Chapter 14
HE is passed out by the time we reach his quarters, and Conde Tristán supports most of his weight as we drag him inside. The other guards help us lay him gently on his bed.
Doctor Enzo rushes in, followed by two assistants in gray frocks. “Too much blood,” he murmurs. “Roll him onto his side and cut off his shirt,” he orders one assistant. “And you,” he says to a guard, “get me hot water and clean rags, as many as you can find. We need to clean him up so I can see exactly where he’s bleeding from once I push the arrow through. Your Majesty, please step back.”
I realize I’m hovering, but I don’t move. “Is he . . . will he . . . ?”
He whirls and pushes me back by the shoulders until I hit the wall. “I suggest you start praying,” he says.
Staring at Hector’s pale form, I slide down the wall to the floor and pull my knees to my chest. Tristán settles beside me. He grabs my hand and says, “You care about him very much.”
I nod. “Hector is . . . he’s one of my dearest friends.”
“Then I’ll stay here and pray with you for a while.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. It’s no use telling him I’ve prayed for people I care about before, that it didn’t help.
Doctor Enzo yells at an assistant to light a fire in the hearth and heat the poker.
As Tristán murmurs a prayer beside me, my hand clasped in his, I can hardly focus on the words. I can only stare, horrified, as Doctor Enzo takes what looks like a man’s razor with a long handle and begins to cut around the arrowhead.
“Interesting,” the doctor says. “Very interesting.”
“What?” I demand, interrupting Tristán’s prayer.
“It almost split the rib,” he says. “Right on the lung, so I can’t push through. I’ll have to pull it, but the arrowhead is scored. It will do some damage coming out.”
But Hector’s skin is too blanched, his breathing too shallow. Sweat sheens his cheeks. I don’t know that he can survive more injury.
I find myself praying anyway; I don’t know what else to do. I close my eyes, lean my forehead against Tristán’s, and pray in earnest, letting the Godstone radiate its deceptive calm throughout my body. I refuse to cease praying, to open my eyes, even when Hector’s unconscious grunt tells me Enzo has yanked the arrow out. Even when a hot poker hisses against flesh and the scent of burned blood fills the room.
The doctor and his assistants are cleaning up, removing blood-soaked rags and mopping the floor near Hector’s bed when Tristán shakes my shoulder gently. “I must see to the man I knocked on the head,” he says. “Find out what he knows.”
I had forgotten about him. “Oh, yes, please do.” He rises and heads for the door. “Tristán?” He turns back around. “Thank you. For coming to our rescue. For staying with me.”
He bows low. “Is it all right to leave you here?”
“I’m safe in the barracks of my own Royal Guard.”
“Of course. By your leave.” And he exits Hector’s quarters.
Hector’s quarters. I’ve never been here before. I look around, unsurprised to find it austerely beautiful. His bed, his wardrobe, even the undyed woolen rug at my feet speak of elegant simplicity with their clean lines and subdued colors and perfect craftsmanship. On one wall hangs a painting, the only splash of true color in the place. It’s of a vineyard, and rows of grapevines heavy with bloated grapes scallop over golden hills, fading into the sunset. Several manuscripts, even a few books, are piled haphazardly on his nightstand beside a half-melted candle—the only bit of disorderliness.
This is where Hector sleeps. And judging by the manuscripts, where he spends what little free time I allow him. I breathe deep. The place even smells of him—leather oil and aloe shaving jelly and a hint of sweat.
The doctor and his assistants head toward the door, arms laden with bloody rags. “Your Majesty, I need to see to the other guard. I hear he has a leg wound?”
“Wait. Tell me about Hector.”
“He lost too much blood, and the arrow nicked his lungs. I couldn’t keep him from going into shock. He is unlikely to survive, even with my considerable skill.”
My vision tunnels and my bodice is suddenly too tight and hot.
“Are you staying awhile, Your Majesty?” he asks in an uncharacteristically soft voice.
“Yes,” I hear myself say.
“In that case, I’ve left devil’s nettle tea on the hearth. Make him drink it, in the unlikely event that he wakes. It will help the blood clot and relieve pain. I’m leaving orders for no one else to enter this room—he needs perfect rest. If you must leave, ask the guard outside to sit in here quietly to mark his . . . health. I’ll return later to check the stitches and bandages.”