Prince of Wrath (41 page)

The emperor decided that he needed to check on the wagons that were being assembled in the palace courtyard. This was going to be a well-supplied and provisioned journey. It would, after all, take a while to get to their destination. They would have enough to get them to Turslenka in the first instance, then get resupplied while Metila saw to Argan. Astiras could not tarry in that city too long, and planned to stay only two or three days before moving on.

Messengers were being sent out to both Zofela and Turslenka warning them of the schedule so that supplies and the appropriate accommodation would be ready at both. Astiras was impatient now, wanting to get the entire thing done with.

He just hoped that Argan lived.

The journey to Turslenka passed without incident, for which the party was grateful. The destruction of the Duras army had cleared the way and even though some had escaped and were probably hiding in the hills, they presented no problem for the time being. Trade was once more passing into and through Kalkos and the farms were free from raids.

There were eight wagons, each pulled by two draft equines, and Astiras and his bodyguard acted as escort, making sure the wagons rumbled on their way along the paved road through Frasia. The imperial banner fluttered from the lead wagon which was carrying weapons and armour. None of Astiras’ men wore any of the latter; they did not expect to have to use them, and it was getting very warm now as summer approached. The wagon carrying the sick Argan and his mother was in the middle, and members of the court were scattered amongst the others.

Vosgaris was riding escort on the wagon with Isbel and Argan inside, as was expected. Istan was nowhere near them; his hostility towards Argan had meant that it was best to keep him away from the ailing child as much as possible. Istan had even expressed delight that Argan was unwell and had voiced his hopes that his brother died. That had shocked Isbel and Astiras had reacted swiftly, striking the boy around the ear and telling him in no uncertain terms that he was never to say anything like that again.

Istan had sulked but kept quiet, holding his red ear and glaring at his father. So the youngest member of the Koros family was riding two behind with his tutor Gallis and a couple of other – unwilling – courtiers. Istan spent most of the time spitefully observing the shortcomings of everyone, mostly that they were stupid.

Amne had a few tears when they had departed the palace. She had embraced her father and kissed Argan tenderly on the forehead. Argan had smiled at her and held her hand. “We’ll see each other soon, won’t we, Amne?” he had said, his eyes bigger than ever in his sunken face.

“Of course, Argan,” Amne had replied at once, smiling at her half-brother. “I will have to see how you’re doing in your new home.” She had looked at Vosgaris who was going to carry him down to the waiting wagon. “A good reason to come to Zofela,” she had added, catching the captain’s eye.

Vosgaris had smiled briefly, a look between the two that said more than any words could have, and had then taken the painfully thin prince down. Amne had followed slowly, her heart painful. Argan had looked so small and pale, bundled up in Vosgaris’ arms.

Isbel had faced Amne by the entrance to the courtyard and no words were exchanged. Amne had looked at her step mother without any warmth, and Isbel had looked scornfully in return, then she had turned her back and gone to Argan who had by then been placed in his bed in the wagon.

The road had been good, the weather benevolent and if not for Argan’s condition, it might well have been a very enjoyable journey. They had reached Turslenka in the fading light ten days after leaving Kastan City, and Argan had slipped deeper into danger. He had two nosebleeds during the journey and they had had to stop on each occasion until the bleeding had ceased.

After the second occasion Argan had barely been conscious and was more white than flesh coloured. Isbel spent all her time with him, tending the boy. Argan was half aware of it but was too weak to do much more than sip on a warm broth made for him. There was no standing on ceremony as they passed into the city. The emperor waved to the citizens who thronged to route to the governor’s residence but he was in a hurry. The cheers went unheard to Argan who was unconscious now. Isbel fussed over the transporting of her son but Vosgaris assured her he was as careful as he could possibly be.

Thetos welcomed them grimly. The fading condition of the prince was known and he showed them upstairs where Metila was standing, dressed in a long flowing gown of black. She had on her face symbols that had been drawn on with blackstick, that natural occurring substance. The symbols weren’t Kastanian, and looked ancient.

Isbel hesitated, scared at the sight of what was undoubtedly a witch. Metila smiled at her and bowed, but that made Isbel if anything more afraid. “Astiras…” she said in a small voice, gripping her husband.

