Chapter 53: Part 2-2

Braeden huffed. “I suppose.” “Then I would characterize you as ill, and I’m considered somewhat of an expert on the matter.” The surgeon rubbed his chin, as if an interesting thought had just occurred to him. “Why do you say you don’t get sick?” “I’m immune to human illnesses, with the exception of a very few diseases that would require some effort on my part to contract. Have been my whole life.” Sam stopped her fanning. “But Braeden, your wound was inflicted by a demon.” “You think the poison of their bite affects me?” Braeden scoffed. “Explain your shoulder, then,” she quipped. “What of it?” Tristan held up his hands. “Stop, you two. Sam, you should know better than to rile up a sick patient.” Sam looked at her feet guiltily. “Sorry,” she muttered. She hated quarreling with Braeden, but his obstinacy was enough to make her scream. The surgeon glanced at Sam disinterestedly. “I’ll take a look at that shoulder now.” He grasped Braeden by the ankles and shifted him so that his legs hung over the side of the pallet. Braeden’s face darkened—Sam was sure he didn’t appreciate the indignity of the surgeon’s manhandling. The surgeon held up the magnifying lens to Braeden’s shoulder. His nut-brown eye was enormous under the amplification of the glass, unblinking for what must have been minutes. “The tissue around the wound site is dead or dying,” he said. “I’ll need to remove it surgically.” “His whole arm?” Sam asked, her heart in her throat. She flashed back to the Uriel infirmary, the horrible crunch of metal sawing through bone still fresh in her mind. “Don’t get overexcited. I just need to excise the topmost layer of skin around the shoulder area,” the surgeon said. Braeden’s eyes flew open. “You mean to remove my tattoo?” The surgeon blinked. “It will be necessary to remove part of it, yes.” “You can’t.” The surgeon crossed his arms. “The tissue death will spread to the rest of your arm if I don’t. So unless you prefer I amputate the entire limb--” Braeden gripped the surgeon by the shoulders, his knuckles white. “Keep your knives away from my tattoo, surgeon.” The surgeon let out a puff of air. “Do you want to die, boy?” Braeden’s mouth tightened. “If you remove my tattoo, you’ll wish I had.” He ran the tips of his fingers along the three foxtails that curled around his bicep, grimacing as he did. “I can’t be let off my leash.” Tristan looked at him questioningly. “I don’t follow,” he said. Braeden’s eyes darted to the surgeon and back to Tristan, staying silent. Tristan coughed into his hand. “Asa, would you leave us for a moment?” “I’ll wait outside.” The surgeon stood from the pallet and exited the room. Once the door was shut, Tristan took the surgeon’s place by Braeden’s side. “This better not be some nascent fit of vanity. A bit of pretty ink isn’t worth your life.” Braeden sneered. “What use have I for vanity?” Sam winced at the rancor in his voice. She would never have accused Braeden of vanity, even in jest—he wore his self-loathing on his sleeve—though she still hoped his opposition to surgery was unfounded. “Help us understand, Braeden, why you would risk dying for a tattoo.” “It’s more than a tattoo,” Braeden said heavily. “It’s a seal. This ‘pretty ink’, as you call it, is the only barrier that keeps my demonic side in check. It shackles my inner monster and allows me to function as human—or maintain a semblance of humanity, as the case may be. Without it, I’m no better than any other demon.” He smiled without humor. “So either I can risk infection as a human or die with a Paladin sword through my neck, and the gods know how many more deaths to my name.” Tristan angled his head to better view the mangled tattoo. “Have you always had it, then?” Braeden shook his head. His face was sallow, drawn. “Not always, no, though I was little more than a child when I was so marked.” “And before?” Braeden squeezed his lids shut. “I was a monster,” he said. “I had no control, no way to repress my violent tendencies. I have no idea how many innocents died at my hand—I committed my worst atrocities in a vacuum. Their deaths were blighted from my memory as soon as my bout of madness ended.” Tristan compressed his lips into a thin line. “And a design on your skin is what holds this violence at bay?” Braeden lifted his chin. “It’s not a mere design. It’s blood magic.” “Who in the kingdom knows how to do such a thing?” Tristan asked. “The man who raised me,” said Braeden . “Your father?” Sam asked without thinking, wishing she could take back the words as she spoke them. Braeden turned to her with glittering eyes. “No, Sam. My father would as soon have killed me as parent me. The man who raised me—he took me from an orphanage across the Rheic Ocean, in Yemara. I called him Master.” “Was he good to you?” Sam asked. Braeden paused before answering. “In his own way, yes.” “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. She imagined him as a child, his strange, translucent eyes overlarge in his thin face. He must have been so lonely, so afraid. “You won’t part with your tattoo, will you?” “Not for anything.” Sam focused on a spot on the floor, willing the tears that welled up inside her not to fall. Tristan sighed. “Your mind is made up?” “Aye,” said Braeden. “I truly believe my body will recover on its own, in a few days’ time. But even if it doesn’t, I’d rather die as myself.” “Understood,” said Tristan. “I’ll inform Asa.” After Tristan stepped outside to speak with him, the surgeon reentered the room, muttering under his breath about foolish boys and their foolish pride. “Boy!” he barked. “Let me make it clear that I don’t agree with your decision.” “You’ve made your stance clear. If I drop dead, no one will blame you,” Braeden said dryly. “Hmph. Well, let me take another look at your arm. I’ll do what I can without touching your tattoo. Your Paladin says it’s off limits to my scalpel.” “Thank you,” said Braeden, twisting his torso so that the surgeon had better access to his injured arm. He sat there stoically as the surgeon poked and prodded, combing the traumatized skin with his magnifying lens. The surgeon pinched a large abscess near Braeden’s elbow and squeezed until a thick, green discharge squirted from the head of the swelling. Sam had to look away as the surgeon drained several more abscesses. “I’ve done what I can,” the surgeon said finally, wiping his hands on a small towel. “We’ll have to hope that the necrotic tissue will heal itself. Drink plenty of water and stay abed for the next few days. If you aren’t improved by then, we’ll broach the topic of your tattoo again.” He began repacking his medical bag. Tristan rummaged through his coin purse and extracted two gold pieces. “For your time,” he said, holding out the coins to the surgeon. “Generous of you,” said the surgeon, dropping the money into the front pouch of his bag. “Oh, before I go, Adelard asked me to give this to you.” He withdrew a sealed enveloped from the front pouch and handed it to Tristan. The surgeon stood to his feet and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll be on my way, then.” He bowed and left the room. Tristan tore open the envelope and scanned the letter’s contents. His eyes bulged wide. “Well, I’ll be.” “What is it?” asked Sam. Tristan folded and unfolded the letter, reading it again. “It’s an invitation to dinner,” he said. “With Sander Branimir himself.”