The Realm

Chapter 9

Sinclair stared down in horror at Samantha's limp body. How could this have happened? I should have protected her better.

The recriminations would have to wait. He had to save her! Rushing up the stairs, two at a time, cradling her in his arms, he bellowed for Kaar while a yowling Chance ran alongside him.

Panic ruled him and he had to force himself to calm down. He'd be no use to her otherwise. Laying her carefully on her bed, he checked her pulse. Her heart beat slowly, almost too slow to feel and her face was alarmingly pale. Sinclair bellowed again for Kaar and the little green creature came rushing into the room. Sinclair rattled out a list of things he needed: cloths, hot water, blankets, anything he could think of. With a nod, Kaar ran off to get the items.

After a quick magical scan of Samantha's prone body, Sinclair rushed down the hall to his workshop, mentally going over what he would need so as to not waste any time. He gathered up a variety of powders and liquids, which he carried back to her room and dumped on the bedside table.

If possible, she appeared even paler, her complexion tinged an unhealthy green. Her breathing rattled shallowly, and several times he thought she'd stopped breathing entirely. His heart just about stopped each time, too.

Again he wondered, how could this have happened?

Chance sat on the bed with her, licking her hand as if her touch could suck out the poisonous magic. If only. The catter turned troubled eyes to Sinclair as if begging him to do something.

"I'm trying," he muttered. Healing had never been one of Sinclair's specialties. Before the curse, he'd never worried about that fact as he was always surrounded by people who could provide healing for him. But now he was on his own and Samantha needed his help. Meager ability or not, he had to try. Taking a deep breath, he set to work.

His hands trembled as he measured out various powders and liquids into a goblet. Holding his hand over the chalice, he uttered a soft word which made the contents glow. He poured the concoction into Samantha's mouth, whispering to her. "Come on, my little sea nymph, swallow this. You can't die on me now. Not now that I've found you. Fight the spell, Samantha. Please."

To his relief, she instinctively swallowed the liquid. That would greatly help, but he had a long way to go yet. He recognized the nasty spell Melisante had cast and he could thank his attention to his history lessons for that. The toxic green mist, known simply as Breath of Death, had been a popular weapon back before such spells were banned. It had an almost one hundred percent fatality rate if not quickly treated. The history books he'd studied depicted graphic images of the aftermath when no intervention happened - piles of decaying corpses, their bodies twisted in permanent agony littering the battlefields. It was a horrific spell to cast on anyone.

How could Melisante be so cruel? Samantha was innocence itself and did not deserve this. No one did.

Kneeling and bowing his head, he did something he hadn't done in years. He prayed, prayed to the gods he'd once cursed for abandoning him. Prayed for help and hoped some of the Higher Powers were listening.

Sinclair spent the next twelve hours in a blur, pouring potions into Samantha and using his magic to leach the poison out of her system. His own body trembled with the effort and more than once he almost passed out with the exertion of using so much magic, so quickly. But his fear overrode any concerns for his own welfare. Only she mattered. He dredged deep inside, squeezing every last inch of magic he possessed into helping her. She has to live. It was the mantra he chanted over and over when he thought he'd given his all. It helped him dig deeper.

Sinclair didn't stand vigil alone. Chance also stayed by Samantha's side, her furry body pressed up against her mistress. The little catter sensed something amiss and meowed at Sinclair worriedly whenever he would pause in his efforts.

In the middle of the night, Samantha went into convulsions. A frightening event. Sinclair had to hold her bucking body down as she fought against the poison coursing through her. The violence of it forced Sinclair into using a sleeping spell to calm her, but he became increasingly worried that he wasn't doing enough. Samantha hadn't regained consciousness since she'd fallen ill, and now more than ever Sinclair wished the bubble gone so he could get proper help. His mother would know what to do. She'd tended their ills when he or his siblings fell sick or got hurt.

Please don't die on me. Don't leave me.

The depths of his feelings for Samantha, a woman he'd known such a short time, scared him. His attraction to her he considered normal, he was a man and she an attractive woman. But this mind numbing fear he experienced at the thought of her dying took him by surprise. When in her short stay here had she managed to find a c***k in the armor he'd placed around his heart? He hadn't even realized just how much he'd come to enjoy her presence, her smiles, her interest in him as a person. Was this love? If so, then he'd truly misjudged his feelings for Melisante. The depth of his emotions for Samantha ran so much deeper than he'd ever imagined. So much stronger.

Sinclair sighed and ran a hand through his hair. If she recovers, no, he corrected himself, when she recovers, I'll have to explore these new thoughts and feelings, find out if perhaps she feels the same way.

His musings were interrupted when Samantha began thrashing about on the bed, and pulling deeply on his last magical reserves, he went to work calming her once again.

The next few hours were a blur of anxiety and terror as he battled with her to stay ahead of the poison. Just after dawn, she finally fell into a deep, natural sleep, her pale face regaining some of its color, her breathing coming smooth and steady.

Thank you. Head bowed, Sinclair sat by her bedside, and gave silent thanks to the higher powers who surely loaned him some of their strength. Despite his rumpled appearance, and the fatigue he suffered from lack of sleep, Sinclair refused Kaar's offers of reprieve. He didn't dare leave her side. But his body did what his servant couldn't. Every so often, he found himself waking, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. He spent three days thus, and wasn't it just his luck, he'd fallen into one of his dozes when she finally woke.