The Magic Trick (The Card Game #2)

Ch 14 - The Botany Instructor

CHAPTER XIV

THE BOTANY INSTRUCTOR

Into the sickroom marched a wild man in a green cape, cloth robes, and boots woven from wild reeds. His blonde hair and beard had turned a greenish tinge, and as he drew toward Modest's bedside, his fiery green eyes locked onto Viktor's own, a strange moment passing between them.

While invading the castle last year, Viktor remembered he and Romulus running straight into the clutches of this very man—assuming he actually was a man, for he looked just like the Leshy, the mythical Lord of the Forest from Russian legend. Nevertheless, he had let the blood brothers go free that night, releasing them from under his knife and allowing their escape. Why?

Could he, one of the Leopard's Seven, possibly be Maksim's inside man? Viktor marveled at the thought, but he doubted it as soon as it had crossed his mind. No, he's going to turn me in on the spot. Any second now.

But the Botany Instructor did nothing of the sort. Instead, he unshouldered a cloth bag whose pockets brimmed with exotic herbs. He looked from Modest's horn wound to the castle leaders with a grave face and, without speaking, went to work.

Initially Viktor watched in fear. Modest looked ghastly, and when his shirt was cut in two, the horrid injury was all the more startling, as was the skin surrounding, which had turned a bright shade of yellow. Yet the Botany Instructor had a reassuring way about him and clearly knew what he was doing. Viktor's confidence in Modest's safety—and his own—flickered a bit brighter with each one of Pollex's fluid movements.

The wild man cleaned the wound first, with a knife and ointment. He crushed green leaves in his hands, packing them inside the gash; Modest's bleeding stopped. He next mixed purple flowers into salve that he smeared atop the wound. Strange roots he ground with his teeth and then placed them under the patient's tongue. At the end of it all, he bandaged the wound with a tight, clean cloth. The minutes ticked by in silence. It looked like Modest's strength returned for a fleeting time, yet soon his yellow shade spread anew.

"No," the Botany Instructor said abruptly. It was the first word Viktor had ever heard the man speak. The depth and strength of the voice caught him off-guard. "I am sorry. It is not enough. His ailment is too deep-rooted. He will not survive an hour."

Viktor's stomach twisted into knots. This couldn't be happening.

"Have Pluma notify the boy's father, the scribe Mefodiy," Instructor Kustos grunted to one of his guards. "Have him deliver our condolences."

The guard leaned in. "What should he write?"

"The truth," Rose cut in, "that this boy died from an infected sore. He was treated with the best medicine of the age—more than any scribe's son could hope for. At least his will be a noble death: Self-sacrifice for the sake of knowledge."

A quarter hour later, Modest's heart stopped. His breath failed. Many students and castle serfs were still gathered around, Viktor included, and the whole time his eyes burned and his nose leaked snot at the injustice before him. His pity, fury, and fear had redoubled. He couldn't stop thinking that this straight-laced, rule-toting boy had been the purest of all of them. This wasn't martyrdom. It was murder.

**

The following week was dark. The students who had been enamored with the riches and knowledge of Staryi Castle had wised up; the ones that had been suspicious all along were further dejected, Roksana most of all. She blamed herself for Modest's death, for the Lionsmane infusion she had forced on him. Viktor often sat and tried to comfort her and dissuade such thoughts, but her soft crying filled the night hours. The days were just as bleak in Latin class. That discipline required more lectures than the other subjects combined, and listening to Pluma's racket sunup to sundown had Viktor going mad. He was desperate for a change—and Friday brought it.