Chương 17: Reprieve

"Northman. Wake up." A hand gently slapping his cheek had the desired effect on Arn, who opened his eyes. He did not recognise the dark-skinned, muscular man who bent over him. Another, an old man who looked Aquilan, stood on the other side.

"Drink this." Arn looked at a small flacon barely visible in the big man's hand. A dreadful memory pierced his mind; a vile concoction being forced down his throat, leaving him weak. Despite his fevered state, Arn pulled his blanket off and tried to jump out of the bed.

"Hold him!" Mahan commanded, placing the elixir on a nearby drawer to have both hands free and comply with his own order. The old physician put in a token effort, though he could barely control one arm that Arn flailed about.

"Never mind," Mahan barked, using his strength to push Arn back into the bed.

"Just get the potion. Pour it in him!" Arn struggled in vain as a hand held his head firm while another grabbed his jaw to pry it open. Liquid splashed into his mouth, and he was forced to swallow it. He continued to squirm, but realising it was futile, he eventually became calm.

"Will it be enough?" Mahan asked.

"Gods only know." * As the fever dreams receded, Arn finally felt able to string two coherent thoughts together. He sorted through his memories of the last few days, separating what belonged in the distant past or had been conjured up by a distressed mind from what had actually happened. He had been wounded, and a burning pain told him of a severe infection, possibly exacerbated by his weakness after leeching from his victim, or maybe the blade had been coated in venom.

He had been given some manner of medicine, to which he attributed his improved state, while it lasted; although lacking the knowledge of an apothecary or alchemist, he did not have faith that this would cure him. Sickness had gripped his body too tightly for such remedies to matter, dispelling any hope that he would recover on his own. This was a reprieve, and it would not last. Only real magic could help him. His hands fumbling around in the dark, Arn finally found his tablet.

Staring at the wax, he could at length make out the letters he had written. He recognised them as Tyrian. Odd. Erasing them from the wax, he repeated the message, this time in Aquilan, hoping his helpers, or jailers, would comply with his request. Send for Helena. * Time passed. Arn had something to eat and was given sour wine to drink, though it did little to help him. As the hours passed, he felt the fever make its slow return, and for once, he prayed.

"I just don't see what more I can do for him," a voice declared outside the room.

"Who can say? But it's what he requested. He even wrote it again, this time in Aquilan." If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"But I already visited him once. He's probably confused and forgot. It's better that I allow him to rest rather than disturb him."

"Look, he may be dying. It seems cruel to deny him his last wish." No further arguments came; the door opened, and Sister Helena stepped inside.

"I'll just spend a moment, I suppose."

"No need to hurry." Mahan closed the door again. Once alone, the nun turned her head sharply towards the Tyrian.

"Leave me alone," she hissed through gritted teeth.

'You have magic. Heal me.' Arn's eyes shone as they stared at her. Faint moonlight reached through the window to let him make out her silhouette, though he could not tell her face through the veil.

'I do not,' she replied in the same, silent manner.

'You do. I saw your wounds. They heal fast. Only magic does that.' Arn took a few deep breaths; he felt exhausted, mentally, trying to phrase himself using the meagre allotment of signs he knew.

'You keep it a secret. Heal me, and I won't tell.'

"You threaten –" She arrested herself and continued with gestures.

'You threaten me? After I help you?'

'Yes. Heal me or I die. My death is –" Arn did not know the right sign for conscience.

'My death will burden you.'

"You're sick with delusions," Helena retorted; either anger made her switch to speech, or perhaps she also had reached the limits of what she could explain with her hands.

"Nobody will believe you."

'How many healers in all the Empire? Five? To get one more, they'll believe.' Arn's breath came ragged.

'Save me. Save yourself. Heal me.'

"I can't!" She bit her lip.

'I cannot. I don't know how.'

'Your body does. It has healed you often. You can do it to me.' Arn did not admit that he felt less certain about the last part. Tyrian seiðr worked differently from Aquilan magic; while he knew the principles of the latter, he could not be sure it also applied to how they would employ healing, being rare and something he had never witnessed. But he had no other option.

'Place your hand on my wound. Use your will. Demand it to be healed. It will work.' Or so Arn prayed.

"I can't," she mumbled, sounding on the verge of tears underneath the veil that hid her face.

"It's evil. Magic is evil."

'It's my only hope, or I die.' Arn felt the mist of the fever creeping over his mind. Concentrating was becoming harder.

'But first, I tell them about you. They will make you use magic every day. Or you do it once. For me.'

"You deserve to die!" she exclaimed before clamping one hand over her mouth, twisting the black fabric in between.

'And I will. Or you help me. And I keep quiet.' Silence hung in the air between them, heavy with stench.

"How do I do it?"

'Touch my wound.' Arn pulled the blanket away to reveal the bloody bandage. Helena moved around to the other side of his bed; a hesitant hand was extended forward to acquiesce with his demand.

'Demand it to be healed. Use your will. Your magic will obey.' Arn prayed as he never had done before, hoping the Thunderer would show him mercy one more time. Moments trickled by. Arn blinked, feeling sweat running from his brow down his cheek. His breathing sounded like the bellows of a forge. At last, he saw it. A glow of magic, probably invisible to those without the gift. More importantly, he felt it.

Healing power flowing into him, restoring his body to its natural state and combatting the ills threatening to overwhelm him. Helena stumbled away. She tore the veil from her face and threw up into a washing bowl. Feeling better, Arn raised his head to regard her as she stood, her back turned to him. He had wondered if the effort would kill her; an untrained magic-wielder attempting an improvised spell like this could have been her undoing.

If all she suffered was magical exhaustion, causing some vomiting and probably a nasty headache, she was lucky.

"We are done," she muttered, replacing her veil before she faced him.

"Never speak to me again. Better you die." She left as swiftly as her weakened state might allow. Arn leaned his head back. He still felt fragile; the fever had not subsided all at once. The healing energy of a complete novice would not cure all his ills in one day, as expected. Arn had hoped that with some guidance, after earning her trust, perhaps she could have restored his tongue. Probably a fool's hope, given she lacked all training, and she could barely heal an infected wound.

If this was all he gained from the nun, so be it; he did not regret it. He would live. Closing his eyes, Arn took a deep breath. He would live.