Page 6 of Salt in the Wound

When Armond has exhausted his outrage and stands there panting, veins darkened and trembling hands clenched at his sides, Eskil turns back to the advisor.

"How long has he been sick?"

Erlan relays the question and Armond's face goes tight with fury, the acknowledgment of his illness landing harder than the invasion itself. But Erlan answers over him, speaking in his stiff, broken version of Eskil's language.

"Five years. More than five. He has not been well for some time."

Five years is unheard of.

The sickness is slow, yes, but not that slow. Granger's takes hold in the blood first, then the bones, then the organs, a creeping rot that eats a man from the inside out. Two years isa generous timeline for even the strongest constitution. Three, maybe, with the best healers and constant care. Armond should be a husk of himself by now, bedridden and skeletal, not standing before a conquering king and demanding what's owed to him.

Eskil's eyes narrow. Something is keeping this man alive. Something beyond stubbornness and spite, though he's sure those contribute.

"How?" he asks. "What's keeping him upright?"

Erlan's lip curls, almost imperceptibly, before he answers. "A boy. A healer." The word comes out of his mouth with visible contempt, dressed in the sound of failure rather than skill. "We paid good gold for him. Too much. He keeps the king alive, yes, but he cannot cure him."

Eskil doesn't educate them on the fact that Granger's Disease is incurable. He doesn't mention that even in Rengara, where healers are trained from childhood and have access to herbs and medicines this kingdom has never dreamed of, Granger's is a death sentence. Every healer he's ever known would say the same: you can ease the suffering, slow the progression by months maybe, but you cannot stop it.

Keeping this spiteful man alive for five years is practically witchcraft.

He doesn't share that assessment with Erlan. Instead, he lets the silence stretch while the advisor shifts his weight from foot to foot, and he turns the information over in his mind. A healer of that caliber, trapped in a kingdom that doesn't know what it has, reduced to nothing by a man who couldn't identify talent if it bit him in the face. A hidden gem in a pile of shit.

"Show me," Eskil says.

Erlan is more than willing. He seems almost eager to be rid of the subject, already calculating how presenting this worthless commodity might somehow offset the loss of the treasury. Eskilfollows him through the corridors, Erlan checking room after room with increasing agitation, a kitchen, a servants' hall, an empty chamber that smells of lye and old blood, muttering under his breath in his own language while his hands flutter with annoyance. But Eskil moves by instinct towards an ornate door that is cracked open.

He recognizes it as the king’s chamber, and when he opens it he sees the most beautiful young man he's ever laid eyes on.

Dark hair tied loosely behind his shoulders. A slender form with pale skin that hasn't seen enough sun. He's dressed in a worn shirt that's too large for his frame and trousers that have been mended more than once, clutching a leather satchel to his chest, and the way his fingers grip it, white-knuckled and desperate, tells Eskil everything he needs to know about what the bag means to this man. It is the only thing of value he owns in the world. He makes the connection immediately that this is the healer they’re looking for.

When the young man turns and sees Eskil, his dark eyes are the most compelling thing Eskil has encountered in a long time.

They're wide with fear, those eyes, and impossibly deep. Almost black in the dim light of the chamber. There's an intelligence there, sharp and quick, assessing the threat level of the man in the doorway with a clarity that speaks of long practice. He can see the healer is terrified. The way his fingers go white around the satchel. The way his chest rises and falls a fraction too fast.

But he doesn't run.

He doesn't quiver. He doesn't drop to his knees or cower behind the furniture. He stands his ground, holding his satchel in front of him, and meets Eskil's gaze. Holds it. Doesn't look away.

Eskil has met armed men on the battlefield who couldn't do as much.

Something hot and immediate kindles in his chest, a recognition, an interest that goes beyond the strategic value of a talented healer. He stamps it down because now is not the fucking time, but it doesn't go quietly.

The advisor arrives at Eskil's shoulder, slightly out of breath from trying to keep up, and spots the young man. He points at him and barks something in their language, sharp and impatient, addressing something beneath his notice. Eskil doesn't need to understand the words to read the tone.

The young man doesn't move. His feet are frozen to the stone, his body locked in that terrible stillness of a prey animal deciding between flight and freeze. Erlan doesn't wait. He crosses the room and grabs the healer's arm, fingers digging into skin Eskil can already tell bruises too easily, and drags him forward. The motion is practiced, habitual, without any hesitation. He's done this before. Many times. Eskil watches the way the healer's body responds, not with surprise but with resignation, and feels something cold settle in his stomach.

Erlan throws him at Eskil's feet.

The young man hits the stone hard, knees connecting with an audible crack that makes Eskil's jaw tighten. He doesn't make a sound. Doesn't cry out. Just catches himself on his hands and stays there, head bowed, the satchel still clutched in one fist. He knows exactly how to fall and exactly how long to stay down.

The advisor beseeches Eskil to take the boy as a show of good faith. His tone is magnanimous, generous even, despite the fact that he's discarding what he considers worthless refuse. Eskil realizes the backhanded nature of the offer. Erlan already said the boy isn't worth what they paid. This is not a gift. It's a disposal. They're handing off a mouth to feed, a servant who can't cure their king, a commodity that has failed to deliver returns on their investment.

Since Eskil does not share that assessment, he doesn't argue.

He leans down and helps the young man to his feet. His hand closes around a slim arm and he lifts, and the healer is light, lighter than any grown man should be. He comes up easily, and up close it's impossible not to notice the bruise on the side of his face. Purple and fresh, no more than a day old, spreading from his cheekbone toward his temple. A hand did that. A large one.

The young man meets his eyes, which lifts his chin enough for Eskil to see the beginning of mottling visible beneath his shirt. More bruising, disappearing below the worn fabric, and Eskil's blood heats with something far less pleasant than desire. He hooks a finger in the loose collar and pulls it aside carefully, revealing a trail of purple that goes further down the young man's chest. The bruise winds from his shoulder down across his collarbones, dark at the center and yellowing at the edges, layered. A fall, maybe, or a tumble down a set of stairs. Likely not an accident.