Chapter 7

Tarsidian is being helped out of his armor by Serena and Arnott, revealing a serious wound. The breastplate is damaged and blood-smeared. Tarsidian's friends are concerned about his injury. Serena continues to help him remove his other layers of armor, revealing an infected wound. Tarsidian's friends become even more worried. Tarsidian realizes the severity of his injury and jokes about it. Marcus searches for something and finds a hidden alcove with a pouch inside. He asks if Primrose Ambrosia ever spoils. Chapter 7 There was no amount of wine Tarsidian could have drank to prepare him for what he was about to endure, but it was worth a shot. His head swam pleasantly while Serena unclasped the buckles of his breastplate along his side. This isn't exactly how I saw this going, he said in a voice thicker than it meant. Oh, and how did you see it going, Serena asked, working the last one free. He laughed. Which hurt. Jacuzzi. Nora Jones. Something like that. Together with Arnott's help, she eased him out of his breastplate as if it were a bear trap. I prefer Sade, Serena said and handed the breastplate to Arnott. Only through Tarsidian's extensive repertoire of apprentice drills was he able to keep himself from screaming. When he plopped his head back down on the blankets, his hair was soaked with sweat. Shut it! This is no mere bit of armament, Arnott said, holding up the dented, blood-smeared, penetrated breastplate. It is a work of art, but it forged by the Elveri. Tarsidian couldn't help give a damn about craftsmanship. Shockwaves of pain were gonging through his nervous system. He stared with woozy eyes at the gash toward the bottom, where the legendary metal had splintered inward like a punctured aluminum can, at the layer of fresh and old blood coating it. Arnott handed the breastplate to Taxini, who set it neatly by the nightstand beside them. The captain's blue eyes were cloudy with concern. Tarsidian might be intoxicated, but he could see that the leader of the cavaliers was troubled by the wound beneath the armor. Next came the Habershin, the suit of mail that was the cornerstone of the Chardin ensemble. It was often described as a suit of blue diamonds. He grit his teeth, lifted both arms into the air, and Serena pulled it from over his head like a T-shirt. The distinct, undeniable odor of infection filled the room. You're doing great, she whispered in English, lying her cool palm across his forehead. Just one more layer. Arnott held Tarsidian's Habershin up, but he splashed a dim candlelight coming off the lanterns adorning the room. Tarsidian studied the cluster of broken chain-links where the warlock's talons had gouged through, while studiously ignoring the expressions of his friends. They were silent, jaws locked, eyes carefully neutral. Once she got the final layer of his akaton off, the navy-blue doublet that served both as padding and as uniform when a knight of the Chard was not wearing armor, the stink of infection swelled, pungent, sickly, and foul. Taxini glanced at his wound and pressed his lips together. Same went for Arnott, even Eluvian. Serena was the only one who remained impassive, though by a trick of the light, her eyes glimmered with moisture. All right. Now he was ready. Tarsidian took a deep breath and braced himself. Don't, Arnott said, putting a hand on his chest. Tarsidian frowned and stared at Arnott's hand until the grizzled former sergeant moved it. He had to know. With a long, calm breath, he closed his eyes, tilted his head down, and then opened them, while propping himself up on his elbows. For a moment, all he could do was stare. After a couple of long moments, he lied his head back down. I was walking with that. Tarsidian wasn't mistaken. The wet, shiny, grayish-pink thing poking out from the congealed mass of his coagulated blood was more than likely part of his intestines. What do you think, Tarsi? A voice, not his own, floated through his mind. Small or large? He smiled, hearing his dead friend's voice so clearly. Jack might have been in the room with them. His smile elicited a chorus of concern from his three comrades, who were staring down at him in the dim light. Somewhere in the background, Tarsidian could hear Marcus rummaging for something. Maybe we should call an ambulance, huh? Tarsidian said to Serena in English. She barked out a single laugh and then covered her mouth with the back of her hand, violet eyes glimmering. She was no longer as composed. They knew that unless something miraculous happened, Tarsidian was going to die. And slowly. Do you have any spirits here, Marcus? Serena asked, running her fingers through Tarsidian's damp, grimy hair. She then discovered the crumpled tunic, leaned over to snatch it up, and began tearing it into strips. Marcus didn't answer, just kept rummaging. Marcus, she asked, shh, I must concentrate. For what? Tarsidian asked. Silence, I said, Marcus said, and jabbed his finger at Arnott, who promptly expressed his displeasure by a dangerous widening of his gray eyes. Marcus scratched his head and panned the room, eyes slightly narrowed. Beside the bed was an old-fashioned chest, which he'd already thoroughly searched. He went back to it and searched again. While you're looking for whatever it is, can you get me a candle, Serena asked. Tarsidian deflated even more. He hated needles. Marcus ran his fingers along the wall, checked behind the picture of a naked wood nymph hanging over the bed, probed the hanging pendant lanterns bracketing the door, all the while squinting his eyes as if trying to remember the combination to a lock. Then he hit Pater. There was a click. Even Tarsidian looked up. Oh, thank you, cousin, he said, and carefully twisted the lantern to the side, which then revealed a small, dusty, narrow alcove behind it. He put his hand inside and pulled out a brown satchel that jingled with coins. With a quick oomph and a raise of his eyebrows, he placed the satchel on the nightstand and reached in again, muttering some kind of prayer. When he pulled it out the second time, he was holding a purple pouch held shut with a golden tassel. He untied it and simply stared inside for a second, face blank. What is it, for the love of gods, I'm not asked. Marcus looked up, and now they could see the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Does Primrose Ambrosia ever spoil?