Rise of a Fallen Man (A Look in the Mirror #2)

Chapter 16

Ari

T he carriage stopped.

“We’re here,” Salas said, letting go of my hand. “It’d be better if you stayed in, Princess. Let me talk to him first.”

From under the hood of my cloak, I studied this part of the city through the window of the carriage.

The view consisted of the water-stained, gray-stone buildings with crumbling walls, dirt roads, and not a single green leaf in sight. High on the wall of the closest building, the faded black letters of the sign read Blacksmith and Daughter, Carriage Repair Shop and Horse Tuck.

Judging by the dilapidated state of the sign and the building, as well as the deserted street in front of it, the shop had long been out of business. I recognized the brick chimney of the porcelain factory a block over, but I had never come this far into this part of the city before.

I never thought anyone could live here. Yet Salas headed confidently to a crumbling stairwell that was so steep, the ground appeared to swallow him as he descended.

He returned a few minutes later, followed by a lanky, hunched over figure that huddled into a tattered cloak while carrying a large covered basket.

They both climbed into the carriage, with Salas taking his place next to me and his companion sitting down across from us.

I’d never seen a warlock from this close before. In the children’s books that my father used to read to me when I’d just arrived in Rorrim, warlocks were always depicted either as despicable villains or as conniving charlatans. Either way, those stories taught children to stay away from them.

This time, however, a warlock might lend us some help.

“Good day,” I greeted the man, shoving back my hood.

He paled, staring at my face for a moment, then without uttering a single word, scrambled for the door.

Salas stopped him by placing a hand on the door handle.

“Please. Just listen to what she has to say,” he implored. “You can always leave after.”

The warlock curled in the seat sideways, facing the door and cradling his basket to his chest.

“My life may seem pitiful to you,” he mumbled, addressing no one in particular, “but I do not wish to end it just yet.”

“What do you mean?” I asked softly, striving to sound non-threatening. “Your life is not in danger. My father’s life is.”

He sucked in a breath, glaring at Salas from under his hood. “When you said the gentleman was a highborn, you didn’t specify he was the highest born in the queendom.”

“Why does it matter?” I asked. “Would it stop you from helping him? If the surgery is a success, you will be generously rewarded.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Do you have so little faith in your skills?”

I studied him closely. His once blue cloak had kept that color only in the seam under the hood, the rest had weathered to the pale gray. The wicker potion chest that he clutched to him looked like a beaten-up picnic basket with its corners cracked and its lead partially unraveled. His clothes emitted a faint smell of mold, but his chin appeared freshly shaven, and his hands were clean with neatly trimmed fingernails.

He looked old enough to have gathered the necessary knowledge and expertise, provided he had dedicated his life to learning and improving his skills. Of course, his age alone was not a guarantee of his expertise.

“Do you not think you have what it takes to perform a successful surgery?” I prodded.

He wouldn’t look at me as he spoke. “The gods meddle in the affairs of mortals all the time. No matter how skilled a man is, there is always a chance of something going wrong during a surgery. With the king as my patient, if that happens, I hold no hope of keeping my head on my shoulders.”

I clasped my hands together in my lap.

“The best outcome we’re facing right now is an amputation. If that proves to be inevitable, I promise you’ll keep your head. If you can deliver anything better than an amputation, I won’t just pay you for your efforts, you’ll receive a pension for life that will allow you to move to a much better place than this.” I tipped my thumb at the crumbling building outside the carriage window.

“What good is in the promise ‘for life’ if there wouldn’t be much of life left for me to live?” he wouldn’t give up, mistrustful of anything I said.

“The princess gave you her promise,” Salas snapped. “How dare you doubt her word?”

“You don’t trust me,” I spoke to the warlock. “Understandably so. You don’t know me. But I’m taking a leap of faith with you too. A huge leap of faith. My father’s health is vitally important to me, to the queen, and to the country. But here I am, begging a man with no academic credentials to operate on the king.”

He sulked, tossing me a reproachful glance.

“Academic credentials are a privilege not available to men. However, my practical experience can rival that of the most accomplished of witches,” he replied proudly. “I grew up on a farm and was lucky enough for the owner to take a liking to me. She indulged my interest in the healing arts from a very young age. She ordered text books for me, subscribed to publications, and even allowed me to use her outdoor kitchen to brew my potions. But everything else I’ve learned through practical work. As I grew older, I treated her workers, including the male farmhands. Among the various injuries I’ve healed, I also had to deal with the wounds from kicks of animal hooves to the groin area. There was also a particularly nasty incident with a farmhand falling onto a fence, straddling it, and severely crushing his manhood.” He winced.

Salas grunted, shifting his legs closer together.

“After my treatment,” the warlock continued, “that man went on getting married, and even blessing his wife with four healthy children.”

The story could easily be a lie, an exaggeration, or simply wishful thinking. But I longed to believe in it with all my heart. I had to give both this man and my father a chance.

