Wrath Of The Medusa (Book 2) (41 page)

The uniformed flunky pulled the door shut behind her as Niarmit strode into the grand receiving room.  The twin thrones stood empty. Pale winter daylight filtered through frost laced windows. Niarmit shivered at the chill in the air as she stepped towards the passageway to the antechamber.  “Lady Giseanne,” she called. 

“She is not there, Lady Niarmit.” 

It was a voice behind her. How had she not seen him? She turned with slow care, determined not to show he had surprised her.  “Prince Rugan.”  She gave the slightest of bows.

The half-elf was sitting on his throne
watching her over his interlocked fingers. She was sure he had not been there when she entered.  “What business have you with my wife?” He asked.

“
I wish to speak with the Lady Regent,” Niarmit placed careful emphasis on Giseanne’s title.

He frowned.  “I see, and her poor husband, as a mere Prince of the Salved, is not considered senior enough to be privy to that discussion.”

“There are some things that the Regent should hear first.”

“You’re going then,” he said.  “To Nordsalve, to rescue the Lady Isobel from her unwanted admirer.”

She struggled to remain inscrutable despite the accuracy of his deduction.  He shrugged at her silence, and tilted his head in enquiry.  “Surely you don’t deny it.  The girl is getting better, what reason have you left to deny the Bishop’s desperate insistence?”

“Hepdida’s
recovery is incomplete.”

“But she has travelled further towards health than poor King Bulveld ever did.  Moreover, it is not your tending but this herbalist that makes her well.
” He sighed.  “The snow has driven the orcs into shelter and turned the zombies to ice, there will be no better time to try and sneak across the North-Eastern tip of Morsalve. You are not needed here, but you are needed there.”

Niarmit bit back the rejoinder that Hepdida had said much the same, when she had held a knife to her own heart.  “Anyone would think you were anxious to be rid of me, Prince Rugan.”

“Your reputation rides high, Lady Niarmit.  Word of your deeds on the plain of The Saeth and in the Gap of Tandar, and even of your miraculous return from Bledrag Field have made you a powerful talisman.”

“There were no miracles at Bledrag field,” Niarmit glowered swallowing down a bitter recollection.

“Notwithstanding the Lady Isobel’s eagerness for what they are calling the Niarmit touch, I even have letters from my noble Knight Commander enquiring after you.”

“Sir Ambrose?”

“He’s been asking when you might return.  Despite the snow and ice he is convinced there is a victory to be won down on the plain by Listcairn.  He thinks if you will but deign to lead then his force could sweep all before them.”

“Sir Ambrose flatters my generalship, Prince Rugan, but it would always have been an honour to lead the forces of Medyrsalve.”

The half-elf rose from the throne and gave a languid stretch of his arms. “I find the cold afflicts me more than it used to, Lady Niarmit,” he said.

“You are young for an elf.”

“But getting old for a half-elf it would seem.”  He looked at her quizzically.  “And Lady Niarmit, had I accepted Sir Ambrose’s plea and let you go to lead my troops, in which direction would you have led them?  Would it have been Westwards towards Listcairn, or Eastwards, back here?”  His eyes were fixed on her as he let the accusing question slip, watching every muscle in her face for some tremor of admission.  All she showed was raw horror that he should think such a thing.

“
Lead them here, Prince Rugan?” She gave him an incredulous stare.  “To what purpose? There are better foes for us to fight than each other.  I have no plan or even the merest thought of usurping the throne of your province.  I am amazed you could even think it.”

“A long life as an unloved Prince has taught me to seek and find conspiracy everywhere, Lady Niarmit.  I have rarely been disappointed in my expectations.”  He gave a joyless smile.  “At least if one always expects the worst, then all the surprises are pleasant ones.”

“Prince Rugan, we have a winter to gather our strength for the enemy’s onslaught.  We dare nor spend it in bickering and suspicion.”

“So,” He
turned to view the frozen gardens through the web of icicles criss-crossing the window.  “You are going to stiffen the resolve of Nordsalve for the ordeal ahead.”

