Mercy's Prince (10 page)

“I ought to be prepared, as you are.” He
indicated Kieran’s leathers and mail. “Then we’ll be ready to go to the
practice yard after we eat.”

Kieran helped him fasten the hard-to-reach
lacings on his leather breeches and tunic as well as pull on the mail shirt and
boots. They found the page Gannon putting away his and Kieran’s cots in the
next room. The boy bowed to Valerian.

“Good morrow, Your Highness. What is your will
this fine day?”

Valerian smiled at the earnest Gannon.

“Kieran and I must see the king. I’m afraid I’ve
left the bedclothes a mess for you.”

“I’ll take care of that for you, Sire.” The
page grinned and hurried into the bedchamber.

Valerian and Kieran left him to tidy the rooms
while they went next door and knocked. King Orland’s page answered and bowed
when he recognized Valerian.

“I must see my father, if he is awake.”

The page gestured for them to enter.

“Your Highness, the king is in his bedchamber.
Please be seated and I will tell him that you’ve come.” The boy, who was older
than Gannon, disappeared into another room.

Valerian sat on the edge of a cushioned bench.
This solar was too richly furnished for him to ever be comfortable in it. A
cheerful fire crackled in the fireplace, and the curtains had been opened to
let in the morning light. The gold threads of one of the tapestries glinted in
the light, and Valerian walked to it, seeing it as if for the first time. He’d
never before noticed that amid the embroidered dragons there was a man, and the
man held a sword. Just like in his dream.

The bedchamber door opened, and the page came
out again.

“The king will see you now.”

Valerian frowned at Kieran.

“I hope this won’t take long.”

“Dinna worry about me, Sire.” Kieran sighed as
he leaned back on one of the chair’s overstuffed pillows.

Valerian stepped into his father’s bedchamber.
His bed was as large as the one in Waryn’s room, only the curtains and
bedclothes were dyed royal purple. Orland sat in his dressing chair wearing a
simple white robe.

“Yes, what is it, Valerian?”

Valerian held out the sheet of parchment.

“I have decreed a punishment for the Brethren.”

Orland stood, took the parchment and scanned
the brief decree. He met Valerian’s gaze, and to his relief Valerian
Saw
his father’s surprise and pleasure.

“This is brilliant.” He tapped the parchment.
“I did not want to have to execute so many able-bodied men. Now I can put them
to work in the mines or on a large farm in the south so others will be free to
fight with us.”

Before either of them could say more, there was
a sharp rap at the door. Orland sighed and said, “Enter.”

A squire ran in and bowed low. Kieran followed
and exchanged a worried look with Valerian.

“Your Majesty, an army approaches from the
east.” The young man lifted his head. “The Horde is about to attack.”

“Why didn’t the scouts give us warning?” asked
the king.

“Sir Caelis believes they must have been
captured or killed.”

“Sound the alarm,” the king told the squire.
“Prepare for battle. Have everyone assemble in the castle yard.”

Valerian and Kieran rushed to gather helmets,
weapons, and horses, and stood with the rest of the men. Sir Caelis led men and
women from the armory, each carrying several of the newly designed spears. King
Orland gestured for Caelis to speak. The knight held up one of the spears.

“Since our first encounter with the Horde, the
armorers have worked day and night to improve our spears. They have added a
grappling hook below the blade to aid you in deflecting the Horde’s
battle-axes. I regret there has been no time to practice. I will demonstrate.”
He nodded to one of the armorers, and the man lifted a Horde battle-ax to
strike Caelis. The knight caught the blade with the hook and twisted the ax out
of the man’s grip.

Then Orland led the way to the Keep’s gate,
riding past the armorers so each man could take a hooked spear until there were
no more and simple spears had to be issued instead. The army rode through the
town just below the Keep, adding to their ranks townspeople armed with bows or
quarterstaffs or pitchforks.

While Valerian rode out the town’s eastern
gate, he saw the dust kicked up by the approaching Horde. Their army appeared
to number several hundred.

“Why,” he muttered so only Kieran could hear,
“do we keep engaging them in the field rather than force them to lay siege
where the Keep’s defenses would be far superior to the battle-axes and even the
poisoned arrows?”

“The glory of war, Sire.” Kieran’s smile was
grim.

“Glory?”
There is no glory here
,
only
blood and suffering and death
. But when King Orland ordered the charge,
Valerian shouted along with the rest over the pounding of his heart and the
pounding of Theo’s hooves while his faithful warhorse plunged into the fray.

It wasn’t difficult to use the new hook on the
spear and twist a battle-ax out of the scaly hands of a Mohorovian. Valerian
worked with Theo to cut down one enemy at a time. They kept coming, and
Valerian’s arms ached with the continual effort. He struggled to get his spear
in position, and a Mohorovian grabbed the grappling hook, pulling Valerian out
of the stirrups. He fell off Theo hard enough to knock the wind out of him. By
the time he stood up, disoriented, the Mohorovian advanced on him.

