Jackal Among Snakes

“I did it as best I could, prince Levin,” a man garbed in brown robes spoke. He was short, and his skin green. He was one of the swamp folk.

“No, I can see that,” Levin soothed casually, staring down at the dead body of Magnus. Levin was dressed befitting a prince. He was thin and tall with a sinewy strength to him. He kept his hands politely behind his back.

A few days’ travel had made Magnus’ body somewhat worse for wear, but he deemed it would be good enough for the funeral. They would need ample perfumes, he judged. He stayed fixated on the hole in his neck.

“…but nothing came of it, my prince,” the man said anxiously. “I mean, beyond the murder itself… he is your younger brother, so the murder was not necessary for succession…”

Levin turned his head back. His rich blue eyes seemed like ocean water, almost innocent. “You’re trying to assume my reasoning for this,” he noted. “Don’t.”

The man lowered his head obsequiously. “Of course, my prince.”

Expression inscrutable, Levin turned back. “My father has commanded I make the funeral arrangements, alongside the investigation. He’ll need to be dressed better. A… a high collar, to be sure, to hide the wound. And something sleeved. Traditional Vasquer colors.” He turned to the man. “You’ll get it done?”

The man looked back up. His expression was obvious—he was no funeral director, his face seemed to scream. But he nodded. “I will take care of it to the best of my abilities.”

He made to leave and pulled the door inwards to step out. Four black-garbed men lunged in, stabbing him in the chest and neck quickly and efficiently. Levin watched them work. When they finished, the four knelt before him.

“Did you hear what I said?” Levin questioned.

The black-garbed men looked up, then looked between each other, confused.

Levin freed his hands from behind his back. “The clothes. Do you remember what I asked?”

“Yes, my prince,” the quickest among them said.

“Take his measurements. See it done,” he commanded naturally, then walked out of the open door.

#####

“Frankly, he’s lost enough blood that a normal man would surely have died,” Galamon said to Anneliese. As her heart dropped, he continued, “But… he’s no normal man. He’s black blooded. He still has a strong heartbeat, if a bit rapid, and none of his functions seem seriously impaired. Above all… he has vitality. I know this,” he looked at her, leaving ‘why’ unspoken.

Anneliese gazed down at Argrave, a mess of worry and thought. Though his wounds had now been healed, he still refused to rouse after hours. “Healing magic cannot replace his blood,” Anneliese said. “What should be done?”

“…all I know is first aid,” Galamon said cautiously. “But… well, we’ll have to tend to him constantly. You should use healing magic on a regular basis to combat organ failure, I believe. That’s what gets the men that bleed. As far as I know, healing magic combats that. All the while… he’ll need to be fed, hydrated, and his body allowed to work at self-rejuvenation.”

Anneliese held her hands out. “Fed? How?”

Galamon bit his lips. “Healers I knew… used honey on a cloth. I remember a few other things. I can show you how to administer it, but I’ve never done it personally. If we have no honey or anything like it, it’ll have to be something liquified. We might ask Silvic about the plants that are edible, or for something that resembles honey in the wetlands.”

him a day to wake up, especially with magic in his blood. People tell tales of how resilient dragons are, and mages drink dragon blood for health and vitality. That’s because of the magic in their blood. Failing that… as much as I loathe him, Orion would not let

this happen?” she

#####

but an utter soreness. His eyelids stubbornly refused to obey his directive to open. He could not move his hands or

at someone, saying something, and then going out once again. He had many of those memories—barely lapsing back

world crystallized around him. He finally felt

comfortable. He was well used to pain, and soreness, and weakness, and his present state brought back rather uncomfortable memories. He tried to move his arms and sit up… and succeeded, yet it was a tremendous strain. He fell back to the bed.

and he turned his head towards

then stepped towards him with a relieved sigh. “Thank the gods,” she said as

a bag of grain,” he confessed, his mouth far too

stroked his hair with a gloved hand. “You don’t need to move. Everything’s

poked into his

hand atop his chest to utterly

he pointed a finger at

tenderly. “Wait,” she directed, before

rather sensible, and

#####

meal and a long rest, Argrave found his mind far clearer than it had been—clear enough to refrain from rambling nonsensically about negotiating with terrorists. Clarity brought with it a heightened awareness of his state. He could move,

had half a dozen broken bones,” Anneliese informed him. “So many cuts… some of them left

asked with his hoarse voice. “That’s not

she disagreed, knowing well what he’d refrained from

head, not having a response on-hand. “So… the Jester is

Anneliese nodded.

Everyone who has it, has it. Everyone who doesn’t… got lucky, I guess.” Argrave turned his head to the side. “After this, both of us need to be registered as High Wizards in the Order of the… well, ‘after’ can come when we’ve left this swamp.” He looked to Anneliese.

yet to return from his… hunt. He said he’d

Durran stepped in, saying, “Hey, I—”

Anneliese

mumbling incoherently. Surprising, given how much of a knock you took. You put

Argrave nodded. “And—” he stopped,

Argrave was looking at and

Argrave noticed before

and resignedly brought his hand out once more.

horrified. “You only have

Durran said sarcastically. “Enough to cast spells

incredulously. “I can… we’ll make a visit to Vysenn right after, fix this. I’ve

going there immediately?” Durran

agape, Argrave rebutted,