Page 62 of Rise of a Fallen Man

“Do you not think you have what it takes to perform a successful surgery?” I prodded.

He wouldn’t look at me as he spoke. “The gods meddle in the affairs of mortals all the time. No matter how skilled a man is, there is always a chance of something going wrong during a surgery. With the king as my patient, if that happens, I hold no hope of keeping my head on my shoulders.”

I clasped my hands together in my lap.

“The best outcome we’re facing right now is an amputation. If that proves to be inevitable, I promise you’ll keep your head. If you can deliver anything better than an amputation, I won’t just pay you for your efforts, you’ll receive a pension for life that will allow you to move to a much better place than this.” I tipped my thumb at the crumbling building outside the carriage window.

“What good is in the promise ‘for life’ if there wouldn’t be much of life left for me to live?” he wouldn’t give up, mistrustful of anything I said.

“The princess gave you her promise,” Salas snapped. “How dare you doubt her word?”

“You don’t trust me,” I spoke to the warlock. “Understandably so. You don’t know me. But I’m taking a leap of faith with you too. A huge leap of faith. My father’s health is vitally important to me, to the queen, and to the country. But here I am, begging a man with no academic credentials to operate on the king.”

He sulked, tossing me a reproachful glance.

“Academic credentials are a privilege not available to men. However, my practical experience can rival that of the most accomplished of witches,” he replied proudly. “I grew up on a farm and was lucky enough for the owner to take a liking to me. She indulged my interest in the healing arts from avery young age. She ordered text books for me, subscribed to publications, and even allowed me to use her outdoor kitchen to brew my potions. But everything else I’ve learned through practical work. As I grew older, I treated her workers, including the male farmhands. Among the various injuries I’ve healed, I also had to deal with the wounds from kicks of animal hooves to the groin area. There was also a particularly nasty incident with a farmhand falling onto a fence, straddling it, and severely crushing his manhood.” He winced.

Salas grunted, shifting his legs closer together.

“After my treatment,” the warlock continued, “that man went on getting married, and even blessing his wife with four healthy children.”

The story could easily be a lie, an exaggeration, or simply wishful thinking. But I longed to believe in it with all my heart. I had to give both this man and my father a chance.

The warlock finished his speech with his head held high. “I do have the knowledge and the skills, at the very least, to assess the king’s injuries and give you my opinion on the outcome.”

“How can I convince you to do it?” I asked, afraid to hope.

Finally, he met my eyes straight on.

“My name is Rotcod,” he said, clearly pronouncing each syllable of his name for me to remember. “If I assist during the surgery to His Majesty’s satisfaction, I want my name to be added to every publication that goes out about this case.”

“You want recognition above anything else?”

“At this point in my life,” he nodded, “recognition is the only thing I’m still willing to risk my head for.”

It surprised me at first that a man who had nothing would only ask for his name to be known. Then I realized it was his one and only chance to leave a mark on this word. For a man who had genuinely dedicated his life to his work, it’d be thebest reward to be remembered and honored for it, even after his death.

“It’s a deal, Rotcod.” I offered him my hand to shake on our agreement. “If you contribute to my father’s surgery in any meaningful way, your name will not only be in every publication known among the healing arts professionals, I’ll personally see to it that it’ll appear on the front page of the Rorrim Herald. Your name will be known to the entire queendom.”

THE CARRIAGE TOOK USback to the palace. I ordered the coachwoman to bring it through the gate and as close to the front entrance as possible.

Salas opened the door, exiting first, then helped me and Rotcod to get out. As the warlock looked around uneasily, clutching his basket to his chest, I paused, leaving my hand in Salas’s.

“Thank you. For everything,” I said sincerely.

“Don’t thank me yet, Princess. I hope it all goes well. Here...” With his other hand, he reached into the folds of his cloak and took out a small bundle wrapped into a piece of an old issue of the Rorrim Herald. “I got it from Rotcod for you.”

“What is it?” I took the parcel.

“The tea to help you sleep.”

“You remembered...” I exhaled.

“Well.” He lifted a shoulder, looking a little awkward. “You aren’t easy to forget, Princess.”

I pressed the package to my chest with one hand, momentarily speechless.

“There is scarlet camomile,” he explained quickly, pointing at the package, “wild lavender, and crushed fairy-dream berries gathered on the night of the new moon. No sleeping potionadded, since you have a country to run and can’t afford to be drowsy.”

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