“It’s alright,” he assured her, “Metila’s an adept healer.”

Metila looked at the boy being carried to her by Vosgaris. She frowned and opened the door to her own room where she would carry out her attempt to save Argan. She showed Vosgaris where to lay Argan. Both Astiras and Isbel crowded in behind and looked in wonder at the room. It wasn’t particularly big and was made to look smaller by the clutter all over it; dried and drying plants filled shelves; bowls and containers were everywhere and bottles with strange labels stood in neat rows on shelves across on the far wall. A single bed stood to the left and Argan was lying upon it.

Metila knelt by his side and felt his head. “Is bad,” she said. “Very bad.”

“You can save him, Metila?” Astiras said. It was almost an entreaty.

“I try. He very sick. Big damage. Will take time and nobody to get in way. Please, I must do it soon or he die.” She waved the three out. Vosgaris went first but Isbel was reluctant until Astiras gently guided her. He turned in the doorway as Metila went to shut it and his fingers touched hers. Metila shivered and bumps ran up her arms. “I give myself to you later,” she whispered and looked at him from under her eyelashes which had been thickly coated with a dark plant extract, staring at him with ill-concealed sexual promise.

Astiras felt a wave of excitement run over him and allowed the door to be closed. Isbel sat in the governor’s day room, worry written over her face. Astiras slowly joined her and sat heavily in a vacant chair. “All we can do is wait,” Thetos observed. “I shall get us refreshments. This may take all night.”

“I won’t sleep,” Isbel said. “I’m scared, Astiras!” She took her husband’s hand and squeezed it tight.

Astiras returned the gesture but said little. Even though he was holding his wife’s hand, he was thinking of the two people in the room beyond, each for different reasons. Vosgaris stood at the rear of the room along with Teduskis, while Thetos fussed and restlessly paced about, not being used to having his quarters so full.

Metila stared at Argan for a long moment, then felt his forehead again. The ailment was deep within him and would take powerful potions to reach, but he was too frail for some of them and so she decided she would have to approach the problem from an entirely different angle.

An oil lamp flickered in one corner and she used it as the means by which to heat up anything that required warming, and now she put in a metal beaker some leaves of a rare plant found growing in highlands and mixed it with water, then she heated it. While it was warming up she selected some powder from a glass container, a fine white powder, and sprinkled it in a small tray. As she did so she began chanting softly. The words were Bragalese, taught her when she was a child. She had been brought up in a backwards part of southern Bragal and here even the majority of Bragalese people knew little about those words. Adding warm water to the powder she mixed it in until it became a paste, then with two fingers began applying it to Argan’s face and lips.

The boy moaned softly in his sleep. Metila knew he would not wake, for his illness had gone beyond the waking time and was now on the path to death. She could do little other than try the extreme form of the healing touch. She went over to the door and slid the bolt shut. Best nobody saw what she was about to do or she would be slain on the spot.

Taking a deep breath she picked up the metal beaker and drank deeply, swallowing every drop. She closed her eyes and stood still for a short while, then, as she felt the elixir begin to take effect, slipped off her cloak and stepped out of it. Now she was dressed only in a brief loin cloth. Sweat was beginning to appear all over her body. The potion was starting to affect her and the room was beginning to spin. It was time.

She knelt by the boy and began swaying, chanting softly. Heat rose in her body and the room receded and grew rapidly in turns. A roaring sound filled her ears and she gasped with the enhanced feeling of euphoria that swept through her. She knew with part of her mind that it was not real, it was merely the plant working on her, but she revelled in the feeling. Sweat was now pouring from every pore and dripping down her face and her cleavage, so she leaned over Argan and allowed her sweat to drop onto him, coating his face and neck, dripping steadily. She made sure some fell into his mouth, working it in with her fingers. This was the only way she could give him the potion. A direct application would kill the boy.

Argan swallowed and Metila felt satisfaction. Now he had it inside his body. The second part had to be done now. Sliding over the prone figure of the eight year old, she wiped her body onto his, her sweat coating Argan until his face was shining with the slickness. She ensured he breathed in her body scent, enhanced by the potion, by placing her breasts over his nostrils. Here was where the scent was strongest, and he had to inhale. Argan coughed, and Metila moved away.

