Deventh followed the Harborer down a short hallway. The curtain barrier had kept at bay a strong lavender smell tailed by the earthy crispness of thyme which intensified as they moved along. After passing by two rooms to their left, both with wide, curtained entryways, they reached the end of the hall, and at its head was the infirmary. The doctor entered first, holding the curtain aside to let his guest in.

As Deventh stepped into the room, the first thing that took his attention was a bed along the far wall which rested a patient. He had seen Zéah prepare beds in a similar fashion, and only ever for the dying. The man lay swaddled in thick blankets, his forehead glistening with oils, and dried sprigs of the fragrant herbs were laid in the creases between frame and padding. On the table behind the bed stood a horizontal row of three black candles which were not yet lit. Final rites would be held soon. Deventh took care not to stare for too long, lest he provoke the Harborer superstition of watched souls delaying their departure like a stubborn pot refusing to boil.

The remaining beds were vacant, and in many regards the space looked similar to Zéah’s infirmary with warm lighting, ample floor space for easy movement, and herbs hanging from racks. The most prominent difference was the absence of a disarrayed worktable; this doctor’s meticulousness seemed to match his stern countenance. He kept his worktable sparse, instead storing most of his medicines in a cupboard with glass panes.

A somber scowl etched itself on the Harborer’s face as he glimpsed the patient, a look of self-fault spiting his better wisdom. He stroked his beard, a trimmed and kempt cascade of black, clearing his throat as his focus shifted to Deventh.

“You’ve come a long way from Grimros,” he said, “I understand you are ailed and hope that traveling hasn’t impacted your well-being.”

“Not in the least,” said Deventh. “Quite the unique location for a harborage, beneath a butcher shop.”

“I see Zéah has let you get comfortable with making remarks about our conventions. Butchers have highly privileged privacy protections, as well as some tools that we happen to share. It is not so much a capricious arrangement as it is a practical one.” While his flat tone betrayed nothing, a sniffle emphasized his disparagement. “Now, before we stray any further from purpose, I hear you bring an extract that might revitalize our ancient death care rituals.”

Deventh produced a vial of paradise ivy extract from the pouch on his belt and proffered it to him. The doctor held it up to the light of the flame, twisting it between his fingers.

“It is as the texts describe, in a visual sense. This is no trivial matter, what Zéah has claimed on behalf of you and her. If this is true, then you take on a new obligation to our guild.”

“Of what sort?”

“Loyalty. Secrecy. Were you Mezthrin, your entwinement in our practice would be enough that we may have forced you to initiate.” He wandered over to his table and reached into a drawer to retrieve a tome with bent corners and frayed edges. The pages ruffled as he set it down with a muted thump.

“I believe neither of us would want the need to arise to hold council for the sake of nullifying your patient protections, so I hope we can keep this simple,” he continued. “You will divulge your collection methods and locations, and you will study the distillation texts and provide your own notes from performing the process. You will then seek a Mezthrin scribe, a Juniper of Anhedell, and he will amend the master text. But before you do, I suggest checking your work as if your life depends on it.”

“It sounds as though it does,” said Deventh.

“It is good you understand we don’t take these things lightly.” The doctor retrieved a loose sheet of paper from inside the book’s cover and reached for a quill across the table. He wrote a note addressed to the mentioned Juniper and passed it to Deventh. “Now, let us speak of your ailment. Zéah detailed some of your symptoms: insomnia, decreased appetite, headaches, memory lapses, catatonia, unconsciousness. All congruent with maladies of the brain – but that’s not where it ends, I understand.”

“That is the overview of things,” Deventh confirmed, “The insomnia begets very little fatigue, and the loss of appetite is near total. Both catch up eventually, but sometimes not for weeks.”

“Indeed – I had half expected to meet with a sunken-eyed ghoul. Under normal metabolic conditions, three seasons with minimal food and sleep would lead you to considerable wasting, if not your death bed, depending on the degree.”

“Aye. There is one recent occurrence as well, more severe than anything previous. Three days unconscious, complete cessation of all bodily function, save for shallow breathing and a faint heartbeat. Had I not been accompanied by a physician in training, I might have been buried alive.”

“That leaves less than a grain of sand’s doubt, then, that you are suffering a magical affliction. Given that you’ve exhausted Zéah’s tests for corporeal ailments and most common types of magic, this must be a great deal rarer.” He tapped his chin. “From what I hear, you have reservations about staying under observation?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

From the other room sounded shuffling feet and clinking cutlery. The doctor motioned dismissively and looked at Deventh, expecting an answer.

“Correct,” Deventh said, “For no length of time can I take leave of my business.”

“Such luxuries that only the dead can afford. Best of luck with that investment. There is one more thing yet unaddressed – Zéah mentioned it wasn’t until the second octourne after you came to Nelthemar that you noticed your first symptoms. Before that, I assume, you were living in Drondaris?”

“That is correct.”

“And is there anywhere else you visited during your travels?”

“No.”

