Gill nodded. “Might be best if you don’t mention what’s happened, or that the Prince Bishop wants me dead.”
“I’m in complete agreement with you on that,” she said.
Guillot nodded. “I’ll get a room readied for you.”
CHAPTER 42
Solène willed away the gentle knocking on her door, but as awareness returned, she remembered what needed to be done. It was dark outside, so he hadn’t let her sleep through until morning. She got up, put on her robe, which the inn’s staff had cleaned, and answered the door. Gill stood there, a sheepish look on his face.
“I gave you as long as I dared,” he said. “Dal Sason’s looking worse and having trouble breathing.” He led Solène into dal Sason’s room.
“I’ve brought you a visitor,” he said, flopping down onto a wicker-backed chair.
“Solène? What are you doing here?” he said, gasping the words out between laboured breaths.
“I’m here to help,” she said, casting Guillot a guilty look.
“You’d best take a look at my ribs then,” dal Sason said. “They hurt something awful.”
Moving to beside the bed, she pulled back his bandage. The right side of his chest was a variety of colours from black to yellow, and she could clearly see the location of each of the breaks. She had only seen a wound turn bad once—when a miller’s apprentice in Bastelle got a hand caught in the mill’s gear wheel—but the boy’s flesh looked exactly like dal Sason’s. The mill had taken his hand, then the rot had taken his arm to the shoulder. The visiting physician had cut it off, saying it was the only way to save the lad. It hadn’t worked.
There was no cutting off a chunk of dal Sason’s chest, however. She felt a chill run across her skin as it occurred to her that in saving Guillot, in killing the assassins and their party, she might have condemned dal Sason to death. One of them had to have been a healer, who would have been able to fix him with only a treatment or two. No regular physician would be able to do a thing for him if he had the rot. There were no more healers coming, and unless she did something, he was a dead man.
“How are you feeling?” she said, as she glanced at Guillot. She could see that he recognised the serious expression on her face.
“Rotten,” dal Sason said. “Worse today, if anything. The pain is unbelievable at times. It eased off for a while, but it’s so hot and tight down my right side now, that I can barely move. Or breathe.”
“I’m going to fetch some cold water. Ice, if they have any. Cooling it down will help, then I’ll see what I can do. Gill, will you give me a hand?”
He nodded, his own expression grave. As soon as they got outside, with the door closed behind them, she stopped.
“I’m no healer,” she said, “but even I can see the wounds inside him have turned bad. Without help, it’s going to get worse. Probably kill him. Who knows how much other damage was done to his insides.”
“What do we do, then?” Guillot said. “Shall I ask around for another physician?”
“I don’t think that will help. He’s already seen one, hasn’t he?” Guillot nodded. “And yet he’s worse now.”
“I see what you mean,” Guillot said. “Are you willing to help him?”
“I could end up doing more harm than good,” she said. Her stomach twisted with fear as she remembered the pain Leverre had felt during his final moments. “I understand the principle of what I’m supposed to do, but that’s as far as it goes.”
“Well, if he’s going to die without help, it might be that anything you do that speeds him to that end would be a mercy. But there’s a chance you’ll be able to help him. Perhaps even save him. I’m willing to take it.”
“Do you think he would be?” she said, torn between the desire to help and the fear of making it worse.
“We can ask, but it might make him suspicious. Why would the Prince Bishop send an untested healer?”
Solène thought for a moment. If she could kill, surely she could heal? Leverre had been willing to let her try, though sadly, that hadn’t gone well. Still, dal Sason’s injuries weren’t as severe, and hopefully would require less powerful intervention. She could start off by trying to cleanse him of the infection, and all being well, go from there. She couldn’t do much harm if she adopted that approach, and though harsh, there was sense in what Gill said.
“I’ll try,” she said. “I need to rest more first, though. And eat a good meal. The journey took a lot out of me. Without more rest I can’t guarantee I won’t make him worse. A few more hours aren’t likely to significantly change his situation.”
“Agreed,” Gill said. “Eat, then rest. We can start in the morning. I’ll fetch ice and water to help with the fever and take care of him until then.”
She nodded, and could already feel her mouth start to water at the thought of a good dinner.
Solène awoke late the next morning. The combination of an overly large meal, followed by a full night’s sleep in a warm bed, had left her feeling almost normal. At moments, she could almost forget the events of the past few days, and her role in them.
Gill was asleep on the wooden chair when she went into dal Sason’s room, snoring gently and completely oblivious to her arrival. She thought about waking him, but there was nothing he could do to help. Magical healing didn’t require any other intervention. If done right, it was soothing, pain free, and completely restorative. If done wrong?
She walked quietly to dal Sason’s bedside and sat. He was asleep, but there was nothing peaceful about it. He twitched and moaned, and she could see from his colour and sweat-matted hair that fever had set in. She took a deep breath and held her hand out, above his chest. She closed her eyes and reached for the Fount. It was waiting for her, easily within reach now. It always seemed to be so much stronger in towns and cities. She noticed a clump of energy in Gill’s purse—just like Leverre had described. That must be the Cup. They would need to talk about that later—
She shuddered, realising that her mind had wandered, and returned her focus to what needed to be done. Distraction was disastrous in magic, all the more so when healing—she could end up hastening the infection’s spread, or worse. She knew she was still a long way from having the mental discipline she needed, but she was ready to try. She focussed on a desire to heal. She thought of a fever fading, of dal Sason’s skin cooling. She thought of rotting flesh returning to a healthy state.
Releasing her hold on the Fount, Solène opened her eyes, fearful of what she might see. Dal Sason’s face was not nearly as flushed as it had been when she had first sat down beside him. His expression was of a man more at ease. She closed her eyes again and repeated the process, extending her thoughts to bones knitting and becoming strong, of normal, healthy blood flow restored to damaged tissues. Her mind flashed back to the moment she had turned a woman from person to a spray of blood and bits of flesh. Dal Sason let out a pained groan and Solène jumped in fright, her heart racing, remembering the moment before Leverre had died.
She took a deep breath to steady herself and looked dal Sason over, but it appeared that whatever had caused his distress had been momentary. She let out a sigh of relief and sat, cursing herself for allowing horrific memories to intrude on her thoughts. This was why healing was considered such an expert magical art. The slightest distraction, the slightest drop in focus, and the patient could suffer immeasurably. The precision needed to target specific internal injuries required an encyclopaedic knowledge of anatomy as well as incredible skill. It was why she was only willing to risk treatment in the most general way.