The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [140]
Neb soaked his rag in the herbed water in the basin and wiped away as much of the pus as he could. When he pressed around the edges of the bruise, more green-gray matter welled up and with it, black flecks of dirt. Neb kept cleaning the rag and wiping until at last he’d exposed raw flesh and naught else. Gerran never made a sound, nor did he move. Nicedd sat stone-still, holding down his lord’s hands should Gerran’s will fail.
The door opened with a fling and a bounce. Clae trotted in with the kettle in one hand and a wad of clean rags in the other.
“Lady Egriffa said you’d need these,” Clae said.
“I do, indeed.”
Neb took the rags gratefully. He should have remembered to bring more, he supposed. Clae nestled the bottom of the kettle into the coals, then returned to his place by the wall.
Neb never quite knew how long he worked on the wound, washing it, wiping the blood away, until at last it looked clean, and the only smell of contagion came from the rags on the floor. By the time he finished, however, the sky was beginning to darken with sunset. Neb stepped back a few feet and considered his patient’s aura. The ugly gray plume had disappeared, but the envelope of etheric light had shrunk a little further, clinging around Gerran’s body like a wet shirt. The pain had done that, Neb supposed. At least, he hoped it was only the pain. Neb tossed the rag he’d been using onto the floor, then picked up the flagon of mead.
“This is going to hurt worse,” he said, “so brace yourself, but I’ve got to destroy the corrupted humors.”
Nicedd tightened his grip on Gerran’s wrists. Neb took a deep breath and slopped mead directly from the flagon onto the wound. Gerran gasped aloud and bowed his back as if he’d been flogged. Nicedd held on grimly and forced him back down again. Mercifully, with the second splash of the burning liquid, Gerran fainted. Neb kept splashing and wiping until at last the bleeding from his slash had eased up. He dipped a finger in the mead and tested the bruise. The swelling had gone down considerably, but for all he knew, more contagion lurked under the edges of the skin.
The room had grown too dark for him to see clearly. Without thinking, exhausted as he was, he called upon the Wildfolk of Aethyr, who clustered around his left hand in a cool silver light. Nicedd swore under his breath, and Clae yelped aloud.
“Hold your tongues!” Neb snapped. “I’ve got to see.”
In the pool of dweomer light the wound looked as good as traumatized flesh could look after such treatment. A different light bloomed behind him, the yellow flickering of massed candles. Neb’s shadow fell across Gerran’s back. Neb tossed the ball of dweomer glow into the air, where it disappeared. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Salamander standing just inside the door and holding a four-candle candelabrum in each hand.
“I purloined these from a storeroom,” Salamander said. “I thought you’d need light.”
“I do, and my thanks,” Neb said. “Nicedd, you can let go now. The worst’s over.”
Nicedd released Gerran’s wrists, then stood up, stretching his back. He was staring at Neb with an expression halfway between fear and awe. Salamander glanced around, put one candelabrum on the washstand where the basin had stood, and the other on a carved chest that stood in the curve of the stone wall. Clae opened his mouth as if to ask about the mysterious light; Neb silenced him with a scowl, then ignored them all.
In the basin only a handful of spent herbs remained. He threw those onto the heap of filthy rags on the floor.
“Once the wound’s rested,” he said to Nicedd, “I’ll bandage that, but I want it to dry.”
“Well and good, then, my lord,” Nicedd said. “Will he heal?”
“If the gods are willing.” Neb picked up the rags and crammed them all into the kettle of simmering water. The coals had mostly turned to ash in the brazier. “Clae, when this cools, you can take it away, but wash it out well before you give it back to the cook. Those rags should be thrown away, too. Make sure they end up on the dung heap.”
“I will,