Remedy Maker (3 page)

Savella . . . ill?
The queen had the constitution of a warhorse. If they were sending for the Remedy Maker, her illness must be severe.

Hoping for nothing worse than a classic case of indigestion, Rhy nodded. He picked up his backpack from off the ground, and shrugged it on. A great leader, the Centaur queen was rarely—if ever—sick.

Thankful that he’d finished gathering the herbs, his mind sped to what awaited him. “I’ll need my remedy bag from home first. What are Her Majesty’s symptoms?” Soft grass crushed under his boots as he approached Dryas. The tender blades absorbed his weight, springing upright to cover his tracks.

“She has been nauseas and vomiting, with intermittent abdominal pain. We give thanks to Pan this happened while in her human form.” Dryas’ agitation drew twin furrows between his russet brows. Hair of the same rust color hung long over the leather padding covering his shoulders and vulnerable neck. One hand akimbo, the other palmed his sword hilt.

“Who’s with her now?”

“Hippy and Templar Khristos.”

Kempor Hippolyte, the inner sanctum guard, would sacrifice her own life for the queen without a second thought. Savella remained well guarded in her defenseless condition. The High Priest would be in the way, of course, pissing-off Hippy. 

“I’ll be right back, and meet you here.” Not waiting for an answer, Rhycious spun on his heel and took off.

He used the two-mile jog to the cabin to mentally write an herbal list of ingredients to bring with him. It was a pity that modern pharmaceuticals weren’t effective on his people. His abilities as Remedy Maker would be so much easier.

Pan, the god of healing, plants, and medicines, made certain only holistic and natural practices were applied to mythologicals. To honor the mythic god in all in his glory, the upcoming Festival of the Trees, better known as the Spring Equinox, was held as a yearly celebration.

Templar Khristos would be praying to Bacchus for regeneration right about now. As a god, Bacchus was easier to deal with. He ruled over pleasure, ecstasy, and total abandon.

The cabin came into sight and Rhy remembered an important item.

“Ah, crap!” The toe of his boot hooked the bottom step and he crashed to his hands and knees, sprawling on the porch. What would he do with his little Nymph guest?
Not
his
—the. “
Shit!”

Picking himself up, he glanced at the tiny brown slivers burning his palms. Rhy’s neck and shoulders tensed. Anger and frustration radiated outward. The palace required him. His patients needed him. Then this whole business with her . . . in his bed.

He pushed the mental image of the provocative beauty out of his head. Was it too much to ask to be left the hell alone? Resentment clawed in his belly, roaring to be let loose. He fought it down with practiced self-control.

“Gamóto.”
Damn it. He hurled his backpack against the front door.

“Knapsack upset you again?”

Fists curled and teeth grinding, Rhycious turned around.

“Sorry to barge in on you. I came by to check on your girlfriend.” Samuel grinned.

Sam must have parked his buggy around back somewhere, or walked. The man’s wide smile grated Rhy’s irritated nerves. Good thing he hadn’t tried to climb the stairs, Rhy would have hated to knock his friend back down them.

Along with the guy’s teeth
.

Utilizing his de-stressing technique, Rhycious unclenched his hands and released negative energy with deep breaths. “She’s
not
my girlfriend. So shut-up before I convince you to take her home with you.”

That wiped the smile off his smug Amish face.

“Is she better? Did she say what happened to her?”

Rhy shook his head and motioned Samuel inside. “She was still asleep when I left this morning, but I managed to get some tea into her.”

He set his pack on the stool next to the apothecary table. With a few quick strides, he stopped at the bedroom door and checked on his in-house patient. Still asleep. This caused him concern, but not enough to hang around.

Grabbing up an old-fashioned black doctor’s duffle, he moved to the worktable and placed bagged herbs inside.

 “I have to head out. And for the love of the gods, I don’t know what to do. I’ve been summoned to the queen’s side—what the hell am I supposed to do with her?” He jerked a thumb toward the room.

Samuel removed his hat and rubbed the back of his neck. “For sure and for certain, you’re in a pickle.” He replaced the hat and took a step toward the open front door. “I’ll just leave you be and let you figure it all out.”