She had done all she could, and now sat on the floor and placed her hands on her knees, swaying with her torso, eyes shut, as the full effects of the potion washed over her. She was beyond ecstasy; in her drug induced state, the room swirled round and round, changing colour from purples to blues and back again. Finally it passed its peak and she dropped her head forward, her hair dripping wet, sending droplets to the floor.

Now she would have to do more work on the boy. She had given him the same potion in a much diluted state, and it would take longer to work on him as a result. The other potion, the paste, was something different again, and that would slowly be absorbed through the skin. She knelt by the bed, fighting to clear her vision, wiping sweat from her eyes, and looked closely at the prince. He was filmed with sweat and tossing his head from side to side. It was beginning to act upon him. She moved unsteadily over to where more of her dried leaves were hanging and selected one, a sprig of large leaves, a dull tan colour. She wiped her fingers along one and sniffed them. Wrinkling her nose at the aroma, she plucked two leaves and returned to Argan.

She licked the leaves a few times, then slipped them into Argan’s mouth, pressing them against the inside of his cheeks. Now she placed her fingers around his hot, wet head, and started chanting once more. Argan tried to squirm away in his sleep but she held him fast. It was now a battle. Metila versus death. The prize was the boy.

In the room beyond, Astiras tapped on the arm rest of his chair, his eyes flickering from time to time at the others in the room. Isbel was wringing her hands, chewing on her lip or shifting position nervously. Indistinct sounds came from beyond the door, and it only served to add to the tension in the room. Thetos buried himself in paperwork, perusing through the likely tax income figures for Makenia, something he hated doing, but to those who knew him it was an indication of how troubled he was.

Vosgaris and Teduskis were gone. Both had been dismissed by the anxious emperor to sort out the lodgings of the other members of the party and the resupply of the wagons. The fewer who were in the room the better. Astiras’ temper was short and he didn’t wish to snap at the two. Thetos he knew would let it pass, the gruff old campaigner was used to it from the time they had served in Bragal together, and Isbel would fire back at him which was fine, since that was to be expected of a married couple.

Out in the other rooms, those who had arrived were waiting for news. Panat and Kerrin Afos sat quietly in their room, a single candle flickering between them. Both their futures were wrapped up in the life of the prince; his death would mean a dismissal of Panat and who knew how Isbel would react towards Kerrin, since she still held him accountable?

Metila concentrated. The dark mass of death stood before her, mocking her. It was huge, formless, nebulous. She was there, alone, small, dressed just in her loin cloth. The black mass pushed at her, trying to force her to give way, but she gritted her teeth and refused to budge. Although it didn’t speak, she heard its voice in her mind. “Foolish mortal, you think you can deny me?”

“You have plenty to take; leave this one,” she answered without speaking. “He is young; he has a destiny.”

“Ha! I take all I choose. I take plenty of young ones. One more makes no difference to me!”

“You shall not have this one, evil one,” Metila defiantly shot back. Her language was fluent, for she was speaking in Bragalese, not the broken Kastanian she used to speak with to everyone else. “I defy you and your intentions! I am stronger than you.”

The black mass laughed, or at least, that was how it was interpreted by the Bragalese witch. “You believe you have greater power than I? Your arrogance will be your undoing, little one. I shall take not only the child, but you, as well.”

“You have no power, that is the bare fact! You only exist as long as there is life, and therefore life is stronger. Life can exist without death, but death cannot exist without life!”

Death screamed in outrage. The truth of her words had hit home. “You shall suffer long for your defiance, Subitalathalan!” it vowed, using her Bragalese name. “Death shall ride on your shoulders for the rest of your miserable existence, and when the time comes for me to take you, you will beg for it!”

“I shall not, evil defiler!” Metila snapped. “I am Okloka, user of nature. You have no right to take me!”

The black mass moved on her, pushing at her to kneel. Metila shook with effort as the oppressive feeling began forcing her down. She was fighting for both herself and Argan, sheer will-power keeping her legs straight. With a last scream of frustration the cloud roared away and vanished, leaving Metila shaking and pouring with sweat.