Page 78 of Sky Shielder
“Come in if you like, but he’s got internal injuries as well as external ones. I may have to remove some of his damaged organs. Do you have a surgical kit?” Syla made snipping motions in the air. “Are you, by chance, trained to assist with a cholecystectomy or a nephrectomy?”
His face went pale.
“I trust as a trained temple guard, you’re not bothered by the spurting and gushing of blood. I’ll probably need some cautery irons. Oh, and that arrow. Is it still in his shoulder? I’ll need an arrow extractor. Do you keep leeches on the premises? You must.”
“Maybe I’ll wait out here,” Flaron said, eyeing his colleague. The younger man’s eyes had grown a little wide too. “Or fetch you someone who can assist with, uhm, spurting.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Syla smiled, patted him on the arm, and opened the door, then closed it behind her.
Inside, Vorik sat on the edge of the lone bed, his tunic off as he hunched over and examined a long gash curving around his side.
Beside the bed stood a nightstand with a couple of unlitcandles, a jug of water, and a plate of crumbs that might have held bread or crackers. Not the delicious spread the healers had shared with Syla, and she felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn’t wrapped up some fruit to bring. At least they had given Vorik food of some sort.
Her gaze snagged on an armoire against the wall opposite the window, with two huge green Candles of Serenity perched atop it, her nose picking up their distinctive eucalyptus and dragonquell scents even without the wicks lit. Of course, if the wickshadbeen lit, Vorik would be unconscious. Back home, she often used similar candles, the dragonquell oil mixed in a sedative helpful for patients undergoing surgeries. Like many healers, especially those moon-marked, she’d developed a tolerance for the scent, and could stay alert while her patient dozed off.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Your Highness.” Vorik beamed a smile in her direction.
When she turned her gaze back to him, Syla realized he was doing more thanexamininghis wound.
He’d talked someone into giving him a needle and suture—or maybe he’d found medical supplies in the armoire?—and was stitching it himself. That had to hurt. And was that bloody chunk lying next to the plate the arrowhead that had been in his shoulder? How had he pulled it out withoutpassingout?
“Vorik.” As Syla rushed to the side of the bed, she almost tripped over an iron chain snaking out from a sturdy eyelet bolted to the stone wall. A shackle around Vorik’s ankle ensured he wouldn’t go far.
“Your Highness.” He tied off his stitches, snipped the end of the thread, and set the needle and scissors on the table. When he shifted toward her, the chain clinked on the floor. “It’s good to see you, but what is a cholecystectomy? And a… nephrectomy?”
“Your hearing is excellent.”
“I think you’ve learned that already.” Vorik looked at his hand.
The black gloves that had covered the dragon tattoo lay on the table.
“I have, yes. Those refer to surgeries, the removal of the gallbladder and a kidney.”
Vorik’s eyebrows rose, and his hand strayed to his lower abdomen. “Is there somethingwrongwith them?”
She snorted softly. “I hope not. I was trying to convince the guard to stay outside.” She tilted her head toward the door. “They think you’re a prisoner.”
Vorik lifted his leg enough to rattle the chain. “I gathered. I trust they didn’t put a shackle aroundyou.”
“No.” Syla turned up the lanterns in the room and sat on the edge of the bed to look him over. Fortunately, he’d only stitched one wound so far, a deep gash that probablyhadthreatened his kidney. And he’d pulled out the arrowhead, leaving a deep puncture weeping blood down his torso. “I’m sorry I fell asleep and didn’t come sooner. A man shouldn’t have to stitch his own wounds.” She refrained from commenting on how lopsided and awful the sutures were.
“You were understandably tired.” Vorik offered a half-smile. “I woke briefly a couple of times on the way here. Once in the water and once with you helping carry me on a stretcher of sorts.”
“Yes.” Syla lifted a hand toward his chest, her gaze drawn to an old scar rather than one of the new wounds. With his torso bare, she could see that he’d been injured often in the past. The scars didn’t detract from the symmetrical beauty of his muscular physique.
The door opened, and Syla lowered her hand to her lap instead of touching him. Flaron set a bowl of water, towels, a surgical kit, and a few other medical tools on a table near the door.
“If you harm her, we will enter promptly and slay you.” Flaron frowned sternly at Vorik.
“I assumed you would, yes,” Vorik replied, unperturbed. Maybe even amused.
How could anyone with so many fresh wounds be amused? They all had to be painful. Syla was amazed his body hadn’t lured him into remaining unconscious. Especially when he’d startedstitchinghimself.
“I’ll take some zivorak herb for pain and an antiseptic potion, too,” she called before Flaron departed.
He hesitated, glancing at Vorik as if it might be a betrayal to the kingdom to give him a pain killer, but ultimately said, "Yes, Your Highness,” and sent the younger guard off with orders to fetch the items.
Vorik reached for the skein of suture thread, as if he might continue working on himself.
