Roman by Heather Grothaus Page B

Roman said. “Think you Valentine and Mary wish to raise their child in a cloister of monks?”
    Constantine spun around, but the dark glare on his face changed in an instant. “You don’t look well, Roman.”
    Roman opened his mouth to reply that he didn’t feel well either, but the vision of his friend went foggy, blurring at the edges, and gave him such a start that his lips felt gummed together. He reached out his good arm to brace himself against the table, but his hand seemed to swipe through nothing.
    The fog grew brighter and brighter until Roman felt it swallow him up completely.
    * * *
    The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Constantine’s face, his friend’s brow creased in concern.
    â€œDid I break the table?” Roman muttered.
    Stan’s frown deepened. “What?”
    â€œWhen I fell. Did I break the table?” He raised up his head to see if he had reduced the Brotherhood’s meeting place to a pile of splinters.
    But when he looked around, instead of shelves of manuscripts ringing the room there was nothing but gray chiseled stone. A figure moved over Stan’s shoulder and Isra Tak’Ahn came into view. The bruises on her face seemed to be healing quickly.
    â€œWe brought you to the woman’s cell.”
    He found Stan’s eyes again. “How long have I been out?”
    â€œTwo days.”
    Isra moved around Stan, and Roman could see that she carried a cup in her hands. She ignored the general’s dark look as she leaned close to the pallet, sliding her fingers behind Roman’s head and lifting.
    He had never seen a smile so serene. “I can be of use to you now.”
    Roman swallowed the wine in the cup, trying to look anywhere but at those deep brown eyes that regarded him with a kindness he did not understand. But he could not look away for long, the almond shape fringed with thick black lashes so appealing to him.
    He swallowed and leaned back. “Thank you.”
    â€œAs you wish.” Isra backed away from the pallet and moved to stand beyond the scowling Constantine again. Roman wished she would come sit at his side.
    â€œHow do you feel?” Constantine demanded.
    â€œI feel fine,” Roman said, wincing a bit at the pain his words caused in his head. He tried lifting his arm, hissed when the bending of his elbow caused a burning pain below his shoulder. “My arm hurts.”
    â€œWe had to lance your wound. It had festered. But Brother Wynn has doctored you well.”
    â€œWhat did you tell Wynn that he would not grow suspect of such traffic in his demesne?”
    â€œHe told me nothing,” a voice said from closer to the door, and in a moment, the albino monk reached Roman’s side, a tray in his hands. The cell was instantly filled with his odor. “And I have no wish to know.” He set down the tray and then placed his fists on his hips, looking Roman over from head to toe while he continued to speak. “You should have gone immediately to your cell with the balm I gave you. We would have had none of this.”
    The albino sighed. “You’re looking fit enough, though. So up with you now. Up, up!” He grasped Roman’s left arm in two places, squatted, and pulled in such a manner that Roman felt his body being lifted.
    No single man had been able to move Roman before, especially not one whose head came only to the middle of his chest. He found himself quite disconcerted with the situation: Constantine and Isra in a cell together, Brother Wynn playing physician, himself being unconscious for the better part of two days.
    The pale monk poked and prodded, squeezed and wiped, muttering and humming to himself all the while. Isra stood in the shadows along the wall, and Roman could not make out her features. At last Wynn straightened and looked to Constantine.
    â€œThe fever has gone from his arm. He will be well soon.”
    Constantine nodded. “My thanks,