Authors: Deborah Chester
Unz stared, his
face as white as the bandages, and stammered something incomprehensible.
“Get more
bandages. And water. And the healer. We need the healer!”
“No,” Caelan said.
Orlo pressed the
gauze to his side, and he flinched at the pain.
“Steady,” Orlo
said, but he sounded more desperate than soothing. “Don’t talk. Just stay
quiet. Boy! Where are you?”
Unz reappeared
with more gauze. “This is all—”
“Never mind. Get
the cloak. We’ll bind it around him. Quick, boy. No, I’ll do it. Support him.”
Unz timidly
grasped Caelan’s shoulders while Orlo hacked the cloak into long strips and
wrapped them around Caelan’s torso. He knotted them with a firmness that made
Caelan cry out.
Severance
slipped, and he could not hold on any longer. The river of blood escaped him
and gushed into the cloth. He could feel his life, his awareness flowing out
with it.
“Forget the water.
Run for the healer now,” Orlo said while the room swirled and eddied. “Go, boy!”
“No,” Caelan said.
He reached out, his hand groping blindly.
Orlo gripped his
fingers hard enough to crush them.
“No one to know,”
Caelan insisted. “Spoil the victory. Spoil the prince’s ... orders ...”
He couldn’t
finish. The room grew white, blurring into shapeless light, then fading, fading
until there was only shadow.
“Get the healer,”
he heard Orlo say. “Don’t say why. Don’t say anything. Just get him.
Run!”
Caelan came drifting
back to the pleasant fragrances of balm and honey, herbal scents that reminded
him of his childhood safe in E’nonhold. Someone nearby was grinding with a
small mortar and pestle, working the old-fashioned way, doing things correctly.
He opened his eyes
a fraction, not quite willing to wake up completely yet. There was a fire
burning to keep him warm. It cast a ruddy glow across his bed. He listened to
the hiss of the embers, a steady singing of flame that seemed to be calling his
name.
Wind spirits had
called his name once, and nearly killed him when he went to them. There were no
wind spirits in Imperia. He wondered if the fire spirits had come here instead.
Restlessly, a
little frightened, he turned his head on the pillow, only to have a shadow fall
across the firelight. A hand slipped beneath his head and lifted him slightly.
“Drink this,” a
voice said.
Caelan sipped the
potion, finding its taste bittersweet. The effort exhausted him, but once he
was lying down again he found his head felt much clearer.
He gazed up at the
healer, but the man’s face remained hidden in shadow, silhouetted against the
firelight. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, yet he wasn’t the usual
arena healer. Caelan frowned, unable to sort it out.
“These aren’t my
quarters,” he said fretfully. His voice sounded weak and hoarse. “Have I been
sold?”
“No,” the healer
said soothingly. “Rest. Do not talk. Give the potion time to do its work.”
Caelan frowned,
but the healer moved out of his line of vision. In growing puzzlement, Caelan
stared instead at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a spacious chamber, one
that extended well past the circles of light cast by the lamps placed around
his bed. He could not see into the shadows, but it was evident that he was
lying in a very fine bed carved of exotic woods and covered with linens as fine
as gossamer. The coverlet beneath his hand felt smooth and strongly woven, like
silk.
Caelan was
sweating again, and he felt a wave of weakness flow through his body in a
sudden tide. Perhaps this was all a fever-ridden fantasy. In reality he must be
lying in his narrow room on his hard bunk. Unz would have kindled a small fire
in the brazier to ward off the winter chill. Impe-ria winters were as nothing
compared to the deep snows and frozen rivers of Trau, but because of the
mildness of the weather, Imperia craftsmen never bothered to make buildings
snug and warm. As a result, winters were drafty and miserable indoors.
Sometimes at dawn
Caelan would rise and stand outside with his face turned to the north. His
nostrils would draw in the scents of frost while his heart ached for the old
glacier up beyond the Cascade Mountains. He missed the deep, blanketing silence
of the pine forests after a snowfall. He missed the ice coating his eyebrows and
eyelashes after a brisk trek out for wood cutting. He missed the rough-coated
ponies, sturdy and surefooted, who would toss their white manes and gallop,
snorting, across the glacier.
