The same drop of water is dripping against my forehead. The healer hasn't bothered to move me in the two days I've consciously lain here. Then again, I haven't asked him to.
I've tried timing the water drops, but they're inconsistent. I don't know which rooms sit above the healer's, but I have an unfortunate feeling they may be bathrooms.
The healer stands against the thin, wooden counter. He's grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle, the pungent smell of basil filling my nose. My mother used basil to fight infection.
"What did you do to me?" I ask him, breaking the silence.
"The arrow hit to the left of your right scapula. It passed between your ribs, only puncturing your right lung. I sutured your lung tissue and stitched up your skin. You will have a scar, but you will be alive because of it. It was a lucky shot," the healer says, still looking over the mortar and pestle.
A lucky shot, I think. Could Binks have aimed for that spot? Could she have wanted to cause the least amount of damage and...let me live? I mull over the thought, the healer grinding away.
The smell of basil grows stronger, and I have to ask. "Has anyone died?" My voice cracks against my tongue.
The healer's shoulders stiffen.
"Yes," he says, but he doesn't elaborate.
I trace the grooves and pits of the stone ceiling with my eyes. No sound has filtered down through it, so I don't know what's going on overhead, or even what time of day it is.
"From battle or infection?" I ask.
The pestle scrapes against the mortar's side.
"Infection," the healer answers.
I wonder who amongst us has fallen, and who's still left standing.
There's a knock at the door. The pestle falls from the healer's hand and smacks against the side of the mortar. In one quick move, the healer throws a blanket over me and piles bandages unceremoniously atop my chest. Each roll of linen sends a shock through my barely-healed wound. From the outside, I must look like a simple pile of wrappings. The disguise has already worked twice before.
"Yes?" I hear the healer's voice say through the heavy, musty-smelling blanket.
"He needs help," a voice answers. It's unfamiliar to me.
Footsteps shuffle against the flagstones as two people walk into the healer's room, followed by the whisper of the healer's long cloak against his ankles.
I can't see through the fabric, the torchlight is too dim, so I listen, keeping my breaths shallow.
"How did this happen?" the healer asks.
A heavy weight tries to sit on the surgical table, pinning my legs to the wooden surface. My eyes water at the pain of having my kneecaps buckle backwards.
"No, sit in the chair. I need to examine your arm," the healer says.
The weight leaves immediately, and a wooden chair leg scratches against the floor as it's pulled away from the wall. I bite my lip to keep from crying out with relief.
I can hear the groan of the chair's wooden slats as one person takes a seat. Another person's feet drag against the stones and come to rest just beside the first.
"Weapon?" the healer asks.
"Long and hard, if you know what I mean."
I almost gasp. It's Camden's duel voice. It's snarky and deeper, and unmistakably Camden. He only uses that voice when he's around his patron.
Whoever stands beside Camden sighs audibly.
"A hatchet to the arm. Can you fix it?" he says. It must be Camden's patron.
The healer tsks. "Of course. I'll clean it, then stitch it. Three silvers."
"And the medicine?" Camden's patron asks.
"I don't have much. It will cost extra," the healer answers.
There's a low, almost inhumane growl. "Did you use it all on that Thief?" the patron spits.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Please don't say yes, I beg.
"Not all," the healer answers honestly.
A crash sounds against the flagstones and my eyes snap open. I try to see through the thick blanket, but I can't even make out the speakers' silhouettes.
The smell of basil permeates the air. Camden's patron must have smacked the mortar and pestle from the table, spilling the healer's poultice across the floor.
"That will cost you," the healer says evenly. It's against the prison rules to injure the healer. A patron could be heavily fined; a prisoner, killed.
Camden's patron huffs a laugh. "What? A few pieces of broken pottery? My fighter is dying. I need him back out in the battlefield. How else am I supposed to make money?"
It doesn't escape me that Camden's own feelings are not asked after in this exchange.
"Please, healer," Camden says, "my arms are my best feature."
Like a knee-jerk reaction, I roll my eyes.
"Hush, boy," the patron chides.
I hear the healer move around the base of the surgical table toward his cabinet with the suturing kit. He returns to Camden's side, and for the first time since they entered, I'm glad I can't see through the fabric of the blanket.
A whiff of alcohol lets me know that the healer is cleaning Camden's cut. There's a sharp intake of breath, and my heart goes out to Camden. He's sounding brave, but I wonder if he's as terrified to get stitches as I am.
"Make it a pretty scar, Healer," Camden says through his teeth.
The healer says nothing.
There's silence as the healer preps his kit. I can hear him unrolling the fabric pockets that hold his tools and choosing which needle to use. It turns my stomach.