“Wait a minute.” Rhy stabbed a finger in Samuel’s direction. “You’re not going anywhere.” He resumed pouring a detoxifying brew into an aluminum bottle, glancing at Sam every so often. “You brought her here, you take care of her.”

“What?” Sam’s jaw worked up and down, like a puppet with manipulated strings in motion.

Probably apoplectic
. Rhy cranked his nonexistent tail, wanting the conversation finished.

Sam’s eyes bugged out and he waved an arm in the diminutive weed’s direction. “
Naett.
I’m not taking care of her. I have chores that need tending at my house. Chicken eggs to gather. Laundry to fold.” He backed a few steps away. “I have to wash my hair.”

Rhy rolled his eyes. “A friend in need is a friend indeed. You’re staying put until I get back.”

“And when will that be, may I ask?” Samuel’s words came a bit muffled, pushed through clenched teeth.

Rhy ran both hands through his hair, uncaring if it stood on end. “I don’t know. If you have to leave by morning, I understand.” He glanced at his wristwatch—not quite noon. If things went smoothly, he would make it back before midnight.

He unloaded a good portion of the gathered plants from the backpack, stuffed his favorite Raiders sweatshirt on top of the remaining herbs, and hefted it onto his shoulder. The black medical bag closed with a magnetic click.

“When she wakes up, she might be hungry. There’s food in the cold box, help yourself.” He paused in the entryway and glanced at Samuel, whose face etched with worry. “You’ll be fine. If she wants to leave, let her. Then you can go home, too.”

Rhycious turned and cleared the porch stairs in one jump. Grinning, he couldn’t help one last parting shot as he walked backward toward the forest. “Be a good boy, and don’t do anything improper, Samuel Beiler.”

“
Scheissdrek.”

“And shit to you too, my friend.” He continued to laugh down the path, and heard the front door slam.

His good humor didn’t last long; the drip of reality entered his mind. The palace would be bustling with dignitaries, emissaries, and perhaps a few ambassadors. This meant more people, maybe crowds, all gathered for the upcoming festivities. He pictured the pushing hands, bumping legs, knocked shoulders.

Strange people brushing against him. Touching him.

A sudden squeeze around his chest gripped tight. The pressure caused him to gasp, his breath became shallow, and his heart rate sped up. Recognizing another oncoming attack, he stopped on the trail to take deliberate, cleansing breaths.

He’d spent many quiet evenings in the glider rocker Samuel handcrafted for him, studying the cause and effects of posttraumatic stress disorder, and how to treat the condition in a holistic manner. While there may not be a cure for what his mind reverted to, there were remedies and techniques to combat the effect.

The pinch against his sternum eased and Rhy took a full, unaffected breath. Perspiration made his spine itch where the backpack lay heavy, rubbing against his shirt. He concentrated on the minor discomfort while he picked up the pace to meet Dryas.

Hell, he’d even think about what Samuel would do when the hot little siren woke up.

Anything to keep his mind off the path ahead.

Three

They made their way to the palace grounds with few words spoken between them. The fact Rhycious had a view of Dryas’s ass the entire journey might account for the headache and irritation he experienced.

Being in excellent physical condition, he didn’t mind the jog. Treatment for his PTSD included regular aerobic exercise, which made jogging a favorite activity. After the twenty-mile run through hills and valleys, Dryas slowed to a walk.

The thick forest edge grew steadily thinner until they stepped out into a clearing. A blue-sky background with puffy white clouds set off the tops of huge hemlock trees to perfection.

Perhaps to a wandering human with no knowledge of their surroundings, the scenery wouldn’t appear out of the ordinary. Rhy picked the faux settings out, one after the other. Hell, he’d helped build some of them himself. Tree lines were cleared back hundreds of feet from the sheer rock wall towering in front of them. Small clusters of aspen remained in select areas, strategically placed like something you would find in a scenic park, landscaped to look natural.

One only needed to look up with an eagle eye into the granite wall. Hidden in the shadowed alcoves between bits of scrub brush, sentry guards stood their posts.
From a tower elevation, each guard surveyed the forest with a one hundred and eighty degree view. No doubt, he and Dryas were spotted advancing the last twenty minutes or so, winking in and out through the trees.