Gentle hands
probed his side, and agony speared him, driving back his memories. He
stiffened, holding in a cry. Then the pain ebbed quickly, as though it were
being drawn from his body.
The healer
severed
him from the wound, and when the sure hands finally lifted, Caelan
felt only a soft tingling sensation in his side. Without looking he knew the
wound had closed. His skin there felt too drawn and tight, as though newly
grown. The pain did not return. Slowly he let his body sag with relief. He hadn’t
realized until now how much he had been fighting to control the pain.
“Drink again,” the
healer said. “Then sleep.”
Caelan looked up
at him, troubled by something elusive in that soft voice, something he should
have recognized. But all of this was like a dream.
“Sleep,” the
healer said.
Although he meant
to ask a question, Caelan instead shut his eyes, and slept.
The next time he
awakened, the lamplight was much dimmer around him and the fire had burned down
to hissing coals. Several figures stood a short distance from the foot of his
bed, arguing in low voices. He recognized the prince’s among them; there was no
disguising that crisp, distinctive baritone.
Lifting his hand
to rub his eyes, Caelan felt refreshed and clearheaded. He gazed at the fine
furnishings around him and realized he must have been brought inside the prince’s
own house. This both gratified and disturbed him. Without bothering to sort it
out, he tried to lift himself onto his elbow, and found himself as weak as a
newborn.
Orlo reached him
first. “What are you doing?” he asked sharply. “You are supposed to be resting,
sleeping. What kind of potion wears off after only an hour? Are you in pain?
You must lie still.”
The discussion
between the prince and the healer ended. The prince departed, but the healer
came forward, stopping just beyond the lamplight.
From the shadows
he spoke: “Have no fear on the champion’s behalf. He does not suffer. All he
requires is rest.”
Caelan frowned,
his attention caught once again by the healer’s voice. Now, however, he was
sufficiently alert to recognize the slightest trace of accent. The healer was a
Traulander. Small wonder Caelan had thought he recognized his voice. Now it
made sense. It also explained the good, fresh herbs in the healer’s potions and
how he had
severed
the wound. Caelan probed his side with his
fingertips. He felt no tenderness, no soreness. The stab wound was gone, as was
the cut to his arm. It was excellent work, as good as something his father
would have done.
“You are still in
pain,” Orlo said in open concern. “Please lie down.”
Caelan shook his
head, but allowed himself to be pressed down onto his pillow. This was a stupid
time to let his emotions gain control of him.
To change the
subject, he said, “His highness sounded angry. Have I—”
“You’ve done
nothing wrong,” Orlo said.
But he spoke too
quickly.
Caelan’s eyes
narrowed. “I missed the victory party, did I not? How long have I lain here?”
“Not long enough,”
Orlo said gruffly.
“A day,” the
healer replied.
Orlo shot him a
glare, then swung his gaze back to Caelan. “Never mind the damned party. It
wasn’t important. Neither is tonight’s—”
“The festivities,”
Caelan said. “I forgot them.”
He reached for the
coverlet, but Orlo’s callused hand gripped his and held it hard.
“No,” Orlo said. “You
will not go with him, no matter what he wants. You are not well enough.”
Caelan stared up
at the trainer, then threw back the coverlet and sat up. Swinging his legs over
the side of the bed, he shivered lightly in the cool air and wondered if he had
the strength to stand.
“Stop this!” Orlo
said. “It doesn’t matter whether you go with him or not. This is a trivial
thing, not worth your life. Not worth—”
He broke off and
stood there scowling. His jaw muscles bunched as though he struggled to hold
back words.
“My life is not at
risk,” Caelan said gently, although his temper was beginning to fray. He was
tired of Orlo’s interference. The trainer was only trying to protect him, but
Caelan didn’t want protection. He wanted his freedom, and Prince Tirhin was his
only means of getting it. “Already I am much better, thanks to the skilled
ministrations of my countryman.”
As he spoke he
glanced at the healer, who still kept to the shadows. “I must thank you,”
Caelan said. “I—”
The healer bowed
and retreated quickly, saying nothing. The door closed silently behind him.
Astonished, Caelan
looked at Orlo. “Who was that?” he asked.
Orlo shrugged.
“Why was he in
attendance, and not the arena healer?”
