‘Gods, no!’ said Druss as he saw the still form of his Rowena, her face grey, her eyes closed. The priest looked up, his eyes tired.
‘Say nothing,’ urged the priest, his voice weak and seemingly far away. ‘I have sent for a . . .a friend. And it is taking all my power to hold her to life.’ He closed his eyes. At a loss, Druss walked to the far side of the bed and gazed down on the woman he had loved for so long. It was seven years since last he had laid eyes on her, and her beauty tore at his heart with talons of steel. Swallowing hard, he sat at the bedside. The priest was holding to her hand; sweat was flowing down his face, making grey streaks on his cheeks, and he seemed mortally weary. When Sieben and Eskodas entered the room Druss waved them to silence, and they sat and waited.
It was almost an hour before another man entered: a bald, portly man with a round red face and comically protruding ears, He was dressed in a long white tunic, and carried a large leather bag slung from his shoulder by a long gold-embroidered strap. Without a word to the three men he moved to the bedside, placing his fingers against Rowena’s neck.
The priest of Pashtar Sen opened his eyes. ‘She has taken yasroot, Shalitar,’ he said.
The bald man nodded. ‘How long ago?’
‘Three hours, though I have prevented most of it from spreading through the blood. But a minute part has reached the lymphatic system.’
Shalitar clicked his teeth, then delved into the leather bag. ‘One of you fetch water,’ he ordered. Eskodas stood and left the room, returning moments later with a silver jug. Shalitar told him to stand close to the head of the bed, then from the bag he produced a small packet of powder which he tipped into the jug. It foamed briefly, then settled. Delving into the bag again, he pulled clear a long grey tube and a funnel. Reaching down, he opened Rowena’s mouth.
‘What are you doing?’ stormed Druss, grabbing the man’s hand.
The surgeon was unperturbed. ‘We must get the potion into her stomach. As you can see, she is in no condition to drink, therefore I intend to insert this tube in her throat and pour the potion in through the funnel. It is a delicate business, for I would not want to flood her lungs. It would be hard for me to do it correctly with a broken hand.’
Druss released him, and watched in silent anguish as the tube was eased into her throat. Shalitar held the funnel in place and ordered Eskodas to pour. When half of the contents of the jug had vanished, Shalitar nipped the tube between thumb and forefinger and withdrew it. Kneeling by the bed, he pressed his ear to Rowena’s breast.
‘The heartbeat is very slow,’ he said, ‘and weak. A year ago I treated her for plague; she almost died then, but the illness left its mark. The heart is not strong.’ He turned to the men. ‘Leave me now, for I must keep her circulation strong, and that will involve rubbing oil into her legs, arms and back.’
‘I’ll not leave,’ said Druss.
‘Sir, this lady is the widow of the Lord Michanek. She is well loved here – despite being wed to a Naashanite. It is not fitting for men to observe her naked – and any man who causes her shame will not survive the day.’
‘I am her husband,’ hissed Druss. The others can go. I stay.’
Shalitar rubbed his chin, but looked ready to argue no further. The priest of Pashtar Sen touched the surgeon’s arm. ‘It is a long story, my friend, but he speaks truly. Now do your best.’
‘My best may not be good enough,’ muttered Shalitar.
*
Three days passed. Druss ate little and slept by the bedside. There was no change in Rowena’s condition, and Shalitar grew ever more despondent. The priest of Pashtar Sen returned on the morning of the fourth day.
‘The poison is gone from her body,’ said Shalitar, ‘yet she does not wake.’