Page 77 of The King's Man 4

I stop by my cabin, pull out a kerchief, and tie it around my face, my shaky fingers fumbling. I gather all my rare herbs and Grandfather’s books, then head to my patient.

The captain is waiting outside the brig.

“Wear a face covering,” I tell him.

“I must show my men I’m not afraid. I’m willing to go down with them.”

“You have a responsibility to lead by example. If more crew get sick, even if I have the knowledge and ability to heal them, I may not have enough resources to.”

He processes this with a firm press of his lips, then pulls a kerchief from his cloak.

“You don’t have to come in,” I say.

“You won’t change my mind about that.”

We enter the brig. Hakon is slumped over the table, snoring. As we round the table, the dreaded sight of pus-filled boils meets us.

“Lindrhalda have mercy!”

“I thought you didn’t believe.”

“I do if it’s the only chance of a miracle.”

I take out a square of silk, laying it over Hakon’s wrist. He stirs, then continues snoring as I press my fingers to his pulse—

That doesn’t make sense.

I press deeper. Check again.

The phantom sensation of his skin beneath my fingers grips me now. My breath shortens. The memory hits like a punch to the gut: Vitalian Dimos, prone and bloodied on the canal in Hinsard. I’d checked his pulse too—weak and weakening. I’d wanted save him, but without magic, he’d died under my hands.

I shake off my fear. I must concentrate.

There’s no weakening of this man’s pulse. I frown.

“What is it?”

“His pulse is steady, strong. Fit.” I move the silk to his forehead and press my palm against him. “No sign of fever.”

“What does that mean?”

I search Hakon’s face again. The boils are real, but... I spy a small pouch under his cheek, used as a pillow. A wedge of embroidery catches my eye—a beautifully stitched rune, nestledin a patch of strawberries. But there’s a small hole in the fabric...

I suck in sharply and pluck the pouch free. Dried, crumbled flowers and rune-carved pebbles spill out of the knotted end.

Hakon lurches upright, dazed. His gaze sharpens on me and the pouch in my hand.

He lunges for it, but Kjartan grabs his arm and yanks it down.

At the sight of his captain, Hakon slams a fist to his heart in respect.

I take the knife from the captain’s belt and drag the tip through the dried flowers.

“It’s a dromveske. The runes inside catch pleasant memories,” Kjartan says. “An Iskaldir tradition—a gift between lovers.”

I sniff the end of the knife. As I thought. Strawberry thistle... and another weed. A reaction to this mimics sinister disease.

I laugh bitterly and slide the knife back into the captain’s sheath.

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