“That quack,” Orlo
said with a contemptuous snap of his fingers. “What could he do but dither and
shake his head? The prince asked for one of the palace healers, and this man
came.”
“A Traulander,”
Caelan said softly, conscious of a hurt in his heart that had never healed.
“It is said they
are the best healers in the empire.”
“Yes. I know.”
How long had it
been since he had heard the accent, the particular inflections of vowel and
syllable heard only in the north country? He felt his eyes grow gummy and wet,
and sternly he pulled himself together. This weakness must be put behind him.
“You are tired,”
Orlo said, still watching him. “Please rest. No matter how fancy the healer, it
is still old-fashioned rest that makes the best cure.”
“There is not time
for rest,” Caelan said, frowning. “And I am well.”
Orlo touched his
shoulder gently. “A lie,” he said, but the reproof was mild. “Stop the lies, Caelan.
You lie to the world. You lie to the prince. You lie to me. Worst of all, you
lie to yourself.”
“I don’t
understand.”
Orlo’s gaze never
wavered. “I think you do. You threw yourself on the Madrun’s sword as though it
was nothing. Stupid or courageous, who can say? But why can’t you throw
yourself on the truth?”
Caelan’s temper
slipped. “Speak your mind, Orlo. Not these riddles.”
“He won’t free
you.”
It was like having
the sword pierce his side all over again. Caelan lost his breath and struggled
to regain it.
“You are wrong,”
he said, his voice weak against the intensity of his emotions. His fist
clenched on the coverlet. “Wrong.”
“I have made my
share of mistakes,” Orlo said, “enough to know that it is stupid to walk about
in blindness. His highness will never free you as long as you are valuable to
him. No matter how many times you guard his back when he goes where he should
not. You have served him with all your heart and soul. Yesterday you nearly got
yourself killed for him, and none of it will avail you.”
“I will be free
again,” Caelan said grimly, staring into space. “I have his word.”
Orlo snorted, his
square face branded with cynicism. “Oh? You have the word of our kind, honest
master. Soon enough there will be betrayal to balance the honey. I have warned
you enough, but you never heed warnings, do you?”
Caelan glared at
the trainer, hating everything he said. “Careful, Orlo. You’re stepping close
to treason.”
“No,” Orlo said. “He
is.”
Caelan surged to
his feet.
Orlo took two
quick steps back, balancing on the balls of his feet, his eyes watchful and
wary. “Defend him,” he said in what was almost a taunt. “You always do.”
“It is my duty to
defend him,” Caelan said hotly.
“Why? Do you have
hopes of becoming his protector when he takes the throne?”
The accusation hit
Caelan like a glove of challenge. Caelan’s eyes widened. How much did Orlo
know? How much had he overheard? Or was this only speculation?
He was not quick
enough to keep his reaction from his face. It was Orlo’s turn to stare with
widened eyes.
“Great Gault,” he
breathed, taking yet another step back from Caelan. “So he has promised you
that.”
Caelan felt
stripped and vulnerable. To deny it would be useless, yet he could not confirm
it either without condemning himself. He said nothing.
Orlo frowned and
slowly shook his head. “You great fool,” he said at last, pity in his voice. “Can’t
you see he is—”
“He does not use
me,” Caelan broke in hotly. “You understand nothing of this matter. Nothing!”
“No wonder you
pulled the Madrun’s sword into your side. With that incentive, what man would
not take tremendous risks?” Orlo glanced sharply at Caelan. “But can’t you see
that he is jealous of you?”
Caelan’s mouth
fell open in astonishment. “Jealous!”
“Whose name were
they screaming yesterday?”
“But he is the
prince.”
“And you have the
popularity,” Orlo said with scorn. Glancing at the door, he kept his voice low.
“When you ride through the streets at the prince’s side, cheers from the
populace are guaranteed. He can pretend the cheers are for him. It sends a
message to the emperor, does it not? But inside, the prince knows the truth.
His popularity is purchased, and at the crux it will not hold.”
“Take care, Orlo,”
Caelan said in warning.
“No,
you
take care. Prince Tirhin is a desperate man, and I tell you to watch yourself.
When you cease to be of use, he will discard you as he does all his worn-out
possessions.”