Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

Royce lifted his head to look at him. “You’re a very odd man.”

“You were the one talking about evil geese .”

The door opened to reveal a sleepy-looking Dougan, who peered out with squinting eyes.

“Dougan,” Hadrian said, “we need help.”

The bartender took a quick look over their shoulders, then waved them in and closed the door.

“We just need some bandages, a needle and thread, some food, and maybe some dry clothes,” Hadrian said. “I’ll pay for everything.”

Hadrian pulled Royce over to the biggest table in the main room, a nice long maple with four sturdy legs, and laid him on it. While much warmer in the tavern than on the beach, Royce couldn’t stop shivering, and his head was clouding up.

Dougan, who was dressed only in a long wool shirt, wiped his eyes and yawned. “What did you two do this time?”

“Robbed the treasure from the Crown Tower,” Royce said, and caught a stunned look from Hadrian. “But it’s okay-we put everything back.”

Dougan smiled. “Ha! I don’t remember you being so funny.”

“Oh yeah,” Hadrian said, “he’s a hoot once you get to know him.”

Royce felt his cloak being pulled free of his arms. Then he was alone. He could hear Hadrian speaking to Dougan in another room. They were looking for cloth and a sewing needle. Water was dripping nearby as if the roof had a leak; then Royce realized he was the source. He lay like a sponge soaking the table with water … or was that blood?

The room was beginning to spin as Hadrian returned. “Okay, ah … we’re going to take a look now. This might hurt.”

Royce felt Hadrian jerk on the belt wrapped hard around his waist. It was like being stabbed again and for a moment Royce forgot where he was. He thought he might still be in the lake. It felt like he was drowning; then everything grew dark.

Pain.

He’d been out again. He didn’t know how long. He didn’t care. Royce knew he was awake because of the harsh ache that whirled around his body. He was certain that if he moved, the ache would change to something far worse. Lying still, his eyes closed, he heard nothing, smelled nothing. He could be anywhere, at any time. Back in Manzant, the loft in Colnora, the room in Glen Hall, somewhere on the road, in prison, in a coffin-so long as he didn’t open his eyes, no single possibility was any more likely than any other. He lingered in a state of possibilities until he heard the creak of a nearby chair.

“How you feeling?” Hadrian asked.

Royce wondered how he knew, or had he been asking that same question for hours? His breathing pattern had likely changed. Royce didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Like someone tried to kill me by slicing my stomach open, and then someone else tried to finish the job by drowning me in a river. How am I actually?”

“Not as bad as I expected. Not nearly as deep. Just cut through muscle and hit your lower rib, but I don’t think it broke.”

“Is that all?” he asked sarcastically.

“I’m sure it hurts.”

“You think?”

“Loss of blood is the real danger-and shock to the body. I also put some salt on it. Dries things out and stops the wound from oozing and festering.”

“You a doctor too?”

“In five years of warfare you treat a lot of wounds. Plenty of trial and error. You should be glad you aren’t one of the first I tried to help. You’ll feel a lot better now. Twenty-seven stitches.”

“I’m so pleased you counted. Couldn’t have lived without that.”

Royce knew where he was the instant Hadrian spoke, but the whole picture was still forming. Tardy bits and pieces, slower than the rest, were ushered to their places. He remembered the call of the loon and Hadrian speaking about fishing before remembering that they had been in the lake. Recalling the swim, Royce was surprised to discover he was dry and dressed in a linen tunic. There was a blanket over him, several guessing by the weight.

“I have soup,” Hadrian said. “You should eat.”

Royce opened one eye and found Hadrian was sitting beside him with a steaming tin bowl he held with a towel. “Get that away from me.”

“Nauseous?”

“Ready to vomit.”

“Yeah, that happens. And you don’t want to do that or you’ll rip my stitches.”

Royce opened both eyes to properly glare. “Oh yeah, that’s exactly the reason I’m against it. I don’t want to ruin all your work .”

“Only trying to help.”

And doing a lousy job of it! Royce opened his mouth to say it but stopped. It wasn’t true. Truth was he’d be dead three times over if Hadrian hadn’t risked his life to save him. In some dark corner of his mind he found he was as upset about that as he was about the hole in his side-maybe more so. It didn’t make sense and was as disorienting as the pain. Why’d he do it? The question had been in his head ever since he saw Hadrian wearing the harness. Stupid didn’t cut it anymore. No one was that dumb. And Hadrian had the brains to bandage him, get them down the tower, and all the way to Iberton. Hadrian wasn’t stupid-crazy maybe, but not stupid. Had Arcadius put him up to this? Was this planned? Can all this have been-

No.

Even in his most diabolical, far-stretched, conspiracy-born theoretic imagination, Royce couldn’t nail this calamity to the wall of premeditation. They both had almost died. They still might. No one ever gives a damn about plans or loyalties when their life is teetering on the brink, and Royce could still see Hadrian’s swords snapping, the blade flying over the parapet. He remembered him slipping on blood and falling, getting a blade to his thigh. This hadn’t been an act.

So why, then?

Royce didn’t have an answer. They barely knew each other. They didn’t like each other. Royce would go so far as to say they hated each other, and yet … it didn’t make any sense. The one thing Royce did know, the one thing he was positive of was that he should be dead.

“Thanks.”

Hadrian looked up. “What?”

Royce scowled. “You heard me.”

“Maybe the struggle to get that word out is what was making you nauseous.”

Royce sneered, but wondered if there wasn’t some truth to it. He had only ever said thank you twice before. This made three. Far from being appreciative, he hated each time. The words were always bitter and came after weakness. “How’s your leg?”

Hadrian looked down at the bands of linen peeking through his torn trouser leg. “Not too bad.”

They weren’t in the bar anymore. Royce was lying on a bed in a small room with simple furniture. “We at that Lord Marbury’s place?”

Hadrian shook his head. “Dougan’s bedroom. He’s been very accommodating.”

“We going to Marbury’s?”

“Dougan says he was arrested.”

“When?”

“Couple days ago.”

“Where’s Dougan?”

“Went to fetch water.”

“Are you sure? How long does it take to walk across the street and back?”

“The well is in the village.”

“Well?”

“That’s what he said,” Hadrian replied.

“We need to leave-now.”

“Now?” Hadrian looked stunned. “Can you walk?”

“Push me up, and we’ll find out.”

Hadrian scowled and helped him to his feet.

The pain was sharp but tolerable-so much better than … was it the day before? Royce pushed off the bed as if he were a boat launching itself and stood hovering vertical. “See, I’m better,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let’s go.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“Dougan’s betraying us. Probably sending word to the nearest patrol, or maybe he’s standing on the highway trying to flag one down.”