“Aye,” it seemed pointless to deny it.  “
And I would like to be sure that those of my party that I leave behind continue to enjoy a safe and secure stay at your hospitality.”

Rugan spun round.  Now it was his turn to warp his features in rage at the hint of accusation against his honour. 
“I am no barbarian, Lady Niarmit.  The host’s code is not broken in my house.”

“Hepdida fell ill in your care,” Niarmit snapped back.

“An illness, Lady Niarmit, an illness,” he cried, his face so close to hers that she could see the lines time was wearing in his swarthy skin. “May I remind you my grandmother was struck down by a callous and cowardly blow from behind. No matter what nonsense Deaconess Rhodra might spout about some outside assassin, I know there is someone within these walls who has most heinously betrayed the obligations of a guest.”

“Which do your grieve for more, the lady’s death, or the injury to your honour?”

He stood stunned, as if she had slapped him.  “How dare you!”

Niarmit’s own colour was rising.   Half a decade of frustration with the procrastination and self-serving of the Prince of Medyrsalve bubbled over in a fury so pure that it was as well she had left her sword in her chambers. 
“Your sister thinks there is no-one you have ever loved bar yourself.  No service you have ever done bar your own.  I have bitten my tongue a hundred times, Rugan, but nothing will wipe away the memory of Bledrag field, looking in last hope for the spears of Medyrsalve and finding only orcs and ogres.  My father fell waiting in vain for your arrival, Gregor went outnumbered to his death, while you skulked on this side of the Palacintas.  There are many questions your honour has yet to answer.”

“Your father? You mean Matteus
was your father?”

“You betrayed both my fathers,”
she spat irritated by his pedantry.

“I couldn’t have saved Matteus, any more than Feyril could.  I coul
dn’t have saved Gregor either.  All I could have achieved was to leave Medyrsalve unprotected.”

“
What made you so fearful, Rugan?  Always waiting until it was too late before doing anything.  Five hundred years of waiting while so many moments had passed.  So many lost opportunities to get off your throne and make a difference.”

“Five hundred years can teach you a lot about mortality, Lady Niarmit, about the fragility and ultimate transience of all life.  Do you kno
w how many wives I have buried?  Loved aye, but also buried. The mistakes we may be easily drawn into are not so readily undone.”

“Better to have made a mistake than to have made nothing.  I’d rather have a human lifetime of courage, than a half-elf’s span spent in cowardice.”

He was quick, she had to admit that.  Quicker than she would have thought.  His hand was around her throat before she could take even half a step backwards, but her hand was on his dagger, drawing it from its sheaf and raising it to his neck before he could tighten his grip. They froze thus, exchanging a glare of hatred in the suspended moment of mutually assured destruction.  At a cough from the entrance to the antechamber, they both slid their gaze warily sideways.

Giesanne stood at the threshold of the room, regally calm at the prospect of husband and niece about to do away with each other.  Like children caught in the pastry larder, they hastily disengaged.  Rugan adjusted Niarmit’s collar where his intemperate gesture had ruffled the cloth.  Niarmit handed him back his knife, hilt first.

“The Lady Niarmit was just telling me that she would be on her way shortly,” Rugan explained.

“And you were giving her a warm embrace to wish her good fortune on her travels?”  The stern gaze and the hard edge to Giseanne’s voice belied the lightly mocking nature of her words.

“These have been trying times of late, Lady Giseanne,” Niarmit ventured.  “Both our tempers may have frayed a little shorter than would be proper for our station.”  

“You are both extremely dear to me,” Giseanne insisted. “It pains me to see you so very much at each other’s throats.”

“It is perhaps timely then that I shall be on my travels.” Niarmit said.  “Splendid and spacious as this palace is, I think it is too confined a space to peaceably hold two such contrary spirits as my own and your husband’s.”

Rugan’s dark eyes flashed sideways, alert to any rebuke in Niarmit’s words.

“You go to Nordsalve, Lady Niarmit?” Giseanne rode smoothly over her husband’s irritation. “Have you told Hepdida yet?”

“I meant to tell you first, Lady Giseanne, though your husband guessed my purpose.”

