According to Frank Aubrey, there was no better way to end a tour than to have me spread-eagled on a medical bed.
The healing quarters of SouthPoint Pack and Feywin cemetery had one thing in common—the concentrated smell of impending death.
Where one had already prepared a piece of land to bury my body, the other had prepared all the instruments I would need for a more mental and social death.
I believed that the healing quarters here would be just like the hospitals back in Evenmoor but I was terribly wrong. Instead of antiseptic, bleach, and alcohol, the metallic stench of blood hit my nostrils first. Then it was herbs. Too many herbs all at once, like they were all fighting each other to see who would dominate.
I never knew how special my room could be until today.
Frank trudged for
