Page 58 of The King's Man 3
There are more pallets than before. Bathed in candlelight, pallid faces flicker with relief as I walk by.
“Cael!” Olyn picks herself up from where she was kneeling by a patient. She rushes over, nervous, but also like I’m a ray of light.
I explain which capsules are for which symptoms, and we make rounds—inside and outside the luminarium—delivering them.
A family of four have been earlier moved to nearby cottage. They have patches of blueish scales forming, and their condition is worsening rapidly. My stomach sinks as I look them over. They’ll make it through the night. But can they hold out another?
I thank Olyn again for separating the critical from the rest.
She whispers, “Without the herbs . . .”
I smile stiffly. “Soon.” I need her to keep her spirits too. Her positivity will pass on.
I keep my voice collected and encourage the family to sleep. When I shut the front door of the cottage, my sigh is long and foggy in the night air.
With heavy steps, I trudge to where the mother and daughter are waiting for me.
It’s a dimly lit place. Two rooms, and the air is thick. The smell of burning leaves in the hearth mostly masks the scent of rotting fish.
A gust howls through the cracks. Mother and daughter lie huddled on a rough-hewn bed of straw. The child is frail, feverish, with an arm around her mother. She chokes on a feeble whine.
The mother’s breaths are laboured, rustling, but she still tries. “The healer promised. Sleep now.”
I approach with a helpless, silent sigh, and make my presence known.
Swollen eyes shift to me, and the daughter pushes herself into a sitting position with shaky arms.
With trembling hands, I open a pouch hanging from my waist and pluck out a few shimmering capsules. I pass them to the girl and murmur for her to swallow them, they’ll help keep her symptoms from worsening. She takes the capsules and hurriedly tries to force them into her mother’s mouth. My throat tightens; I lay a gentle hand on her. “You take those ones. I’ll do what I can for your mother.”
I pull at every thread of magic within me, the pain sharp and unrelenting as it courses through my veins. I push it into her, desperate to feel some response—anything.
It’s a pebble dropped in a lake. Barely a ripple of effect.
Her breath falters.
“Mama? Mama?”
She manages a faint smile for her daughter, a tear leaking from her eye. “Love... you... always.”
I try again, with other herbs, maybe one of them will work...
Her breathing becomes shallower.
Her eyes grow vacant.
“Please,” I whisper, pouring useless spells into her. “Please don’t—”
The daughter throws her arms around her mother and sobs into her breast as she gives a last quiet breath.
I drop my hands, spell dissipating into a whiff, like a snuffed candle.
The daughter wails, and wails, and I stare listless until she collapses under the weight of her grief. I lift her into my arms. It breaks my heart to pull her away onto a straw mat in the next room, but seeing her lifeless mother is making her frantic, and it’s triggering her symptoms to worsen.
I’ve lost one. I can’t lose her daughter too.
I lay her down and cast a spell.
Empty cottages close to the luminarium begin to fill with critical patients. It’s a few hours before I leave them resting with volunteers stationed at each house.