“It wasn’t hard to decipher,” Rugan snorted.  “It has been the chief discussion at council these past weeks, will she? won’t she?  I daresay Leniot and Tybert will have a wager on it.”

“If I could, I would time my departure so that they both lost,” Niarmit replied evenly.

That wrought a smile from the half-elf, happy to share a dislike of the wastrel lords of Oostsalve.

“There are other factors should affect the timing of your journey,” Giseanne interrupted.  “Which route you wi
ll take and who will escort you?”

“I have decided.  I need to travel light and swift.  The route that Isobel’s heralds take should answer our purpose.  If
Marvenna will not let us pass through the Silverwood itself, we should at least make use of the shadow of unease that the elven forest casts into Morsalve.”

“T
he Pale of Silverwood?”

Niarmit nodded.  “The strip is a few leagues wide running beyond the tree line.  There are no settlements or farming there
. Too many shy away in fearful awe of Andril’s people.  By the same token we should avoid any of Maelgrum’s billeted orcish troops, and provided there are few of us, we should not stir up attention to draw any of his patrols beyond the towns and villages they have enslaved.”  

“Lady Isobel will be most grateful for your arrival I am sure.  A woman and child in a court of warrior men can feel very alone.”

“If I understand the Bishop well enough, there is a garrison at the Eastern crossing of the Derrach that is most loyal to Lady Regent in memory of Hetwith.  We will head there first.”

“When do you leave?”

Niarmit glanced at Rugan.  “As soon as horses can be saddled would still be too late for my liking.”

“Well Captain, I see it is your turn to stand vigil.”

Kimbolt struggled up from the chair as the Lady Regent and a rotund deaconess came into Hepdida’s sick room.  “I’m always happy to do so, your Highness.”

“Yes,” Giseanne smiled.  “I have brought one of Hepdida’s previous nurse maids to marvel at the progress she has made.  This is Deaconess Rhodra.”

The woman shuffled forward.  Her hair was
worn unusually short, in a close cropped boyish cut and her robes hung loosely on a figure which, while not slim, was less full than it must once have been.  There was a certain unevenness to her gait, a favouring of her right leg, with her left arm tucked tight against her side.  “Her colour is much improved, my Lady,” Rhodra agreed as she stood at the foot of the bed to inspect Hepdida’s slumbering form. “It seems a natural sleep.”

“She is awake for longer these last few days and her talk and manner are quite untainted by sickness.”  Kimbolt added.  “It is only the failings in her memory that give her some frustration, and the weakness of her body.”

Rhodra touched at her scalp, running a hand above her right ear where the short hair was at its most unruly.  “The sickness gave her a surprising strength.”

At the woman’s voice Hepdida stirred and stretched and rolled over to
her other side, curling into a ball.  Rhodra stepped back with a small cry of alarm.  “You have undone her bonds!”

“Easy,” Giseanne patted the D
eaconess’s arm.  “We have the good Captain to stand watch and since Mistress Elise has arrived there has been no sign or tremor of the madness that afflicted her.  The disease of the mind was gone the instant our Goddess sent herbalist arrived, the sickness of the body is answering less rapidly but no less surely to her balms.”

“I am glad of that,” Rhodra
nodded, still standing close to Giseanne.  “We have much to thank this herbalist for. Where is she? I would like to meet her.”

“
She went to the woods an hour ago.  She said she has more herbs to collect,” Kimbolt said.  “With the Princess asleep it seemed the best time.”

“Herbs?” Rhodra frowned.  “In this frost?”

“Whatever it is she finds out there, Deaconess, I can but be grateful that she was sent to us.  This is a cure I never dreamt of seeing.”  Giseanne turned away quickly and walked towards the balcony.  She sniffed and raised a hand to her face to wipe at her eyes. “I just think of my poor father and only wish..”  Her voice tailed of as Rhodra limped after her. 

“
All which could be done for your father was done, your Highness.” The Deaconess took a turn to offer reassurance. 

“I know.”  Giseanne’s voice was thick.  “But he suffered such torment, we all did.  I had steeled myself to suffer it all ag
ain with poor Hepdida and this chance of a cure, it unlocks as much past pain as it kindles present hope.”