“Valerian!” Kieran shouted as he wheeled his
horse to come around.

The Mohorovian swung his ax in an arc that
would cut Valerian in half. Valerian backed away but stumbled on a rock, and
the ax sliced across his belly with such force that it cut through the mail,
the leather tunic, and into his flesh.

Kieran shouted again as his horse trampled the
Mohorovian, and then he impaled the creature with his spear. He leaped off the
horse and ran to Valerian.

Valerian felt no pain, only spreading warmth in
his midsection. The battle raging all around seemed far, far away. As the world
grew dark, the last thing he saw clearly was Kieran’s horrified face.

***

Caelis
turned his warhorse with his knees and used the grappling hook to pull yet
another battle-ax from the grasp of a Mohorovian. The monster roared, and with
an answering yell, Caelis impaled the creature with his spear. A handful of the
Horde fled toward the east. Caelis couched his spear, prepared to go after
them, but King Orland held up a mailed fist.

“Let
them go,” he said. The king raised the visor on his helmet.

In
disbelief, Caelis started to protest, but the grim look on Orland’s face
prevented him. Why was the king showing mercy when it would be simple to finish
them off?

Then
Caelis followed King Orland’s gaze. A crowd gathered around a fallen man. When
some of them shifted Caelis caught a glimpse of a purple surcoat. Prince
Valerian. Was he dead or merely wounded? Caelis could scarcely hide his
satisfaction.

The
king’s squire ran to Orland and bowed.

“Your
Majesty,” the young man said. “The prince is badly hurt. A belly wound.” Sorrow
wreathed his face.

“Is
the battle surgeon with him?” Orland’s voice was strained to the point of
breaking.

“Yes,
Your Majesty.” The squire wrung his hands. “They will move Prince Valerian to
the infirmary as quickly as possible.”

King
Orland nodded. Then he sheathed his spear and removed his helmet, handing it to
the squire.

“Tell
the surgeon I shall meet him in the infirmary.”

“Yes,
Sire.” The squire bowed and returned to the somber group.

After
composing his features, King Orland turned his attention to Caelis.

“The
grappling hook was effective in disarming the Horde, Sir Caelis.” He
straightened and inhaled a deep breath. “Ride with me to the Keep.”

“Yes,
Your Majesty.” Caelis signaled Drew and gave the squire his helmet.

They
rode at an easy pace past the fallen. The king stared forward, and Caelis kept
expecting him to speak, but he never said a word. Though there was much Caelis
wanted to say, it was enough that Orland had chosen Caelis to accompany him.
After all, the sight of the two of them returning alone, both riding white
stallions, would make a memorable impression on all who saw them.

When
they reached the stables, King Orland reined in his horse and turned his face
to Caelis.

“Thank
you, Sir Caelis,” he said simply. Then he dismounted and strode into the Keep,
alone.

Caelis
handed his horse over to a groom and took his spear to the armory for repair.
The tip of the blade had broken, though the grappling hook was undamaged.
Before he stepped inside the noisy armory, Caelis stopped and calmed himself.
If Valerian died, it would make King Orland’s dilemma easier, for then the king
would not have to choose to disinherit his only remaining son. Caelis wished
for the whelp’s death, then, even if it would lessen his triumph.

Mercy
and Rafael raced to Sister Providence’s cottage which she shared with Grace and
little Diligence. The girl stood in the doorway waiting for them.

“Please
hurry.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Grandmama has lost so much blood.”

The
old woman lay on a pallet. Although Grace was trying to clean her mother with
rags stained red, blood still bubbled from a deep gash in Providence’s head.
Mercy moved Grace’s hand holding the rag over the wound.

“Put
pressure here.” Mercy demonstrated for the older woman, grateful Grace didn’t
question her authority. “Dilly, you and Rafael run back to our cottage and
bring the bucket of water there. Careful not to spill too much.”

“Yes,
Mercy.” Dilly grabbed Rafael’s hand and they disappeared.

Mercy
took a bloodroot from her carry sack. With her small knife she scored the tough
outer skin until the vital sap began to flow. Then she turned to Grace.

“Lift
your hands now.” When Grace backed away, the bleeding began anew. Mercy placed
the root on top of the gaping wound. She held it in place and closed her eyes,
clearing her mind. Warmth and healing flowed from her hands through the root
and into the gash. She could actually
See
the blood clotting!

Once
she was sure the bleeding had stopped, Mercy breathed deeply and shook off the
echo of euphoria that she had come to associate with the Healing gift. She
lifted the root and saw no more fresh blood. Dilly and Rafael had brought the
bucket of water, so Mercy washed the open wound before stitching the ragged
edges together. Rafael moved closer.