The doctor narrowed his eyes. Lamplight flitted across them, catching as it would on facets of a citrine gemstone. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Deventh said after a pause so short he could only hope it went undetected. At best, this was a test, and at worst, he was wise to his lie. “It was no leisurely endeavor. I needed to make haste to Grimros.”

The doctor tapped his foot, a slow, deliberate motion both contemplative and expectant.

“Very well. Whatever it is you’re protecting, I hope for your sake you’ve considered whether it’s worth your life.”

Again a clamor erupted from the next room, one that could only be dishes tumbling out of a cupboard. A floor-shaking impact, one more akin to a falling body, accompanied the shattering chaos. Then came wailing, and repeated thumping like that of fists on the ground.

“What is he? What is that man—NO!"

Deventh stepped forward, wanting to calm the aggrieved boy, but a raised arm at chest level stopped him.

“I will tend to the child,” the Harborer insisted. “You have until I return to decide if you’d like to remember the truth.”

“He is something… Not like us. Not like—STOP…”

The doctor hurried out, swishing the curtain shut as if to say do not follow me. The boy’s cries turned to shrieking peppered with attempts at words, a writhing tongue forming mangled and unintelligible vocalizations. Soon Deventh heard the Harborer speaking to the boy in hushed tones, reducing the outcries to smoldering whimpers, but the quiet was not reassuring. A sense of danger prickled at the back of Deventh’s neck, and he crept up to the curtain to get a better ear of what was happening.

“You serve him, then, that thing, that husk!?” the boy cried. Then came hurried footsteps, shards of broken ceramic dragging across the floor, the sound of bodies clashing. Deventh slid the curtain open and inched forward into the hallway, tiny bottles clacking together as he thumbed through his concoctions.

“Let me go!”

“Calm down, boy! Where did you get this strength?”

On more than one occasion, Deventh had seen sudden feats of strength from the frail. The need to intervene was not beyond possibility. Speeding up to a brisk walk, he selected a tranquilizing drug from one pouch, retrieved a dart from another, and prepared the tip, all while the sounds of struggle continued to escalate.

“I warned you,” said the boy, “Do not get in my way, do not!”

“What is that?” All the impassive monotony fled from the Harborer’s voice at once. “Put that—"

His command was cut short by gasping, gurgling, a heavy drop to the floor. The same prickling sensation radiated from Deventh’s neck, now crawling over every inch of skin. Lumbering footsteps headed his way, thundering and shaking the floor. The curtain swung open to reveal the boy charging toward him, brandishing a bloody knife. As he closed in, he thrust the blade at Deventh.

“Ghoul! Hollow!” His voice cracked with all the zeal and conviction of a cleric banishing a demon. Deventh ducked to the side and grasped the knife-wielding wrist, digging two fingers into the soft spot between thumb and forefinger. The hand’s grip slackened, and the knife fell to the floor.

The boy broke free of Deventh’s grasp and stumbled trying to reach down to reclaim his weapon; he may have found some strength and dexterity, but his crooked foot burdened his movement. Deventh kicked the knife across the floor, and it slid all the way back into the entry room. For a moment, the boy was stunned, and in spite of his hypnotized state seemed to calculate that turning his back to retrieve his weapon would not end well for him.

He lunged forward instead, and Deventh jumped back before dipping into the adjacent bedroom which was furnished with little more than the necessities. On his way through the wide entryway, he gave the curtain a forceful tug, and down with it came the rod from which it hung. Sliding the curtain off, he wielded the rod horizontally – a sturdy wooden shaft with rounded edges, good enough to fend off the stuporous attacker without hurting him beyond necessity.

In one hand, the dart rested in the crook between his palm and fingers; he was saving it for a jab that wouldn’t miss. Its point faced outward to prevent any punctures while the padding and friction of his glove kept his grip sure even as the rounded edges rolled against the curtain rod. Tightening his grip even more, he planted his feet firmly to brace for another incoming charge.

Flailing arms lashed out at him. He held the rod at arm’s length to intercept them. The boy lashed out lower, higher, to the left, then the right, each time blocked and shoved away. After failing a number of attempts to reach Deventh, he instead grabbed the rod from the other side and pushed back with all his might. They struggled for a bit until the boy took a misstep backward, his foot landing on the fallen curtain.

That one slight slip was all Deventh needed to seize the advantage. He heaved a half-turn and pinned the boy against a dresser beside the bed. Swapping a hand for an elbow to leverage the bar, he readied the dart while dodging kicks and holding steady against squirming and writhing.

The boy was finally losing some strength after a burst of testing his body’s limits. Deventh managed to jab the point of the dart into his shoulder, successfully administering the tranquilizer. A pained shout in response to the puncture took him by surprise, and he faltered just long enough for the boy to deliver a mighty headbutt to his nose.

Pain burst from the epicenter, fanning out over his face, and while Deventh sniffed up blood, the boy salvaged every last drop of his strength and yanked the rod out of his grip. He raised it over his shoulder, and Deventh staggered back as it came swinging down at him.

A moment too late, it seemed. It was dark after that.