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After my transformation, he was the very first one that understood what I was. He’s saved my life more than once—along with my sanity.
I expect him to do the very same for this lad, who bears more than a slight resemblance to Finley, my betrothed-apparent.
Her brother, would be my guess. Even though their coloring is completely different, there’s a similarity in his face; his bone-structure.
“You can unwrap him now. Use that blade to cut the belt.”
I make quick work of the makeshift belt-tourniquet and the wadded blankets. Pulling them away, I uncover a mess of blood and organs.
The smell of blood hits me right in the nose, but I’m not even tempted, because Finley’s sweet aftertaste lingers on my tongue.
“Looks like someone ran him through with a sword,” I growl. “He’s too young to be fighting like that.”
“Correct. Liver’s damaged, but the rest of his organs are intact. He’ll live. Remove the rest of the cloth from the edges of his wound. I’m going to push the organs back in and stitch him up.” A needle and catgut thread and forceps have appeared in Vinciel’s hands. “Go and get scrubbed,” Vinciel snaps as he reaches my side. “I might need your precious royal hands for more than just carrying things.”
I oblige, rolling up my sleeves. The water’s still running; a warm trickle coming from copper pipes that are heated by coals in the basement. I quickly work up a lather and clean my hands and arms up to the elbows, copying his routine.
Vinciel is very particular about clean hands. Even on the battlefield, where blood and dirt and gore and filth are inescapable, he somehow manages to drillclean handsinto every single one of his healers and apprentices.
He’s obsessive about certain things, even though his working environment is a cluttered mess in every other way, driving me mad at the worst of times.
“Corvan, come here.” Vinciel beckons with a flick of his chin. “Give me your hand.”
“What do you need me to do?” I return to the healer’s side.
“Hand. Palm facing upwards.”
It’s strange, but I cooperate. I trust Vinciel implicitly, no matter how infuriating he is at times.
He takes his blade and makes a neat cut right through the middle of my palm. The pain is sharp and sudden, but it’s nothing compared to the countless war wounds I’ve suffered.
“What wasthatfor?” I growl. Even as my blood trickles down, dripping into the lad’s wounds, the cut in my palm is already starting to heal.
“Your blood is useful.”
“I do not want to create another… like me.”
“Won’t happen. All the texts I’ve read say that it’s pretty much impossible. You’re either Chosen, or you aren’t. But there’s a temporary healing effect that can be transferred to others. It’s a gift, Corvan. Agift.”
Vinciel lets out a low, appreciative whistle as he makes quick work of the surgery, his long, nimble fingers dancing across and in-between flesh and organs until he reaches the outermost layer—the skin.
“Give me that red lacquered box over there.”
I retrieve a small box from amidst the clutter on one of Vinciel’s many desks.
“Open it.”
He takes the contents; a small spool of black silken thread, and quickly threads a fresh needle.
His bare hands are soaked in blood.
“Let’s close. Cut my sutures as I go.”
When Vinciel’s done, all that’s left of the terrible sword-wound is a neat incision about the length of my hand. The healer takes a large wad of gauze and douses it in astringent-smelling brown liquid from a glass bottle. Then he proceeds to clean the area, removing dried blood and leaving a thin film of the brown stuff on and around the sutured wound.
“Bandages,” Vinciel orders. “Fourth drawer.”
I find the neatly-rolled spool of cloth and hand it to him.