“Sissy,
are you sewing Sister Providence just like you sewed the tear in my tunic?”

“Yes,
love.” Mercy smiled at the comparison.

Rafael
gazed up at her with eagerness.

“Will
you teach me how to do that?”

“Of
course I will.” Mercy tied off the thread and snipped it with a tiny blade.
“But you must practice on cloth before you can stitch people’s skin.”

“Okay,
Sissy.”

“I
must take Rafael home now,” Mercy said to Grace while she packed her carry
sack. “I am gatekeeper tomorrow and must rise early. Please send Dilly if there
are any problems in the night, though. I pray your mother wakes up soon.”

“Thank
you for your help.” Grace hugged Mercy, and when she pulled back there were
tears in Grace’s eyes. “I praise the Most High for your gift.”

Mercy
and Rafael walked back to their cottage, hand-in-hand. To Mercy’s relief Rafael
was more like his old self, chattering on about the blood and the stitches and
fetching water with Dilly. He wanted to sleep beside her, just as he had as an infant,
and she gratefully held him close. They both slept soundly all night.

The
following morning Mercy sat at the gate while Rafael divided his time between
coming to check on her and playing around the cottage. It was a beautiful
autumn day with a crisp blue sky and a slight chill in the air, though the
leaves had not yet begun to change color.

A
rap at the gate startled Mercy from her mending. She stood on tiptoe to peer
through the small peep hole and gasped when she saw a strange man standing
there. His left arm was in a sling, and he held the reins of his horse in the
other gloved hand. He appeared to be alone.

“What
do you want?” Mercy asked, not able to keep the tremor from her voice.

“I
have a message from King Orland.”

Mercy’s
heart lurched. Was it good news or bad? Would the men return or, God forbid,
were they dead?

With
trembling hands Mercy opened the heavy wooden gate. Before her stood the
messenger, a young man not many years older than her cousin, Michael. His hair
was cut short under his cap. At least he didn’t appear to be a soldier.

He
handed Mercy a sealed parchment scroll. The wax seal bore the imprint of a
dragon.

“What
does it say?” She ran her finger over the dragon.

“You’ll
have to read it to find out.”

“I
don’t know how to read.” Mercy gazed up at him.

The
young man frowned and gestured around him.

“There
must be someone here who can read.”

“Only
the men of the village, and they were all taken.” Mercy remembered then that
Sister Providence might be able to read the message, but the poor woman had not
yet regained consciousness. She pointed to the man’s sling. “What happened?”

“My
horse threw me yesterday and I have not yet found a physician.” He sighed.

“Do
you want me to look at it? I’m a Healer.”

The
man studied her.

“But
you’re so young.”

“Yes,
but I might still be able to help you.” Mercy turned away from his frank stare.

When
he didn’t answer right away, Mercy glanced up. He was staring at his arm, deep
in thought.

“I’m
sure it’s broken, and I must confess I’m not optimistic about finding a
physician anywhere nearby. The closest one is probably at Lord Reed’s castle.”
He shrugged. “All right, have a look.”

Mercy
motioned to her chair. The messenger first secured his horse to the gate post
before sitting in the chair. He took the scroll from Mercy and stuck it in his
belt. When she removed the sling, he winced. She pushed up his sleeve and saw
right away that his forearm was bent at an unnatural angle.

“It’s
broken, isn’t it?”

Mercy
heard the anxiety in his voice. It made him seem even younger, and his trust
humbled her.

“Yes,
but I won’t know how badly until I touch it. May I do so?”

He
nodded, resigned.

As
gently as she could, Mercy encircled his arm with her small hands. Both forearm
bones were broken, but only one was out of place. If he took care of it, the
arm would heal well.

“I
must set the bone in place.” She glanced up at him again. “Ready?”

He
nodded and steeled himself.

Closing
her eyes, Mercy focused only on the two ends of bone. Firmly but gently she eased
them into place. Her hands lingered until she was sure that healing blood
flowed into the area, helping the ends of bone to knit together. She started to
feel faint and heard the man’s voice as if from far away.

“Young
woman? Are you all right?”

Mercy
opened her eyes. The man had a worried look.

“Your
face became white, so I was concerned.” He held up his arm and opened and
closed his fist. “I don’t know what you did, but it doesn’t feel broken any
more.”

With
a gasp, Mercy examined the arm again. The bones were straight and solid, as if
they’d never been injured. Indeed, what had really happened? She’d only meant
to set the bone.

He
leaned closer and spoke in a reverent voice.

“I
saw a light in your hands like the glow of a candle. I could even feel its
warmth in my arm. There is some power at work in you.”

Before
Mercy could answer him, Rafael ran up.

“Sissy!
Are you all right? Who is this man? Is that a real horse?”

“Hello.”
The messenger stood. “Who is this?”

