchen to administer, and you won’t give her any trouble about drinking it. That is understood, is it not?”
Clarysa nodded slowly to indicate her obedience. Though firm to the point of being draconian, clearly Stellan was only trying to help her. I was wrong to have doubted you. “Where are you g-going?”
“My men and I will ride to Aldebaran to deal with the infestation. You are not given leave from my castle until I return. That is also understood.”
Clarysa reached out and grabbed his hand. There was so much she wanted to learn about him. Labored breathing impaired her ability to speak, and pains shot through her chest. She could only stare at him, his face unreadable. She wondered if he cared about her, or if he was simply performing his princely duty.
Stellan eased her hand back into the water. “Just rest,” he said, his voice echoing faintly in her head, “rest.” His face began to melt away and soon vanished altogether from her consciousness.
Chapter 11
A candle stump tried valiantly to pierce the darkness of the cascading stairwell as Stellan descended to his workshop. As he opened the door, a kaleidoscope of deep red and green hues splashed over him, emanating from the luminous contents of the glass jars stored inside. They contained potent mixtures he had fashioned over the years.
He placed the candle on the room’s rough-hewn table and gathered a number of jars from the shelves. Scratching sounds eked out from behind the walls, but Stellan paid them no heed. He had to work quickly if he was going to stop the Pestilence outbreak in time.
He unrolled a padded bundle of empty vials. He lined them up on the table along with bowls, funnels, measuring spoons, tubing, and stirring rods. Some of the potions required little more than precise measurement and mixing; others would only activate with heat, a task Stellan accomplished using a specially modified burner.
Occasionally, he flipped through a well-worn bundle of papers–his book of potions. He knew most of them by heart, but where Pestilence was concerned certainty was crucial.
Would his small arsenal be enough? Stellan had developed them through extensive trial and error over the years, and he was still learning. Other than an apothecary he’d once known, he had only his memory of childhood studies to guide him in the magickal arts. Now he regretted not seeking out sympathetic sorcerers for consultation–if they even existed. The Black Mage ruled by instilling fear rather than respect. During his fifty-plus-year reign, only Stellan had dared oppose him.
His gaze followed a path up to the topmost shelf in the back of the room. There, a grayish glow oozed forth, easily drowning the rainbow-colored hues around it.
It was still there. Despite its obvious danger, its capricious results, Stellan was loath to part with it. Even now, its power called to him. Memories inundated him as he stood there quietly regarding the pulsing orb.
He had been fifteen when he’d stumbled onto that leafy path within Dungeon Forest. Even though he’d previously explored the area many times, he had never seen its inviting entrance. Curious.
* * * *
Horseless at the time, he’d crept along on foot. Rounding a bend, he’d encountered an impossibly tall man draped in a long, flowing robe. The stranger’s cowled, hidden face should have sent Stellan scurrying, but his desperate need for human contact had kept him rooted to the spot.
A slender, bony hand urged Stellan closer. He joined the cowled man beneath the shadow of a large oak tree. “What are you doing here,” inquired the stranger, “in this land so far from home?”
“I am searching for herbs with which to mix my potions. My name is Stellan. May I ask for yours?”
The man leaned on his staff and chuckled. “Of course you may ask, but do not
