The Hour of the Crow

Chapter 19: The Silver-Eyed Woman

A bell rang a happy tune when Arran stepped into the healer's shop. Dust motes floated in the dim rays of sunlight that seeped through the boarded windows. The dry air sent Arran into another coughing fit, the third severe one that day. He rested one hand on the shop's counter while his body heaved until his eyes watered. He felt a warm hand on his back, moving in steady strokes.

"It's suffocating in here," Inna complained, glancing around the shop. Bottles containing leeches and other strange insects filled the racks behind the counter, as well as jars and vials with green, blue and red potions. A single oil lamp burned on the far side of the counter, spreading its faint orange light around a cramped room stuffed with carpets, divans and ottomans.

At last, Arran's lungs calmed down. He sucked in a deep breath and winced when the pain of a dozen needles pinched his chest. "Rachid!" he called out, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "Air your goddamn shop."

A beaded curtain was pushed aside and showed a middle-aged man with sparkling eyes and tousled black hair. He bowed before Arran and Inna. "The dark helps me concentrate, Your Majesties," Rachid said, his tone betraying not the slightest hint of an apology.

He reached behind the counter and pulled out a hookah. Several powders swirled into the transparent vase, mixing with the water. Arran watched the healer work in silence as he added coals to the tray and lit them. When everything had been put in place, Rachid shoved the hookah in Arran's direction. "Here, this will help with your cough."

Grateful, Arran grabbed the mouthpiece and inhaled. The smoke tasted sweet, like dates or berries. At once, the strain on his lungs diminished. "Thanks," he rasped.

"It's gotten worse, hasn't it?" An observation, not a question.

Arran met the healer's gaze. Despite his quirky habits, he had liked Rachid from the first time they shook hands. Not once in the two weeks since Arran had started visiting the healer's shop in the afternoon had Rachid asked him about how he had acquired his curse. Of course, Arran saw the questions in his eyes, but his discretion prevented him from uttering them out loud. Instead, Rachid had dedicated his time to examining Arran's aura time and again, to screening his vitals with healing magic, in an attempt to determine the curse's deathly nature. He brooked no nonsense, though, and had always been open with Arran about his chances of finding a cure—which were quite slim, to be honest.

"Have you made any progress with the treatment?" Inna asked, her words a flicker of hope wrapped in casual curiosity. She already knew what the answer would be. They both did.

Rachid's face turned grim. "I've tried everything I could. If anything, the curse only spreads faster each time I try to fight it with magic or medicine."

Arran's expression was blank despite the turmoil of anger and fear inside him. Inna's fingers brushed his, and he leaned into her almost unconsciously. She drew herself up. "So what do we do now?"

Arran barely heard the healer's answer over the beelike buzz in his ears. "We hope for a miracle."

"A miracle?" He scoffed, his head dropping until his chin touched the high collar of his coat. "Wouldn't count on it, if I were you."

"There must be something else we can do," Inna said, her voice hitching. She turned to him. Her eyes widened with a determination that bordered on desperation. "I won't let you die, Arran."

He lifted a hand to stroke the graceful line of her jaw. Her skin was softer than silk and her perfume, sweet like honey, made him heady. She stilled, lips slightly parted.

In a softer voice, he replied, "If even the servants of the goddess Narashtuh can't help me, there's only one person left who can break the curse. And he's a bit cross with me."