Hundreds of years ago, this clearing had been the battleground for one of the bloodiest fights between Centaurs and Wood Nymphs. He’d been there, on the front lines, defending the palace gate in hand-to-hand combat. How many Nymph soldiers were sent to their graves that day? Sweat prickled his forehead and he fought to stave off the savage images.

Queen Savella had been clad in full Centaur armor that day, ensconced behind the rock wall. She’d drawn her sword, demanding the barricaded door be opened so she could fight alongside her people. Thankfully, Templar Khristos convinced the enraged monarch her brain would be put to better use than her brawn.

Rhy breathed in through his nose and out from his mouth.
Those days are over.
His battle-scarred armor, packed in the trunk, hadn’t seen the light of day for years.

But he’d kept that armor. Just in case
.

At the base of the craggy cliff, Dryas’s equine body gleamed in the mid-morning sun. Rhy stepped to match strides beside him.

Dryas gave him the once-over. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I might have two legs right now, but they’ll keep up with your four any day.”

“Your respiration has increased, and you’re sweating. You weren’t out of breath on the way over.”

Yeah, tell me something I don’t know
. The thought of heading through the opening in the rock wall, into the realm of Queen Savella, set his teeth on edge. He took a deep breath and held it, but the pressure in his head kicked the damn tic into action on his cheek. Air left his lungs in a hard exhale.

“I’ve been checking out your ass for the past hour. Maybe I’m turned on.”

Dryas wrinkled his nose and flicked his tail, the course strands smacking Rhy in the back of the head. “Go to hell.”

Living there now . . . .

Gentle winds whistled far above the canopy, fresh scents of pine filled the air. Insects droned among the carpet of wild flowers celebrating the warm spring day. Except for ambient sounds of the forest, all was quiet.

Just like back in the day when survival depended upon hearing the approach of sneaky Nymph warriors camouflaged in their tree form. Back then, anticipation accelerated his heart and sped up his breathing—much how it reacted today.

Rhycious hitched the backpack higher on his shoulders and switched his medical bag to his other clammy palm. The last psychology article he’d read on how to temper emotional control suggested finding a neutral zone in which to retreat within his mind.

A
happy place,
of all things.

With the boulder gateway only feet away, he dug deep into his psyche and came up with—

 
A dark haired, doe-eyed Nymph
. Her smooth column of neck begged his lips to caress its length. Shadows along feminine collarbones teased his tongue to investigate. An ample cleavage hinted at what lie hidden beneath her soft blouse. And all that creamy skin between her firm rounded breasts, and long supple legs.

“Well, fuck me, it worked,” Rhy thought aloud, amazed at himself.

“Huh?”

“Nothing, ignore me.” Any other time, he would have enjoyed taking a moment to dissect why his mind switched gears, but the boulder ahead pivoted inward on silent hinges.

The passage open, and they hurried inside without delay.

Pleasant humid temperatures embraced his body like the steam bath caves of southern Boronda. He inhaled, pulling the familiar fragrances of spice, beeswax, and citrus deep into his lungs. The tunnel’s natural lighting glowed from embedded specs of thermoluminescent minerals.

Rhy rebuked the ideology of Trolls building the palace. Any Centaur worth his fighting hide knew the lowbred creatures were incapable of architectural magnificence in any magnitude.

The low hum of a hundred voices echoed through the hand-carved entry. Dirt covering the downward slant muffled their foot and hoof steps to a dull thud. Rounding a sharp turn, the path opened to the ground floor vestibule.

A sea of thick bluegrass grew underfoot, grand as any Persian carpet. Sunlight sparkled through cracks in the cave’s ceiling, spotting the grass in a sporadic design. It reminded him of recessed canned lighting used in Willow Bay restaurants.

Rhy glanced down. Grass blades grew to his booted ankles. “Is Ralphie still the landscaper?”

“He . . . is no longer employed in that position.”

The hesitant answer wasn’t missed, but neither was it his business. If Ralphie found a better job, may the gods bless him. If he’d gotten his ass fired, well—surveying the overgrown lawn, it wasn’t surprising.

Dryas led him through the enormous jade archways and turned toward the left half of the double staircase. He galloped up the stairs, taking them four at a time, and pawed an impatient hoof on the landing.