The warlock finished his speech with his head held high. “I do have the knowledge and the skills, at the very least, to assess the king’s injuries and give you my opinion on the outcome.”

“How can I convince you to do it?” I asked, afraid to hope.

Finally, he met my eyes straight on.

“My name is Rotcod,” he said, clearly pronouncing each syllable of his name for me to remember. “If I assist during the surgery to His Majesty’s satisfaction, I want my name to be added to every publication that goes out about this case.”

“You want recognition above anything else?”

“At this point in my life,” he nodded, “recognition is the only thing I’m still willing to risk my head for.”

It surprised me at first that a man who had nothing would only ask for his name to be known. Then I realized it was his one and only chance to leave a mark on this word. For a man who had genuinely dedicated his life to his work, it’d be the best reward to be remembered and honored for it, even after his death.

“It’s a deal, Rotcod.” I offered him my hand to shake on our agreement. “If you contribute to my father’s surgery in any meaningful way, your name will not only be in every publication known among the healing arts professionals, I’ll personally see to it that it’ll appear on the front page of the Rorrim Herald. Your name will be known to the entire queendom.”

THE CARRIAGE TOOK US back to the palace. I ordered the coachwoman to bring it through the gate and as close to the front entrance as possible.

Salas opened the door, exiting first, then helped me and Rotcod to get out. As the warlock looked around uneasily, clutching his basket to his chest, I paused, leaving my hand in Salas’s.

“Thank you. For everything,” I said sincerely.

“Don’t thank me yet, Princess. I hope it all goes well. Here...” With his other hand, he reached into the folds of his cloak and took out a small bundle wrapped into a piece of an old issue of the Rorrim Herald. “I got it from Rotcod for you.”

“What is it?” I took the parcel.

“The tea to help you sleep.”

“You remembered...” I exhaled.

“Well.” He lifted a shoulder, looking a little awkward. “You aren’t easy to forget, Princess.”

I pressed the package to my chest with one hand, momentarily speechless.

“There is scarlet camomile,” he explained quickly, pointing at the package, “wild lavender, and crushed fairy-dream berries gathered on the night of the new moon. No sleeping potion added, since you have a country to run and can’t afford to be drowsy.”

“Thank you,” I repeated, reeling from it all.

He ran his thumb over the knuckles of my hand that he still held in his. “I hope it helps. Everyone deserves a good rest, at least once in a while.”

I clung to his hand like to a lifeline, aware that if I let go of it, the hurricane of reality would sweep me away from him again.

“I... I just really, really hate saying goodbye to you right now,” I confessed.

I needed him more than ever. But I couldn’t come up with a single excuse to keep him with me any longer.

Today, Salas had been friendly, supportive, and understanding. But I sensed his tension as my own. He’d been holding back, maintaining the distance between us, as he probably felt he should.

For a moment, however, his polite composure slipped away. His thick eyebrows moved together, his eyes sparked with urgency as he stepped closer, placing his hands on my shoulders.

“Ari,” he said. “If you ever need anything that you can’t get in the palace, even if it’s just a kind word and a hug. You come to me, do you hear me? Don’t you ever hesitate to come to me for anything at all.”

Kind words were sometimes harder to find in the palace than diamonds, and Salas’s hugs were the best in the world. My chest hurt, squeezed with longing and gratitude.

“I don’t deserve you, Salas. No one does.”

He held my shoulders, and I gripped his forearms. Then I pressed my forehead to his chest and stilled, stealing one last moment of peace in the eye of the hurricane.

“Your Highness!” Leafar’s voice shattered the silence. “Where have you been?”

His voice came like a slap on the face. My cheeks flared with heat. I whipped around to face my husband, who was crossing the plaza from the front entrance of the palace toward us. The priceless mirror rock of the ring on his finger cast a myriad of sparks onto the cobblestones—a splendid reminder of his status and mine.

“Who is this man?” He tossed a questioning look over my shoulder to where Salas stood by the carriage.

I placed a hand on Rotcod’s shoulder instead, redirecting Leafar’s attention.

“This man is here to help my father. Come with me, please,” I said to Rotcod with a sweep of my arm toward the palace. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of Father’s healing team.”

“Is that...” Leafar slid an assessing look down the warlock’s lanky frame draped in the tattered cloak. “Are you bringing a warlock into the palace?”

“Yes. And I have little time to lose.” I marched across the plaza, leading Rotcod with me and hoping that Leafar would follow.

It cost me an immense effort not to turn to Salas for one last glance goodbye. I had to pretend that he didn’t matter, that he was a nobody, that he wasn’t worth anyone’s attention, even as he was worth a world to me.

Thankfully, it worked. Leafar hurried after Rotcod and me, leaving Salas alone. The small crowd, spilling out of the palace’s doors, also focused on Rotcod as we approached, and I released a sigh of relief at the sound of the horses’ hooves behind us as the carriage left the plaza, taking Salas back to his room filled with sunshine and flower scent.

Away from me.