“Do you know what’s going on in there?” he asked Donal, indicating the tent.
“Master Destarion has expressed approval for Enver’s work, and they’ve been discussing herbs and remedies. Sir Karigan has remained largely quiet.”
Zachary listened for a moment, and indeed, Destarion was describing the efficacy of something-foil versus the many healing qualities of lavender.
“Sire,” Donal said, “if you wish a change of garb, I’ve spare uniforms with me, though your buckskin is fitting in this setting.”
“I would give you my kingdom for a change of clothes,” Zachary replied.
“No, thank you, sire,” Donal replied, as stoic as ever. “No kingdom necessary. I’d rather leave that in your hands.”
It turned out that Donal’s uniform fit Zachary rather well. By the time he had changed, Enver and Destarion had emerged from the tent.
“Well?” Zachary asked.
Destarion was decidedly solemn. “I have tended flogging wounds before, administered to wayward soldiers and the like, but nothing like this. Nothing so purposely brutal. More lashes and Rider G’ladheon might have bled to death or been crippled. As it is, no sane person would cause such mutilation, and I do not know if she will ever recover the full range of her back muscles.”
Zachary felt the blood drain from his head. He’d known, of course, from his own brief glance at her back, that even she would not have withstood much more, but to hear it so stated?
“Enver has done remarkable work with the wounds,” Destarion continued. “Rider G’ladheon is otherwise physically healthy, though very weak. Enver tells me that at first she fought against the pain and weakness, but now she has given up.”
“Her spirit,” Enver said, “of which we’ve spoken.”
“So there is nothing new you can tell me?” Zachary asked.
“She is unable to sleep well,” Destarion said. “If one cannot sleep, the mind is not able to rest and the body regenerate, and as a result, the spirit, as Enver calls it, can fall very low. The patient’s dolor then becomes a detriment to the healing process. Enver has tried various remedies to aid Rider G’ladheon’s sleep, but none have worked sufficiently. So I am going to administer a soporific of my own concocting.”
Zachary crossed his arms. “Like you gave Laren Mapstone the night you and your fellow conspirators decided I required a deathbed wedding?” He couldn’t help his rancor.
Destarion bowed his head. “I deserve punishment, my lord. I wronged you, and I wronged Laren, who was my friend. The soporific I, er, gave Laren was more basic. The one I’ve readied for Rider G’ladheon is more complex and healthful. I call it ‘Morphia.’ It is infused with extract of poppy seed.”
“Then do it,” Zachary said gruffly.
“Yes, my lord.” Destarion reentered the tent.
“Do you agree with Destarion’s conclusions and treatments?” Zachary asked Enver.
Enver nodded. “His lore is sound, and he is skilled in the healing arts.”
“It would reassure me if you would watch over what he does.”
“I will, Firebrand.”
Nyssa had beaten her. She was broken and useless and weak, everything Nyssa said she was. It had gotten to a point that all she heard was Nyssa’s voice in her head, even when Connly came to see her, even when Master Destarion examined her back. She replied to their questions with a simple “yes” or “no,” if she answered at all.
And then, Master Destarion returned and showed her the vial of fluid. “This will help you sleep, Rider,” he said. “It is potent, so I am going to give you only a quarter of the contents.”
Karigan gazed blearily at the vial. “What is it?”
“I call it Morphia,” he replied. “Extract of poppy seed can be very efficacious for pain and sleeplessness.”
“Morphia” sparked some memory of the future time. She remembered drifting in peaceful nothingness. Yes, she thought, it would help her sleep and forget.
You think you can escape me? Nyssa goaded. Then drink it. Drink the whole thing.
Karigan peered up at her, that vicious smile on her face, the blood dripping infinitely from the barbs on the thongs of her whip. Yes, drinking the Morphia would be the only way to silence Nyssa.
Destarion removed the stopper to pour her dose into a small cup with measurements etched on its side.
What’s the point of fighting? Nyssa said. Drink it all and you can rest.
There was no point, Karigan thought. None at all. She simply wanted to rest. She snatched the vial right out of Destarion’s grasp.
“What?” He gazed at his empty hand in surprise.
Karigan tossed her head back and started drinking.
“Rider! No!” Destarion cried. He grabbed for the vial, but she rocked away from him and swallowed more.
That’s it, Nyssa told her. Soon you will have peace.
Liquid dripped down Karigan’s chin and spilled on the tent floor. When she observed Nyssa gloating, she paused. Some small part of her mind that was still her own stopped, resisted.
Drink it! Nyssa said. Finish it.
But Karigan resisted, and Destarion pried her fingers from around the vial. She drifted toward darkness, and at some point she heard the king calling to her, shaking her.
“Had to make her shut up,” she murmured, and then there was nothing.
BEING THE KING AGAIN
“Rider! No!” Destarion cried.