The second sensation was the throbbing fire in his head. “Prince said give him water,” a man’s voice spoke, “He’s had it.” Another man gave a brief chuckle. Garrett opened his eyes, but his vision had gone gray in a large patch at the center, and what little he could see spun around the edges of the blind spot. He tried to rub his eyes, but found his wrists were bound behind his back. His jaw ached as he tried to spit out the oily rag that had been stuffed in his mouth, but a tight binding held it in place. His hood had slipped off his head and lay, damp and plastered against his back. Little trickles of water ran down his exposed neck into the collar of his robe. Looking to the left and right to peer around the edges of the blind spot, he made out the walls and bars of a prison cell, hardly bigger than the patch of stone on which he lay. Garrett tried to call for help.
