The Winter King
Page 152
“His Gaze!” Valik cried. “Quickly! Cover his eyes!”
The man closest to Wynter’s head reached for the bandage, only to cry out as his fingers went white with frost.
“Wynter!” Abandoning her place by Tildy’s side, Khamsin lunged towards the head of the table. She snatched the bandage off the floor and laid it across Wynter’s eyes, holding it in place by gripping either side of his head. “Hossa, min mann. I’m here. Be calm. Let us help you.” She crooned soothing words, but Wynter continued to struggle.
His arm broke free, and he surged up on the table, lifting several men off their feet until two more rushed forward to grab his flailing wrist and pin him back down on the table.
“You!” she barked to one of the men standing near the cookpots. “Come hold this bandage in place.”
When the man took her place, she raced around to the side of the table and shoved between the men holding Wynter’s arm.
“Let go of his wrist,” she commanded. “I’ve got him.” She clasped her husband’s hand and pressed the warm red Rose on her wrist against his wolf’s head. Energy flared around them in a palpable burst. Wynter’s flailing struggles ceased abruptly.
In the still silence, Khamsin clung to him. She folded their joined hands together beneath her as she bent over his body and laid a free hand on his chest. “I am here, my husband. Be calm now. Let us help you. Please, I need you to live. Do you hear me?” She dragged their joined hands to her lips, kissing his strong, blunt fingers, the broad knuckles. There was so much strength—and so much gentleness—in his hands. “I need you to live.” Wetness gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked, and the tears dropped from her lashes to his skin. “I need you,” she whispered into his hand.
“Quickly, Lady Frey,” Tildy commanded, snapping everyone back to attention, “pull those linen strips from the pot and set them in a bowl to cool. You there, what is your name?”
“Ungar.”
“Ungar, fetch two more buckets of snow. We need to irrigate this wound again.”
Tildy worked with swift efficiency, irrigating the wound two more times with the boiling antiseptic wash she cooled by pouring it over snow. When she was satisfied she’d cleared out as much of the infected matter as she could, she packed the wound with the boiled linen strips, laid the linseed, garlic, and castor oil poultice over the top of that to draw any additional infection out, and covered it all with a length of cheesecloth soaked in honey to seal the wound. The whole time she worked, Khamsin remained bent over Wynter, her Rose clasped to his Wolf. That kept him docile though the Wintermen continued to hold him, just in case.
When she was finished, Tildy set out two hourglasses. A large glass that counted down the hour with a steady stream of pink sand, and a smaller glass whose blue sands ran out every twenty minutes. Three times an hour, as the blue sands ran out, she replaced the poultice and honey-soaked cheesecloth with fresh.
Every hour, when the last of the pink sand ran out, Tildy poured an unpleasant-smelling potion made from willow bark, garlic, purple coneflower root, and barberry down Wynter’s throat, then summoned them all back to Wynter’s side. Valik and five other men would hold him down, and Khamsin would clasp her wrist to his, while Tildy and Galacia removed the poultices and packing, irrigated the wound thoroughly, then repacked the wound with fresh, steaming strips of linen, applied a fresh poultice atop that, and laid a honey-soaked cheesecloth over the entire area.
And so it went the rest of the day, all through the night, and on through a second day. The relentless pace took its toll on all of them, except Tildy, who seemed powered by an inexhaustible supply of energy. Near midnight the second night, when the linen strips they pulled from Wynter’s body came away free of infected matter, Tildy pronounced the most immediate crisis passed.
“The next few days will tell,” Tildy said, “but so long as the infection does not retake a firm hold, he should pull through.”
“Praise the gods.” Kham slumped in relief, leaning forward to rest her forehead on Wynter’s arm. His skin felt cool again.
A tender hand brushed her cheek. “You should rest, dearly. You’re asleep on your feet.” Tildy’s voice grew crisper as she added, “In fact, all of you should seek your beds. I can manage the next few hours on my own.”
“Lady Frey, you and the queen sleep,” Valik seconded. “Ungar, Tol, and I will stand watch with Nurse Greenleaf. I insist,” he added with cold implacability when Tildy started to object. “Go, Laci, Khamsin. I’ll wake you if there’s the smallest hint of trouble.”
Khamsin was too exhausted to argue, so she just pushed to her feet, stumbled down the hallway to the bedroom she had been using this past week, and fell into bed. She was asleep before her head hit the lavender-stuffed pillow.
Sometime later, while the night was still dark and long before she’d slept long enough to feel rested, Khamsin found herself shaken awake.
“Wha—?” she blinked in groggy confusion.
“Here, drink this.”
A wooden cup tapped against Kham’s teeth. Warm liquid splashed over her lips and into her mouth. The liquid, whatever it was, had a strong, sharp flavor and a bitter aftertaste. Kham started to spit it out, but more poured into her mouth, accompanied by a command to “Swallow” and a sharp pinch to close her nostrils and ensure she obeyed.
