While he waited, Khollo sorted through his memories, trying to piece everything together. He remembered shooting a vertag on the roof. How had he ended up fighting one hand to hand?
No arrows, he remembered, grimacing. Should have prepared for that. I won’t make the same mistake next time. He frowned. I’m lucky there will be a next time.
He craned his neck, trying to see his chest, but his torso was wrapped in spotless white linen bandages. That would be the odd constriction he had felt. His arms and shoulders had been left bare, but restrained. There were several thin scabs on his right arm. Had he taken a hard fall?
Khollo was distracted from his musings by a sudden searing pain. It came out of nowhere, without any warning. Khollo’s chest burned as though someone had slit open the bandages and shoved red hot rods of steel into his wounds. He screamed for all he was worth, arching his back against his bonds. The pain intensified, making him struggle for breath. Khollo tried to jerk his hands free from the restraints, but all he succeeded in doing was creating new cuts on his wrists. Why is no one coming?
The door slammed open and two men ran into the room. One had been carrying a tray, but he dropped it when he saw Khollo. “Quick! The drug!” It was the healer, gesticulating frantically towards a small bag on a table by the door.
The other man, a soldier, snatched up the bag and lobbed it towards the healer. He knelt beside Khollo, fumbling with the drawstring. Khollo saw him pour a small amount of a crumbly black-green herb into his palm, then a fresh wave of pain wracked him and he screamed again.
A rough hand forced a foreign substance into his mouth, mid scream. Khollo gagged, choked, the drug sliding under his tongue. A hand clamped over his mouth. Khollo heard indistinct muttering, but could not make out the words. He had a strange sensation, as though he were floating away from his body, tethered only by the restraints on his bed. The pain in his chest diminished, then vanished altogether. By that time though, Khollo had yelled himself hoarse again.
Several long minutes later, Khollo sucked in a ragged breath and opened his eyes again, turning towards the healer. He was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead.
“What,” Khollo’s voice came out as a mere croak. “What was that?”
The healer sighed. “The drug wore off. I’m sorry. I should have realized you would need another dose soon.”
“No, what did you do to me?”
“It’s a plant,” the healer explained. “We’ve used it for years to treat pain.” He hesitated. “But there is a risk. Some patients become addicted to the stuff. It’s referred to in our textbooks as mialtum diaboles. Devil’s Trade.”
Khollo shuddered. “What happens to the ones who get . . . addicted?”
The healer sighed. “They lose their minds. The drug dominates them until they think of nothing else. They crave only their next dose, until the day they die. Some go mad if they can’t get their hands on more.”
The weightless feeling in his torso increased and Khollo started panicking. “Pain I can deal with,” he said, licking dry lips. “Well, mostly.” He thought of living in such a state as the healer described, witless and helpless. “Don’t give me that stuff ever again,” he said fiercely. “I won’t risk it.”
The healer’s eyes widened. “But . . . you felt the pain without, am I right?”
Khollo shrugged. “Double my restraints. Gag me so I can’t scream. Knock me unconscious. But don’t bring that bag near me again. In fact,” Khollo said. “Chuck it. Or bury it, or hide it. Just get rid of it.”
The healer stood slowly. “I won’t get rid of it. Not yet. Just in case, mind. I will respect your decision. But you should be aware that your reaction to the pain could do a good deal of harm with as many cracked and broken ribs as you have.”
“I’ll chance it,” Khollo said flatly.
The healer sighed. “The stubbornness of youth,” he muttered on his way out, followed by the soldier. “Get some rest, Khollo.”
The door shut and Khollo was left alone again. He realized suddenly that he had never gotten any food, and that his battle with his wounds had made him all the weaker. Tired, miserable, and afraid, Khollo tried to relax and find sleep. But sleep was a long time in coming.
The next time Khollo woke, a fire blazed merrily in the fireplace on the other side of the room. Two men were standing between Khollo and the fire, arguing in low voices that were getting progressively louder.
“You’re a healer, damn it! Heal him!”
“You know as well as I that this process takes time. Three nights ago, you were overjoyed that I brought him out of danger.”
“I need him awake, conscious. I need to talk to him.”
“To what purpose?”
“To box his ears for risking himself like that.” There was a pause, then the same voice continued, quieter. “To make sure that he is all right, of course.”
It was Janis, and the healer by the sound of it.
“I understand,” the healer said quietly. “As his mentor, you no doubt have a certain attachment to the boy. He will be fine. Trust me.”
“I know,” Janis muttered. “I just want some sign that he – ”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Janis and the healer both jumped when Khollo spoke. Janis was the first to spin and run to Khollo’s bedside, followed by the healer. “Khollo!” Janis said eagerly, reaching out as though to embrace him. Then he remembered Khollo’s restraints and dropped to his knees instead, leaning over him. “How are you