“The Goddess is the source of all hop
e and the balm for all pain, your Highness.”   The Lady Regent gave a nod as Rhodra squeezed her hand. “Now, if you will excuse me, Bishop Sorenson has assured me he can cure this dratted arm of its laziness and give me a more upright stance.  It is slow work but I think I see an improvement each day.”

“Of course, Deaconess, you must go.  You have given more than any of us to keep Hepdida well
. We owe you much.”

Rhodra turned and limped from the room with a nod and a smile of acknowledgement to Kimbolt.  When the door had clo
sed behind her he asked, “your Highness, that was the lady who Hepdida struck in her madness?”

Giseanne turned back towards him, huggin
g herself against a shiver which owed little to the cold. “I was here then as well. It might have been my skull that got split by the bowl.”  She shook her head, “I could not have believed someone so slight could have such strength in her.  It was only Lady Niarmit’s prayers that saved poor Rhodra’s life.”

“Hepdida is much better now,” he tried to drag Giseanne from the horrific memory.  “Rhodra too.”

“Indeed, Captain.  It seems our herbalist has found a cure which eluded all the priests and priestesses of Morwencairn.  She is truly Goddess sent.”

Kimbolt frowned.  “It was five? six years ago when your esteemed father fell ill was it not?”

“Yes Captain,”  Giseanne agreed.  “He has been dead five summers now, but he fell ill near twelve months before he passed.”  She drew close, scanning his perplexed expression.  “This is well known, Captain.  Throughout the land his illness was proclaimed. Is your own memory troubling you?”

Kimbolt bit his lip, chasing down a thought that ducked and weaved through the corridors of his mind.  “Why then did Mistress Elise not come when your father was ill?”

“What?”  Giseanne’s brow wrinkled as she considered this complication.  “Perhaps she fell ill after him?”

Kimbolt shook his head.  “No, she fell ill as a child, when she was twelve and her sister nine.  Whatever cure she found, she found it long before your father fell ill.  She must have known the nature of his sickness no less surely than she knew what afflicted Hepdida.”

“She is from Oostport. Maybe she did not hear of it, maybe it was too far.”

“No,  she came here through the snow and ice in the depths of winter.   She had a whole year to come to your father’s sick bed and offer her services.  You said yourself it was proclaimed throughout the land.  We all knew of it, I knew of it.
Why did she not come?  Besides you note her accent? You know where she was brought up?”

Giseanne shrugged unhappily. Kimbolt grimaced.  He would not have wished to burden her with the bubble of thoughts that had been troubling him, but Kaylan, Quintala and Niarmit
had all ridden North two days past.  There was no-one else to raise his concerns with.  Neither the decadent lords of Oostalve and their retinue, nor the priests of Nordsalve offered much by way of worthy confidantes. There had been too much deceit and secrecy and only the uncomplicated truth would reassure him.

“You know her accent, your H
ighness.”

“Yes, Captain
.”

“It is of Morwencairn, of the back streets of your home town.  The same place that Hepdida lived as a child.  Mistress Elise fell ill as a child long before your father was afflicted and
in some street a stone’s throw from his palace.”

“Captain,” There was a cold edge to Giseanne’s voice.  “Mistress Elise has been the solution to all our woes.  You
must admit she has herself suffered much at the hands of this vile illness.  By the marks it has left upon her, she must have been saved with barely a few days to spare.  How can you try to twist her charity into some unholy form.  As a friend to Hepdida, and a newly restored friend at that, it befits you ill to be sowing suspicion around our young herbalist.  ”

“I beg pardon your Highness.” Kimbolt bowed low, wincing at the Lady Regent’s personal rebuke.  “It is just, I have grown to be suspicious of loose ends.  There are stories untold and motivations unheard that flow through the corridors of your husband’s palace.  One thing I have learned in my recent and often unworthy past is that all is rarely as it first appears.”

“Hush, Captain, no more of this.  The girl is stirring.”

On the bed Hepdida stretched and yawned.  “I heard voices,” she said.  “Were you arguing?”