Guild Wars_ Edge of Destiny - J. Robert King [94]
DRAWING THE POISON
While the rest of Rata Sum celebrated across the bridges and walkways of the city, Eir and her companions gathered down below in the quiet darkness of Snaff’s workshop.
Caithe was not doing well. She lay on one of the smaller workbenches, a pillow cradling her now feverish head and woolen blankets piled on her shivering form.
Eir was cleaning the infection, using work rags and a bottle of spirits she had hijacked from Councilor Klab’s victory table. “She kept this illness secret from us for so long. I only hope it’s not too late.” Eir tossed an infection-laced rag in a nearby brazier, where it flashed and burned away.
“Don’t give up hope,” Zojja offered. “They’re sending for the chirurgeon—Madame Dort.”
Snaff shook his head miserably.
Just then, a clatter at the head of the stairs announced the arrival of Madame Dort, genius of malaises and melancholia. She trundled down the steps, her metal toolbox rattling against each one as she came. “Never fear! Madame Dort is here.”
The companions looked at each other, eyes tinged with dread.
Madame Dort waddled over to the workbench, clanked her toolbox down beside it, flipped the heavy metal latches, and flung the thing open. The box held an assortment of bone saws and cranial drills, and what must have been an artificial hip. Madame Dort stared avidly at Caithe. “What can I amputate?”
“Get out!” Snaff growled.
Madame Dort stared at him in shock. “But I’m a genius of malaises and melancholia—”
“And misery.”
“Well, now—”
“Get out!” Snaff raged, his face turning red. “You’ll not lay a finger—let alone a saw—on our friend.”
Madame Dort huffed, slamming the lid of her toolbox. “Pray that you never need my services.”
“Excellent advice, madame,” Snaff said, eyes blazing. He hoisted the toolbox and nodded toward the stairs. “Most excellent.”
Madame Dort took her toolbox and stomped away.
As the woman ascended the stairs, Eir stared down at Caithe’s feverish form. “What do we do now?”
“It’s all right,” Caithe murmured. “She’s coming.”
“You’re awake!” Eir said, kneeling beside her. “Who’s coming?”
“The one who did this to me. The one who can undo it.”
“Who?” Eir said as she brushed silver hair back from Caithe’s face.
“The Grand Duchess Faolain of the Nightmare Court.”
It was midnight before Faolain came, and she was so silent that she stood among them before any of them realized it.
Garm was the first, leaping up from his blanket and standing with fangs bared and a low growl in his throat. At the sound of it, Eir startled awake and grabbed her mallet. Next moment, Rytlock and Logan were at the ready, too, weapons surrounding the stranger.
Despite the heat, Faolain wore a thick, black hood and cloak that covered all but her long, thin face. Her eyes were black, reflecting the fires of Sohothin, and her voice was unnerving. “One dear to my heart is here.” Attenuated fingers emerged from the cuffs of the woman’s cloak and reached up to pull her hood back. A shock of black hair spilled out. “I am the Grand Duchess Faolain.”
“Of the Nightmare Court,” Eir supplied.
Rytlock snarled, “You did this to her.”
“Her love did this,” Faolain said, staring at the black infection spreading above Caithe’s heart. “She wants to be with me.”
“You have to undo it!” Rytlock hissed.
“She must decide that. I have laid my hand upon her heart, and her heart has received me. Her love for me is poisoning her to you. Her presence with you is poisoning her to me.”
“Faolain!” gasped Caithe, her head turning on the workbench where she lay.
Faolain’s eyes grew wide, and she swooped past the companions to sit on the workbench where Caithe lay. “Yes, Caithe! I am here.”
Caithe riled on the workbench, half-awake and half in dream. “You have gone to darkness.”
“And you are coming with me.”
“She decides!”