A lemon-pungency of ointment filled the air. He felt Aria’s fingers reaching through the water to work unguent into the scrapes and tears and punctures that he had accumulated during his weeks of travel and a battle for his life. Her touch was cool despite the tub and the healing sharpness of the ointment.
“Turn now,” her voice whispered through the fog of exhaustion and steaming water. “Turn…”
There were flaps of loose skin on his shoulders where he had deliberately accepted punishment from the creature’s armored limbs. Aria kneaded the ointment into the wounds, then forced the skin back over Dennis’ bare flesh while he rested his chin on the sloped rim of the tub. The sudden pain made him suck in his breath… but after the first rush, he could feel the injured surfaces starting to knit together.
“I’m beginning to think I survived after all,” Dennis whispered. He wasn’t sure whether he was speaking aloud or only in a pink-misted, lemony dream.
“I am glad that you survived, Prince Dennis,” murmured the woman’s voice from the mist. “Now it is time for you to get out of the water and to sleep.”
The tub was draining into itself. Hands and tentacles as gentle as hands were helping Dennis, drying his body with towels and clothing it again in loose, light garments before lifting him to the bed.
Dennis could see the crystal spheres spinning, so close that if he blinked his eyelashes might brush them.
“I am glad that you survived,” the voice said. “And I am very glad that you have returned as well. Now, sleep…”
His mind obeyed that instruction, as Dennis had obeyed every instruction Princess Aria had given him this night.
CHAPTER 34
Dennis saw faces in the nightmare world of the following hours. Aria came to him—and Conall; Selda sponged his forehead while King Hale talked earnestly about kingship and necessity…
Serdic’s fungoid sneer gibbered behind them.
Then the fever broke and Dennis awakened to reality. Chester was half supporting his torso so that another tentacle could hold a cup of soup to Dennis’ mouth.
“Oh!” the youth said. His eyes were prepared for the brightness, but his conscious brain had been existing in a dim netherworld for…
He swallowed soup, then asked, “How long have I slept? Is it morning?”
“It is morning, Dennis,” the robot said. “And it is two nights and a day that you have slept.”
“Oh!” Dennis repeated.
“The wise and goodly man may come close to death and yet survive,” Chester quoted, “because of his goodness.”
“I can’t claim that,” the youth muttered. He rotated his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. The fever which purged his body had left deep aches in all his muscles.
He balanced for a moment, weak and light-headed from the pain. But it was an overpowering thrill to be able to move after hours that were lifetimes in his dreams…
In dreams he had no control, neither over himself nor over the other inhabitants of nightmare. Reality had real pain, but he could move; and—
The Founder’s Sword leaned against the wall beside the bed.
Dennis slipped it out of its sheath. The weight and balance of the weapon brought memories of Malbawn. The stress, instead of doubling Dennis over with cramped muscles, returned him to strength and suppleness as the hormones of battle leaked back into his system.
In the waking world, Dennis could affect those around him—no matter how terrifying their form.
He was wearing a nightgown of slick fabric, but there were other clothes ready in the cabinet. He’d finished dressing—slacks and a tunic of blue, slashed diagonally with orange—and the sword belted around his waist, when the wall opened into a door.
“Oh!” said King Conall. “You’re, ah, recovered.”
His daughter stood behind him, looking cool in a dress of the same yellow-white as her hair. There was no emotion in her eyes as they looked at Dennis.
He’d been delirious with fever. The fever had brought fanciful imaginings…
“I am recovered enough to go out with your cattle, your highness,” Dennis croaked. His vocal cords were as stiff as all his other muscles.