PRINCE REYN
After the first several days in the sanctuary domes on Kuivahr, Prince Reynald began to experience a strange emotion—something he identified as hope. Osira’h was dogged in her belief that if human medical researchers couldn’t cure him, then surely Ildiran doctors could. And she had complete faith in her sister.
Tamo’l and her medical team experimented—on him—with the rare kelp extracts provided by the Kellum distillery. Reyn braced himself and did what he needed to do. He considered how much his parents had invested in chasing any desperate chance for a treatment, and he thought of the promises he had made to Arita. He had to do his part, even if it made him feel like a lab rat.
Osira’h was beside him, as she always was, while he prepared to endure another round of tests. Reyn knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant, but he would not complain. He would hope.
Tamo’l tried any variants she thought might be effective. The kelp strains were rare, mutations appearing as the Kuivahr tides shifted and changed, and even if they did find a strain that offered remarkable relief for his worsening condition, the particular strain might never occur naturally again.
When he suffered from side effects of the test treatments, Osira’h seemed to experience the pain as much as Reyn did. When he saw the tears shimmering in her eyes, he felt sorry for her, wanted to endure the trials alone—but she would hear none of that. Reyn was envious when he saw the sheer fight in her expression. She set the bar high for him, and Reyn met it—for her.
Today, Tamo’l came to him with several different vials, new concoctions that she had worked up. “We learned a great deal from your adverse reactions last time. I am sorry you had to endure such discomfort, but this formulation should be better. I can’t promise that, but I believe so.”
During the last two tests, a fiery rash had raged across his skin, leaving patterns of tiny blisters that made him itch ferociously and a fever that caused a pounding headache. It wasn’t a cure—it wasn’t even a viable treatment—but it was a clue, and it gave Tamo’l ideas on a new formulation to try.
And Reyn would submit to the trials, endure the side effects—and he would hope, as Osira’h insisted.
Tamo’l held out three vials for him to see. “Different choices, Reynald. Different formulations from the most effective strains, and I will be honest—I have no idea which variant might be better or worse. You choose.”
He thought again of the rash, the fever, the headaches. Osira’h squeezed his shoulder, encouraging him. He thought about deferring the choice to her, but he stopped himself. If the formulation caused another severe reaction, he didn’t want Osira’h to blame herself.
“At least now I have a choice, thanks to you, Tamo’l.” Reyn pointed to the middle vial.
She gave a brisk nod and injected him with the sample. Reyn steeled himself for whatever might come. He had a feeling it would be a rough night.
Before he could feel sorry for himself, though, Shawn Fennis wheeled in one of the misbreeds who was moist and shivering on top of a gurney. He recognized the one called Pol’ux.
Tamo’l had made a point of introducing each of the misbreeds by name when he arrived here. After his initial shock at seeing the mutated misbreeds, Reyn had realized that they were just as curious about him. Looking at their misshapen bodies, the organs that didn’t function properly, the mismatched limbs, the asymmetric facial features, he saw how these misbreeds clung to life and fought for every day. They had endured their infirmities for more than twenty years, and yet they still dreamed of accomplishing something with their lives. They were optimistic—and that was a lesson for Reyn.
Pol’ux was bedridden much of the time, and now he hissed in pain when Fennis bumped the gurney. The misbreed’s gray-tan skin was a mass of boils, many as large as Reyn’s hand. His face, his shoulders, his arms, all looked as if they might burst; some of the flesh membrane had already split, oozing fluids.
Despite his obvious agony, Pol’ux lifted his head. “Prince Reynald … sorry to disturb you. I am honored.”
Tamo’l attached monitors to Reyn’s skin, but he glanced over at the misbreed. “You should take care of him.”
Pol’ux said, “Let her finish—I have done this many times before.”
Tamo’l explained, “Pol’ux suffers extreme allergic reactions to virtually all of the foods he can digest. He has to eat, but eating does this to him. It is something he has endured all his life.”
Pol’ux shifted on his gurney. “Tamo’l drains my blisters, and then I have mobility again for a day or so. I enjoy the time I have—it could be worse.”
While Tamo’l finished with Prince Reyn, Shawn Fennis set about draining the misbreed’s largest blisters, siphoning off the oozing fluid and relieving the pressure on his skin.
Pol’ux lay back and endured it; his blistered lips even smiled. “Tamo’l will find a cure for you, Prince Reynald. I know she will. No one is more dedicated to helping people than she is.”
Reyn felt a weight on his heart as he saw how stoic the misbreed remained even in the face of such horrific suffering. He lay back without complaint throughout the draining of his pustules.
Feeling great admiration, Reyn told Tamo’l he would accept as many tests as she needed to do.