She shook her head. “It’s gone. All of it. The Shae have been searching…but there isn’t any to be found. I know Tsyrke smuggled it away. The rook.”
“Mirror.” He swallowed and it felt like swords in his throat. “I want a mirror, Stasy.”
She looked him in the eye. “No, Quickfellow. You need time to heal. Time to rest from what…what happened to you.”
“Let me… see my face.”
She shook her head and reached over and with the tiniest touch brushed some hair from his forehead. “You’ll be all right, Quickfellow. You just need some time is all. I’ll be here for you. I’ll be here till you’re well again.”
Why wouldn’t she get him a mirror?
He started to panic. The constraints against his arms and legs stifled him. Was he going to be trapped in splints on a bed for months? For how long? He felt as if he’d fallen from the tallest cedar in the Shadows Wood.
“Ssshhhh,” she soothed. “Don’t wrestle like that. You need to lie still. Please, Quickfellow. You need to be still. You’re broken in so many…so many places.”
He closed his eyes, sick to his stomach. “I want to see it. I want to see what it’s done to me.”
The door opened.
Thealos blinked his eyes open and saw Exeres coming in with a tray.
“Good, you’re awake.” He put the tray on another table and dipped a cloth into a bowl and squeezed it. It smelled strongly of lemon and something pungent.
“He wants a mirror,” Stasy said.
“I don’t know if there is one handy,” he said, dabbing Thealos’ chest and throat with the sopping cloth. “I’m not moving you off this bed unless the inn catches fire.” He sat down in another chair on the other side of the bed. “Thealos, you aren’t well right now. I’ve been healing you, part by part. But,” he sighed, “it’s draining. I’m so weary myself I don’t have much to draw from.”
“Where is my sword?” Thealos whispered.
“Against the wall,” she answered. “Next to you.”
“Show me the blade.”
Ticastasy bit her lip and that made his stomach churn even more.
“Ban it, Stasy, just do it.”
She reached behind him and pulled. The blade made its tinny squeal as it came out of the scabbard. Bringing it around in front of her, she held it lengthwise in front of him.
The first thing Thealos saw was his eyes. The whites were tangled with crimson veins, the whorls so thick that he nearly retched. His face was pockmarked with crimson spots, and bruises discolored his puffy cheekbones and his distorted nose.
He did not recognize himself.
His throat seized and his eyes swam with tears. A deep-seated shudder rumbled in his chest. Then another. Both caused spasms of agony. He bit his lip but he felt the sobs come.
Exeres hooked his hand behind Thealos’ head. “No, my friend. Listen to me. Listen to my voice. It’s not time to weep. It’ll ravage your insides even more. I’ve kept Flent out of here to keep you from laughing, but he’s standing guard in the hall outside. He hasn’t left for two days. Listen to me. I know it looks bad. But each part of it will heal. If we give it enough time, it will heal. I can cure you.”
Thealos wanted to cling to his words, but they rang hollow. He stanched the shuddering sobs that threatened to kill him with pain. Gritting his teeth, he felt the ache in his jaws, the swollenness of his cheeks.
“The Everoot could heal me,” he said with all the bitterness congealing inside him. “But not even you could heal this, Zerite. I may well never leave this bed.”
Exeres looked down at the sheets and then up again. “You may be right,” he said, his voice low. “If that’s the case, I will stay by you until I die. I owe you a debt, Thealos. I owe you a blood debt.” He shuddered. “I…I nearly killed us all. I nearly destroyed the entire city. Everyone, myself included, though that would have been a small price. It was you who stopped it. It was you who released the magic that cured me. That freed me from…her. I owe you a debt that I will repay, Thealos Quickfellow. If I repay that debt ladling soup into you night and day for a year or more? I’ll do it gladly. You saved us. I want you to remember that when the pain is more than you can bear. You saved us all.”
Thealos felt a sting in his throat. Exeres’ words humbled him—shamed him. He had gone back to Landmoor knowing that he might die. But he did not entertain the thought that he would lie in a bed as a cripple the rest of his life. What about the Oath magic? Being a Ravinir? What good was he to anyone like this? What purpose could he serve if it took months and years to recover? That was the unfairness of it. The not knowing. Especially when he knew of a magic that could heal him.
“He needs more broth. Dip some bread in as well. He needs to eat to regain his strength, to let his body help in the healing. But let me scrub him first with this. It will help with the bruises.”
He paused.
“I don’t think he minded your help when he was asleep, Ticastasy. But I think he’ll mind now that he’s awake. Let me bathe him.”