“I’m
Rafael. This is my Sissy. Who are you?”

The
man took off his cap and bowed with a flourish.

“I
am Flint Mallory, royal messenger of His Majesty, King Orland. And this,” he
slapped his horse on the neck, “is my almost always faithful Taggart.”

Mercy
couldn’t tear her gaze away from Flint’s short hair. Although it wasn’t the
bowl cut that most of the soldiers wore, it was still shorn to his ears.

Rafael
didn’t seem to notice. He moved closer to the horse and gingerly touched its
foreleg. Flint addressed Mercy.

“My
orders were to deliver this message. But you can’t know what the message says
because none of you can read.” He patted his arm. “In payment for the good turn
you have done for me, I would like for you to call all the villagers together
and I will read the message to you. Then I can honestly tell the king I have
delivered it.”

Rafael
turned so quickly he startled the horse.

“Sissy,
may I ring the bell?”

“Yes,
Rafael,” she said with a smile.

He
ran off. In a few minutes Mercy heard the distinct clanging and saw the women
running to answer it.

“We’d
best follow him,” she told Flint, “or they will think Rafael has played a
prank.”

Though
her knees wobbled, she managed to keep up with the messenger’s long strides.
She joined the crowd of women and girls and two young boys close to Rafael’s
age.

After
Flint introduced himself, he broke the seal and opened the scroll. Mercy saw
even symbols written with black ink and another of the dragon seals at the
bottom. The messenger cleared his throat.

“This
says, ‘From His Majesty, Orland d’Alden, by the grace of God, King of Levathia,
to the women and children of the Village of Peace in the Southern Woodlands:
Greeting. This is to inform you that, as punishment for their refusal to obey
the king’s command to fight with the army of Levathia, the men and older youths
of your village have been made subject to the king’s will and are working at
hard labor in an undisclosed location in the Southern Woodlands until it please
His Majesty. You will not learn their whereabouts until their sentence has been
completed. But be assured, they were all well when they left the Keep on the
new moon last.’ And then the king has signed and sealed this at the bottom.”
Flint held up the scroll so that everyone could see the wax seal.

Two
young wives began to weep, but most of the women either smiled or appeared
thoughtful. It was certainly better news than they had hoped. A few of them
pushed forward and began to ask questions.

“Did
you see them?”

“How
long will they be punished?”

“Might
they return before the winter solstice?”

“Hold
your peace!” Flint held up a hand, calling for silence. “I truly know nothing
more than what is written here. I am only the king’s messenger.”

“For
this news you have brought us,” said Aunt Prudence, “you must stay and let us feed
you.”

Flint’s
answer was lost in the general hubbub as daughters, wives, and mothers urged
him to sit on a bench in the village green and wait for them to bring food.
Rafael attached himself to the young man, pestering him with questions about
his horse, but Flint apparently enjoyed all the attention.

“Will
your horse let me feed and water him in the sheep pens?” Mercy asked.

“Yes,
Taggart is quite gentle.” Flint stared at Mercy. “Are you sure you’re all
right?”

She
nodded, though she did still feel faint.

“By
the way,” he said, “I never heard your name. I’m sure it’s something more than
Sissy.” He patted Rafael’s head.

“My
name is Mercy.”

Flint
smiled and indicated his arm.

“Thank
you, Mercy.”

“And
thank you for reading the message to us.” She curtsied to him.

While
she led the man’s horse to the sheep pens, Mercy pondered what it meant that
she’d completely Healed the broken arm when she’d only meant to set the bone.
Did she control the Healing, or did it control her?

***

Valerian
drifted on a current of shifting darkness and light. In the times of darkness,
Waryn and the dragons appeared to him, angry and accusing. During the times of
light, however, he saw Kieran’s face and sometimes heard his voice, though he
could not understand the words.

At
last he opened his eyes. When he was able to focus on his surroundings, he was
disappointed that he was still alive, that he’d not yet gone on to the
Afterlife. Instead he lay on a cot in the Keep’s infirmary. How long had he
been here?

Valerian
tried to push himself upright and cried out from the sharp pain in his belly.
He lay back, gasping, trying to make the agony stop.

“My
lord!” Kieran appeared at his side, grinning. “You’re back with us again.”

It
was a few moments before Valerian could contain the pain and have breath to
speak.

“What
happened?” His voice sounded hoarse.

Kieran’s
smile faded, replaced with a concerned frown.

“Ye
were nearly cut in two by a Horde battle-ax.”

Images
of that last battle came into Valerian’s mind. He remembered falling off his
horse, the approaching Mohorovian and the ax swinging toward him, but nothing
afterward.

“Where’s
Theo?” Valerian touched his bare midsection and winced at the soreness of the
puffy tissue. Rough stitches ran in a ragged line from side to side.

“He’s
in the stables. I’ve had someone exercise him for ye every day.”