There's a hiss, presumably from Camden, and I wonder if the healer's begun his work.
"Death Duel?" the healer asks, breaking the silence.
Metal rings as the patron shakes his head. I can only imagine what sort of jewelry he's adorned himself with.
"Nah. Exhibition. First to draw blood. Ever since Thief died the crowd's been mad. They want their heroes to live," the patron says.
I allow myself a moment of relief. The warden will want to cater to the nobles, at least for a little while. But exhibition duels can see cause injuries leading to infection...and death. Nothing's changed yet, we're all still in danger.
A sickening feeling hits my gut. For the first time I wonder, ff the nobles think I'm dead, then does my father think I'm dead? Has that information spread to the Laplands? And if it did, would my dad even know who "the Thief" is?
Of course he would, I think. Take one look at your arm, you can't hide that reputation.
"Done," the healer says loudly, snapping a thread.
"Thanks, healer," Camden says. He pauses, as if examining the stitches. "I'll have to think of a story to tell the ladies."
Camden's patron grumbles. "Never mind that," he says, "what about the medicine?"
"I can give him some," the healer says, "but it may not stave off infection."
A hush of silence sweeps through the room like a snuffed candle.
"I might die?" Camden asks, and for the first time since I've met him, his voice is stripped of all confidence. He sounds small, and scared.
"Yes," the healer says quietly.
My breathing is hot against the blanket. The healer force-fed me another dosage of medicine not quite an hour ago, and I can still feel it running through my bloodstream. My body is healing, while Camden's is dying.
"Can I pay more?" the patron asks. I wonder if he's calculated in his mind how much he's willing to pay to keep Camden, versus the cost of not having a contender.
"It's not a matter of coin," the healer says. It's a matter of what materials the prison receives and when. Just yesterday I overheard the healer arguing with a delivery man about medicines he should have received. Apparently, the warden took most of the medical materials for his own personal staff, leaving the healer with hardly anything worthwhile.
The healer had cried after the argument. He hadn't removed the blanket over my body, so I couldn't see him, but I could hear the grief in his soft sobs, and I felt for him. He's a healer who can't heal.
"Give him what you have," the patron says. There's a tug of fabric and a rattle of coins as the patron empties his purse onto a hand.
"I would have had more, if you hadn't splattered it across the ground," the healer says.
There's a sharp clink of metal, as if the patron drew his head back in shock, before the sound of the healer's footsteps walking back around the surgical table and dropping the coins into his wooden chest.
A cabinet opens, and glass clinks against wood as the healer pulls a bottle of medicine down from a shelf. There's a soft pop as he unstoppers it, and then the sound of Camden swallowing the contents.
"Rest," the healer says.
"I'll get my beauty sleep. Thanks, healer," Camden says. There's a bit more strength to his voice.
The chair scrapes back as Camden stands.
"I hope not to see you again," Camden says, "but it's been a pleasure."
I can't see what's going on, but I can imagine Camden miming doffing a cap.
The healer stays quiet. There's the skritch of a pen as he jots down notes on a sheet of thick paper.
Footsteps sound as the patron and Camden make their way toward the door.
"I want you back in the training ring in two days," the patron says. "You cannot let Balnur surprise you like that again, do you hear me?"
Balnur, he must be new. I don't recognize the name.
"Yes, sir," Camden says, sounding chastened.
"Don't 'sir' me, boy. I know it's not out of respect, even if I am the one putting clothes on your body and food in your mouth..."
The patron's voice trails off as his and Camden's footsteps blend together against the flagstones. They disappear down the hall, their voices falling away.
The healer continues to write, his pen scratching against the paper.
My lungs take in hot, stale air, but I don't dare move the blanket until the healer has given me the all-clear.
Minutes seem to tick past as I wait for a sign from him.
Without warning, he sets down his pen and shuts the door. He removes the rolls of bandages from my chest and pulls back the blanket.
I greedily suck in a breath of cool, musty air.
The healer stares at me with his clear blue eyes. I'm beginning to wonder if he can even blink. He watches me for an uncomfortably long moment, before turning his back on me. He picks up a linen rag drenched with what I assume is Camden's fresh blood and begins rinsing it in the wooden basin in the corner.
"You seem to be healing well," the healer says.
I take a deep breath, feeling the stitches stretch across my chest. I haven't moved from this table in at least two days. Every part of me feels dead.
"I disagree," I mumble.
The healer turns back to me, but before he can speak, Alani bursts through the door. She shuts it behind her and leans against it, her face flushed.
"He knows," Alani says. "The warden knows she's here."