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aside the towel and went to him.
    “Well?” said Gar.
    Nix looked up from his gentle examination. “He’ll do.” “And Durm?”
    Nix turned to the basin-holder. “Wulf, fetch Pother
    “Tobin.” To the chair-carriers he said, “Take His Highness’s secretary into the green chamber.”
    “Tobin?” said Gar, watching Darran’s departure. “No. I want you to—”
    “Tobin will see your Darran right, never fear,” said Nix. “He’s had a heart spasm but he’s in no immediate danger.”
    “Very well,” said Gar after a moment. “Then take me to Durm.”
    Nix shook his head. “Not yet.”
    Beneath the churning pain in Gar’s eyes, a flare of heat. “It wasn’t a request, Nix.”
    “Not yet,” said Nix stubbornly. “He needs quiet, not company. Think of him, sir, not yourself.”
    Asher risked a touch to Gar’s rigid, uninjured arm. “Durm’s in good hands. Get yourself seen to. You’re set to fall arse over eyeballs any moment.”
    Gar’s glance was like a whiplash. “Did I ask you?”
    “No,” said Asher, holding his ground. “Don’t mean I’m wrong, though.”
    Nix held out his hand. “Come, Your Highness.” His voice was gentle now. Coaxing. “Let me heal you. And then I’ll take you to Durm.”
    Swaying on his feet, Gar capitulated. Allowed himself to be led away like a docile child.
    Uninvited, Asher followed.
     
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
    Nix led the way to his book-lined, herb-infested office. The chamber’s air was thick with hints of potions past, reluctantly swallowed. Cheerful flames leapt in a small fireplace; the room was stiflingly warm.
    “Right then,” he said, planting himself between desk and scarred workbench. “Now that we’re beyond sight and sound of nuisance, let’s see the truth of the matter, shall we, Your Highness? Time to strip, please, down to your skin.”
    Too battered and weary for further protest, Gar let Nix and Asher between them ease him out of his hasty bandages and ruined, bloodstained clothes. With memories of his own past hurts resurfacing, Asher was as gentle as he could be, wincing as the full extent of Gar’s injuries were revealed. Breathing unevenly, Gar cradled his left arm with his right hand and waited for the ordeal to end.
    “Hmmph,” said the pother, inspecting the prince like a man at a horse auction. A frown pinched his bushy gray and yellow eyebrows together as his blunt fingers
    skimmed the surface of Gar’s insulted body, marking each cut, each scrape, each ripening bruise. Air hissed between Gar’s clenched teeth as Nix’s fingers lightly traced the irregular line of the broken collarbone.
    He felt Gar’s skull, took his pulse, listened to his heartbeat and breathing, checked the coating on his tongue and the clarity of his eyes. “Any idea how long you were stunned out of your senses?”
    “No,” said Gar. “I remember—I think I remember— flying through the air. Hitting the ground. I know I woke twice. Tried to get up, go for help… I couldn’t even stand.”
    “It were mid-morning when you left,” said Asher. “And dusk when me and Matt found you.”
    “Hmmph,” said Nix. “A goodly brain rattling, then. You’ll need a day or three in bed, to guard against conniptions.”
    “Bed?” Gar pulled a face. “I think not.”
    “Did you know I’ve an excellent cure for an argumentative patient, sir?” Nix asked, eyes narrowed. “It involves needle, thread and meals sucked through a straw.”
    “Spare me your dubious wit!” retorted Gar. “Your king is dead and his heir with him! It falls to me now to continue his legacy. Do you tell me I can do so from my
bed?’
    Suddenly pale, and with tears in his eyes, Nix jabbed Gar’s chest with a pointed finger. “I tell you, sir, that as Royal Pother I am charged with the gravest responsibility: the care of this kingdom’s physical well-being in the body of its WeatherWorker. With Borne’s death, may Barl keep him, that body is now yours. From this day