The king had already left. And it was Jonas’s fault that they’d missed him. He’d been stubborn in his insistence that he come along. Had Lys left early, while Jonas was still asleep, like she’d wanted to, the king might be dead right now, instead of fleeing off on his next evil mission.
“My boy.” Bruno patted his arm. “You’ve gone very pale. Are you all right?”
“No. I am definitely not all right.” This was just another painful failure to add to his lengthy list.
Bruno sniffed the air, then cocked his head and sniffed again. “What is that?”
“What?”
“I smell . . . ugh, merciful goddess, it’s like a cross between horse dung and rotting meat.” He continued to sniff, then drew closer to Jonas.
Jonas peered at him warily. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sniffing your shoulder, of course. What does it look like I’m doing?” The man’s face fell. “Oh, my. It’s you.”
“Me?”
Bruno nodded. “I’m afraid so. My grandson gave you some of the healing mud, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“Let me see.” Bruno poked his left shoulder, causing Jonas to yelp in pain. “Come on, let’s see it.”
Jonas tried to concentrate on something other than the stench of the docks and the sweaty bodies passing by all around him. Suddenly, he wished he’d never woken up after his injury, that he was still unconscious in his cot at the Silver Toad.
Grudgingly, he pulled his shirt to the side to give Bruno better access to the bandages.
Bruno gently unwound the bandages and peered underneath. His expression turned squeamish. “That looks even worse than it smells.”
“And it feels even worse than it looks.” Jonas glanced down at it. Most of the mud had been rubbed away, exposing a raw red wound surrounded by angry purple marks like lightning bolts and green edges that oozed pus.
“You’re rotting like a three-week-old melon,” Bruno announced, putting the bandages back in place.
“So the healing mud isn’t working at all?”
“That concoction is quite old. It did work moderately when I first received it, but it never would have worked for a wound as serious as this. I’m sorry, my boy, but you’re going to die.”
Jonas gaped at him. “What?”
Bruno frowned. “I’d suggest cutting off the arm, but unfortunately the wound isn’t in the best place for that. You’d have to take the shoulder as well to clear away all the infection, and I’m afraid that just won’t work. Perhaps you could find some leeches and hope for the best?”
“I’m not going to go find any leeches. And I’m not going to die.” Still, as he said it, even he knew that he didn’t sound convinced. He’d seen men in his village fall terminally ill from rotting wounds. Some of the more superstitious Paelsians believed those deaths to be punishments for speaking ill of the chieftain, but even as a child Jonas knew that couldn’t be true.
“There’s that fighting spirit!” Bruno now patted Jonas’s head. “I think that’s what I’ll miss the most about you when you’re dead.”
“I have far too much to do before I die,” Jonas growled. “I just need . . . a healer.”
“Far too late for a healer.”
“Then I need a witch! I need a witch who can heal through touch. Or . . . or grape seeds.”
Bruno eyed him as if he’d gone mad. “Grape seeds, eh? Perhaps there are some witches who can heal a simple scrape, with magical mud or, perhaps, enchanted seeds of some kind. But to heal a wound as deep and putrid as this? Not a chance.”
“But I know one who . . .” He trailed off, remembering that, of course, Phaedra wasn’t a common witch; she was a Watcher. And she was dead, after sacrificing her immortality to save Jonas’s life.
“You might be able to find a witch with earth magic strong enough to take away your fever and give you some strength back,” Bruno said. “It’s unlikely, but I’d say that’s your best hope.”
“And where am I supposed to find someone like that?” he muttered, and then a thought occurred to him. “Do you think Nerissa might know?”