Chaos by Megan Derr

then vanished, leaving David to get the man settled alone. He built up the fire first and set water to boil for the tea and medicine. Returning to the bed, he stripped off the wet, torn, bloody clothes and threw them in a pile by the door to dispose of later.
    Part of him flinched to treat the deep violet tunic of the sorcerers so callously, but the clothes were too damaged to salvage. Hopefully when he woke, the sorcerer would understand. He gently shifted and tugged until he got the man under the blankets, then brushed back his long, messy hair … and wound up just staring. David had always had a healthy fear of sorcerers, and the whipping that had left his back an ugly mess of scars had made it that much worse. The best thing to do when encountering a sorcerer was to keep heads down and feet moving. David had never really looked at one; he could not even remember the face of the one who had beat him.
    Whatever he'd expected, it was not for a sorcerer to be so beautiful. His skin was so strangely pale, but that might have been something to do with the Sentinel; David had heard their venom could do funny things when it didn't kill. His hair was a sooty black, the same as the diamond on his forehead. His features were smooth, almost delicate, reminding David of the rich folk he occasionally saw in Two Mill.
    He reached to trace the line of one fine cheekbone, then snatched his hand back at the last minute, face going hot, heart thudding with panic. Bustling away, he busied himself making tea, carefully mixing together herbs to make a tonic. When it had properly steeped, he carried the cup—Reimund's favorite, part of a set of dishes made for him and his wife when they'd married and made all the more precious after she'd died—over to the bed. Setting it on the little wash table close to the bed, he gently shook the sorcerer.
    "My lord, wake up," he said softly. "You must drink your medicine so that you'll heal proper."
    The man grunted and groaned, but at David's continued urging, finally opened his eyes. David recoiled, startled, heart leaping into his throat, but when he looked again, everything was normal, and the man only blinked at him, his sleepy, confused, violet eyes dark with pain. Had he imagined them looking gold? He must have because people didn't have gold eyes.
    David shook himself, called himself an idiot, and fetched the cup. Sliding an arm around the sorcerer's shoulders, all the while apologizing for his impertinence, he slowly got the sorcerer to drink the bitter tonic sip by sip. "I know it tastes awful," he said. "I am sorry, my lord. But I know you would prefer to be strong again as quickly as possible. There, you've only a few sips left now. And all done. Close your eyes and get some rest, my lord. I'll rouse you again when it's time for more."
    The sorcerer said something in reply, but the words came out strange, not quite right. But gibberish wasn't unusual when a man was in so much pain. No doubt in a day or so the man would be much more lucid—and probably unpleasant and furious about being stuck in a tiny peasant village, demanding that his own come to fetch him immediately.
    A pity that someone so beautiful was probably so much like the man who had lashed him. David returned the cup to the table and mixed up several more doses of the herbs so the tonic could be made more quickly later.
    He was just beginning to start porridge cooking when a knock came at the door. Opening it, he oofed when Adam thrust a large bundle of things into his arm. "The sorcerer's belongings. See you take care of them."
    "Of cours—" But Adam was gone, already a shadow in the snow that had begun to fall heavily. David closed the door and carried the items to the table. He hung the saddlebags—where was the horse? Probably the village stable, unless the Sentinel had eaten it—over a chair, then looked over the two remaining objects:  a sword and whip. His hand trembled when he saw the whip, and he could not quite