Left with no choice, Kham swallowed, then coughed as some of the liquid went down her windpipe.
The man closest to Wynter’s head reached for the bandage, only to cry out as his fingers went white with frost.
“Wynter!” Abandoning her place by Tildy’s side, Khamsin lunged towards the head of the table. She snatched the bandage off the floor and laid it across Wynter’s eyes, holding it in place by gripping either side of his head. “Hossa, min mann. I’m here. Be calm. Let us help you.” She crooned soothing words, but Wynter continued to struggle.
His arm broke free, and he surged up on the table, lifting several men off their feet until two more rushed forward to grab his flailing wrist and pin him back down on the table.
“You!” she barked to one of the men standing near the cookpots. “Come hold this bandage in place.”
When the man took her place, she raced around to the side of the table and shoved between the men holding Wynter’s arm.
“Let go of his wrist,” she commanded. “I’ve got him.” She clasped her husband’s hand and pressed the warm red Rose on her wrist against his wolf’s head. Energy flared around them in a palpable burst. Wynter’s flailing struggles ceased abruptly.
In the still silence, Khamsin clung to him. She folded their joined hands together beneath her as she bent over his body and laid a free hand on his chest. “I am here, my husband. Be calm now. Let us help you. Please, I need you to live. Do you hear me?” She dragged their joined hands to her lips, kissing his strong, blunt fingers, the broad knuckles. There was so much strength—and so much gentleness—in his hands. “I need you to live.” Wetness gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision. She blinked, and the tears dropped from her lashes to his skin. “I need you,” she whispered into his hand.
“Quickly, Lady Frey,” Tildy commanded, snapping everyone back to attention, “pull those linen strips from the pot and set them in a bowl to cool. You there, what is your name?”
“Ungar.”
“Ungar, fetch two more buckets of snow. We need to irrigate this wound again.”
Tildy worked with swift efficiency, irrigating the wound two more times with the boiling antiseptic wash she cooled by pouring it over snow. When she was satisfied she’d cleared out as much of the infected matter as she could, she packed the wound with the boiled linen strips, laid the linseed, garlic, and castor oil poultice over the top of that to draw any additional infection out, and covered it all with a length of cheesecloth soaked in honey to seal the wound. The whole time she worked, Khamsin remained bent over Wynter, her Rose clasped to his Wolf. That kept him docile though the Wintermen continued to hold him, just in case.
When she was finished, Tildy set out two hourglasses. A large glass that counted down the hour with a steady stream of pink sand, and a smaller glass whose blue sands ran out every twenty minutes. Three times an hour, as the blue sands ran out, she replaced the poultice and honey-soaked cheesecloth with fresh.
Every hour, when the last of the pink sand ran out, Tildy poured an unpleasant-smelling potion made from willow bark, garlic, purple coneflower root, and barberry down Wynter’s throat, then summoned them all back to Wynter’s side. Valik and five other men would hold him down, and Khamsin would clasp her wrist to his, while Tildy and Galacia removed the poultices and packing, irrigated the wound thoroughly, then repacked the wound with fresh, steaming strips of linen, applied a fresh poultice atop that, and laid a honey-soaked cheesecloth over the entire area.
And so it went the rest of the day, all through the night, and on through a second day. The relentless pace took its toll on all of them, except Tildy, who seemed powered by an inexhaustible supply of energy. Near midnight the second night, when the linen strips they pulled from Wynter’s body came away free of infected matter, Tildy pronounced the most immediate crisis passed.
“The next few days will tell,” Tildy said, “but so long as the infection does not retake a firm hold, he should pull through.”
“Praise the gods.” Kham slumped in relief, leaning forward to rest her forehead on Wynter’s arm. His skin felt cool again.
A tender hand brushed her cheek. “You should rest, dearly. You’re asleep on your feet.” Tildy’s voice grew crisper as she added, “In fact, all of you should seek your beds. I can manage the next few hours on my own.”
“Lady Frey, you and the queen sleep,” Valik seconded. “Ungar, Tol, and I will stand watch with Nurse Greenleaf. I insist,” he added with cold implacability when Tildy started to object. “Go, Laci, Khamsin. I’ll wake you if there’s the smallest hint of trouble.”
Khamsin was too exhausted to argue, so she just pushed to her feet, stumbled down the hallway to the bedroom she had been using this past week, and fell into bed. She was asleep before her head hit the lavender-stuffed pillow.
Sometime later, while the night was still dark and long before she’d slept long enough to feel rested, Khamsin found herself shaken awake.
“Wha—?” she blinked in groggy confusion.
“Here, drink this.”
A wooden cup tapped against Kham’s teeth. Warm liquid splashed over her lips and into her mouth. The liquid, whatever it was, had a strong, sharp flavor and a bitter aftertaste. Kham started to spit it out, but more poured into her mouth, accompanied by a command to “Swallow” and a sharp pinch to close her nostrils and ensure she obeyed.
Left with no choice, Kham swallowed, then coughed as some of the liquid went down her windpipe.
