“No,” he agreed simply. What more could he say. “Take me to him.”
Doctor Swan nodded. “Yes.” He moved down the hallway with a shuffling gait. The windows to one side let in the soft Autumnal sunshine. Closed doors stood sentry on the other side.
Doctor Swan, Delores and Zamir came to a halt outside one such closed door. It had a small discreet number painted into the woodwork, otherwise it was indistinct from all the other cream doors.
Doctor Swan inserted a code into the electric keypad then put his hand on the door.
“All the rooms are locked?”
“Yes,” Delores answered his question. “Used to be by key but we switched to electric out of concern for patient safety.”
Zamir arched a brow, silently urging her to continue.
She glowed pink beneath his unnervingly steady watchfulness. “In the event of a fire, you know, I can release all the doors from the desk.”
“That’s right,” Doctor Swan agreed. “All of the doors are controlled by a central computer. Some of our patients are allowed more freedom, and their doors are unlocked at set times in the day.”
“And my brother?” Zamir intoned flatly.
Doctor Swan’s look was sympathetic. “Your brother is new to us. He won’t have such freedom for quite a while. Perhaps not ever. It will depend on his willingness to work with our programs.”
He was born to rule a Kingdom, Zamir thought with a dull ache in his gut. Not to be locked up like a rodent in a cage.
The door pushed inwards and it took Zamir’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. The curtains were drawn, and the lights off. The room itself was large, with a bed, a sofa, and a door that he could only presume led to a bathroom. The curtains were spaced frequently enough to suggest that there were nice windows beyond, though Zamir was certain they too would be faced with bars to prevent escape or the smuggling in of contraband.
In the middle of the room, lying on the bed, was the hunched figure of the once-great Ra’if. Zamir couldn’t look at him without a painful sense of despair. This man had been a hero of his all his life. Even as boys, Zamir had worshipped him. For Ra’if could make everything better.
“Brother,” he switched to their language as he moved deeper into the room. There was a displeasing odour. When he scanned the room for its source, he saw vomit on the timber floor.
“Delores, call housekeeping.”
She bustled out of the room, and Doctor Swan locked the door behind her. “Purging is not uncommon when addicts first arrive. It’s a result of the withdrawal.”
Zamir ignored the doctor. He was staring at Ra’if as though he could decipher him somehow. As though, beneath the sallow skin and thinning hair, and arms that popped with veins, a face that was pocked with scabs, he could see the man he loved.
Ra’if’s eyes were shut, but his breathing was fast. He was not sleeping.
“Ra’if,” Zamir repeated, standing in front of him and crossing his arms across his chest.
With obvious reluctance, Ra’if opened his eyes. Where they should have been white, they were so yellow it shocked Zamir more than anything else. He stared past Zamir, at the wall.
“How do you feel?” Zamir asked.
“Fuck you,” Ra’if answered in his own language.
Zamir shook his head. It was pointless. He crouched down in front of his brother. “You are a prince of Dashan. You must remember that.”
“Fuck off.”
His anger was a palpable force. Were he stronger, he might have leaped from the bed and attempted to fight Zamir.
“I will come tomorrow.”
“Why?” A bleak question, and his eyes shut again.
“Because you are my brother.” He stood and put a hand on Ra’if’s shoulder. The thinness was appalling; he was barely a clutch of bones contained by sagging skin. “And I am yours. Let these people help you, Ra’if.”
“Is that a command, your highness?” His words groaned with resentment.