“Was it poisoned?” Varen asked, worry tinging his voice.
“I don’t think so,” Korik replied, shaking his head, but he still brought the arrow with him when he came to kneel beside Varen again. He’d been acting rashly when keeping a measured head was the most important part of healing in a crisis. He would not make the same mistake again. “Are you feeling any other symptoms than pain? Nausea, numbness?”
Varen shook his head. “I feel cold. The wound hurts, and my head aches. But that’s all.”
“You have a fever,” Korik sighed, looking at the wound again. Poisons would often leave signs of their rot traveling up the veins; this only had redness and swelling. “So the cold and shaking is likely from that, and the headache too. I don’t think we can completely rule out poison, but a simple infection is more likely.”
Varen groaned, leaning back onto his bedroll. “I hope you’re right.”
Korik was silent. He closed his eyes, trying to summon any lingering scrap of magic from the well of power within him; but nothing responded to his call. He was utterly empty. He could try to pull latent magic from the earth, but that was nearly impossible without his own initial spark to start the siphon. If he tried to rest for an hour, maybe then he could try; but it would leave him exhausted the next day, surely...
“I canfeelyou thinking,” Varen sighed, pulling him from his worry. “Stop it. Infection won’t kill me overnight. Or at least, most won’t. I think. If I have to be uncomfortable tonight for you to heal me tomorrow, I can power through.” He paused, then opened one eye to peer at Korik. “Youcanheal this tomorrow, right?”
Despite his words, the elf’s lips quirked up in a tiny smirk, which made Korik let out a sigh of relief.
“I... Well, yes,” he said, standing. “Most likely, yes. I’ll look through the herbs I have to see if I can at least make you feel more comfortable.”
“Appreciate it,” Varen sighed, closing his eyes again. Korik watched him in concern for a moment longer, then busied himself with sorting through his stash of herbs.
Chapter Nineteen
Korik
Hehadtomakeanother trip through the forest in search of the leaves of the tuarig tree, which had fever-reducing properties; but eventually Korik had enough medicinal herbs to relieve Varen’s symptoms, enough to hold him over until his own magic could clear the infection from within. When he arrived back at the camp, though, he found his problem was twofold: Varen’s fever had worsened, his face visibly flushed; and he realized he had no cauldron or kettle to brew his herbs in to make an effective tonic.
When he lightly touched Varen’s forehead, the elf felt warmer than he had before; but he barely stirred in response, which was worrying in itself. Korik hesitated, then pulled off the blanket Varen had curled up under, hoping the cool mountain air would help mitigate the rise in his temperature.
Then he turned to the campfire, worrying his upper lip between his teeth. He had enough water to boil the herbs, but no container to keep them in that would be large enough. Getting Varen to eat the herbs directly would probably be much more difficult, and the medicinal properties would be diminished.
Korik looked through his things once more, then through Varen’s, which were still set out around him. They each had a metal cup for warm drinks, but how could he fit all the herbs together? And how could he safely hold them over the fire? Maybe he could split the herbs between two cups, and put a slab of stone over the fire? Maybe he could nestle the cups in embers, though it would give him much less control over how quickly the mixture boiled...
It was far from ideal, but he would just have to make do. He used Varen’s knife to cut up the herbs and leaves into small pieces, splitting them between the two cups and filling each about halfway with water. Then he used a stick to pull a few embers from the fire, arranged them into neat circles, and carefully placed the metal cups within. The embers directly touched the metal and soon the liquid was boiling; he pushed them away a bit to bring it down to a simmer. But it cooled quickly, and he was constantly having to monitor the cups and the embers to keep the simmer going. Eventually, much of the liquid had evaporated, the herbs cooked down into greenish sludge. He pushed the dying embers back into the fire and waited for the syrupy liquid to cool.
While he waited, Korik checked on Varen again. The elf was still sleeping, but shifted restlessly often, searching for the blanket Korik had taken away. A thin sheen of sweat covered every inch of his exposed skin. Korik felt his forehead again; his fever was the same, but at least it hadn’t worsened.
Once the liquid had cooled and he could touch the cups without burning himself, Korik carefully pulled out as much of the solids as he could, pouring it into one cup slowly so the sediment remained at the bottom. Then he discarded those herbs and poured the mixture back into the now-clean cup just as slowly. A few flecks of plant matter still floated in the condensed mixture, but it was drinkable.
Now the question was whether he could get Varen to actually drink it. Korik eyed the elf, still sleeping fitfully. He hated having to rouse sleeping patients to take their medicine, but it was a necessary evil. And Varen had fallen asleep easily enough, so with any luck he could go right back to sleep without trouble.
“Varen,” Korik said. The elf did not respond. With his free hand, Korik gently shook his shoulder. “Varen, wake up.”
The elf’s eyes snapped open at his touch, looking around in confusion, before landing on Korik. He was disoriented and tired; though his fever was the same, Korik thought his overall condition was worse. He helped the elf sit up; as he did, his body trembled with the motion.
“Drink this,” he said, offering the cup to Varen, who looked at it in consternation for a moment before taking it. Even in his disoriented state, he looked suspiciously at the unpleasantly green concoction. “It will reduce pain and swelling, and help with your fever.”
“Looks like swamp water,” Varen rasped. Korik winced.
“True, but it’s not. Though I make no promises as to its taste,” he said. Despite his haggard appearance, Varen smirked and let out a small huff of a laugh. “Drink all of it. Best to get it down quickly, I think, and I have water for after.”
Varen took in a deep breath, then held the cup to his lips. At the first sip, his eyes widened, then narrowed as his nose wrinkled—the medicinal taste shaking off the last dregs of sleep. It might have been comical if Korik wasn’t so worried about him. But Varen was stubborn, and he drank the entire cup, though his eyes squeezed closed while the rest of his face twisted in disgust.
He let the cup drop from his hand. “Water,” he begged, but Korik was already holding the waterskin up to him. Varen took a drink, swished it around his mouth, and spat it out. Korik bit back a protest, thinking of how little water they had left; but then he took a few proper gulps and handed the waterskin back to Korik with a groan.
“Gods, that was horrific,” he muttered, laying back down. “I liked it better when you used magic to heal.”
Korik forced down a chuckle. “Me, too.”
Luckily, Varen settled back down with no more fuss. Before long, the elf’s eyes were closed, and his breathing sounded less shaky.
