Page 20 of Wicked Prince of Shadows
His boots hit stone with a heavythud, and his wings snapped in with a sharp rush.
I cracked my eyes open. Cold grey stone. A bare mattress on a thick-legged bed frame.
We were back.
He dumped me onto the bed, huffing with annoyance. “I would ask where the covers and curtains went, but there's little point."
I blinked up at the flat grey ceiling, the room spinning. The curtains, sheets, and blankets were gone, of course. I’d torn them for my rope that was lost somewhere down in the courtyard. All that was left was bare mattress and the faint smell of cold ash, lavender, and his cologne.
His amber eyes flicked over me. He rolled his sleeve back to the elbow, more shadows curling off his skin like smoke. “Hold still. This will hurt.”
“Wai—”
The magic hit before I could finish. His shadows sank into my remaining wounds with a cold so sharp it felt like claws dragging under my skin. I gasped and arched, a strangled cry tearing from my throat. “Thtop?—”
“Breathe through the pain,” he said flatly. “If you thrash, it may tear, and that will just make it worse for you. The physician will be here soon to finetune this process and clean you up.” More shadows rose and slapped over my face, entering the cuts.
My nails dug into the sheets. The oily chill wormed deeper, pushing out the heat, pushing out the blood. My pulse stuttered and raced. Dizziness swamped me. It felt like I was suffocating.
Then the shadows withdrew with a violent tug, like barbs ripping free. I convulsed and gagged. He caught my chin, forcing my eyes open. “Stay awake. We’re not finished.”
A soft knock came at the door. “Enter,” he commanded.
The newcomer glided in—a tall, solemn figure with coarsely curled silver-white and iron-grey hair pulled back taut and smooth as possible, dark-grey sleeves rolled to reveal his arms, and a dully embroidered collar that seemed to only have half a black and white geometric design. Several stitches were woveninto his flesh, up and down both arms and along his neck. He carried a basin of steaming water that smelled faintly of resin and iron on top of a carved black wooden chest carved with various interlocking sigils. With a curt nod, he set everything on the plain black side table and began to work.
“Who are you?” I demanded, relieved to find that despite the pain my mouth was working better.
“Doctor Rasoul,” he said with a slight incline of his head. He opened the carved chest. Inside were several jars of grey salve and a couple slim bottles of dark liquid. “You must be the princess and descendant of Tanith.”
“I’m not the princess—” I drew back on the bed, balling up my fists. My movements were uncoordinated, my body unsteady. The aching chills had not left, and those small sputtering starts of adrenaline weren’t going to get me far.
The Hollow King snapped his fingers at me from his position near the wall. “Lay down, woman.”
“No.” I glared back at him, trying to rise on shaking legs. “I want to know what he’s doing before I let him touch me. I told you I’m not the?—”
“Stop.” His breath hissed through his teeth as he glared at me, his eyes burning brighter.
Doctor Rasoul set out three containers of salve, his expression calm but pointed. He cleared his throat as he unscrewed the lid. A sooty, herbal scent filled the air. “Her fear is understandable, Vetle. There’s nothing I can do to relieve the pain, and this will be excruciating given our timeline.” He looked over at me with a slightly apologetic shrug as if this brought him no pleasure. “I doubt she’ll be able to stay still.”
More pain was the last thing I wanted. I held up my hands, palms exposed toward him. “Wait?—”
“Fair enough.” The Hollow King shrugged. His shadows shot out again.
The shadows snared my wrists and ankles before I could react, slamming me down against the mattress with bruising force. They coiled tight around my wrists and at my feet like iron manacles, pinning me in place but leaving my wounds exposed. I thrashed against them, but they only constricted further, cold and unyielding against my skin.
"Let me go!" I tried to snarl, but my voice broke. His magic had partially healed me, but my strength sputtered and the more I struggled, the tighter the shadows became, digging into my flesh like frozen rope until all I could do was twitch.
Doctor Rasoul dipped a white cloth in the steaming water, then dipped the edge into the salve. A scent similar to burning flared through the air. “I apologize for the discomfort. But you will feel far better in a short time. This water isn’t necessary, but I hope it makes this…somewhat easier.” He then pressed the salve-dipped cloth across a ragged series of cuts on my left forearm.
The first touch of the salve burned like fire, and I’d have come off the bed in a breath, howling like a banshee, except the shadows kept me tight and motionless. Instead, I screamed and swore and hissed, curling my fingers tight until my knuckles lightened and what fingernails I had cut crescent moons in my palms.
Doctor Rasoul didn’t stop. His movements were precise, efficient. He cleansed my wounds with care, removing the dress just long enough to permit access and then placing it back so that I wouldn’t be exposed any longer than necessary.
The worst wounds required multiple applications of the burning salve, but with each one, it coaxed my flesh to knit back together. Torn fingernails and ragged toenails stung as new ones grew beneath the balm. He layered the applications with care, sometimes telling me which layer we were on but never how many there were to go. He pressed the hot water and salveeverywhere, including my hair, cleansing it from the bile, ichor, and blood. My scalp stung from the myriad of small cuts it found.
By the time Doctor Rasoul finished, I was trembling and sweat-soaked, my teeth chattering from the cold of the room and exhaustion. My throat burned from screaming, and my chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.
“She’s fortunate,” Doctor Rasoul said as he finished wiping the last of the remnants away. “The Witheringlands hasn’t impacted her ability to heal yet. She should recover without any scarring this time. But I don’t recommend any similar excursions any time soon. She was rather Chaori blessed, from my perspective. Perhaps they know the curse nears its end.”
