Callum’s face is pale, drained of all color. He wets his cracked lips and utters, "My king," His voice hoarse. Attempting to sit up as I approach, he fails, thumping back into the bed. I notice the wet towel on his forehead, and a water witch by his left seems to be treating him. She bows in respect, and I wave her off.

“How?” I ask, standing by the foot of his bed, finger on my nose to block the pungent smell of the healing herbs.

"I pissed off a witch."

"And she made you sick?" I ...