The Mist and the Lightning. Part 18
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“Ward?” Kors asked skeptically. “You mean this captive red? Call a spade a spade, doctor, I don’t like it when people start playing with me in conversation.”
“Y-yes…”
“I see, Peace is having fun.”
Kors turned his gaze to the metal table where the surgical instruments lay: scalpel, clamps. Everything was dirty and splattered with blood.
“And what organs have you already cut out of this unfortunate man?” Kors asked.
Doctor Cassiel stood before him with a pale face and was silent.
Kors chuckled.
“Don’t be so scared, it doesn’t bother me at all. I brought my… hmm… ward, and you will now take care of him. And Zagpeace’s ward will wait!”
And to the doctor’s relief, Kors turned and went out.
“Yes, yes, please come to my office,” Cassiel said somewhat belatedly and indistinctly.
Kors and Nik followed the doctor up to the second floor and entered his office.
Kors nodded to the chair.
“Nik, sit down.”
And he immediately sat down in the place indicated to him, clutching the belt on his waist with his fingers so as not to make involuntary movements.
“Your ward looks good,” said the doctor. He had already come to his senses a little after an unpleasant incident and looked at Nik, and he dropped his eyes and froze.
“I need medications for hepatitis, something else that restores, useful for an exhausted body,” said Kors in the peremptory tone of a man who understands everything and knows perfectly well what he needs. He slowly walked through Cassiel’s office, scrutinizingly examining the cabinets and shelves on which the medicines were placed.
“Of course, of course,” the doctor answered very quickly and obsequiously, “you are right, sir Kors. Unfortunately, because of the mixing of the blood of different races, half-bloods have many defects that require constant correction. I will find the best restorative medicines for you.”
Kors froze, but quickly collected his thoughts. If Cassiel allows himself such statements, then he doesn’t know that Nik is the son of Kors, and Zagpeace is still keeping that secret.
“And I also want to heal the scar on his face as much as possible,” Kors continued, calming down. “It is too early to introduce Nik to the rest of the blacks as my son, I must first put him in order, heal and educate,” he thought.
The doctor walked over to Nik, who was sitting on a chair, carefully examining him:
“The scar is almost healed,” he said. “There is no inflammation. Positive dynamics is already visible.”
“The weapon of this red was smeared with poison,” explained Kors, “I want to remove this poison.”
“We’ll find an effective antidote, sir Kors,” Cassiel replied confidently. “I think it’s Bothrops, the red ones often use the venom of this snake.” The doctor examined the crippled cheek, but didn’t touch Nik, seeing the initials of Kors on his face and knowing that one should not touch the thing of a noble black without permission. But still, trying to get a better look at the almost healed strip of scar on the lower jaw, he bent too much over Nik, making him flinch and recoil.
“Do you see, sir Kors? These stripes at the bottom, marks from the staples. There are visible dents and hole marks where the steel brackets were inserted,” Cassiel said.
“Yes.”
“On the basis of “Sama” there is a good remedy, it removes even old scars. But when the snake’s venom begins to leave his body, the scar may become inflamed again, be prepared for this and don’t put more braces, this method of unclean ones – to fasten the falling parts of the body with steel braces – is very rough and traumatic, it will only leave new scars.
“I understand,” Kors nodded, “and I won’t let him do that anymore. We are civilized enough not to resort to such wild methods of treatment.”
“Quite right,” Cassiel agreed with Kors.
“Look, doctor, do you notice that his eye is slightly squinting? On the half of his face where the scar is? Apparently, the snake venom and trauma affected his vision so much, Kors said. “He doesn’t see well with it. How do you think, can it be fixed?”
“You are very attentive, sir Kors, his eye really squints a little,” the doctor agreed again, looking at Nik. He tried not to look at him, averting his eyes to the side, so he really looked slightly oblique.
“Everything is clear,” summed up Cassiel, “there is a simple but effective way that my father used to do. You need to close his good eye, and then the right one will begin to train, and he will inevitably begin to see better with it. I’m going to give him a few injections now, healing and stimulating, and seal his healthy eye. According to my forecasts, his vision will recover as much as possible within about a month. Do you agree, sir Vitor Kors?”
And Kors suddenly realized, realized with all clarity, that during the entire time of their conversation, the doctor had never once addressed Nik.
He spoke only to Kors and only asked Kors, although Nik was sitting next to him. Salafael and others also acted in this manner at the beginning of their acquaintance. If Kors was next to Nik, all blacks turned only to Kors, perceiving the half-blood as inferior.
A memory flashed through Kors’ head:
Wedding of Karina and Lis at the Prince’s Estate. Kors sees that Nik is clearly seriously ill, he doesn’t touch food at the festive table and quickly leaves the celebration. Kors comes to his room, confirming his suspicions, Nik lies on the bed, he feels bad, and he doesn’t react to anything. Kors touches his forehead with his palm to check his temperature:
“You’re on fire!” He shouts to Nik, and he recoils from him with the last of his strength in complete bewilderment, he is not used to someone interested in his well-being:
“What are you doing?!”
“Nikto, you’re all on fire! You have an infection. You cannot go marching with such a temperature and in such a condition! You need to be cured. I don’t understand why your people don’t help you? Can’t they see that you feel bad? I noticed it immediately. I’ll get a doctor right now.”