Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [207]
The rising sun caught us yawning.
"By the Triad!" Lucius rubbed at his bleary eyes. "I'm off, Montrève. I need to catch a few hours of sleep before Deccus Fulvius summons me to give him a student's viewpoint on the rioting. Say what you will, but I don't think he anticipated this."
"No," I said, thinking about Claudia's warning. "I daresay he didn't."
Lucius left, and I went out into the city on my own, barefoot and limping, to hire a litter to transport Gilot to the isle of Asclepius. My skin prickled with wariness and I kept my hand hovering over my sword-hilt. Gilot would have had a fit had he known, but he was in no state to protest. In any case, there was no sign of would-be assassins or rioters, only the wreckage left in their wake. The city cohort was on patrol, and wary shopkeepers were assessing the damage and looting done to their businesses. In the Great Forum, I begged an uneasy cobbler to sell me a pair of crudely made rope sandals. He agreed at length, eyeing me with distrust. A subdued pall hung over the city, like the aftermath of a fete that had turned poisonous. I had to go all the way to the wharf, but there I found bearers who agreed to my terms, and I returned to the insula to await them, ignoring the steady, piercing throb in my ankle.
There, everyone slept.
There were only the two pallets, meager and mean. I stood and looked. Gilot lay half on his side, his splinted hand outthrust. I could hear his labored breathing. Anna was curled against his back, Belinda's head tucked beneath her chin. And there on the other pallet was Eamonn, sprawled on his back in snoring splendor. Brigitta's head lay on one brawny shoulder, her limbs thrown carelessly over his.
I envied them. All of them.
"Gilot!" I raised my voice. "Your litter awaits."
By litter and barge, we made the journey.
The isle of Asclepius was a peaceful place; a place of healing. I felt calm descend upon me as we approached. The oarsmen dipped their oars with care, as though not to disturb their passenger. Everything was hushed; quiet. Even the barge docked in near-silence, somber attendants catching the ropes, mooring it noiselessly.
One of the priests of Asclepius glided from the temple on sandaled feet, clad in robes of fine-combed white wool. He had a short black beard and austere features; and dark eyes, as dark as those of the Cruithne, filled with wisdom and the knowledge of pain.
I stood at his approach, rocking the barge. "Please," I said humbly. "Help him."
His dark gaze rested on me. "What would you have me heal?"
I gestured to Gilot. "Him."
The priest bowed his head. "As you wish."
A strange question, I thought; Gilot's injuries were obvious. But then again, he was a priest. Mayhap he saw other wounds; deeper wounds. Of a surety, I had those. The attendants eased Gilot onto a narrow litter, and I followed as they bore him into the temple.
Inside, the priest examined Gilot, peering at his swollen face, gently probing his hand, laying his head on Gilot's chest and listening to his breathing. I stood by anxiously. At last, the priest turned to an acolyte; a grave, sweet-faced young woman. "Comfrey to bathe his eyes," he said to her. "And a tincture of opium and henbane for the pain. Once it takes effect, I will attempt to set his hand."
"Will I be able to use it?" Gilot asked through gritted teeth.
"Perhaps," said the priest. He beckoned to me. "Come."
I followed him through the temple. It was a light, airy space, unadorned save for a tile mosaic on the floor. The rear opened onto a grotto where a spring burbled, forming a natural fountain. I could see gold coins gleaming