The heat is unbearable. It makes me twist and moan. Someone's hands restrain me, keeping me on my side. Their cool touch is so pleasant that I catch one of the hands and bring it to my lips, wishing to drink their coolness, to put out the fire raging on my back, my face, my whole body.

The hand withdraws easily from my weak grip, and then a copper mug replaces it. Cool water drips onto my chin and into my mouth.

I grab the mug blindly and empty it in three gulps. Then, I try to open my eyes. To my surprise, I succeed at least with the right one.

I'm lying on a straw palliasse on the floor in the large room where the castle slaves usually sleep. Small narrow windows under the high ceiling let in some late afternoon light. The place is empty except for me and Syra. She's kneeling next to me, looking warily at my face.

I try to sit up, but the attempt sets my back on fire. I growl and drop back to my mattress, which only causes the pain to surge even more.

"Easy, easy," Syra says, rolling me to my side again.

Something is preventing me from opening my other eye. I feel with my hand and find a bandage around my head, covering a part of my nose and my left eye. I try to lift it, but Syra pries my hands gently away.

"Don't," she says. "Let it heal."

"Will it heal?" My voice comes out hoarse, like a croak of a raven.

"There will be scars," she says. "Lord Mortimer treated your wounds. He's normally tending to the royal family, not the servants or the slaves, but he did come to you for some reason." She looks at me as if expecting an explanation.

"Will it heal?" I repeat.

She sits back on her heels and rubs her hands nervously on her skirt, avoiding looking at me. "He couldn't save your eye." She sighs. "But at least you haven't lost your life. I have never heard of a slave breaking the no-look or no-touch rules and not being executed. You really got out cheaply."

"Cheaply? My back is a patchwork quilt and I have lost an eye—should I be thankful for that?"

She shrugs. "You have no one to blame but yourself."

I run my hand over my bandaged face. She has a point.

"You were unconscious for almost a week," she continues. "You had high fever and even the potions that Lord Mortimer gave us did not help. Nobody thought you would survive. Other slaves really hated you, you know, because you kept screaming in your sleep and waking them up. I had to protect you. You could at least be grateful for that."

"Thank you," I say, but my thoughts have drifted away already. It's been a week? Does Oliver know what's happened to me? We were supposed to meet a few days ago. I hope he hasn't done anything rash when I haven't arrived at the prearranged time.

The door opens with a screech, and Cassio enters the room. Syra quickly lowers her head and accepts her usual submissive posture, but I'm too weak to move.

"Well, well. Awake at last," he says.

He stops in front of me and stares, his arms crossed on his chest. After a while I realize that I'm holding his gaze. I look down.

"Lord Mortimer is right, you have clearly gone mad," he says. "It's as if I have never trained you. Death would have been a more appropriate punishment for your behavior, but since his highness allowed you to keep your useless life, who am I to question his decision? But now that you're awake, there's no need for me to tolerate your presence any longer. You're discharged. Get ready and leave the castle before dark. "

I look up in shock. To leave the castle? That would mean I would not be able to do what Oliver asked me to. That my time in the castle and its disastrous conclusion have been in vain and has only allowed them to defeat me once again.

"But sir," I mutter. "Master…where could I go?

"You should have thought about it before you decided to break the rules." He shrugs, backs away and turns to the door. "Syra, get him something to eat and make sure that he's out of here by nightfall."

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