Winter was prone on his bed, barefoot, stripped to his waist, his coat beyond repair thanks to the blood stains in it. Sigmund had been working his healing magic for the past two hours, but nothing was shifting the ominous red lines that were spreading up Winter’s torso. Neither he nor his adviser had any idea of what was causing it.
It was clear Tristan hadn’t managed to touch him with his sword, but the wound Winter had gotten from the gryphon claw apparently didn’t appreciate his physical activities. It was getting worse, not better.
“You said the words yourself.” The deep tones were loud enough for Winter to hear through the closed door. “Winter is my husband, he has been injured. I have every right to insist on seeing his state for myself. Remove yourself from the door, or I’ll move you myself.”
“We’re going to have to let him in,” Winter said to Sigmund. The last thing he wanted to see was a fight between August and Rupert. August would win, but the fight wouldn’t do Winter’s marriage any favors.
“Sir, are you sure that’s wise? His Highness is going to know in an instant that you didn’t get that gash from the tip of a sword or the blade.”
“I’m aware.” Winter sighed. He had really hoped to have that truthful conversation with his husband after about six months or so, not the matter of days they’d been married.
“The thing is, we don’t know what’s causing this.” Winter indicated the painful redness on his torso. “For all his status, Rupert is a local who has spent years of his life camping and being out in nature. What if this is something that’s just native to Simigile? Wouldn’t we be better to get the help before it gets much worse?”
Sigmund nodded. “As much as it pains me to say it, you’re probably right. We can’t go to one of the castle healers. It is likely they’d report any of their findings to your husband or the king. That wouldn’t do any good in the trust building efforts you’ve been doing since we arrived, especially with your husband.”
“I had hoped we had a bit of time, time I could use to get some gauge on how my husband will accept or reject our family business. But it looks like my time’s run out.” Winter glanced over at the door – the fight between August and Rupert was escalating, neither man giving up.
“I’ve been spending all the spare time that I can in the library, trying to find out what might have caused this. I’ve even gotten in touch with the World Council, their main healer’s office, but there must be something else going on at the moment, goodness knows what, and they’re taking the devil’s own time to get in touch with me.”
Sigmund’s strong language indicated how rattled he was, but Winter could understand why. Sigmund was his secret weapon, much like Pippin and Winter’s family were. Sigmund’s healing skills were exemplary – or they had been until reaching Simigile.
“Let Rupert in. If nothing else, at least then we’ll know what’s going on with these marks of mine. For all we know, this iscaused by something common here, although I really wish it wasn’t quite so painful.” Winter fluffed up his hair. “Do I look respectful enough for a visit from my husband?”
“Not at all,” Sigmund said. “But at least with your chest already bare, that takes away the awkwardness of disrobing to show the way the infection is spreading. I’ll get the door.”
When Sigmund opened the door, all Winter could see was August’s back. “The crown prince consort has given permission to admit his husband,” Sigmund said.
August twirled around his face a mask of shock. “What? Really? But then, he’ll know...”
“Your brother’s aware,” Sigmund said as they both stood aside. “Your husband will see you now, Your Highness.” Sigmund bowed just enough to be respectful. “I would appreciate it if you could lower your tone when you are speaking with him. Your husband is in considerable pain.”
Rupert strode in, still wearing his robe from the party they had been to just a few hours before. His hair was disheveled, he’d clearly ridden hard, and for all the pain he was in, Winter realized his husband was a welcome sight. He managed a soft smile. “Close the door, Sigmund, if you will. My husband and I would like to be alone for a few moments, but don’t go far. Please thank August for me and let him know he can retire for the night.”
Sigmund nodded and closed the door softly, leaving Winter and Rupert alone. “As you can see, Rupert dear, I’m in a bit of a predicament. As a lifetime resident of Simigile, perhaps you could suggest how Sigmund can assist with my healing?”
“What have you done to yourself?” Rupert closed the distance from the door to the bed, bending over, and studying the gashmark on Winter’s torso and the spread of red throughout it and beyond. “That wound is not from a sword.”
“No, it was from a wound sustained…” Winter had to think. “Three days ago, I believe, or was it two? The day you came back to the castle. It occurred when I was out that morning.”
“Two days then. What did it?”
“My dear Rupert, I’m afraid you won’t believe me if I tell you.” Winter wasn’t ready to share all the family secrets the first time he was asked. He’d prefer to take things slowly. “Let’s just assume I was gored by an animal – a rogue claw, if you will. It appears that despite Sigmund’s numerous healing skills, for some reason the claw must have been coated with something native to Simigile, local vegetation of some kind. It appears to have infected the wound, and Sigmund is unable to do anything to stop the spread of it.
“I was healing while I was resting, but then I wanted to go on that lovely date with you, and things got a little more energetic there than I had anticipated. It could happen to anybody.”
“You damn fool!” Rupert snarled, pacing away from the bed and then, as if on a piece of elastic, coming straight back. He pointed at Winter’s bare chest. “There’s something about you, something more than fancy coats and a winning smile, and you are going to tell me.”
“I will tell you everything. Once this is healed.” Winter pointed to the red marks. “I realize it might not look it, but this is extremely painful, and it does appear to be spreading, which could be dangerous, don’t you think?”
“Of course, it will hurt. You’ve been infected with shetherin. Most kids from the age of five know to stay away from it.”
“I’m hardly a local, so I’m not likely to know what shetherin looks like or where it would be found. Is there a cure for such an infection?”
“Yes, thank goodness, there is.” Rupert marched back over to the door, opened it and poked his head out. “Sigmund, isn’t it? Go to the healers, let them know you are there for a tonic to treat shetherin. Let the healer know it appears to be a two-day long infection. You won’t need to tell them who the treatment is for. But let the healer know I’ve ordered that you are to be given the stuff from the purple bottle. They’ll understand and won’t ask any questions if you invoke my name.”
Sigmund must have left. It’s not like Winter could see through the door with Rupert’s bulk in front of it. Rather than leaving, Rupert stayed in the room, closing the door, before coming over and taking the seat that Sigmund had been using next to the bed.
“We have time now. You could share your secrets while we wait.”
